Not Just a Pump, A Spiraling Heart that still beats

Somewhere, in an article I stumbled across during a long night of dizziness and reflection, I read something that completely changed how I see my body. It said the heart is not a pump. The idea that blood needs to be forcefully pushed through sixty thousand miles of arteries is not only outdated — it’s simply not true. The real movement of blood, the article explained, comes from pressure differentials, electromagnetic flow, and coherent resonance. Blood spirals naturally. It moves not because it’s pushed, but because it wants to — guided by frequency, vibration, and charge.

Even more incredible, blood begins to move before the heart is even formed in the womb. Our bodies are not factories — they’re fields of living energy.

The heart, it turns out, generates a toroidal electromagnetic field that extends several meters beyond the body. This field responds to our emotions, our thoughts, even our breath. It syncs with the Earth, the Sun, and those around us. It feels, it remembers, it transmits. And suddenly, in that moment of reading, I understood: my heart is not just keeping me alive. It is holding the very essence of my being. It is not a pump — it’s a conductor. A resonator. The instrument of this body doesn't belong to me. It's a natural phenomena.

And this matters—because even when life narrows and the body becomes a landscape of tubes, discomfort, and altered routines, the heart continues its sacred rhythm.

It’s been six months since I’ve had a proper shower. Even when I travel to the beach and the vast ocean is right in front of me, I can’t swim in it. The water, which once felt like home, now waits behind the barrier of my healing. The PEG tube is with me day and night—a quiet witness to my hunger, my rest, my movement. It sleeps beside me, reminds me of its presence every time I turn. My body has changed. But the field — my heart’s field — has not stopped singing.

At night, the PEG tube sleeps with me. It’s a silent, constant companion, nestled against my side. Every time I turn, I have to move with care — making sure I don’t crash into the very thing that’s keeping me alive. My body has become a shared space: part-me, part-machine, part-vigilance. And some days, that feels like a kind of grief all on its own.

Even through grief. A different kind of grief. Even through the quiet ache of not touching the ocean. Even through sadness that feels too wide to carry — my heart still resonates. Still reaches. Still feels.

This isn’t a story of suffering alone. It’s a story of interbeing. Of knowing that I do not exist independently. That every turn of my body, every breath I take, every act of support I receive is part of a larger field — of care, of resonance, of life continuing despite everything.

And in this, there is something sacred. The miracle is not just that my heart is still beating. It’s that it’s still feeling. Still remembering. Still loving.

Still here.