I have a scar on my left knee, from a crescendi down a No-No-Never-Go-Near-That-Hill on my bicycle, arms and legs outstretched in a virtuoso performance of look-at-me-I-am-flying-solo-aria, in the bruised purple haze of twilight.
I have another tiny white scar arcing over my right eyebrow, after lunging for an out of bounds throw to home plate, in a back-of-the-alley late night game of neighborhood, one size fits all, soft ball.
The scars of life. The markers of risk taking. The miscellaneous tattoos spread over a body signaling momentous moments.
An atlas of the routes not only taken, but the Folly of Fate etched forever into our skin.
Knots. The scars of life.
Knots. Some deserved and some so Not.
A knot in a shoelace. Frustrating yes, yet with patience and resolve, eventually undone.
A crick in the neck.
A sick child.
A bill overdue.
The loss of a parent.
The ever tightening of fists clenched deep in pockets, whatever can I do, should I do, how will I ever undo these Knots, Nots.
Trees have Knots.
Deeply imbedded scars, roughened,
and smoothed over Time.
There are those for whom imperfections should be erased, vanquished, hidden from view.
But fortunately, there are those who celebrate their scars, their permanent markers as a sign of triumph. Triumph over the unexpected. Wounds that heal. Bravery in the face of fear.
Take the time to run your hands over the Knots in the trunk of a tree. The edges are smooth. The lines of wear form a circle of protection. So it is with our bodies and our minds.
We are stronger than we know.
We can bear more than we can carry.
We can heal even the deepest wound...
If we are still.
to breathe in the air and the love that surround us,
and keep us whole.
A tree relies on the continuous flow of the phloem and the xylem, as do we rely on our arteries and our lungs to sustain our health.
In other words... Breathe. Rest. Breathe.
As a young child must fall and rise again in order to walk, so we must be prepared to pitch ourselves forward, secure in the fact that what hurts now, may in the future, be our saving grace.
curled like a fist in the side of an oak
a tangle of weeds
muddy river bottoms
the harder we try
the tighter the knot
time to be loose
to savor your own existence