I cut my hand on a piece of my Mama’s china while unpacking it a few years ago. I wrote about it in my memoir, as the pages go back and forth in time from past to present, one memory jarring the next, one occurence taking me back to my past and the memories drawing attention to some parallel in my present. I wrote about when I sliced my hand open on a saucer, how I stood there for a moment, almost transfixed, marveling at the depth and cleanliness of the gash, and how it almost immediately started to try to close itself.
Humans are magic. The human body certainly is.
Healing is a sort of magic. And it is also very much not magic. Sometimes it takes a whole lot of hard work.
I think about the thing Louise Bourgeois wrote: “The art of sewing is a process of emotional repair,” and I think about how we work so hard to repair ourselves every day, all the time, stitch by stitch, choosing happiness over sadness, peace over anger, conversation instead of withholding — it’s all taking a needle and thread to whatever has popped open. Even to get over the slightest emotional injury, even some off-handed comment someone made that I’m sure they didn’t consider, for me, requires me taking myself through my paces — “don’t take it personally, they didn’t mean that the way it came out, that wasn’t directed at you, ease up and don’t take it so hard…” I’m a sensitive woman.
I think we all, at the end of the day, are sensitive creatures.
But I think about that cut on my hand and how as soon as it was made, my skin started to try to go back together. Why don’t our hearts do that? Or do they, and we prevent them from healing, from going back together, by returning to the wound and re-opening it over and over, agonizing over which of our imperfections would cause someone to carelessly bruise us? Why does the magic take so much longer to work on our hearts than it does on our skin? I suppose that’s why we have the skin, to at least physically protect the muscle and bone that protects the most vital and most vulnerable parts.
Yet one day we wake up and we don’t remember the thing so vividly anymore. Like the faint scar that’s now on my hand from that broken piece of my Mama’s china, most of the heart wounds get better too.
Yes. We indeed have stars in us. Don’t forget to see your magic.
Happy Wednesday, Y’all, and lots of love.