For so many years, I have had a specific feeling. It usually pops up at the sound of new music or at two in the morning when I want to sleep, but that is neither here nor there. I have been trying to pin it down, and after too many cups of coffee today, I think I finally have. I want to share it with you.
They tell me that this wild thing that beats in my chest must be panic.
“Calm down,” They tell me. “Stop worrying, take a breath.”
I frown at them. Do they not know? Have they not felt it? This thing that beats in my chest, this wild, uncontrollable tempo, is not panic. It is not anxiety. It is not something to be tamed or pushed aside like so much baggage.
This thing, this wild thing that dances through my lungs is nothing more or less than life itself.
At times it lurks, in the back of my brain and in the secret places of my soul, but there are times when it comes soaring, swooping, flying wildly to the front, sending my heart racing and my head spinning and my limbs fairly tremble with the force of it.
“Take deep breaths,” They tell me kindly. “Feel my pulse,”
Their hearts plod along at the pace of an old car, puttering steady and soft with a quiet purpose that I cannot always have. It is boring.
My heart flutters like a bird, and I feel caged. I am trapped under expectations and polite disinterest, orders to “Sit still,” and “Calm down,” and they beg me to be normal, to be as I am expected to be.
Can they not feel it? When was the last time their hearts beat with abandon, with wild happiness that is so much life that they could not explain?
Can I explain?
This thing, this uncontrollable feeling, it beats in my heart and explodes from my fingers, from my hands and my feet and my mouth. It overflows.
Can they not feel it?
The rain on my face, the wind in my hair, the feeling of grass and dirt and rocks under me, feet callused with days spent wandering, cheeks red from sun-and-wind, hair drenched with rain-and-lake-and-river, pavement vibrating with thousands-and-hundreds of footsteps, walls echoing with cries and laughter, grief and happiness in equal measure, and
My. Heart. Beats.
So fast.
The crinkle of paper, the smell of baking, of spices and fresh-cut-lawn and motor oil. The feeling of tears tracking down my cheeks, the sound of laughter of a loved one, the sigh of frustration from a stranger, of new-music-soon-to-be-memorised and old-music-worn-down.
We were given five senses for a reason, and it is a crime to go through life only using two or three at a time.
Open your eyes. See the blue in the sky and red flowers, vibrant spring-green grass and patterns in the trees, among their branches and among their bark.
Breathe deep. Raise your head to the wind and smell the things that the breeze has brought you, remember the smell of your father’s cologne, of an old book or a new one, of coffee and sugar and Christmas.
Why are you walking through life with a half-beating heart and dull senses? Wake up!
Can you feel it now?
“Calm down,” They tell me, “Sit still,” they reprimand.
Why?
This thing, this wild thing that beats in my chest is not panic, it is not fear, it is life.
“Breathe deep,” They tell me.
I already am. Are you?
What Is This Crazyness? 