I'm sitting here actually trying to link "Portrait of My Body" and "Why We Crave Horror Movies." Sober. I think I've got it, but it all seems a bit too strange for a blog, or for sharing, or for thinking even. I wonder if several of us were pulled in easily to "Portrait" simply because we wanted to connect to it somehow, have the scars made beautiful or the imperfections justifiable. What a jolt those of us must have had when it all went wrong halfway in and our tender author betrayed us, made it a bit uncomfortable, and stank up the room. I wondered the same thing halfway through King's piece. It was all fine and good until he started saying things like "we" and "madman," and sheesh, so close together like that?
Which brings me to another bit of a loser supposition: what if certain folks are right? What if there is no "true" us, only the performer on paper? What if we cannot escape him/her simply because we (the reader) are the intended audience for us (the writer) and, here's the kicker, we know what we cannot bear to hear? Then, riddle me this Batman, is there any point at all to this academic, masturbatory, narcissistic exercise called writing?
Come on. You didn't think I was that innocent, did you?
Let's try something here. Portrait # One:
Long fingers. Granma loved them, called them piano chasers. (And they were, years ago, chasers along porcelain sound). Here, a sliver of a scar in the shape of the glass that sliced it, either side of my middle right knuckle. Hands just beginning to crepe up a bit after years of washing dishes, cleaning houses, working dirt. They held babies and stroked hair and clasped others and enunciated sentences. Married by joints that ache when it's going to rain and sometimes just because. They were the prettiest thing I had and are now the most belligerent sign of my wisdom. The left one bears a wedding ring so heavy that it has left a permanent, soft dent. I find comfort in them, the bones and the thinning skin that are the closet thing to my writing, my history, my life. My hands.
Sookay. Now. Portrait # Two:
Cuticles long scarred by permanent teeth, ripped and bit and torn until they bled. I curl the tips under to hide the flesh when I pay in cash, cut the nails to cripple their chances of self-mutilation. Veiny and branded by a drop of velvety hot grease -- a moment of self-defense against someone I loved. Fingers so long that they will have no choice but to become claws in the next two decades, bony things that held cigarettes and formed obscene gestures and slapped a friend once in a drunken rage. I am terrified of these appendages for they just might one day turn on the rest of me in jointy glee. Premeditated. Justifiable handocide. My hands.
Saalright. Pick one. Which portrait is true? Why, both, of course. And neither. Somewhere in the middle. Whatever I choose to remember or believe or tell. I think that may be the point, after all: to tell the truth, but to tell it slant (English majors, unite). Tell it ugly, sometimes, otherwise the writer in you will call bullshit on the whole sweet thing.
And for reasons beyond my own understanding this morning, the following verse just came into my head:
Would you believe in a love at first sight? Yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time. What do you see when you turn out the light? I can't tell you, but I know it's mine.
KPD
Scars are one of my favorite things. It's not a noble thing-- I like them because I have so many, so I want other people to like them too. I want to negate the bad things in me by pretending to love them.
ReplyDeleteScar number one: a half-inch patch of skin on the underside of my arm, that white color of long-healed injuries. I don't know where it's from and hardly ever remember it's there; it would take a lover's knowledge of my body to even know it exists. This is a forgetful scar, one of those that could be seen as lovely in its discretion, a small sweet landmark on a wide expanse of skin.
Scar number two: discolored patches on both of my knees. They're a combination of an ATV, a poorly-estimated slope, and my own stupidity. After I flipped the four-wheeler going up a steep hill, it almost ran over the passenger who had been sitting behind me, clinging tightly to my waist before gravity won the battle. That passenger was my brother. These are scolding scars, ones to remind me that a moment of bad judgment could cost me the people I love.
Scar numbers three and four: two identical bumps, one on the inside of my left wrist and the other in the crook of my right elbow. The first is the remains of the IV inserted there for two weeks; the second is the calling card of the PIC line I had for a month following the removal of that same IV. It ran up my arm and down into my chest, pumping antibiotics to fight the last of the infection. These are scars of dependency, ones to keep me humble, to remind me that I cannot always fight the good fight on my own. These are what's left of the machines and the drugs that kept me alive, even against my own volition. When you can't eat, shower, or move for yourself, you start realizing how narcissistic self-reliance is.
