I think about it as I pray. Oh, so much to pray for. Sometimes I feel my heart burst with so many tefillos, along with the empty ache of not having any more words, just a raw, visceral cry. And I think of my heart, the top chambers emptying while the bottom ones fill, top chambers filling while the bottom chambers empty, again and again and again. That is the construct of my prayers right now.

I think about it as I live my day in my little suburban area of Memphis, Tennessee, gnarled magnolia trees and slow Southern drawls the backdrop of my life. All I can think about is a place so, so far from here, sun-drenched Jerusalem stone, vibrant sounds of so many Jewish voices, shimmers of holiness lacing the landscapes. I’m physically here, but so badly want to be there that it hurts. I think about how the bloodstream cycles in and out of the heart, first in one chamber, then into another, but always present in the body as a whole. I can be alive here while my heart and mind are there; it’s all part of me.

I think about this as I think of our people. The kedoshim, the hostages, the chayalim, people I have never met, yet think about every day. I remember that gut punch we all felt, that collective shudder of agony. At the same time, I think how incredibly, infinitely proud I am to be part of such a nation. My heart has more than one chamber; I can feel the pain and the pride of a nation simultaneously.

I think about it when I am feeling so sad, so depleted. There’s so much pain, so much fear, so much grief, so much terror. And then, a ripple of hope washes over me. We’re trying so hard, coming so close together, holding on, not giving up. Praying and hoping and hoping and praying that this is it, that Geulah is a whisper away. I think of my heart, of my oxygen-starved blood flowing through the right side, rich oxygenated blood through the left. I can feel both sad and awash with hope.

Honestly, sometimes, it just feels like too much.

The ripping pain, the pride of my People.

The searing tears of sorrow, the restoring tears of love.

The agony of loss, the joy of a newfound unity.

The wrench of grief, the hum of hope.

Sometimes, there is so much thundering within me, I don’t know if I can hold it all.

I return to the heart, four chambers, a complex symphony of mechanical, electrical, biochemical forces all operating in tandem in one beating heart. It can hold it all.

I take a breath, feel my heart beat within me.

My heart has more than one chamber.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 874)