Childhood was so long ago.
We are grownups now, with jobs, responsibilities, and relationships that are very distant from the playgrounds and chicken pox and birthday hats of youth. We wind our way through our days: we do our work, we pay our bills; we feed the pets and buy socks for family members and dream about escaping to sit under the stars and listen to the silence for a few hours. We look after others, and care for ourselves as best we can. This is adulthood.
There are some moments when ancient childhood injuries surface unexpectedly. Once upon a time, there were words said or unsaid, actions taken or not taken -- and tiny wounds were made on growing youthful souls. Though we think we are long past those days, damage from those times can color and shape how we address words said and unsaid, actions taken and not taken, even today.
We are surprised when we catch a glimpse of old woundings. We are hypnotized by the unexpected depth of the scars, as well as their fragility and the ease with which the spots are scraped raw once more. We tiptoe around them. We try to ignore them. We attempt to bandage them with the security blankets of adulthood -- comfort food, bad habits. They still hurt.
On occasions when we are feeling strong, we can embrace the scars and learn to love them as part of us. It is hard work. It is the lengthy mountain trail: it exhausts us, but we know that eventually, we can reach the peak and look out upon all of the curves and valleys of the world. Those are the good moments, indeed.
When we are truly fortunate, another soul will provide a helping hand along our path. Blessed are they who witness our pain and our sorrow and our rage, and yet are still willing to continue onwards on the path with us. They give us the strength that we need. They give us hope. And they show us that in the end, beauty is still possible, after all.
The beauty that emerges from woundedness is a beauty infused with feeling; a beauty different from the beauty of landscape and the cold perfect form. This is a beauty that has suffered its way through the ache of desolation until the words or music emerged to equal the hunger and desperation at its heart. It must also be said that not all woundedness succeeds in finding its way through to beauty of form. Most woundedness remains hidden, lost inside forgotten silence. Indeed, in every life there is some wound that continues to weep secretly, even after years of attempted healing. Where woundedness can be refined into beauty a wonderful transfiguration takes place.
― John O'Donohue
We are grownups now, with jobs, responsibilities, and relationships that are very distant from the playgrounds and chicken pox and birthday hats of youth. We wind our way through our days: we do our work, we pay our bills; we feed the pets and buy socks for family members and dream about escaping to sit under the stars and listen to the silence for a few hours. We look after others, and care for ourselves as best we can. This is adulthood.
There are some moments when ancient childhood injuries surface unexpectedly. Once upon a time, there were words said or unsaid, actions taken or not taken -- and tiny wounds were made on growing youthful souls. Though we think we are long past those days, damage from those times can color and shape how we address words said and unsaid, actions taken and not taken, even today.
We are surprised when we catch a glimpse of old woundings. We are hypnotized by the unexpected depth of the scars, as well as their fragility and the ease with which the spots are scraped raw once more. We tiptoe around them. We try to ignore them. We attempt to bandage them with the security blankets of adulthood -- comfort food, bad habits. They still hurt.
On occasions when we are feeling strong, we can embrace the scars and learn to love them as part of us. It is hard work. It is the lengthy mountain trail: it exhausts us, but we know that eventually, we can reach the peak and look out upon all of the curves and valleys of the world. Those are the good moments, indeed.
When we are truly fortunate, another soul will provide a helping hand along our path. Blessed are they who witness our pain and our sorrow and our rage, and yet are still willing to continue onwards on the path with us. They give us the strength that we need. They give us hope. And they show us that in the end, beauty is still possible, after all.
The beauty that emerges from woundedness is a beauty infused with feeling; a beauty different from the beauty of landscape and the cold perfect form. This is a beauty that has suffered its way through the ache of desolation until the words or music emerged to equal the hunger and desperation at its heart. It must also be said that not all woundedness succeeds in finding its way through to beauty of form. Most woundedness remains hidden, lost inside forgotten silence. Indeed, in every life there is some wound that continues to weep secretly, even after years of attempted healing. Where woundedness can be refined into beauty a wonderful transfiguration takes place.
― John O'Donohue
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