free to heal

I have a scab on my knee. In the effort to slowly walk my Ducati through a tight turn while getting out of my own driveway, I leaned it over too far and it took me down. I lost control. My body weight was not sufficient to counter the fall. My leg was pinned and my knee was left sore and bleeding. The wound commenced healing almost immediately. For the first day or two, maybe three, I walked with a bit of a limp, because weight on it was painful. For a long while after that and even now, the pants that I wear rub against it in a sorrowful way, so I am always aware of its authority.

It scabbed over. The scab has grown and changed over time. I’m quite surprised by how long it’s hung on. The wound must have been deeper and more severe than I thought. But here is the strange part: I have left it alone to heal. This might be the very first time that I have left a scab completely alone. I always pick at them or take them off completely, re-injuring myself in the process. I do this repeatedly, and although my body heals anyway, eventually, I slow that process, make it more painful, and cause a scar to remain on the surface forever.

Most of the scars I have are because of this reason.

What is it that compels one to tear off a scab? Is it because it’s ugly and irritating? Maybe tight and pinching as it heals? Or in that crazy itching stage?

Something is different this time. Something is curious about this scab. I have no desire to bother it or take it off before its time. In fact, I am happy to have it. I like that it protects the vulnerable insides from the elements in the world — air, moisture, dirt. I find its ugliness to be charming and off-putting, in a good way. In a way that adds character. Also, the soreness is to be expected, and I know it would hurt more without the scab there. So I welcome my scab. I want it to stay for just as long as it needs to.

I am living with it — coexisting quite happily. Every once and again I’ll see it and have a flash of desire to pick at it, lift it around the edges and see if it will break easily, but I refrain. My wound has to heal. My scab is doing its work. I am grateful for my scab — happy for its healing powers. The process of healing leads to the state of being healed. Maybe this acceptance and even gratitude for my scab indicates a new level of maturity for me.

I allow myself to pass through the stages of healing naturally rather than keep myself in new stages of woundedness, fighting against healing again and again.

I leave myself free to heal.