The Bridge

Babies and me are not magnetic. I'm not the woman who launches across the room to smell their hair or cradle their heads in my arms. They make me feel slightly uncomfortable. I usually make them cry.

Two days ago, that began to change for me. Two days ago, it was made clear to me I have a wall between my brain and my heart. And two days ago, I met Eleanor.

My status as the Queen of Denial was jeapordized the moment I was told, by a very wise woman, I let my brain get in my way. I live too much in the intellect. I deny my heart equal standing in my daily life. Yes, my personal Berlin Wall rides squarely across my shoulders, separating my dominant rational mind from those inconvenient, messy emotions of the heart. I was told it is time to dismantle the wall and use that same raw material to build a bridge. A bridge between my heart and my mind. A bridge that allows safe passage for more goodness to enter my life.

Wishing to remain Queen, I objected. "I don't know how to build that bridge," I said, with more than a hint of Chardonay in my tone. "You'll figure it out", the wise woman assured. Great. That's all I need. One more metaphor to add to my already crowded list. Doors, wondows, walls, gates and now, Sweet Jesus, I'm supposed to build a bridge.

As luck would have it, I met with my cousin Lise and her 6 week old baby, Eleanor, the very same day I was told to dive headlong into the bridge-building business. Little did I know they were each master architects.

Lise gave me the blueprint when she suggested I start by consciously inviting God into my heart, my mind and my home. Eleanor laid the foundation when, after 6 hours of hesitation on my part, I surrendered to her charms, her warmth and her sweet smelling hair. She slept over my heart for 2 miraculous hours. And in those 2 miraculous hours of surrender, she took my heart to task. She inflicted serious damage to the wall, she reversed my thinking by not shedding a tear and, God love her, she started the bridge.