Sometimes we’re the eye of our own storm. So quietly, yet blindingly, convinced that we’ve clocked all our rights and any wrongs. Although, our sixth sense can get knocked out of shape faster than we can submit a blink in any direction. Bravado has overtaken to land me in a tragic dance with fate. From relationship wrangling to bodily self-care, I’ve avoided guarding my being with critical instinctual preservation. Much like sunshine shakes it’s fire-engine red fingers at supple white skin across countless beaches, hikes, waterways, and even those faux-sun making tanning salons that remain an indoor fad for people who decline my preferred natural breaths. Even with a bronzed summer body base, all the zinc block, and surfwear in place, wrath will hunt you regardless of your evasion gait. I didn’t see the stitching lesson coming before it was too late. How we acquire brightness when we dim is our spark.
Human schooling isn’t exclusively a secondary thing. Life’s invariably offering us training upside, downside, and heaps of sideways always. The way I’ve quarreled about it inside my brain is that grit and grace go on a double date with fear and gratitude. One couple’s got each other’s back. While the latter has a hard time sharing their eyesight for a similarly suitable prize. What doesn’t sort any personal environment well is pins and needles strewn all about. Flopped open portions of the patchwork of our life we’re neglecting to piece together. We owe it to ourselves to replace anything suspect to snafus with support. Painstaking clarity shouldn’t be the outcome everyone needs to honor what’s best for their bodies. Remaining unaware strips away today’s, tomorrow’s, and leaves some yesterdays as memories hard to carry. Instead, bearing our bare truth may give grinning a chance at longevity.
Days won’t evenly begin nor end simply as we wish them. A recent date of mine started much like any other. But, by the end of a just-past-morning-coffee hour, my entire view of life, my living, had changed. A routine dermatological checkup turned deadly with the aftermath that my arm mole removal biopsy returned the report of melanoma. A short forty-eight hours prior, I’d felt citing the unsightly “bug” as kids would call it, which I’d not had since childhood, was merely a conversation of vanity excision. Nope. This was the occasion all my years of friends or family cancer curses were suddenly haunting me. One second I was helping my mom remotely with Facebook tech support on an early Saturday. The instant I asked her to hold and swapped the call questioning why my new doctor was ringing me so early on a weekend cleared any chipper from my personality. Amidst Coronavirus, bad news is a hulking load of clumsy.
I lucked out on my unforeseen usual day of rest that doctors, including a specialist in town only once a month, made room to see me immediately. Slicing into more than fifteen centimeters of my arm, they tunneled through my revealed innards in hopes to release all of the evil. We’ve got to understand we could fly, know we can try, then craft our wings. My point is that us failing to do all that’s necessary to tend to our individual craftsmanship with each rotation of changes could lend us the inability to believe in flight, take flight, or keep flying. My delay in maintaining my epidermal health was costing me a physical and financial scare. However, I got to watch superb surgeons in action, having never flinched when exposed to examining blood and guts gore. Maybe I ought to have titled this tale: How to Find the Good in the Grotesquely Fascinating Fascia. Minding our mending is a full-time gig. Let’s never confuse needlework with needed work… on ourselves. The most immediate thing I learned from this procedure is that I’m still alive! An ill-afforded (all puns intended) verdict I’ve incurred is how incredibly priceless attention to our own detail truly is.
I’ve got quite a road ahead with added medical appointments for a range of scans to testing, insurance issues, expenses, COVID-screening flights, and re-quarantine time. All beside missing my passionate ocean swimming and surfing a bit, rethinking zinc, and just how to live a life under the sun I so worship. Therefore, I hope you might borrow this bit of sorrow from me in order that you seek not to repeat it within yourself. Stay in touch with all strength that hails your vitality. The moral of a great story lends its virtue to sowing the teachings akin to finely tuned tailoring. You can call me by my code name Sally for humor’s sake.
May suturing your future be a more seamless stream with your aroused self-study.