Scar number five: a large patch of raised skin on my left shoulder, nearly an inch long and a half-inch wide. It's where a parrot would sit if I were a pirate, which is probably the only funny thing about it. It's my own ground zero: where the infection started, the enemy camp, and where it finally ended over twenty days later. It is categorically one of the ugliest scars I've ever seen. The skin healed as well as it could be expected to, but our bodies can only work so many miracles, and so the scar is stark in its ugliness. This is a scar of mortality. I've said it before on this blog and I will say it forever: we don't have much time. We don't get forever to live. What happened to me was a freak accident and it could happen again at any time. The doctors can't tell me where the infection came from or why it did what it did. People told me after I got out of the hospital that I needed a "House"-like doctor; it made me laugh, because the girl who got a staph infection on "House" was one of the few patients on the show who died before they could figure out what she had. This scar reminds me that every moment I do not spend loving the people in my life as fiercely and voraciously as possible is one that I lose. Every moment I spend writing bullshit serves no purpose. Every moment I spend being dishonest and distrustful only sets me back.
These scars are lovely in their own way, but they also remind me of the saddest truth: I cannot be perfect. No matter what, I will always have these things, and they will always ruin the chances I could have had at beauty. I know it well. It's only a reflection of who I am as an individual: I am unavoidably screwed up, despite my best intentions. All I can do-- the best that I can hope for-- is to try to love and live and give and take as perfectly as I can, and hope that all my failings are covered by some better kind of grace. I can only hope that at the end of it all, God will look kindly on my failures because they are evidence that I've tried. I believe there is love powerful enough to cover my imperfections. One day, my scars might get me there.
I would have to agree to Josie, I love scars. I think they are raw, and beautiful, almost always have a story behind them. I have always also been the kind of person to love the imperfections in people. My boyfriend always finds it funny that whenever we lay around the house, I put my hand on his scar from his appendix removal and slowly run my fingers over the discolored, raised skin on his stomach. It's something I don't ever notice I'm doing, same as when I'm nervous I rub the scar on my thumb from when I got it stuck under a treadmill that was left on.
ReplyDeleteWhen I read Portrait of my Body I started to think about my body, and began to think about how our body parts are almost taken for granted. How our feet aren't just there, they are there for every journey, every first day we've ever had; how they have taken us every where we had gone, during soccer games in high school when I felt I couldn't run anymore, my feet were there, saying, yes you can, and yes we will. I thought about all the wonderful people who I have wrapped these arms around, all the friends' tears these fingers have wiped away.
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ReplyDeleteMy Portrait: This may be weird. Seriously, this may be really weird.
ReplyDeleteI’ve never looked at any part of my body and thought it extraordinary. On my face I have two ears, two eyes, a nose, and lips whose job is mostly to sit still, though they occasionally reach up to smile, and they do help me to say words like, “love” or “goodbye,” so for those instances, I am most grateful for them; but for the majority of the time, I quite frankly forget that they even exist.
I’m aware that I have unusually small feet, but they don’t cause me to fall more or less. I don’t necessarily have “piano hands,” but no one ever told them so because they play just fine. I have a huge scar on my knee from where a doctor tore it open to fix a torn ACL, but I don’t mind it, in fact, I don’t remember it until you point it out. I think I’m the same heights as you: You’re 5.5, me too, oh, 5.7, me too, and when I’m told I’m shorter than the girl walking in front me, I had no idea. You’re back is probably shaped like a lower case “l” from the side, well mine looks like a backwards, lowercase, “c”, there’s nothing wrong with it, it just curves in. No one can remember the color of my eyes, because my eyes can’t remember what color they’re supposed to be: brown, hazel, green, brograzel? And though I like my long hair, I’m aware that it’s dead: I have dead growing off the top of my head, sitting on my shoulders, and falling, in chaos, down my curved-in back.
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ReplyDeleteI wash my body, and dress it, and take care of it, but it’s not my favorite. My favorite part is the part no one can see. I like the me behind the body. That’s the part of me that’s the ugliest: It’s what makes my face contort when I cry or makes my teeth bare down; It’s what makes my arms push you away, or pull you in; It’s what makes me raise my voice. But it’s the most beautiful part too: It’s what causes my small fingers to stretch out to play music; It’s what allows my body to bend or sway to dance; It what allows me to unfold in the grass, my arms and legs in long, straight lines; It’s what allows my vocal chords to say “I’m sorry,” and “I love you.”
ReplyDeleteMy body isn’t me; skin, and eyes, and hair are just the protective layer keeping me safe, here, on the inside. It’s like I’m looking out of my eyes, because I’m not actually in those specks of gold or green or brown, I’m behind them. Right here, somewhere, moving arms and legs, loving and hating with them, stretching and curling them, bending and manipulating them, but I’m not in them.
