Musings on The Wounded Healer
Opening afresh my wounds gape up at me,
Asking me to decide what to do.
Are they wounds that wound or wounds that heal,
Which will it be when I encounter you?
Gaping wounds cry out to be sewn shut,
Flooded by memories, plagued by pain.
One stitch at a time at every deep cut,
Nerve endings screaming in my brain.
Perhaps if I closed my inner eyes instead,
And forgot for now every shed tear,
If I left them somewhere in my head,
They would fade away and disappear.
“I have no wounds”, I tried to pretend,
But they grew septic, bleeding out from me.
In extending to others my helping hands,
How could I be the best version of me?
How can we help heal others,
When we ourselves are broken?
How do we not wound others,
When we ourselves have wounds unspoken?
Bringing my wounds into the light,
Seeing myself and my failures truly,
Loving myself despite the sorry sight,
Letting go, forgiving, moving on slowly.
If only old wounds never ripped apart,
If only memories never lingered in our mind.
If only we could truly shut our heart,
If only we could forever leave the past behind.
The wounded healer daily makes a choice,
Not from pain to wound others,
Choosing instead their healing voice,
For their own wounds and those of others.
Reflections on a quiet afternoon on how vigilant we must be to articulate, process, and heal our own wounds even as we help others with their wounds. A daily duty to self and others, to be the best version of one’s self at every encounter, or at least to try. We are all wounded healers. 🙏🏼❤️
Thanks for reading,
Pav
