And then there are those of us whose hands and arms are mottled with snaking scars of deep purple and silver, with bruises roughening the knuckles and bloodied smears for cuticles. We don't know how we came by these because we were so involved in the doing that the small, ugly costs of that involvement never occurred until too late.
This is true in my life, and yet not true enough. How is it that I simply cannot dive so fully and so deeply into what truly matters in life, bearing those scars with joy and pride and a deep sense of satisfaction in the same way that I relish the markings of physical achievement?