If you cut off my long hair, I’d still be here. If you cut off my fingers or arms or legs, I’d still be here, at least, until my armor completely gave out and could no longer protect me. Until my body is so bruised and broken that the me inside can’t use it anymore-can’t make the tongue form words, or the eyes cry, or the arms love- then I’ll still be here.
And if you took away my body completely, and tried to find me here inside, I’m not sure what I really look like. I might not have hands, or legs, or lips. I might not have a body at all. I might just be an idea, or a thought, or a feeling. Maybe I’m just a color or a light or a speck. I don’t know. I don’t know what I really look like, because like you, I can only see what you see on the outside, and though I look in the mirror and say, “ah, there I am,” I really think I’m saying, “ah, there’s my body…now where am I?” Maybe if I look in my eyes long enough I’ll catch a peak of the real Martha Lee Anne. Maybe If I stare long enough into the “windows to the soul,” I’ll actually see my soul, and when I do, I will have seen myself for the first time.
ReplyDeleteThis set, once recognized, has become very useful in many ways than their original intent. They are big, brown and lovely, I suppose. They will welcome you with love and warmth, or will curse you badly without the necessary words. They have encountered many things and strive to see much more. Behind them lies a story to be told from deep within my soul. They have captured beautiful things like flowers, people, the world...and violence, pain, and death, the not so beautiful things. Sometimes they are filled with water, but most of the time with joy. They can hold the truth or a lie, but it won't be easy to distinguish. With a look into them I have been said to be one mean person or just the opposite. They have also been said to be my best feature and I'll take that. Secret: Even though they aren't used for this purpose very often, they do come in handy with the fellas. They can be very seductive like Medusa, so guys don't look to close... you just might get caught up in its trap of many. I always smile even with my eyes.
ReplyDeleteOkay, first I just want to say how much I love this blog. Between Josie's "Every moment I spend writing bullshit serves no purpose" and Wilson's comment from last week "I think my conscious wants to be Gandhi, but my sub-conscious would settle for Nero." You guys (and that refers to everyone) are awesome. Don't stop being awesome, okay?
ReplyDeleteAll right, onto this portrait of my body. Here we go.
I didn't have hair until I was two and a half. Seriously. My mom used to tape bows to my head and my dad used to pray that I'd grow some hair all ready. I had straight blond hair until I was about six when it suddenly turned brown. It turned curly when I entered middle school. Go figure. Frizzy, curly disgustingness during the most awkward years of my life. Did I mention that I had glasses and braces too? Let me tell you, I was hot stuff.. not really. I hated my curly hair. I'm still not a big fan. But I've come to find that I have way more important things to be doing than spending two and a half hours straightening my hair everyday. And maybe I don't mind being one of the few people who actually has curly hair. Sometimes. And I love it when someone says "oh my gosh i love your hair," the next thing out of her mouth is "Do you ever straighten it?" It's kinda contradictory, don't you think? Also, everyone thinks that I get my curly hair from my mom (which is weird because she has short, straight hair) but I actually get it from my dad.
I'm the only person in my immediate family that has blue eyes. My dad has chocolate brown eyes and my mom has beautiful carmel colored eyes. My sister's eyes are so dark that most of the time you can't tell where her iris ends and her pupil starts. If she wasn't my younger sister, I would think that I was adopted. But mine are blue. Navy at the edges and a weird gold outline around my pupil. I've always felt awkward being the only one with blue eyes. Like I'm the one that's supposed to be picked out in our family photographs in a spinoff of one of those "Which of these is not like the others?" games. If I wasn't the oldest, I would think that I was adopted.
My body is disproportionate. My legs are little stubs. I am constantly told that I look taller when I'm sitting down. Which is true because my upper body is as tall as some of my 5'4" friends when we're both sitting down next to each other. But my feet rarely touch the floor of any chair that I sit in. I'm five feet and three quarters of an inch. My doctor told me that my growth plates had closed in the seventh grade, when I broke my finger from trying to catch a football and needed an x-ray. I was devastated. I've learned to accept my height.. and I've gotten used to the view from down here.
I know, I know. What does my hair have to do with my eyes? Or my eyes have to do with my legs? These are just random mini-pieces of the portrait of my body. But they're the pieces that I think say the most about who I am.
