Scars
The cost of growth
I have a fairly high pain tolerance. It wasn’t always this way. If I had to guess I’d say its from the years I spent abusing my body. Injecting chemicals, lifting really heavy weights, self harm, poor life decisions in general. For whatever reason, my senses are numb; at least compared to my childhood memories. The most painful physical experience I can recall occurred when I was about 12 years old. I was helping my uncle mount an electric fence. For whatever reason (reasons have faded from my mind, only the events remain), I was near a water trough attempting to hang the line from a fence post behind it. There must have been a short in the circuit/switch because just as a I dropped the wire on my back (I was lifting it over my head at this point), the power came on. I happened to be touching the water as well. I won’t try and describe the pain. The smell though… something close to when you burn bacon that’s been marinated in maple syrup. That sickly sweet, fleshy smell. I’ll never forget that smell.
Now I have to be more careful. I’ve pulled cast iron skillets out of the oven before with my bare hands before I realized I was burning myself. And as I run more and more, I have to be uber-aware of my form and feel. I’ve hurt my IT band so severely that it’s taken months away from my running regimen. All because I ignored the pain.
A big part of who I am is wrapped up in music. I find myself on guitar a lot these days. Which is amazing when I consider the amount of damage I’ve done to my hands. I look down at these sad appendages and am touched by the scars. The evidence of past failures. This past week, for example, I cut my index finger so deeply that I hit the bone. I should have gone to the ER or urgent care. Stitches or sutures would have been administered I’m sure. But all I could think about, as a veteran of such wounds, is that the doctor or nurse would inevitably numb the area, sew it up, and then immobilize it so I couldn’t rip out the stitches. This being my index finger, I felt it was pretty important to maintain its use so I could play guitar. So I did what anyone would do. I super glued the opening of the cut, wrapped it in gauze, and taped it down as tight as I could with electric tape. It worked. I didn’t miss a single performance or rehearsal. Apart from a stinging/ripping/stretching sensation that occurred occasionally, I can report no ill side effects.
Well, for now at least. As I look down at my hand now I know that this is going to leave a pretty prominent scar. Yeah, if I had gone the route of stitches, I’m sure the scar would be much smaller. It might even fade in time. But I didn’t. I don’t regret the decision. It’s just an observation. Just another scar amongst many. My poor hands. It’s a wonder I’m still able to maintain any dexterity at all. I wonder if, as I sleep, my hands speak to each other? Perhaps lament their fate in life. I can imagine one observing to the other how much excitement was felt when they first held that guitar. The way they were able to coax harmonic noises from its taut heart. All that excitement only to be tested daily against the pains of their master’s ineptitude. Sorry guys, I’m not a smart man.
And as I was running today I considered myself in the light of these pitied phalanges. Man, if we’re talking about scar tissue here, my heart has no equal. You see, what’s difficult about this, for me anyways, is that the wounds that bear scars require an offense in order to exist. Friction, violence, two opposing forces — these are things that beget a wound. But for matters of the heart, this means there has to be something there that contradicts another thing. Light and dark. Good and evil. Godliness and ungodliness. Righteousness and unrighteousness. Self and others. So these vestiges of vascular vying only serve to reflect a greater truth. That they did not exist when I was in possession of my heart. It was only upon submission to God that I began to be felled by such blows.
I have done many evils in my life. If I were to attempt to recall them all I would fail. However, it was only after I began to reconcile… that is began to view my actions within a moral construct and standard, that I began to be wounded. And I wish I could say that these injuries have lessoned. That as I grow older I grow wiser. Or if I’m lucky that I grow better. But that’s the problem. I don’t. For every ill that I kill, three more take it’s place that I was never aware of. And so continues the process of killing myself one paper cut at a time. But this is not a suicide. This is a healing. A purification. Only when my heart is free of itself can I consider the act complete.
And unlike my hands, and feet, and legs, and the rest of my body, I feel this pain. Deeply and achingly. Pleasure itself does not come close to reflecting the depth contained in pain. So why continue? Because unlike the pain inflicted on my other extremities, this pain bears the promise of completion. When I have suffered this life long enough, or rather when it has suffered me, I shall be released to the other side. To that place where my heart is whole. Unscarred. Frictionless. Free of strife. Not because goodness and righteousness do not exist, but because they are all that exists. And maybe, God willing, my hands will join me in that state.
