My Sacred Scar: From Brokenness To Wholeness.
There is a jagged place I’d like to show you. It is imperfect. And gnarled. And hidden.
This place is both memory and relic. It occupies a space in time that is part magic and part madness.
This place is richly rooted in the physical world of form, and equally comprised of the deep waters of spirit.
I carry the weight of this scar everywhere. Everyday. And for all my days to come. For it is my sacred place, and mine alone. It is, simultaneously, my exquisite burden and my exquisite gift.
The jagged life of a scar must not be an easy one. For it is surrounded by seamless, uninterrupted beauty in all directions. Smooth, taut skin greets its every ragged edge. The life of a scar likely mirrors that of its recipient wearer.
Upon first glance, there is a wincing recognition of damage, of gristle, of rawness.
The corners and curves of the skin wrinkle and pucker inconsistent with the supple flesh alongside it. There is death, and there is rebirth. The flesh that is cut or cauterized by the steel blades of force symbolizes the suffering of the physical body. But what of the spiritual mutilation that occurs when you are cut?
What of the liquid tears that wash your face anew each morning as you gaze at the wreckage of your soiled landscape? What of the girl who stares, in disbelief, at her body’s reflection, and sobs heavy with heartbreaking recognition that she is forever altered?
Where there is blood, there will be renewal. Where there is pain, there will be processing.
Ever present, the scar remains. The jagged lines, once crimson and enflamed, slowly soften and release their tightly wound walls. They ease and recede into the flow of skin. Where there was inflammation and anger, now all is calm. Where there was raised and bruised flesh, now all is well.
And still, with years of weathering, the jagged line of my scar is uneven. Blotchy. Distorted. It contains fragments of pain and disconnection. It is a physical remnant of my former self. Who I was when I inherited the scar is no longer who I am today.
Much like the scar that adorns my body, I too have undergone a physical and spiritual reckoning. My scar has transformed before my eyes. The metamorphosis has been largely unfelt and unseen on the surface. My skin regenerated.
My beautiful, olive-toned flesh accepted and adhered itself to its new neighborly resident, the scar. This process happened over the course of several months, several years. This occurred without much fanfare, without much applause.
The real transformation, like all matters of depth and substance, occurs beneath the surface. It occurs when you are deep in process. It occurs when you are steeped in forgiveness. It occurs when you are rooted in radical self-love. It occurs when you are wildly accepting of every ounce of your life.
Real transformation of the self occurs when you become chief forensic explorer of the dark and dying mines of your female psyche. The murky spaces mired in decay, dysbiosis, and diseased logic.
My scar is sacred. It is my most reverent reminder of my journey from brokenness to wholeness. I hold this space on my body as a holy altar. It is here where I am awash in devotion and gratitude for its many-splendored gifts of suffering and salvation.
Brianne Farry is the poet behind The PriestessHood — a virtual fire circle rooted in women’s sacred spirituality. Here she encourages exploration of the Divine Feminine as the vehicle for metamorphosis and personal growth. She is a mother, an activist, an artist, and a writer. She can be found on Facebook and Instagram.