The resting heart is what we must listen for, if we wish to understand the body. We can listen with our ears, our fingers, to the resting heart’s tidal ebb and flow through the skin at our wrist or throat, and mark it. But that’s not enough to learn what it’s saying. We must hush and listen close at the same time over time, the tidal rush being a live thing in itself, needing daily tending. By touch, with attention, the resting heart will spell and number the body’s story—if staccato, pulse busily scouring out the body’s tide-pools; if a slow even tempo, pulse gently tugging the worn self back together—found, and recovered.