The Consciousness of the Heart
I am a big fan of public television mysteries, especially those made in Europe. Good acting, intricate plots. So here’s a summary of a French mystery I just saw:
A woman gets a heart transplant and immediately begins having nightmares involving the heart donor and her own teenaged daughter, whom the woman and her husband had adopted at birth. Turns out the heart donor was a young woman who died in a car crash, but the nightmares indicate to the woman that the girl’s death was not an accident.
She meets the adoptive father of the young woman; he too believes his daughter’s death was no accident; so they team up to find out what really happened; her teenaged daughter gets pulled into this detective work too.
We find out that both daughters had issues about being loved related to being adopted. Lots of twists and turns in the story due to this, after which...the new heart comes close to failing. But, seeing her mom so sick, the teenaged daughter realizes how much she loves her mother. The young woman’s father becomes aware of how he tried to push his daughter into a career in medicine (his career) rather than letting her be the singer/musician she wanted to be.
In the only way that he can communicate with her now, the father places his hand on the woman’s chest above his daughter’s heart, and, speaking to his beloved deceased child, apologizes to her heart for his lack of awareness of her needs when she was alive.
You can guess the rest: The transplanted heart settles down, the woman gets better, the teenaged daughter gets over her own anxieties —and by the way, they catch the man who murdered the daughter by forcing her car to crash.
Well, it was way better than it sounds.
But here’s what really caught me—that scene where the dad talks to the heart of his daughter. As if the heart carries its own consciousness and he was able to communicate with it.
Even more than European mystery dramas, I love stories about consciousness-- there’s a literary conceit that involves a body part being transplanted into another person and taking control of the hapless recipient—say, someone gets a hand transplanted from an executed criminal and the hand takes over to steal or murder –sinister stories, even tales of horror.
An alien consciousness inside one’s own self. We are familiar with this theme. And part of what makes these stories work is the notion of the implied consciousness of the body part, the power of the body part, for example, of a hand that has its own mind.
In our age, we are used to the notion that consciousness dwells in the brain, we don’t find that strange at all. But many peoples have believed that consciousness dwelt as well in the heart. The heart responds by quickening, by aching, by urging action, or by relaxing into peacefulness. It rises up to greet its love; it sinks into despair. It feels. It seems conscious. Now we can trace the complex biological directives that guide the heart’s functioning, the chemicals and mechanisms that control it. But still, subjectively, the heart feels.
We have a complicated relationship with our hearts from this perspective. The heart as a conscious part of us that may have inconvenient feelings. It is in a sense an alien consciousness within us. I am speaking of course of emotions. And how we can harden our hearts, turn against tender feelings, deny that affective link. I’ve done it and I bet you have, too. Other emotions are there to step in—rage, fear, greed, lust.
Dr. King said he could not figure out how to reconcile the contradictions in humans (we can be so good and also so evil) until he recognized the power of love, which must be our guide.
I had a hateful spell the other day. I was, as my mother cautioned me against in the past, “being ugly.” Judging somebody harshly. Thinking about a situation that had come up that was not gonna be easy to resolve with some other people. Money was involved, of course. Odd how that often happens.
Several of us talked together, trying to come up with a solution. Someone suggested a generous resolution and then someone else countered with another generous perspective. That night, in bed, I lay there imagining how this conflict could maybe turn out to be a victory for love. I crossed my hands over my chest, above my heart, and breathed.
