Today I got an anonymous Valentine's gram from a student. It came in the form of a sweet note thanking me for being so nice and a red, beaded necklace with a good-sized, plastic heart pendant hanging at its end. This is not an ordinary, lifeless heart pendant. No. This pendant lights up. At three different speeds. When you first push the button, it blinks fast--a heart-racing, terrified-rabbit beat. Upon second push, the blinking slows to a regular rhythm, like a steady drum. After the third push, the light remains on, unbeating, like E.T.'s tiny heart glowing red through his chest. And, of course, there is a fourth option: no light at all.
I made a joke about this necklace to my students today. I talked about how much easier it would be if we all wore these pendants and used them as signs of our affections towards others. Our own hope-giving albatrosses tied around our necks.
If we like someone, we could show them by only pushing the button once. Allowing the little plastic heart to mirror what our actual impossible-to-see heart is doing--racing with the excitement and possibility of new love. Allowing it to speak for us when we are too afraid to admit how we feel.
If we only wanted to be friends with someone who is interested in more, we could push our plastic buttons three times. You know, let our non-flashing heart beat break the heart that we're unable to break with our words.
And, of course, if we just weren't interested or had fallen out of love, we could turn our heart lighthouses off, so as not to draw any more attention. Our heart's own little Closed sign.
Damn it if my mom wasn't right when she told me there was truth behind all jokes.
Although I said this to my students as a funny intro to wishing them a happy Valentine's Day, there's a huge part of me that wishes it were true. That I had had this little harbinger around my neck to speak my truth for me. And there's another part of me that wonders how different my life would be if I had.
It might not be obvious here on this blog where I seem to spew the most intimate details of my life, but I've never really worn my heart on my sleeve--or around my neck or whatever is the current fashion. Especially when it comes to love. I have always feared the non-blinking, or, worse, the darkened-heart response. And so my feelings have, for the most part, stayed locked in my chest or deep in the recesses of my gut. Protected from harm. But also protected from that leap of faith. From risk. From true love. Somehow I have fooled myself into thinking that if I hold onto the love, keep it nestled deep inside, then it can't be rejected.
I picture my insides like the branches of a tree, tiny cocoons of potential love, containing caterpillars awaiting transformation into butterflies, kissed upon them. Some so old that they are no longer pushing to escape. The love-that-could-have-been mummified but still sticking to the branches in faint remembrances. Others are fresher. Inside them, half-caterpillar-half-butterflies nudge. Words and feelings yearn to be set free.
As I've become more in-touch and in-like with my feelings, these words push more. Newly-found confidence eggs them on.
And on this day of celebrating love I wonder if it's worth the risk. If it's worth wearing my heart around my neck and letting it be seen. Letting it speak my message whether or not the other person's heart pitter-pats in return.
Perhaps we all would be better off if our hearts, our feelings--fears, hopes, needs--were out in the open. Easy to see. Then we could stop the guessing game and get on with living our truths. And we would realize that we, as humans, all share the same fears--rejection, loss, separation--and the same needs--to be loved, to belong, to be recognized.
In all honesty, I don't think I'll be picking up the phone to confess my love tonight. But perhaps I will marinate in the idea. And nudge at my own pride to see if it will unravel so that, perhaps, my heart will fly.
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