walking wounded

Today I had a reminder of the pain in my ankle that I used to live with every day. I was out doing my bootcamp work out with a friend and she recommended a new-to-me position from which to do standing lunges. With the first lunge, I had a shooting pain through my bad ankle. It was a scar-tissue-impeded-mobility body scream and it really shocked me. The beautiful thing about the the pain was that it was a shock. Having experienced that kind of pain with everyday movement for so long, it was very familiar to me, but I hadn't felt it for a very, very long time. With the sting of pain still shooting through my ankle, I felt a certain joyful wonder that it had been SO LONG since I'd experienced that sensation. I paid extra attention to my ankle through the rest of my workout, but I only half expected to be as lame as I would have been if the same thing had happened a couple of years ago. My ankle is swollen right now, but I am not lame.

I carry the scars of three surgeries on that ankle. Doctors said it was "too good to fuse and too bad to use." I've had to give up snowboarding and badminton, but I can do a lot more than the doctors ever imagined I could, after years of careful rehabilitation and trial and error. (Today's workout move falls into the "error" category.) My tattoo tells a story similar to that of the scars on my ankle. It's a tattoo of an olive branch, symbol of hope, over my spleen, the seat of melancholy. I chose the symbolism as a mark of recovery from depression. Both markings speak of pain and both inspire hope. The scars on my ankle remind me to care for my body, the tattoo over my spleen reminds me to care for my soul. In both cases, there's a frailty I need to be aware of, and-- thanks be to God-- in both cases there's a remarkable amount of healing to cherish.