"After her body was exposed and examined by passerby, it was returned to the fire, where it was burned to ashes. These were thrown into the Seine to prevent the cultivation of relics. It is said, however, that no matter how long it was left in the flame, her heart could not be consumed. Of the fate of Joan's uncomsumable heart, we have no word." (Mary Gordon, Joan of Arc)Recently a friend of mine, in her offering of words of encouragement, got my wheels turning around the concept of courage. She reminded me that the word courage, at it's etymological roots, is derived from the French, "coeur", meaning heart. Digging deeper, I discovered that it was actually birthed from Latin ("cor" for heart), then adopted into Old French ("corage" for 'heart and spirit'). It then moved into Modern English where it was applied to a wide range of feelings, including wrath, pride, confidence, and lust. It wasn't until the 1600's when it finally settled into the more narrow definition of "bravery."
When I think of courage today, I can't help meditating on Joan of Arc, Saint Joan, who has been eerily traveling in and out of my awareness, through my dreams and my journals, over the course of this whole year. A few months ago, I finally got the hint and started to feed my curiosity about this historical figure, whom I only knew as the boyish teen in armor, martyred at a fiery stake, all in the name of God.
My Joan, as I've gotten to know her through books, was, above all, a young girl. Audacious, moody, contradictory, itching to escape the narrow confines of her peasant class, the domestic life which, as a girl, she was being groomed to enter. She was chatty and precocious, illiterate, though intellectually curious, constantly surrounding herself with people she considered older and wiser. A tomboy, androgynous, questioning and defiant of gender roles. At twelve, she began hearing sacred voices, first telling her of the need to preserve her virginity for her soul's salvation, then delivering the message to save the French from the English. She was seventeen when she left her small village to head an army and eighteen when she was captured by the English, imprisoned, and sentenced to death. And on May 30, 1431, at the age of nineteen, Joan of Arc was burned at the stake.
I am totally fascinated by this girl, this virgin warrior, who at such a young age, when most of her female peers were succumbing to their gendered birthrights, becoming dutiful, subservient wives and mothers, chose to listen to her intuition and pave her own path. Filled with so much anger at the injustice around her and hunger and lust for things beyond the flesh, she was guided by a spiritual calling that she didn't quite fully understand, but trusted enough to follow, filled with the same raging fire that ultimately consumed her. She, self-admittedly, was afraid to die, yet she chose to walk through that fear and to listen to her heart. That inspiring, complex cocktail of passion and emotion, that, to me, says courage.
As I prepare to embark on the next leg of my own journey, I have been bombarded with words of support from loved ones, talking to me of my own courage. But I don't feel courageous. I don't feel inspiring. I feel tired. And terrified. And confused. And turning to the only path that seems to be left for me, having futilely exhausted all the others on my own. I don't feel brave. I feel defeated.
But, like Joan, I do feel my heart. Pretty strong and fairly loud. Surviving my attempts over the past year to starve it, shut it down, deteriorate its muscles, lock up its chambers. Though I've done a pretty good job at numbing my body's appetite, I can still hear my heart calling out for what it's hungry for. And sometimes, if I really concentrate, I can even taste it. I'm no Joan of Arc, don't get me wrong, but I am walking into the fire, bleary-eyed, physically weak, a dulling ache in the pit of my stomach, running on fumes and fragments of my former self. But as fragile as I feel, I can still connect to that constant, reliable rhythm - my heart - like a steady drumbeat, it anchors my feet to the ground and keeps time for my steps - march on, march on, march on.
And I guess, for now, if that's courage, I'll listen. And I'll follow.
A.L. Swynnerton, Joan of Arc
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