Scared Of Speaking My Heart: A Short Tale Of Courage.
Here is a tale of courage. It is one that I wrote recently for my writing club. Also, the word ‘courage’ very fittingly derives from the Latin word ‘cor’ — heart and originally means strength of the heart. So here you go, a story of courage about hearts…
Scared Of Speaking My Heart.
by Hetty Monksea.
Breanne Jefferson was a unique girl. Some would say that she was wise for her age. There definitely weren’t many more emotionally intelligent fifteen-year-olds. She once likened how she felt to ‘needing to clear out the ashes of the fire of her soul and start anew’. She was very caring; open and thoughtful. And Breanne also looked after herself pretty well too. She took time to sit outside and take in all of nature. She learnt yoga. She meditated every night. She wrote a diary. She expressed her gratitude in life. She tap danced out her anger. She played her pain; sorrow and joy on her harp. Breanne looked after everything in her care including herself. There was only one main thing that hindered her. And that was love.
When it came to love Breanne felt trapped; as if she was locked inside her thoughts and emotions. She was a prisoner to her heart’s desires. That happened when she fell in love with Winston Seymour. What Breanne found annoying was that he was simply an ordinary boy, with the exception of his long toffee hair which he kept up in a loose bun. She felt that she might as well have fallen for one of the boys in her Spanish class. And yet, her heart’s thoughts told her otherwise. These smitten thoughts sanf of how lovely and funny he was. They hummed how beautiful his voice was. They whispered how handsome his deep blue eyes were. Sometimes Breanne would lose herself to these thoughts but then she would snap out of them. And she would chide herself as she did so. She would mutter “Stop it Breanne; you hardly know the boy,” under her breath. However, she couldn’t stop. To some extent she didn’t want to either. And this was because she truly loved him.
At night she would often think of nothing else. Sweet memories of him would fill her head and heart. And she wished with all her soul for two things. One was to tell Winston how she felt. The second was him to love her back. Both to her felt impossible. For the first she was scared, terribly scared. What would he do? What would he say? For the second she couldn’t believe it would ever happen. It seemed too far-fetched. Breanne carried on like this for months. She felt that her thoughts were a mixture of exquisite pleasure and emotional torture.
Then one night Breanne had a dream about Winston. Breanne had of course dreamt about Winston before but generally he was just a side character and definitely nothing remotely romantic ever happened in these imagined scenes. Yet, this time it was a little different. The dream itself went something like this:
Breanne and Winston were in her garden alone in the evening by a fire. Breanne was tired and asked Winston if she could rest her head on his lap. He nodded and so she did. They then seemed to get lost in each other’s eyes for a moment. He suddenly opened his mouth and the words “You know I love you?” tumbled out. Breanne stared at him.
And there the dream ended. Breanne woke up shivering and a cold then hot feeling enveloped her body. Her heart gave a funny little flip every now and again. The dream left a strange tingling sensation in her chest and upper stomach. Breanne doubted it would ever actually come true but still there was an infuriating feeling of quiet hope that refused to leave. For the next few days Breanne was utterly distracted by her thoughts of Winston and the dream. Her heart and gut told yes but her brain wasn’t so sure. Her confidence just didn’t exist. Breanne wanted to ask Winston if he loved her so badly. And yet it required a certain bravery. A bravery that Breanne didn’t have. So she decided to let it go for the time being.
One day Breanne was talking to her Aunt Mabel on the phone. She was chatting to Breanne about food, but then Aunt Mabel never did chat about anything else. “And that’s the only way to make an omelette,” she said to Breanne. “Oh, really?” Breanne asked. “Yes, and don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise,” Aunt Mabel concluded firmly. “Ah, and you know what else is nice?” “No, what?” At this point Breanne was beyond boredom. Aunt Mabel could rattle on about food forever, and I mean forever. “Nettle soup! Fresh nettle soup!” Aunt Mabel chimed. Breanne’s ears pricked up. “Wait, fresh nettle soup?” she asked. “Yep-a-doodles!” Aunt Mabel cawed. “But how do you pick ’em without getting stung?” Breanne was genuinely interested. “If you just go for it they don’t seem to sting you,” hiccuped Aunt Mabel. “But how are you brave enough to go for it?” asked Breanne of her aunt. “You just got to go with the moment, love,” Aunt Mabel said wisely before then rambling on about radishes. However, those words stuck to Breanne like glue. You just got to go with the moment, love. Breanne kept that with her for the rest of her life. And she unconsciously put the words to good use.
A week later Breanne woke up with an unpleasant sunken sensation which just made her want to cry.
She decided to sit down and do a loving kindness or metta meditation. What did her heart want to tell her? It wanted to tell her two things. Her heart told her how painful it was to be without Winston. “I know, I know,” Breanne whispered in reply. It also wanted to tell her how terrified it was. And how sure it was that it could never tell Winston how it felt. “I know, it’s ok. It’s alright,” Breanne cooed to her heart. Breanne’s breath wished to tell her something else also. It said to let herself go with the flow. Breanne nodded her head to acknowledge what her breath had told her. She then suddenly stood up and, in a trance-like-daze, went over to her harp.
Breanne sat down and rested the instrument in her lap. And then she began to play “The Turtle Dove.” like she had never played it before. The music swirled around her and Breanne seemed to become the song, such was her soul in the piece. She was playing for the person she cared for above all others. Breanne was playing for Winston; as if he was really there. She was playing for the boy she loved. And then Breanne started to sing. And as she sang word for note and note for word, she entered her own world of peace and music. She spelled out her love and joy in every careful phrase. These were the words that Breanne sang:
“Oh fare thee well, I must be gone and leave you for awhile. Wherever I go I will return, if I go ten thousand miles. If I go, if I go, if I go ten thousand miles.
Oh, ten thousand miles it is so far to leave me here alone. Well, I may lie, lament, and cry, and you’ll not hear my mourn.
And you’ll, no you’ll, and you’ll not hear my mourn. Oh, the crow that is so black, my love, will change his colour white. If ever I prove false to thee, the day will turn to night.
Yes, the day, oh the day, yes, the day will turn to night. Oh, the rivers never will run dry, or the rocks melt with the sun. I’ll never prove false to the boy I love till all these things be done.
Till all, till all, till all these things be done.”
And as she spread the last cord of the piece, Breanne was brought back to the room. She was slightly panting as if the music had clasped her soul and ripped it from her person. Now all that was left was the sense of loss and the calming feeling of peace. It made for quite the confusing mixture.
Then Breanne heard a pair of hands clapping. And a voice which she knew better than her own said “That was amazing.” Breanne whipped her head round and there he was, sitting behind her. Winston Seymour. He was no dream nor vision. He was as flesh-and-blood as Breanne, and he had heard the whole piece. She stood up. It was time. Breanne could feel it rising from her toes up onto the tip of her tongue, where it finally broke free, and the words “I love you.” fell from her mouth. She licked her lips. Breanne had managed to do it and it felt so good. A sense of harmony enveloped her; a burden had been liberated from her bosom at last. Winston nodded as if he already knew and Breanne smiled. The impossible had been achieved. Breanne felt braver and bolder than she could ever have imagined.
The End!
