My heart expects more…

Have you ever thought about your heart? I don’t mean in the sense of cholesterol. I mean, have you ever considered the fact that there’s a thing in your chest beating every day without fail? You get tired, but your heart is not allowed to. You take naps, but your heart doesn’t. Sometimes, I think my heart expects more of me. Maybe my poor old heart is dying to tell me something.

If I were my heart, if I were slaving away day and night keeping a human alive, I would expect more than eyes glued to the screen watching South African Idol. If I never slept all my life, I would be highly upset with anyone who made my work mean nothing. I would be dissatisfied with the one who made me redundant. I would be angry with the one who took my efforts and squandered them on fear and missed opportunities.

If I were my heart I would expect more living. I would expect risk and daring and love. I would expect things that make my beating worthwhile. Otherwise, the protection of my bony cage would be for nothing. ‘Human,’ I would shout up her throat, ‘If you don’t really live, then what the hell am I beating for?’

I owe it to my heart to live better. Every pump of blood to every limb is so I can run and jump and dare to try things I haven’t before. Every pulse is so I can imagine and dream and think and decide and then act, so I don’t want to come to the end of my life and find that my heart tapped out a lonely echo of a beat filled with nothing. I no longer want my heart to beat in vain. I will meet each trial and triumph with a steady, determined rhythm. I will risk and dare and dream and act and give my heart the thrill of courageous feats and dismal disappointments from which I will learn and try again.

My heart expects more, and I will give it.