cuts and scrapes.
I was looking at my legs and feet this morning and they seemed to have cuts and scrapes and scars all over them. A couple still tender from last nights encounter with a stone bench in the dark. One from my incident on the bike in Flagstaff and several from walking miles in shoes that I shouldn’t be walking miles in. Perhaps the “voted most likely to trip at commencement” in my high school class, hasn’t really disappeared.
Grace has never been my middle name.
But needless to say, this morning I found life in all my cuts, scrapes and scars – remnants of a summer well lived. Last month in Flagstaff my dear friend was telling me about how she has vowed to let her newborn baby boy climb, fall, play, scrape, run, bruise and everything else that comes from living well in the backyard and beyond. Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing exploring the new realms of climbing, falling, loving, running, walking, tripping and scraping because truth is, I’ve always played pretty safe.
Crazy how excited I actually was to come back from biking on a dirt road below the peaks in Flagstaff last month with an “adventure” wound. I’d been out there embracing and engaging this thing called life – and doing it in a way that wasn’t free from risk or wound. See, my brother has always been the one out there with coordination, athletics and physical ability combined with a big dose of worldly sense – while I was the one with excellence in writing papers, good grades and being backstage with only the occasional spurt of strength to drop a serve across the net.
So my cuts and scrapes and scars: a good sign, I think. A place where I can visibly see where life has entered and hope taken root. A place where once again, the Spirit enters in.
Someone told me many years ago that wounds, whether they be of the body, the heart, the mind or the soul, literally make space for the Spirit to move through. I always imagine all of our wounds to be like one of those half-body targets on a shooting range filled with holes – lots of holes? lots of room for the Spirit. Just like the Native American blemish intentionally woven into the corner of every rug. There in the blemish, they believe, that the imperfect, the cuts and the scrapes, the holes and in the wounds – up against the wall and at the end of our rope, the Spirit does enter in.
So looking at my legs and feet this morning …. HAH! Spirit Enter In … lots of room here, lots of room for you to enter in and move through me!
Makes me wonder after all these years if maybe Grace actually is my middle name.