Musings on "Vide Cor Meum"

Musing on “Vide Cor Meum”
Gwen Brown

Another relationship a complete disaster, so being completely shattered, listening to music seemed soothing. Men are so fragile. Once he knew, when I told him, his eyes grew vacant and he awkwardly left, saying he had things to do at 11:00 PM.

Life had gotten better as growing maturity kept up its relentless assault upon my immature, idealistic mind that wanted to lie on the steps and piteously howl in pain. So this time the music on my laptop and watching the river traffic seemed sufficient, with the added advantage that there would be no need to be bailed out of jail, or neighbors to look scornfully at me as I staggered, looking bedraggled, home mid-day.

The song, “Vide Cor Meum” had been so intriguing that I played it again, this time finding the lyrics in English, what did they mean? “And thinking of her sweet sleep overcame me. I am your master” Whose master? Was a man telling this maiden that he was her “master”? Oh in the heart and soul of my own imagination I long for a master, but reality dictates that I may be alone in that desire. Oh in “50 Shades” his fantasy is that he is her master, but in the dozens of women I have met, none of them wish to be mastered. Even the married ones seem to allow their husbands the vain imaginings that he is her master, but secretly smiling, she knows where his handle is and what to do to get what she wants. She wishes to be cared for, not mastered. Every woman is a queen at heart.

Oh, there are the abusers and the beaters, but they are nothing; of no consequence in the vast scheme of the universe. They will live a hell and die hated; to be inhabited by a torment that eats their very innards, taking an eternity to do so.

“See your heart, your heart”. The lyrics lack explanation; some would perhaps see the departing of The Christ. Others might simply see a beautiful, yet inscrutable Opera. The music reminds me in some small way of Thoreau’s “Thanatopsis”.

“So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”

Another troubled night. At least this morning the bedding is still on the bed. Some mornings it is on the floor or even across the room. I wonder if nightmares are flash backs? Neither, knowing or caring, life is taken head on, without emotion, knowing that they will not see the pain or anguish that lurks inside, whether they don’t care or it is not revealed to them.
What happened to the inexhaustible tears from years ago? There was the crying all the day long, the succumbing to drugs of sleep, the waking up in the middle of the night weeping and then sinking back into mindless troubled slumber, and awakening in the dim morning light with cheeks wet with tears. How many months or years did that continue? Such grieving, such abandonment, why did they not simply murder, commit murder? Perhaps they simply murdered a soul to leave a numb shell that does not know enough to pass on. Who shall put it out of its misery?

Eating unsalted fried eggs and freshly buttered toast with some apricot preserves, and sissy creamed and sweetened coffee, the restlessness sets in. Looking from the 4th floor window, the day looks partly cloudy with no frost, and eyeing the thermometer it is in the low 40s. Briefly flicking through the grey library inside my head, yes, the bills are paid, and one or two tanks of gas might provide enough radical distraction. I’ll pass that abutment where one small error could dash my car and I to pieces, there will likely be no departure from that sweeping turn and the short flight into the shipping channel. The unshed tears are useless, there is and will be no one to hold me and warm my chilled soul. The thoughts of suicide are always never far away but you simply see the hopelessness as an unwanted companion but not dangerous.

Gazing at the lyrics on the lap top, “Joy is converted to bitter tears” that cleanse my soul, “I am in peace, my heart, I am in peace; see my heart”. What a lovely piece. Not having done any research on it I am surprised to find that it was composed by a blooming Irish man, not the Middle Aged Italian composer I had supposed. So, it is not all Blarney Stone and Leprechauns for them? What else do you expect from an ignorant American? The joke is on me, is it not?

On the road East, I can cruise for miles at 72 miles per hour, carefully treading the edge of legality. Even one more mile per hour might net me a heavy fine. There will be no traffic lights or toll booths for more than 300 miles. At this speed, the Idaho border is only hours away, but I find more solitude in the semi desert farmland that is divided by 5000 foot passes. Perhaps this time I will find a place to park off the beaten path, away from the city lights, and to watch the galaxy wheel by in the night. It is a gloriously silent symphony that challenges my imagination. In an hour or 3 I will turn South. When I stop somewhere it is 50 or more miles to the nearest human. Perhaps in the solitude out there lie peace and the embrace of the God I hope for.

While I camp men have driven up in aging, dusty old Ford trucks. They mostly said, “Howdy” and wished me a pleasant evening, but did not stay.” They had no need to know about the .38 under the bedding at my right side.

Sometimes one day on these trips is enough to restore the heart to continue. At times it takes two or more days. If there were the funds, I would let my apartment go and never return to life in a city that is not as hospitable as it was 60 years ago.

There will be no visitor to gently ask to come into my dry, baked heart. We continue on with dwindling hope, not ending it because we try to believe what some faint lie tells us. There is an agreement with the one who is the master of my own soul. As long as someone asks for help, I will not refuse them as long as I am able.

Yes, “I am in peace, see my heart”.

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This story is 1159 words long.