If so, then I must be YUGE!!!! (to invoke a recent expression to our collective North American vocabulary).
When I got dressed this morning I put on a shirt that carries a small almost imperceptible stain on it. I got to thinking about the situation when it happened. It seemed like a scar, a reminder so a wound. And because of that, I gently loved the little stain on my shirt.
Scars are pretty awesome, they tell a story. I like to think of them in that Japanese pottery meme a crack filled with gold.
I have scars, the physical kind on my ear lobe, my chin, my eye, my face, my forehead, my wrist, my shoulder, my knee, my foot, and then there is the one on my abdomen (like in the picture below) a bastard child of scars.
I am still reconciling that story, making it something to be proud of… to feel some gentleness about that line across my skin… I am nowhere near there though. I look at it on occasion and my heart still feels heavy and full of pain. I am trying to get past that, I would hate to have to go through the rest of my life with so heart wrenching a reminder. It, the scar (maybe I should name it) has found some horrible ways to remind it is there… when I move and have to bend, my panties curl up in the front and rest along the line… a uncomfortable feeling to say the least. In the midst of a cold day, it can tighten up and feel like it has just tasted lemons… another uncomfortable feeling. In the summer, and especially here in my beloved desert, it tends to pool with sweat and I will get a sweat line on my clothes above it.
It, in reading this post as I write, seems to be like an ill-tempered child, seeking attention. I need to love it, and I am bound and determined to find a way. I should give it a name.
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
~ Kahlil Gibran