The heart remembers everything it loved and gave away,
everything it lost and found again, and everyone it loved, the heart cannot forget. (Joyce Sutphen, from:”What the Heart Cannot Forget”)
As someone who experienced breast cancer and now lives with heart failure, I am more aware of the physical life of my heart than ever before. Every morning I check my blood pressure, heart rate and weight, entering the information in “Medley,” the app on my iphone developed by the team at Peter Munk Cardiac Center. I am grateful for Medley; it keeps me attentive and more aware of heart health. However, before my heart failure diagnosis, matters of the heart were predominantly emotional and poetic. And even yet, those metaphors and associations are the more frequent way I describe what I’m feeling. Think about it: how many times do we refer to our hearts when we’re describing emotions? Consider a few like “my heart is filled with joy; heavy with sorrow; a broken heart; a heart full of love…
The heart is a long-standing and dominant aspect of poetry and prose across cultures and most often used to describe human emotion. Author Gail Godwin, writing the prologue to her book, Heart, quotes a number of heart references, for example: Yeats: “the rag and bone shop of the heart,” St. Francis: “a transformed and undefended heart,” Tony Bennett crooning, “I left my heart in San Francisco,” Jesus Christ: “Blessed are the pure in heart,” and Saul Bellow’s comment, “More die of heartbreak than radiation,” among others. I think of the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz: “If I only had a heart…”
Well, I have a heart, and it’s still beating, with a little help from an ICD and a regimen of daily medications. What’s more, I continue to refer memories and emotions that, as e.e. cummings described, I “carry in my heart.” It’s no surprise, then, that one of the writing exercises I use in the expressive writing groups I lead for cancer patients is inspired by the heart; the heart, as Joyce Sutphen describes, “that cannot forget.”
Begin with a large image of a heart. You can draw a large valentine-shaped heart or, as I prefer to do in the workshops, use an image of the human heart. The task is to answer, in three separate steps, the larger question, “what do you carry in your heart?” Take the image and next to it or on it, write your responses to these three questions, giving a few minutes to write between each.
- What people, living or dead, do you carry in your heart?
- What places do you carry in your heart?
- What events or happenings in your life do you carry in your heart?
Simply list as many names or labels as you can for each question. Once you’ve answered all three, take some time to read what you’ve written on your heart. Now, choose one thing–person, place or event–that seems to hold the most pull or power for you. Take a clean sheet of paper and for 15 – 20 minutes, begin writing about that person, place or event–whether a narrative or a poem or just free association, it doesn’t matter. Keep writing for the allotted time. Do not stop to edit or re-read until the time is up.
The stories that are written in this exercise are often emotional, yes, but they are also more “alive,” descriptive and engaging, coming “straight from the heart.” Even the most reluctant writer, the one who says, “but I’m not a writer,” will surprise herself with the writing that emerges from the heart exercise.
If you are one who would like to write but doesn’t know how to begin, this exercise can be a great way to get started and a way to begin to capture the stories of your life. Writing about what matters, what has shaped and defined you, is also a way of release, often a way to express difficult events and emotions that are sometimes bad for your health. Everyone has stories to tell. As I often say to those who’ve attend my cancer writing groups, often shy about writing, “if you don’t tell your story, who will?”
…I have learned that story assuages grief, and it also grants the chaos of our emotions some shape and order…Even as I watch my mother become more and more distant from the lives around her…I am doing what I have been preparing all my life to do: listening again to the old stories and committing them to memory in order to preserve them. I am still doing my work in terms of what I have come to believe defines immortality. Being remembered. (From: The Cruel Country, by Judith Ortiz Cofer, 2015.)
I’ve had a few medical experiences in my life, just as you have–near death, neurosurgery, breast cancer–and now I live with heart failure. Sooner or later, we “get” that we are not immortal. My cancer experience was so very treatable, compared to those who come to my groups, and yet, I think whether you live with cancer or with a heart condition or other serious illness, it makes you more aware of what matters most in your life. As Judith Cofer described, I am aware that the stories of our lives, the places, events and people who were helped to define and shape who I have become is the legacy I have to pass on to my daughters and grandchildren. To remember. To be remembered. “Death, as Jim Harrison wrote in his poem, “Larson’s Bull,” steals everything but our stories.”
I am the only one who can tell my stories and say what they mean. (Dorothy Allison, in Two or Three Things I Know for Sure.)