There is no doubt a disparity between the mind’s body image and the body. Often, we need other humans to help us find the middle and the truth of what we look like. I think of watching a dog that discovers their reflection in a mirror or a puddle and thinks it’s another dog and tries to play with it. Horses do it too, yet they seem more intrigued and curious with their reflection. The truth is mirrors and reflections won’t ever give us an accurate picture of our body. Its other people we need to do it for us.
ReplyDeleteThere are the awkward gawky teenage years of life when body image insecurities were about as prevalent as braces and acne. And then we grow out of it and get comfortable in our skin, proud of it and even want to share it. Of course it’s never that easy. There are those thousand little things we know about ourselves that are embarrassing or maybe just too difficult to explain, a bit of our awkward teen-age selves we just couldn’t shed. For me it’s my hands. Simply put they are big, bigger than they should be for a girl, and strong too. It’s from years of riding, gripping reins, and braiding manes. The skin isn’t soft and smooth from smelly soaps and lotions like other girl’s; instead it’s thick and calloused from years of barn work and cold weather. The knuckles are large and knobby breaking up what could be long slim fingers. I once didn’t crack my knuckles for a whole year because I heard it made them bigger. The nails are also big, and they are square. For years I bit them to the skin, and now they always grow brittle and cracked at the end. I always keep them polished to hide the broken tips. I cringe when I have to meet someone new and am expected to shake hands. I purposefully keep my hand weak and floppy so maybe they won’t notice the size. The truth is, people hardly notice. To me they are oversize appendages attached to the end of my skinny arms. To others they are just normal hands, doing normal hand things.
There was one guy who noticed though, he watched me open a jar of spaghetti sauce and asked to see my hands. It was my roommate’s boyfriend. He held his hand up to mine and said, “Jesus, manny, look at the size of your hands!” And since then he insisted on calling me -a girl- “Manny”. And I laughed. I laughed that was, until I got drunk and confessed to my boyfriend that I hated my manny hands. That I wanted soft little manicured hands with tiny shiny rings and long pretty nails. I wouldn’t even wear rings because I thought it drew attention to my large fingers.
But he looked at me, almost laughing, and said, “Only a fool could look past your beautiful face to notice the size of your hands.” Maybe this is pathetic to admit, but to this day, through a couple different “I love you” s and a few boyfriends later, that is still the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
I think the cool thing about scars is that they’re like ‘memory markers’ of our past, or rather marks on us that represent certain memories that left us with more than just an emotional feeling. But all I can think about after reading Dr. P’s words about choosing what to believe and what to say, and slanting the truth, is the classic scenario of someone catching a fish and exaggerating its size, or actual existence. Catch a fish and make it bigger. Catch a scar and build a story. All my scars know what actually happened even if I don’t, and I don’t know that I’d want the truth out of them if they could talk because then all my scar stories would be uber lame.
ReplyDeleteAnd what would my scars write about me? What if I could see the perception that my scars have of me? (Book title, “Life through the Eyes of My Scars- An Attempt to Make Money from Book Sales”). But seriously, I’m sure my scars would exaggerate my life to other scars, so as to sound impressive and hardcore, and slant the history book a little. My scars would probably talk about the time and place that they were born, and what their father did to bring them into this world (they’re all a bunch of accidents, none of them were planned, and only a few are worthy of bragging about).
Maybe the point of my blog was to be one of those “performers on paper”, but what if that is just the true writer in me? A performer on paper. But maybe I can’t be True Paul on paper because I’m not a piece of paper. I’m better at being true when I’m being me, and not when I’m writing me.
Also, as far as I’m concerned I might’ve written something completely different had it been Purple day or Yellow day, because my moods and mental content change from day to day.
From calluses to purple nail polish, and caught somewhere between beauty and disgrace this pair of size 6 1/2 appendages humbly resides in 5 inch heels, running shoes, or Chacos at all times.
ReplyDeleteMy feet. They scream at me from the torture I put them through but are always forgiving as they somehow work every time I need them to. Needless to say, not without pay back though... my toes are a magnet for any object that is capable of stubbing them.
They got me through 13 years of dance. Remembering how to always point themselves in the right direction to convince people I was more graceful than I really was.
They got me through 7 years of cheerleading. Always making sure I landed on both of them to keep me from breaking the rest of my body.
They got me through 4 years of pageants.
My life as a beauty queen was found in the deception that I can credit to my feet. A measly 5'2 was hidden behind miserable 5 inch heels to convince everyone that I was something I'm not.
