The Head and the Heart

Eventually this division of head and heart culminates in one of two directions. We can either deaden our heart or divide our life into two parts, where our outer story becomes the theater of the should and our inner story the theater of needs, the place where we quench the thirst of our heart with whatever water is available. I chose the second route, living what I thought of as my religious life with increasing dryness and cynicism while I found “water” where I could: in sexual fantasies, alcohol, the next dinner out, late-night violent videos, gaining more knowledge through religious seminars—whatever would slake the thirsty restlessness inside. Whichever path we choose—heart deadness or heart-and-head separation—the Arrows win and we lose heart.

This is the story of all our lives, in one way or another. The haunting of the Romance and the Message of the Arrows are so radically different, and they seem so mutually exclusive they split our hearts in two. In every way that the Romance is full of beauty and wonder, the Arrows are equally powerful in their ugliness and devastation. The Romance seems to promise a life of wholeness through a deep connection with the great Heart behind the universe. The Arrows deny it, telling us, “You are on your own. There is no Romance, no one strong and kind who is calling you to an exotic adventure.” The Romance says, “This world is a benevolent place.” The Arrows mock such naïveté, warning us, “Just watch yourself— disaster is a moment away.” The Romance invites us to trust. The Arrows intimidate us into self-reliance.


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