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.