Imprints on the Heart

I know a boy who does so many good things in the world, but is always looking over his shoulder to be sure no one is gunning for him. Before he was born his mama realized the boy’s father was in a precarious position with his job and that the two young children she already had were quite enough, so she went horseback riding and jumped from some height in an effort to terminate this pregnancy.

That boy child was born anyway. I believe the imprint on is heart happened during his gestation and that he’s never felt that there was a place set for him at the table of life.

The “proving to the world his worth” is an endeavor of Herculean proportions and never ending. The belief that just around the corner is the terminal and that he’ll be yanked off the bus if he’s not good enough, has led this wonderful boy to do some remarkably selfless things in his life. His neurosis has benefited countless children for whom he is a champion, companion during illness and all-around clown. He’s like a pied piper with throngs of young ones running after him just to be in his presence. It’s as if they can smell the safety and the unconditional love like an intoxicating vapor rising from him.

Another man-child I know was born nine months to the day after his parents’ wedding night. Mama really didn’t want to become pregnant right away. She was only twenty three years old and not certain this relationship with a man eleven years her senior was going to work out after all. There were tell-tale signs of drinking too much and wild rages that frightened her. 

This boy was born with an imprint on his heart to remain still; to not make a fuss and risk raising the ire and frustration of his mama and often absent daddy. 

Today, a retiree - in every sense of the word, this boy with a wounded heart stays indoors a lot and reads and collects things on shelf after shelf to keep out the world which has proved itself painful.

A little girl was conceived as an attempt to save her parent’s marriage. She came out smiling and never dared to stop smiling because it was her job to keep the peace and she took the assignment seriously. The imprint on her heart was woven in before she was born. If we could see the embroidered tattoo, we would see that it cost her authenticity. “Do for others; not for yourself,” it reads.

What woundings go unnoticed? What imprints on the heart wreak havoc on the sweet babes born into our wounded world? 

“I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered, I don’t have a friend who feels at ease. I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered or driven to its knees... oh, but it’s all right, it’s all right, we’ve lived so well so long... still I can’t help but wonder what went wrong.”

from American Tune by Paul Simon 

So what do we do about this human condition? The self-help section of every library and bookstore screams for our attention. Try THIS, do THAT! If there were one size fits all, I suppose we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in. Clearly, each has to find her/his way out of the mire. 

What’s your favorite shovel? How do you carry your imprint on the heart? Is it a motivator? Agitator? Alligator? I hope you wear it gently and with awareness.

I heard from a Buddhist about Sylvia Boorstein and her interpretation of what the Buddha called neurological glitches. Perhaps she discussed them with Krista Tippet during her NPR radio show “On Being.” Evidently each of us has one or more of five possible glitches. (Fretting, Becoming Angry, Losing Heart, Perfectionism and “Where’s the Donut?”) Maybe the Buddha didn’t call them “neurological glitches” and maybe he didn’t know about donuts, but I believe he could have observed the basic “default settings” common to wounded hearts.

The idea that we can name our “default” and be as matter of fact about it as we are about the color of our eyes, skin and hair or what we had for breakfast appeals to me because I think it’s empowering - inasmuch as knowledge is power. 

If I KNOW that when I get too tired or stressed-out I’ll slip into addiction (“Where’s the donut?”) then I can plan for that and be prepared instead of it smackin’ me upside the head each time. If I can state my default glitch and accept it as I do my (increasingly) white hair, then maybe I won’t have to flip into the perfectionism that seems as if it will protect me from self-loathing.

Perhaps the benefit of knowing our default setting or neurological glitch is that we can have some compassion for ourselves and for the human condition. We’re not suffering from “terminal uniqueness” on top of it all. We’re simply PART of the human family. 

Welcome to the family.

Perhaps compassion and a really GOOD donut will fix everything. 

Ya think?