Two paths converged this week. I was listening to Neil Young:
I want to live
I want to give
I’ve been a miner for a heart of gold.
The saddest lyric in that song is:
and I’m getting old.
I thought about my searches for a heart of gold. What that meant to me was finding someone who would love me without ever hurting me. It was about me being loved, not so much about my loving.
And then I was reading Byron Katy, and very stark sentences leaped off the page: ultimately there is only you; you are your own suffering; you are your own happiness. And I thought about what had flitted through my mind as I hummed along with Neil: I’m the heart of gold.
It is the quality of my loving, which as always, includes loving myself, so that I don’t allow assault. But it’s about me. And I’m growing old