The Sorrow of Healed Wounds

When we are lucky, we recognize our wounds. When we are wise, we tend to them with practical care. When we are ready, we listen to the loss that remains.

The thing about a wound is that no matter how well it heals, you don’t  get to go back to the moment before it happened. The dog is never going to un-bite you. Time will never record the story that would have happened had your path not intersected with those teeth.

It is that latter truth that can haunt us during certain hours of the night. 

This is the sorrow of the wound and it has its own story to tell. When scars dream we call it phantom pain and acknowledge that it still hurts. 

This pain is not a failure to heal or, as the love and light contingency might say, an ongoing need to forgive. Scars tell stories because the option to not exist was removed when they were made. How you feel toward that which made the wound is irrelevant.

Let the wound have its narrative, its sorrow, its identity without mitigation. The scar is entitled to know itself without our interference in how it perceives. When we learn to  wear our skin as the history of our travels here, we are adequately dressed to meet life on its own terms.

If you want or need guidance as you allow for the Sorrow of the Wound to stake its rightful claim and become a source of strength and knowledge for the miles ahead, the Queen of Cups is delighted to be your companion.

Call on her to sit with you as you journal or meditate or as you simply contemplate what wounds no longer need you to tell their story for them. 

When we are lucky, we recognize our wounds. When we are wise, we tend to them with practical care. When we are ready, we listen to the loss that remains.