In Buddhism, when the heart chakra opens, it feels like a flower blooming inside your body, each petal unfolding with exquisite tenderness. There’s nothing quite like it. I know this because, the other day, quite unexpectedly, my heart opened.
It’s a quiet but powerful feeling, a payoff for years of meditation, years of paying attention, of practicing mindfulness and doing the work that might result in some sort of inner peace.
I used to feel anything but peaceful when I’d put my work out there for other writers to critique. But reading the critiques of the scene I posted on Friday, something shifted inside. The writers who so generously took the time to comment on my scene found a lot that needed fixing, and at first my heart felt the old familiar heaviness.
I sat with what to my mind was unavoidable discomfort for a day or two. And then, at the moment when my heart was at its heaviest, I felt it it lighten and unfurl like Rusty’s favorite toy — a stick with feathers and sparkly streamers he loves me to twirl.
Suddenly, I loved everything about my writing, loved everything about being a writer. I saw my work as part of my heart, a bright and twirling cat toy that brought me unlimited joy. I’ve long known that writing’s a gift, but have also long believed painful rejection was an unpleasant side effect of the package.
It’s different now. Rejection I’m sure will continue to hurt, but not in the same way, not with the same force. Because the other thing about my heart opening is that now the key is in my hand and I can unlock the door anytime.
