It’s one of those old hurts. A moon-shaped crevice dug into the skin, a bit lumpy and scarred over in dark pigment. It is mostly dormant. But on the occasion that it is awakened, the hurt is just that: occasional.
It is the hurt of a light scratch over a an old scar. A surprise graze, brushing past the corner of a table, making an incision like a papercut. It is a hurt that surfaces dregs of the buried past, sediment rising from the ocean floor in dark inky clouds. And phantom pains flood the brain, panic surging with memories of the once-deep gash, so bloody and raw and seemingly unhealable.
But the curling, surging wave inevitably falls onto the shore. Inevitably, the sediment re-settles. And the lingering phantom-pains pulsing somewhere inside, still throbbing as they recede, grow ever-softer, melting slowly away.
But this hurt, it’s one you can smile through. Because you know the tides and the rolling rhythm of the sea, and you know it’s all a part of it – the Everything of Life.
This hurt, just a scratch over an old scar. More or less healed, throbbing only with a sweet pang; a rosy sting that is no longer red like blood. But child, remember the power of a sting: it is a reminder that you are alive.