In life, I have worried too much, even about scars.
As ridiculously vain as it may sound, scars’ imperfections can be annoying. They reveal my hurts, and tell the secrets of graceless moments.
At the end of her second year of university, Stacey shattered her kneecap while horseback riding.
She was given a choice between surgery and a long scar, or taking her chances with casting.
A few moments later she was in the casting room.
Why? It’s simple — scars, and achieving them, can be scary!
But that perspective was altered a few days later.
While Stacey was selfishly lamenting over yet another scar, her roommate Kim simply remarked, “Scars just mean you lived.”
And Stacey’s view shifted.
Scars have a way of telling our story.
Scars can secure a memory, an adventure, or a point in time. To live greatly, scars are required.
One may be free of peripheral scars, yet filled with internal damage.
Our faces speak of those scars — from stone cold eyes to a single tear, or a grimace, or furrows of anger.
Sadly, our world is full of them.
However, avoiding scars may not be the best option.
An unwillingness to participate offers its own lonely marks.
Living in self-protective hurt guarantees a lack of fulfillment.
Even if I could shun risk completely, my growth might stop.
A few added years can help us take an intentional risk or two, or I could not write this.
Yet sometimes we still find ourselves putting up walls.
Perhaps it’s our personalities, or some old over-shadowing hurt.
Walls prevent scarring, but they also prevent fully living.
Have we all been onions at times? You know — struggling to release a dried up exterior while avoiding layers of possible crying?
It takes courage to open an onion!
Rita Corbett is a freelance columnist with the Tribune/Weekend Advisor.