It is in the same place as that in which emotions are experienced that the original sense of being dwells, or indeed hides, since it lies somehow behind and below the emotions. This matchbox-sized place is called the heart, because it is the place from where the current of life seems to well up, and where the spontaneity of will, such spontaneity as will possesses, is found. To put your heart into it, to have heart for the task, expresses it far better than such phrases as follow your heart. The self is something different, it is a nexus of central nodes in overlapping and interacting webs of meaning, a set of loci in a multi-dimensional net of Indra, or more accurately of the path-space of such a net. Energies, for want of a better word, go out and return along these paths and the cycles interfere with each other in complex phases of feeling; it is not the heart but is woven all around it. This is why the heart can be a centre that is both concentrated inwardly and fiercely centrifugal, why you cannot will it to stillness. Indeed you cannot will it at all, since the first move is always away from the centre, returning to it more or less immediately in feeling, but shattered and transformed.