Our bodies move with such grace sometimes, like children swimming underwater, hair flowing slowly behind them. We have this instrument we have been given, this practical mass which allows us to connect and touch and see and hear and taste and experience. And throughout our lives we learn how to walk correctly, not bang into corners, watch where we are going, how to properly jump into a body of water, and most of the times the reverse has to happen so we know how to do it correctly.
Scars fading on our bodies, bruises constantly fading, small knicks and cuts on our hands and knees, this constant reminder of how mortal we are, how fragile we can be, and how fleeting everything really is. I often sit at my desk and think about all the cuts and bruises and every trauma my body has ever taken and how I work fairly well, considering. And what if all those closed up places, those repaired spaces suddenly opened back up, if every wound I have ever taken decided in an unanimous state to undo. I would surely die. I think we all would of the shock of seeing how much we have been hurt, of how much the crux of that pain could be. Writhing on the floor, screaming for mercy from the walls and the furniture and the ceiling, only to be offered no comfort. It's a good thing we have mothers to bandage our wounds, salve and ointments to facilitate healing.
Yet we do this all the time with our hearts, we let a wound stay open and open and fester and hurt and never heal. We, or at least I, have been guilty of letting an old wound become a wrecking force in my life because I was afraid of how it would heal, what if I changed, what if I was different, what if I got hurt again? But the freedom of wisdom lies in the failure you had to achieve to see what is the right way and what is the wrong way.
So, my bandaged and long lost heart returns like prodigal sons, beaten, worn down, disconnected from reality, but nonetheless back. And I think that's a good start.
Scars fading on our bodies, bruises constantly fading, small knicks and cuts on our hands and knees, this constant reminder of how mortal we are, how fragile we can be, and how fleeting everything really is. I often sit at my desk and think about all the cuts and bruises and every trauma my body has ever taken and how I work fairly well, considering. And what if all those closed up places, those repaired spaces suddenly opened back up, if every wound I have ever taken decided in an unanimous state to undo. I would surely die. I think we all would of the shock of seeing how much we have been hurt, of how much the crux of that pain could be. Writhing on the floor, screaming for mercy from the walls and the furniture and the ceiling, only to be offered no comfort. It's a good thing we have mothers to bandage our wounds, salve and ointments to facilitate healing.
Yet we do this all the time with our hearts, we let a wound stay open and open and fester and hurt and never heal. We, or at least I, have been guilty of letting an old wound become a wrecking force in my life because I was afraid of how it would heal, what if I changed, what if I was different, what if I got hurt again? But the freedom of wisdom lies in the failure you had to achieve to see what is the right way and what is the wrong way.
So, my bandaged and long lost heart returns like prodigal sons, beaten, worn down, disconnected from reality, but nonetheless back. And I think that's a good start.
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