Crusty hearts

Something I’ve learned about human hearts is their intensity to feel.  Their greatness to feel. The wonder of depth in human feelings encased and exposed in bodies.  The beautiful cultivation of it all. How lovely it is that hearts can feel “crusty”, “empty”, “beaten”, “bloodied”.  

I had a friend tell me the other day that her heart felt crusty.  That all of the things she was feeling felt too much for how small her heart was.  

Crusty hearts remind me of the dirt in Ghana.  The dirt you could never get off. Stuck to your feet, ankles, neck, and face.  Beautiful red dirt. Heavy red dirt. So crusty and cakey, picked up and swirled by the wind, only settled by the rain.  And how true is that in our own heart. How typical that we need rain, clouds, tears, to open and settle dirt for crustiness to be still and steady.  To let something so unsteady roar through the cracks to bring a balancing act to our bodies and hearts.