On Sunday I found a bird in the backyard trying to fly but caught in something that kept pulling her back to the ground. Initially it looked like fishing line, but when I got closer I could see it was some sort of vine, dry but very strong. I got some scissors to cut her free, but she was so frightened she kept trying to lift-off, and I was unable to cut as close to her foot as I would have liked. Still, I got the vine cut and on her first attempt she hopped-flew just a short distance, so I tried to get closer again, but then she took flight, trailing six inches of vine still wrapped on her leg.
I have a friend who has a broken heart, which in turn makes all the hearts close to her ache a little. We want to make it better. My friend is like the ensnared bird wanting to fly again but unable to move more than a short distance from the ground. When she is able to break free of the vine she is entangled in, it’s likely a piece of it will still be wrapped around her, a piece she will have to carry, altering her pattern of flight for a while, perhaps even permanently.
The heart is a mysterious country with a varied landscape and a language all its own. Our sacred contract to life means we’ve committed to experience all the heart brings from the giddy highs of unexpected love to the crippling lows of heartache. Our family and friends can distract us from a broken heart, maybe even soothe it, but the mending of it is a holy process done in conclaves in the private rooms of that same heart with a brigade of angels catching tears, snipping vines, returning us to flight.