Map of my Heart

Some years ago I made this map of my heart as a chessboard - inspired by the quote. Unfortunately I've forgotten the name of the book it came from, and the author.

Map of My Heart


Travellers have an interesting approach to the study of geography – if you want to know where you’re going, they say, look at a map – if you’re not going there, why do you want to know where it is?

Sometimes travelers have a destination, sometimes they don’t – after all, it’s not the destination that matters, it’s the journey, and what you might discover along the way. And when you do get to your destination, you’ll move on again when you get fed up with it.

My father had a huge collection of maps and sea charts because he never knew where he might want to go next, and sometimes he just went where the wind and the tide took him. So the map of a traveller’s heart may have clearly marked pathways and destinations, but most of the time it’s just scribbled notes, plenty of sidetracks and a few of those signs that travellers leave by the roadway for other travellers to find.

The map of my heart meanders all over the place – there are green Irish hills and rocky Scottish coastlines, sun baked Spanish towns and outback roads with gum trees fading into the distance. The descansos that mark my passage along these roads are little bundles of twigs, signs for those who come after me.

A single broken twig marks the time I left Ireland and my childhood behind. A simple memorial for everything that passed then, including the companion of my childhood, a greyhound called Moffy, who was run over a few days before we went across the water.

A bunch of heather marks the first time I went to Scotland – it flutters at the side of the road, telling those who come after that this is a good place with happy memories.

There’s a couple of shells for the year I spent in the Channel Islands, with the sea always within walking distance – and how I loved the tiny shell covered church on Guernsey! I went there every day.

There’s a sad little bunch of wilted flowers marking the road that took me from England to Australia. I left broken hearted because of a love affair that didn’t work out. A piece of my heart is indelibly worked into this part of the map.

But further on there is a beautiful twig of frangipani, redolent of the soft summer Queensland day I got married, and many flowers following it, as we welcomed our beautiful children into the world.

Another broken twig marks the end of my father’s journey – he died and is buried in the land he came to love. Other broken twigs show where my beloved brother in law and his wife came to the end of their road.

The Australian map of my heart is covered with signs left for those who come after – some are warnings, for not every path I took or every choice I made was the right one. But all the beautiful flowers have taken root and have grown into gardens of grandchildren. This way, they say, is the right way – this is where my feet walked gladly and the campfires still burn a welcome to all.

It rambles all over, this map of my heart, but there never is a destination, only the journey – never a home, only the places where the heart rests and finds a piece of what it has been searching for. Home, the travelers say, is where you go when all the travelling’s done – and mine isn’t done yet.