Following the scars

I have conversations with all kinds of things: the deer in front of me as I run a forest path, the orchid blossom that has fallen to the floor. Most recently, I had a conversation with an old board of wood. “I want to make you beautiful,” I whispered.

The board came along with my new house. I had asked the previous owner if she would be willing to leave behind the stack of bleacher boards that she had salvaged from an old gym that was being renovated. Originally, I had thought they would make a perfect floor for my dream yoga studio. However, the more I looked at them, the more obvious it became that they wouldn’t work as a floor. They were damaged and had holes in them from being screwed.

What to do with them, then?

As I meditated in my old garage one morning, I kept staring at the stack of old boards. And while I am well aware that I am not supposed to be thinking when I meditate, I was delighted when an idea nibbled.

I drove into town and bought some sandpaper and a wood-burning tool. Returning to my garage, I chose a piece of wood from the pile and sat down in my meditation chair. With the board in my lap, I ran my fingers over it, first on one side, then the other. I consciously chose the more battered side and began to sand the varnish off.

A fine coat of sawdust soon covered the board, and I carried it inside to wipe it down with a damp cloth. As I waited for the wood-burning tool to heat up, I put my left palm on the board. The fact that I was going to burn this thing to make it beautiful was not lost on me. I thought about chemo, radiation, and the fact that here I am, alive, today, especially when I just saw the sobering figure that only 67% of people survive cancer.

When thing after thing hurts us or goes wrong or gets taken away, it’s easy to want someone or something to make the pain go away. Or to get lost in the pain of why, or to be awash in the uncertainty of what next? But sometimes all we can do is breathe, and then set about finding the beauty inside ourselves, scars and all.

The tool was smoking hot, and I stared at the board, suddenly afraid. A friend of mine, who is an incredible artist, let me join her drawing class a couple of years ago. It is not exaggerating to say that a third grader could have done a better job than I did of trying to draw the trunks and detritus stacked in a corner of her art room.

What was I thinking, trying this?

That I wanted to make this piece of old wood beautiful.

I knew exactly what to do. I followed the scars with my tool. I let my hand talk to the board. I let the board talk to my self.

This is what I made.

I hadn’t even realized I was drawing a scrappy weed, tenacious in its will to survive, until I had finished. There it was, letting go of its soft seeds.

I immediately made two more. Each board had its own story to tell. About its scars.

About what was there, just beneath the shiny veneer.

As we all do. As we all do.