the patchwork heart

A friend told me a story once about the patchwork heart. It goes something like this...

Once upon a time, there was a village whose people would walk about the plaza each sunday afternoon. They would see old friends, and make new ones, share stories, breathe the fresh air, and generally hear the gossip of the town during the week. And sometimes, sometimes someone would speak to the people from their heart. One such Sunday, when the autumn leaves were burnished bronze and the red flame of the year was growing ever dimmer towards winter, a young girl stood at the well in the middle of the Plaza and spoke. She said, look, please, look at me. Do I not have the most beautiful, the most fresh, young, succulent and gorgeous heart you have ever seen? And the people gathered around her to look and decide whether she indeed had the most beautiful heart they had ever seen. This was not unusual in this town, mind you, the people had seen things like this before. Often the townspeople would debate over the merits of one person or another, or would show themselves to be the most generous or humble and would ask the people if this was so. So the people came around her to look and see and listen. And they took awhile. and the girl waited. And finally, the people sighed and stepped back, and in the silence, one old, old woman spoke. Yes, she said, you have a beautiful fresh heart. It is indeed pure and sweet. I do not think, however, that it is the most beautiful heart I have ever seen. I think my heart is the more beautiful. My heart is patched and scarred and old. Everyone I have loved I have given a piece of my heart to. I have made a hole there, in my heart, and this hole was not always filled with a piece of another's heart in return. So, I have had to sew up my heart in places where the damage was too great. Or, I have let the hole be there, and heal over, or I have later been given a piece of someone's heart that didn't quite fit the hole and I have had to stitch it in place. My heart is patched, and scarred and pock-marked. But I think it is the more beautiful for having lived and having given itself in love. And again the towns people look, and listened and saw. And the girl, awed and touched by the beauty of this old woman's heart said to her, yes, grandmother, truly you have the more beautiful heart. And the village was glad, and went about their business of visiting and chattering and gossiping. And the girl and the old woman spent some time together at the well, just sitting together and listening to the sound of their hearts.

Die Flickenkoenigin

the patchwork queen

the broken heart / much-scarred already / goes to the patchwork queen / it weeps heart-rendingly / imploring: your grace / see how ugly Ive become / the queen takes / the heart in her arm / caresses its scars, speaking the while:

ill take from the spider / its silk as thread / and patch up your wounds with cross-stitch / then he / that is enclosed in your heart / will forever be in thrall to you / and as he peruses your scars / he 'll find there a flower/ not coldstone