My feet are me and they are my performer. One in the same. Caught between reality and the unbearable expectations of the world.
I'm not a fan of my own body, personally; I'm short, skinny, can barely see without contacts, my feet hurt for no reason, and my neck is already going bad. When I grow my hair out it's nice, and I get a lot of compliments on it (I also get called "ma'am" a lot), but that's only some of the time. I've recently come to like my hands though. They've gone through a lot with me; years of piano lessons, saxophone-playing, .working on cars with my dad. They're not particularly strong or big, but they're mine, and they've served me pretty well over the years.
ReplyDeleteGreen as an olive with the faintest touch of blue around the edges, only noticed by those who know me well. Three sisters, all three different shades none of us the same color of our parents. They have become weaker as the years have gone by. Now strained by the reading by dim light. Two glass lens now have to partake in their efforts to see. Eyes have always been for me one of the most favorite parts on the human body. I remember being a little girl and wanting so badly the deep blue eyes that my mother had. She was so beautiful to me with her light blond hair and skin and beautiful blue eyes. I remember sitting on her bathroom counter as a little girl and watching her before she would go out, one thing that made her so beautiful was the color of her eyes. For me my eyes have always been what people can read me by. I remember getting up in the morning to go to school and my mom could always tell if I was sick by my eyes. Everyone can always tell my emotions by my eyes. When I am happy they seem to light up. When I am sad they seem to sink, like the way that I m feeling. They change colors too when I cry. They become a deeper darker blue green shade. One thing I love about them is that they look so much like my grandfathers eyes. I have never met him because he sadly took his life when my mother was only two. We hardly speak of him, but from what I do know I think the two of us would have been very close. From the stories I have heard, we shared many of the same things. The only time that I have been able to see him is from a picture taken of him that hangs in our house. My mom friend use to always tell me that my eyes looked like his. My grandmother has said the same thing. They are two things that I use every day to be able to see, yet I myself will never truly be able to see them except in reflections
ReplyDeleteAlright Dr. P, I read your post and I’ve yet to read any others. Of course I will, but I’m trying to avoid doing what I always do (Read the last couple posts, write something unrelated to everything, then search for relevance).
ReplyDeleteI’m still not sure what type of response you’re hoping for, but I’m working it out. I believe both of your posts; but I’m not sure if you’re suggesting that the first of your portraits is a less accurate rendering of your state, or if you mean to illuminate the possibility of multiple truths describing one fact.
The fact is that your hands look exactly as they do—the cuticles are where they are, the fingers a certain measurement, and the skin a color from the spectrum. Failing to interpret, I fall back upon the popping thoughts which were heated by my attempt.
I tend to think that the most cynical of thoughts, the reactions of greatest skepticism, are those closest to the “truth”. Perhaps it’s because I’m relatively new to a world without Santa and happy endings, but it seems like the process of learning is a series of revealed scandal. When I was young holidays were the time with a thing from the movies. It was called “family”. Age has taught me that holidays are a time with adulterers, drunks, liars, and dummies. While an account from Eleven Year-Old Wilson regarding such gatherings would have been tragically inaccurate, it would have been the teller’s truth. Does this suggest that there is a truth out there, a way which remains stagnant, that is the “rock against which the water is broken”? And would that mean that the “truth” is the worst of every scenario? Maybe it does, but I hope not. I hope that I grow out of this opinion as badly as I hope to grow out of biting my nails. I hope that I get old enough to know that the word from the movies is even better than Eleven Year Old Wilson imagined, and that it’s grandeur is actually a result of what I’ve learned about the people in it. I hope that I’m headed to a place where I hug my skanky aunt like that little boy did. I wonder if that were to happen, would she change back. If it was my learning which uglied her identity, why could that same impetus not restore her purity?
ReplyDeleteI discussed this blog with my friend last night, and I told her things about my self image that I never tell anyone. (I definitely don't feel comfortable sharing them here) but I told her that if anyone asked me to talk about my body, I would talk about my eyes.
ReplyDeleteSo,
my eyes.
They're also the only part of my body that I'm constantly aware of. I look out of them, obviously, and by them I see everything else. And in a strange way I typically think that by them other people see me. Or maybe that they remember me by them. In high school, I won the most ridiculous superlative award ever: "Prettiest Eyes".
There's a picture in the yearbook.
My eyes are my identifier. People have been telling me about them since I was 4.
