I've heard it said that some people "wear their hearts on their sleeves." I often wonder if there are some who wear not only sleeves, but a thick "designed-for-subzero-temperatures parka" over their hearts.

The Wizard of Oz muses "Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable." Undoubtedly, a beating heart keeps us alive, but people do die from a broken heart. How ironic that what keeps us alive in happiness, can also lead to our demise in the absence there of?

None of us are exempt from heartache, but hopefully we also experience happiness to balance our days and give us reprieve for healing. Really, we are the only true barometers of our own pain and joy. Obviously it is the joy we'd much rather have, yet it is often the pain that promotes growth and defines us. I believe that pain and suffering sandpaper our souls and give us the opportunity to not only choose the colors, but decide if we want to color within the lines-or forego the coloring book entirely.

While some fear pain, others find gain. We can choose to remain in a toxic, dysfunctional relationship, and embrace the familiar feeling of pain. It all begins with just one blow to the heart or beating of the flesh, but remember this--- once a victim, twice a volunteer. The choice IS ours to make.

If only there were a GPS to navigate us through what hurts and heals our hearts. Here's the roadblock; sometimes with the end of a relationship or the end of a life, we hold onto the pain, because that's all we have left of what we lost. Some people build layer upon layer of emotional scar tissue, like the floors of a skyscraper. Sadly, the basement to the top floor is filled to capacity with angst, bitterness and regret/guilt, that simmer and bubble away. As water finds the path of least resistance, this bubbling brew remains just below the surface, awaiting the smallest prick from a rose's thorn to erupt like a volcano. Following an unpredictable path, and knowing no boundaries, the lava burns bridges and severs relationships. Often, smoldering wreckage is all that remains.

Conversely, tiny saplings emerge after fires decimate entire forests. These sprouted seeds only know to grow towards the light, weathering freezing winters and the driest of droughts. They are undeterred by cloudy days, as though they know the sun will shine again. Yes, I humanize both these seedlings and intolerant conditions; don't we vivify our fears as they bind our limbs and render us immobile?

If you could plant a garden in your heart, what would you sow? Like life, some years my crops have been generous, yielding more zucchini, tomatoes, butternut squash than I knew what to do with. Every morning I would go out and marvel at the beautiful bounty! Other years, we reaped only a handful of potatoes, several tomatoes, and not even enough peanuts to make a pb&j sandwich. In disgust, I would try to figure out what went wrong; always, though, I knew that I enjoyed the planting aspect, and despite the poor yield, we didn't even come close to starving!

Like our gardens, our hearts can hold hope, and bear ample promise we can generously share our joy with others. Meanwhile, there are times when our hearts seem empty, and our souls are akin to tired soil without nurturing or nutrients to offer. This is when we need to take stock. Stop in that moment long enough to ask yourself about options. Are we planting in the same space each year and not rotating our fields? Do we seek out the same types of relationships that simply refuse to yield love? Do we venture to try new and different things to plant? Might our hearts be bettered by reaching out for the unknown?

Every beating heart has the capacity to make a difference and bear some type of sustenance for mankind. In my soon-to-be-released memoir, Room in the Heart; Surviving a Childhood Undone, Fulfilling a Pact to Love, I share how as my father was dying from heart disease, it was his failing heart that spoke the loudest. He knew that during his lifetime he left much unsaid. I watched this quiet man plant and reap his gardens, yet never got the chance to be daddy's girl. Right before he died, he told me how much he loved me and how proud I made him. For me, these were the sweetest fruits of all.

Even if you are not the gardening type, allow your beating heart to make a difference in lives other than your own. Scatter seeds of happiness and kindness plentifully. Don't we all hunger for nourishment that is hand-grown?