I was picking at myself last week, literally.  I found a hard nub in my left eyebrow, a tiny mountain of distorted flesh (or so I perceived it).  Without thought, I simply wanted it out of there.  And so I picked.  After three days, I finally got the sucker.  The surface of my skin was a bit sore, but thank God it was smooth.

This afternoon I was lying in bed, trying to figure out why I was so tired.  I touched my eyebrow and remembered the previous excavations.  “What’s with this thing of needing my body to be smooth?”  Now there’s a question.  I crossed my hands over my heart and waited.

“Smoothness is a symbol of perfection.  No blemishes.  Unsullied.  Pure.  That’s what you want.”  Alrighty then … thanks for the quick response.  Have I been sucked in by the surface perfection of famous models?  If so, isn’t that a pile of wayward thinking?  Yes, I think so.  Do I really want the ultra-smoothness of a naked mannequin?  After all, they’re made of plastic – not the most natural state for someone like you and me.

I’m a human being, alive with mental imperfections – false assumptions, subtle insensitivities, blurting out words that can hurt.  My intention is to nourish others but sometimes I do otherwise.  And occasionally my body gets into the act, sending me a rough patch of skin or a pimple or a swollen ankle.  Include it all, Bruce.

While lolling on my bed contemplating recent disruptions of my skin surface, I looked at my right hand with its fingers extended.  I examined the row of knuckles halfway down those fingers.  Lots of lumpy skin!  And the long bones of my hand were highlighted.  Then I closed to a fist: smooth knuckles and no bones.  In the spirit of ah-ha, I sensed that hands are most beautiful when they’re open and relaxed, instead of being balled up with tension.

So … the mountains, the knuckled folds of flesh, and the bones of the hand – they all have their place.  They show the details of a person.  They’re beautifully me.