Thomas Fiffer finds the magic elixir that heals the hurt of emotional cruelty.
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This morning I thought about wounds.
Scrapes and scratches, injuries and hurts are one thing.
Wounds are entirely another.
Wounds are deep openings that never close completely or fully heal.
Wounds are entrances forced upon us.
Wounds, if we let them, can kill us.
And wounds can bless us, too.
In life, at one time or another, in our careers, our friendships, and most often our primary relationships, we are all wounded.
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In life, at one time or another, in our careers, our friendships, and most often our primary relationships, we are all wounded.
The jagged knife goes in.
Vengeful and vindictive.
The cut is broad and deep.
The twist excruciating.
The intent—to harm and damage.
To cripple.
To show who is the boss.
To put us—and keep us—in our place.
Or to send us packing, crawling away in the dust.
We lie on the ground, bleeding, wondering if we will survive.
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We lie on the ground, bleeding, wondering if we will survive.
It seems the flow of blood cannot be stanched.
And then, just as we’re about to expire, coagulation begins.
The tiniest bit of energy returns.
The wound starts to close a little, and eventually scars over.
And we are left with a tear in our heart’s wall, a spot so sensitive we protect it at all costs.
Touching this place is too painful, and we can never touch it now the way we did before the wound.
Some wounded soldiers deny their wounds, marching along until they drop.
Some limp along noticeably, with emphasis, saying to the world, “Look at me, I’m wounded,” as if no one else has ever suffered.
Some make pilgrimages, traveling from shrine to shrine, yogi to guru, pharmacy to self-help shelf, seeking healing. But this seeking becomes an end in itself, and knowing that wellness means abandoning the journey means wellness will never come.
And some simply acknowledge, yes, I’m wounded, like everyone, like you.
And these people learn, grow, and heal as best they can from their wounds. They even heal in places the original wounds never touched. They grow stronger and more resilient. And they place their faith in the strength of their own spirit and the miracles of the ultimate Healer.
For when we are wounded, the pages of our books are opened, and on them, a truth is inscribed.
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For when we are wounded, the pages of our books are opened, and on them, a truth is inscribed.
Not the lie with which our assailant strikes us.
Not the insults, the degradation, the contempt and scorn.
But the truth of our own fragility and ability to feel.
Because to know we can be hurt ourselves is to feel compassion for another.
Realizing we are not impervious teaches us kindness, understanding, sensitivity, and respect.
At least, it is supposed to work that way.
Wounds never do heal completely.
But wounds can, and must be treated.
And in my experience, there is only one thing that provides any real healing.
Only one that has any effect.
Not surgery or suturing.
Not cleaning out (though this is necessary) or excising.
Not bandaging.
No.
You may remember this treatment from your childhood.
Or you may have experienced it as an adult.
Take a moment, and it will come to you.
Ahhh, there it is now.
Yes.
The kiss of love and tenderness.
Originally published on Tom Aplomb
Photo—martin/Flickr
Wow! You have nailed it here. Thank you for this piece. It effectively speaks a truth.