Skip to main content

Scars

       I have this tiny remnant of a scar on the back of my left hand from a friend who put out a cigarette on me. It hurt. Bad. I will never forget that moment or that girl. And as I was looking at this scar, I noticed several others on my body. Some I remember, some I don't. But I was thinking less about the reason I got this cigarette scar, and more about the person I was at the time. 
       I wasn't necessarily a bad girl. In fact, people would probably call me a pretty good one. But, I had my moments. And looking down at this scar brought back all those "moments" into one continuous stream of not-so-good things. I have moved on from them, but I still have a reminder. 
       I remember I was playing softball, the summer of my 9th grade year, and as I hit the ball toward second base my best friend at the time was running from first to second. She had to slide into second to get on base. The second baseman jammed her cleat into her shin and pushed up all the muscle and tendon of her leg up into her knee. That was a bad scar. I don't carry that scar, but I carry the memory. When I was looking at my own scar, remembering about the cigarette girl who is no longer in my life, I thought about my old best friend who is also no longer in mine. But I will be. I will be because of that painful moment one summer night.
       Then I realized it isn't just about the scars that I carry on my body inflicted by me or someone else, it is also about the scars I inflict on others. How many scars do people carry that are directly associated with me somehow? How many did I create? Do these scares bring good memories or just bad ones entirely? Also...are they all visible?
       I would venture to say that my most dominate scars are the ones that are not seen. They are the ones that were created from what I call paradigm shifts. The moments that broke apart my foundation and split asunder my heart. But as they say, "Time heals all wounds." I believe it, but just because I am healed doesn't mean I don't carry remnants of that wound. Just like the back of my hand, I still see the evidence that it happened, I just don't feel the physical pain. 
      When I look at pictures of my family before my brother died and after, I see scars not just on skin. When I look at my dog's limp, I see that scars aren't just on humans. When I look at burnt earth, I see that scars aren't just for breathing things. I guess I just realize how indelible actions are...especially mine. 
       So, I want to apologize. If I have caused anyone a scar: visible or not...unless it was a good memory. Those I don't apologize for. ;-)

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Tiger must stay in your backpack...

   I'm not that parent. The one who gloats too much, and shows off all the pictures. The parent who relays every detail of their kid to let others know how incredible I think they are. Perhaps it is a flaw. Who knows. And I also pride myself in not being a helicopter parent. I teach and let go. I discipline and let go.    And I thought I would be ready for this: first day of Pre-K. I have been very positive and uplifting and have wanted my son to be extra ready to go to school. We have talked about it for months! I am ready... Or so I thought.  This morning, as white boy was leaving to take them to daycare, he said to Owen, "You can't take Tiger to school tomorrow or he will have to stay in your backpack, so do you want to take him to daycare today?" I thought little of it, but as Owen threw him down on the ground and turned to head out the door, my throat hitched. "Are you sure you don't want to take him today?" He said no. It was a sense of finality.  ...
Post a Comment
Read more

A goodbye love letter to you...

  I sat across from my dad at lunch, yesterday, and asked him, "Do you know what tomorrow is?" He said, "Yeah. 1 year." And his eyes grew damp. "I'll never forget walking into that room..." He didn't continue. I didn't ask him to. "I'll never forget the police officer banging on my door at 1130 at night..." I didn't continue. He didn't ask me to.  "This journal was given to me several years ago by my children. I know they wanted me to write down my thoughts to get through the rough times I was going through at the time. I did not start this at that time. Why am I starting it now? Well, I only thought I had been through hell back then, but now I realize I didn't have any idea what heartache was until Aug 15, 2010 -"   This is the beginning of one of my mother's journals. A journal she started a little over a month after Andy died. And she wrote it--to him.  "Dear Mother - Today is the day before Mothe...
Post a Comment
Read more

Arithmetic of Purpose

   By nature, humans will, at one point in their life, ask the question, "For what purpose? Why am I here? What am I meant to do?" Okay, maybe they will ask themselves more than 1 question...but at least around the same theme. "Who am I, and why am I here?" It is built in our very DNA. Growing up, I didn't ask this often. I had a loving family who went with the current. Who I was and why I was here was bound up in my place in my family of 4. I was comfy. I was loved. I was secure. But alas...the question presented itself.   I first asked myself this question walking down the streets of Rome. I was alone, I was 21, and I was lost. I had just finished AmeriCorps and felt like I wanted something, but wasn't sure what that was. I had found my faith, at last, and realized that perhaps I wanted to be a bigger part of the Church collective. I felt meaning to my nothingness. I went home with direction. I graduated from college, finally, and started grad school to be...
Post a Comment
Read more