So y'all it's been a full tour around the sun in the constellation of the Pandemic...how are you?

 

This week I am thinking a lot about what makes us tough. Struggle. Trials and Tribulations. Pain. Deprivation. Maybe even Trauma. I have certainly subscribed to the belief that hard things make us tough. Even purposely pushing myself harder and harder, being increasingly critical of myself, my work, and my contributions as not enough. Can't say those are my best moves ;)

 

And I have also been thinking about what tough looks like.  Thickened. Rough.  Restrained.  Aloof or set apart.  Hard.  There are so many other words that could describe my lifelong working definition and image of tough, which is not unlike the ones many of us share and were given to us by movies, music, patriarchal leadership, cultural militarism, or people who survived. Which also leaves out softness, gentleness, mercy, beauty, and femininity.  

 

Then I think, our physical scars are some of the toughest, most resilient skin we have.  In fact, the best ones are not set apart from our bodies, but integrated into the weave of our skin.  They are not thick and immobile, but pliable. They are beautiful and merciful in the protection they offer. They pull things together instead of pushing at, into, or apart. Sometimes, like stretch marks, they can be light and soft.  

 

 

As many of you know, I have been trying to write with a Virtual Writing group over the last several months, and here are some of my musings on Scars.  Enjoy! 

 

Take care, Sunita 

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I have a conflicted relationship with my scars.  I actually have quite a few, although only one or two of them are big-ish.  Most are small, some blended and settled in the landscape of my skin, changing each year as my skin flexes against sun, wind, cold, water, warmth, touch, aging.

 

When I was 6 or 7 years old I had chicken pox all over my body. In my ears, on my scalp, on my face and legs, and plenty of other places that I could scratch easily when my mom wasn't looking.  She understandably didn't want me to have bad scars, especially on my face.  Because scarring is tough.  The skin is thicker.  In my case, also darker.  It changes you.  How people see you.  Even in that small way, at my young age, I understood that scars meant that something happened to you that you could never undo. 

 

I have loads of other scars that I am deeply proud of.  The one on my ankle that sealed the gouged tissue after I flipped over and got dragged in an alpine sled at 8 or 9 years old.  That was and is still thick and textured.  I love being reminded of how tough my young body was. How it has stamped my older, strong body like 'RECEIVED.' Tough. 

 

I have tattoos, will likely have more in my life.  Beautifully illustrated scars with messages and meaning that I would like to keep with me always.  Many people have asked, "why do have them?" "what do they mean?" "why would you do that to your body?"

 

I would ask, don't you have scars that tell your story in some way? That offer insight into your narrative? While many of them may have been collected by the hands of pain and suffering, wouldn't it also be luxurious to have some crafted by gifted hands and love?

 

My tattoos don't mean more than the scars on my scalp or my ankle, not to me anyway.  They are all me.  The me that has lived, played hard, been in pain, suffered, loved and been loved.  The living, stretching, sweating time capsule.  Quite literally my heart on my sleeve.