What’s My Story?

A one inch scar sweeps out from my lower lip. It is a solitary line of residue from a mountain bike wreck, a scurry to the E.R., a thick, deep pain, a bag of frozen peas pressed to my face. It is a permanent mark of one failed attempt, a dash from one moment to the next, a crash course in physics, an alteration.

One year passed before the wound tempered without a peppered assault of tingling nerves. One year of sag-stitched smiles before necessary muscles regained proper composure. One year for the trench to deepen. One year for a repaired version of myself.

To me, the scar is not a reminder of what occurred, rather it is evidence of what didn’t: a minor concussion-not brain injury, a temporary setback-not debilitation, a chance- not closure.

Life is a series of dashes, failed attempts, and alterations. Deep, meaningful lines carve into our blood, bones, and soul. Temporary numbness masks the compositions we are ill prepared to see, and time, our fairest friend, reveals everything we are meant to be.

Photo Challenge: Connected

My daughter Sophie and I spent a summer night playing folf in the woods. Not only did we benefit from an entertaining night of terrible disc throwing, we glorified our spirits in the wisdom of the forest.

I read the sky. Like words across the page, the sky tells my story. I’ve learned to read the morning haze that lifts to a bright day. I’ve learned to read the scalloped clouds, the wisps of air, the big blue nothings. I’ve learned to scan for storm clouds that prey on ignorance and slam a heavy burden on my days. I’ve seen beyond massive snow bursts to find that daytime stars, though invisible, are still there.

When the sky uncoils silver in the last ray of light, when nighttime rolls its woolen blanket of dark, I read the stars and am assured, once again, they are there for me. The protectors of fate, the stewards of life. The stars, I know, are my story- memories long forgotten, memories unlived. I look to the stars for solace, not for what I might become, but for who I am. When the flash of reckoning strikes, I am reminded that the stars comprise a book of stories, and my wholeness spans the breadth of space and time and darkness and light. I breathe in, knowing every star is mine, and mine alone. I breathe in knowing I am the sky.

This week’s challenge: Creepy

Empty swings are haunting. Life is choked from this playground as smoke from nearby wildfires adds to the sense of Armageddon.

This week’s photo challenge: Symbol

The French maritime cross symbolizes faith, love, and hope. In Montana, the mountains are our sea. God hasn’t forsaken us. Turn the anchor upside down and it becomes a peaked mountain.