Every creature on earth has approximately two billion heartbeats to spend in a lifetime.
Recent research suggests that language, like matter, cools as it expands, its corpus requiring fewer and fewer new words to communicate essential meaning.
Following a wonderful naturalistic meditation on the Hummingbird heart - "the price of their ambition is a life closer to death" - Joyas Volardores concludes with this passage on the human vessel. I thought I'd share it with IdeaFestival blog readers. This spare, poetic language manages to communicate so much with so little:
You can brick up your heart as stout and tight and hard and cold and impregnable as you possibly can and down it comes in an instant, felled by a woman’s second glance, a child’s apple breath, the shatter of glass in the road, the words I have something to tell you, a cat with a broken spine dragging itself into the forest to die, the brush of your mother’s papery ancient hand in the thicket of your hair, the memory of your father’s voice early in the morning echoing from the kitchen where he is making pancakes for his children.