That does not show.
Because this heart attack of mind/heart/spirit/soul was not of this body. My body, it experienced the manifestation of the heart attack of my soul but not of the body. And so no remnant of it is left behind.
I read a piece recently about having to die to live. The idea is that our transformation is not the changing into something new that we have always thought/heard/understood/been told it was.
Transformation is actually the stripping down of all the layers that have grown up around us to find the pure truth this is us that has always been there. The pure truth that is me. It has been here all along. Under cover. Enveloped by layers that have served me to this point but that now need to die. So that I - the me that is perfect and has been waiting till this moment - can now live. Fully.
This is a good writing, this writing that I am talking about, the You Must Die To Live writing. The writing about the dying of the parts to allow the whole to live fully.
And there have been others, too. Other writings. And songs. And sayings. Blog post and Facebook posts and words shared by friends through conversation. And through poems.
Messages are showing up. They linger with me. These songs/poems/prose/words. They linger in me while I roll them around under my skin. And in my heart. And then hold dear and close these things that settle in as true. Taking a step or two nearer to them moves me a step or more along my path. Not linear. Never simple. Always true.
I discovered Mary Oliver. Introduced to me by a friend. And found this poem first. This poem that I still love best.
And I spoke to a friend about love that resonates in places that are dark. I love this conversation on love. I love that we know that love lives in the shadows. Sometimes. Oftentimes. Dark. And true. And sweet, too.
And I find song after song. Those I knew already. And some that are new. Words that make sense. And music that fills me. And propels me in dance. And as I move more of me falls away until I am just in movement and music. And in spirit, too.
And all of this - this movement and poetry and music and words and writings and love and loss and loss and loss and loss and loss - all of this chips away at the stone around me until this one last crack and all the pieces break away. This last crack, it is my soul's heart attack. That I had last week. When I died. For just that moment.