WINK: My Heart is Strong

As I walked from booth to booth at the Summerlin Arts Festival a few months back, I could feel the sun warming my shoulders. It felt good. Winter was finally over and spring was slowly turning into what would soon become sheer hell. But that day was perfect.

My pal Jay was in town from Newport Beach and we were having a great time sipping soy chai from Starbucks and checking out the arts and crafts. We wandered into a booth that instantly made me squeal like a little piggy. I'd remembered it from the previous year and had fallen head over heels in love with the artist's work. Her name is Rachelle and her art is the perfect blend of the passionate simplicity of words tied to vibrant, heartfelt sketches.

We chatted a bit and caught up as she whispered to me so that Jay wouldn't over hear, "OK, that's not Todd is it? If it is, I'll kick your butt!" Apparently she was still reading my column and was up to date on my most recent breakup. I giggled and assured her that my friend was in fact not the infamous Todd. We shared a knowing smile and I couldn't help but feel completely flattered that someone whom I respected so much was a fan of mine.

Then I picked up one of the many greeting cards she had designed, all of them wonderful in their own way, but this one incredibly special. "That's my favorite," she said. "If I were stranded on a deserted island and could only keep one piece of my work with me, it would be that one."

As I read it I could see why. Once again I was struck by how her words, assembled so beautifully, were like an angel whispering in my ear. I bought the card, put it in my backpack and went on my merry way. I was happy, it was a glorious day.

One week later, I was date raped.

I've had my heart broken many times in the past. I've even been known to break a few from time to time. But what happened to me the night I was raped was like nothing I'd ever experienced. I felt completely humiliated and ashamed. My first reaction was to take my heart off the market forever. Hide it in a safe place, a place where no one could hurt it or take it for granted again. I would check on it from time to time to see if it was healing and safe, and I'd promise my heart that I'd never be careless with it again.

But the answer was always the same, "In order to know the light, we must first know the shadow. To find what love is, is to know what love is not. I'm fine," said my heart. "I am stronger and wiser now for the lesson learned. Please don't hide me away. Don't cheat us of the opportunity to find true love everlasting. It's what we want most. We could be getting close. We will never know if we aren't willing to risk the pain of heartbreak. How much sweeter will it be when finally we find what we've been searching for? Not nearly as sweet if we play it safe. Let's chance it."

A few weeks ago, my old pal Jay called to check on me. "How are you feeling since your story came out?" he asked, referring to the feature I'd written recalling the night I'd been raped.

"Some days are better than others. Sometimes I feel strong and I think I'm ready to take the world on, and then I'll have a setback and run for the comfort of my dingy gray robe and the confines of my room." I answered honestly.

"Sounds to me like what you need is a trip to the beach!" he said enthusiastically. "I'll even let you ride the Booger Eater down the boardwalk."

The Booger Eater is a rusted out, lime green, vintage Schwinn bicycle, and his prized possession. But the thought of actually getting out of bed, packing and traveling was more exhausting than I could stand. As though he could read my thoughts, he said, "Come on, Dollcakes! Just throw your swimsuit and some flip-flops in your backpack and get to the airport. I'll take care of the rest. I'll call you right back with your flight info."

I smiled in spite of myself and dragged myself out of bed to start packing. I was suddenly overcome with an excitement and anticipation I hadn't felt in a very long time. I was as giddy as a little girl as I started filling my backpack. But the happiness was short-lived as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. There she was. Not the smiling, happy, young woman on her way to the beach, but the tired, scared, humiliated woman who had recently been stripped of her dignity. I looked away. Who was I fooling? I didn't want to go to the beach and wear a swimsuit and be stared at by people who would undoubtedly know that I was disgusting. I fell to the floor in a heap, the contents of my backpack spilling out as the tears started welling up in my eyes. And that's when I saw it.

The card I'd bought months before at the Summerlin Arts Festival. I picked it up and read the words out loud: "She's made a vow to start wearing her heart on her sleeve. She's worn it there before, but just let it hang there passive, for fools to peck at indiscriminately. But that heart is gone, the one she wears now is big, red and strong. And learning to love well, without shame. And sometimes it swells with wonder, at the joy of being honest and open, and how much less often it gets scared and wants to hide. She's home schooling her heart and giving it lots of positive reinforcement. Good heart. Strong heart. Better luck next time heart. And they're gonna make a good team as it all falls in line. Her head filled with exciting thoughts, her feet firm upon the ground, her hands doing good work, her spirit full of hope, and her big, red heart on her sleeve."

Thank you Rachelle.

I'm ready to start healing and living and loving again. It's what I do best. So I finished packing my bag and I went to the beach; with my big, red heart back on my sleeve.