Picky Picky Picky

I pick at scabs, well my scabs anyway, yours are safe. Part of the reason I enjoy getting tattoos is picking away the curling wisps of colored skin as the inky intrusion into my flesh heals. I have a few new scabs on the back of my hand and elbow from a Christmas brawl. It is likely they will become scars. A guy at church says there are good scars, and bad scars, depending on the qualities of remorse or bitterness they encourage.

A month after the incident, and the subsequent scratching, mine have morphed positive, simply because they are healing despite my manic interference in the process. The natural process has no place for my neurosis. The wounds heal, the skin grows back, it is only the mind that seeks significance or mystery in the growing over. If the body is glad for it I don’t know how to measure a physical equivalence of emotion, perhaps freedom of movement could lead to leaps of joy, but for now I’m satisfied the bleeding stopped without Googling the science behind it.

I mention all this because it seems to indicate there are some healings that don’t require faith. A kiss from Mommy and a Cure-Aide bandage and the body is good to go. Curing the mental scabs we claw at however appears to require a more personal, willful connection, and general knowledge seems to accept the notion that what we believe determines what we can achieve in the restoration of sanity.

I may not be as bedeviled as you, or I could be as messed up as a snake herder in a kindergarten sandbox, the point is the most recent advice I received to deal with my proclivity to fixitism is to remain quiet and release other people from my judgement of them. To cure myself from anxiety and competitiveness I am to allow the irritating, the intolerable, and the ready made source of my indignation to just be a counterpoint to the rhythm of my life.

“Have you tried prayer?” is such a defining question it would appear to be the great divide between the tribes we call family. The camp fires we light in the dark night either burn as resignation to the facts, or designation of a potentially supernatural act. Like all fires, they both require fuel to burn and what we choose to throw on the blaze may be little more than a learned habitual response. Prayer may not work every time, but for it to work it has to be tried, and true. Healthy skepticism reaches some imperceptible temperature and converts to cynicism. To switch either system of operation to the other way of thinking requires a catalyst ,a literal voice for change.

The apostle James writes that large ships are guided by a small rudder, and likewise our tongue, our self talk is our guide to consciousness of our connectedness to the Everything that is everything. The Who we listen to when we talk to ourselves is either the healing balm, or a ticking bomb. You’d think the choice would be obvious, that it isn’t is an indicator of the power, and the preciousness of what gets under our skin.