We just had mother’s day. A strange time of year when I get to remember I’m not a mother and lots of other people are. Not in a sad way, just in a detached “should I be?” way. I am getting on a bit, after all.
My mum’s such a sweetie in that every mother’s day she’s taken to giving me a little present from the cat I rescued from certain death and she adopted (since I wussed out - can’t even look after myself you see). This year it was a 3-pack of foam earplugs, the most awesomest present ever, since I suffer from a syndrome known as ‘the loud neighbours’.
The first time I put them in I discovered something – my thudding heart.
It was glorious. An awakening, a sudden clearing in the fog of my existence. I realised I’m alive, not just as an abstract thought but as a thudding being. I thud therefore I am.
We don’t get to hear our hearts enough. It’s so comforting, relaxing, grounding. Humbling. There’s no better way to come back down to earth than to realise how tentative your existence is. It’s just that tiny thud thud that keeps you alive. Without it, there is no you.
There is no sweeter sound. It may be why I crave the occasional drum and bass, the soothing thump of downtempo, the deep bassline drive behind dubstep - I really just crave the thud thud going on in my chest.
Everyone always talks about what we take for granted. Surely our thudding hearts should be at the top of that list.
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