"Your eyes are beautiful," says old lady at the checkout counter in Win-Dixie as she looks down from her perch. "Girls will be chasing you everywhere when you get older" (Older people often tell lies like this, they're called compliments).
But unfortunately those types of compliments (however superfluous) stuck with me. When random girl at tailgate says, "wow, your eyes" and then has nothing to follow it up with, I'm not surprised. I expect people to like them. I also expect the awkwardness rushes on my like a wave immediately after such a comment.
It's strange to be so aware of the part of my body that I look at the world through. It's kind of like being aware of the windshield of your car while you're driving. Most of the time, I don't think people are conscious of that divider. It's just there. But I'm always aware of the lenses that God gave me, and they're what I find most noticeable and attractive in other people.
I wonder if we often value (of maybe just notice) the things in others that we most value in ourselves.
I’ll admit that reading Dr. P’s version of her body has made me less hyperaware of my own. I’m old enough now to be ashamed that I’m still not alright with my flaws – I’ve got issues, and I’m working on them, but the consistency of my self-love still fluctuates like my plans for the future. I know where I want to go, how I want to feel, but I’ve spilled coffee all over my map and smeared the emergency instructions with my greasy fingers.
ReplyDeleteThe parts of my body that I have the most vehement love/hate for are my boobs and my hands. First, the most awkward.
I can’t stand breasts. I mean, they’re alright on anyone else, but I spend more time covering them up and stuffing them into far past fitting clothing than I do using them for the good of humanity. This may be a bit too much to share, but there has only been one non-family member to ever have seen them and I’d like to keep it that way. I guess after reading “Portrait of My Body” boobs seem less shocking to talk about (at least I hope), but the are a constant impediment to my self-esteem and I just needed to get that off my chest.
Second – and I know several people have already explained why hands are so crucial to this portrait we’re all trying to paint. My hands, though, are different than all of yours. They’re the only thing I share with my father anymore, too damn short to do anything magical with a guitar, and draw painful attention to the fact that no one has yet deemed me worth spending their whole life with.
But. My hands are everything. They’ve written beauty and despair and question upon question, petitioning a God who always writes back but rarely what I want to hear. They’ve made me a worthy helper; in the kitchen, in making dreams come true, in worship, in an unforgettable embrace. They work independent of my good sense and refuse to rest though my bloodshot eyes beg them. They refuse to hold a paintbrush correctly or craft anything worth critical praise. And the thumbs. Well, the right-handed one. Gnawed on since before I can remember. The carnage is impossible to contain with band-aids, or disguise with an accessory. Its beastly, calloused form a perpetuated icon of doubt and disappointment.
When I look at my body I divide different things that I see into two categories: 1. Choices I've made 2. Circumstance/things I can't help. I see the tattoo on my foot that I most definitey chose and am proud of. I see "problem areas" from choices I've made like "Hey, what's one more slice of pizza?" or "I don't feel like running today." My hair color is another choice. I can pick any color I want. However, I also see things I did not choose, like my above average height or my eyes that are both green and blue. I have things things I like and dislike in both categories.
ReplyDeleteThis is an analogy to life. Some things we choose, some things just happen. Some choices we will regret and some we will brag about. Also, we will accept compliments for things we did not choose..."Hey, nice lips." "Thanks!" (Why do we even say thanks? I mean it you didn't get nice lips because of any noble deed...your parents did it and the genetics leaned in your favor)
What I'm getting at is that life, like our bodies, is part circumstance...and part choice. If you can't change it...accept it. Don't dwell. If you chose it, and regret it, well that now falls into the "Can't Change" category so once again don't dwell. Look for future positive choices you can make...
I didn't mean for that to sound preacher-like...just something I was thinking about.
Scars/flaws/differences they are all fragments of something that is not like the rest to many people. I cannot lie when I was younger I had small fragments that I was somewhat ashamed of, but my scar is a birthmark. I used to be sooo embarrassed of the birthmark on my leg that I did not wear shorts. I know it sounds crazy and silly because most people have at least one birthmark. Anyway, thinking about actual scars and birth marks I would have to say they build character and tell stories. Almost anytime you ask someone, “Oh, where did you get that?” there is some elaborate story that is there. So, in reading some of the other things people have written should we cover up the scars? Or should we live them as they are, to tell our stories?? I feel bad for being so ashamed of my birth marks as a child because I guess they do make me who I am. I know a birthmark is not a scar at all, but since I don’t really have any physical scars, I guess I have to work with what I’ve got.
ReplyDelete