This difference amongst us, amongst our own race, our own gender and even our own family is the most important quality of living things.
Everywhere we look, every person we encounter can bring something new to our life. As many times as we think we’ve learned the qualities of a certain type of person – the hippie, the girl, the thug, the criminal – they continue to adapt and evolve and stereotypes are repeatedly shattered because there is no such thing as a predictable human.
But perhaps the best thing about this quality of human life is the opportunity to forge connections that are impossible to duplicate. From the very first word or look you exchange with another person, the path of your relationship will wind through a different route, at a different pace, with different obstacles and different incredible surprises than any path you had before.
That path, like the path of a spontaneous road trip, can go anywhere you want it to. It can take the first exit it sees, bailing on the beginning of a journey that may have been the best yet; it can also chase muffins and lake houses and even leave the country, riding spontaneity and trust like the breaking waves of an ocean.
And, similar to that spontaneous trip, sometimes the most painful and boring and unfortunate part of your trip can lead you to a place where you never thought you’d be. Sometimes a speeding ticket can slow you down, giving you a moment to absorb the perfection in front of you instead of worrying what lies at the end of the road you’re on. Those moments, seemingly innocent, can redirect your life in ways that you’d never imagine – taking you to a place, a feeling that cannot be matched.
This place, where the earth meets the sky, is a connection that has no explanation. Words are absent here. It’s a place where physical expression holds more value than verbal expression; where words are a bond between two people only when they are put down on paper; where rain is an opportunity to stay in bed; where danger is a chance to test your will; where the sirens mean you may have to run.
Here, in this place, beauty cannot be justified by words. The connection is beyond something you can say, something you can explain. It just is, and the inability to explain it is what makes it even more powerful than you can imagine.
People say that time heals all wounds, but time – like medicine and Band-Aids and antibiotics – is nothing more than a man-made solution. All wounds, like all people, are different. Time can’t heal everything. In fact, sometimes time simply doesn’t heal, sometimes the infection grows.
What truly heals wounds is one’s realization that the wound won’t kill you, that the deeper the gash is the deeper your trust ran, the bigger the risk you took was; that those with scars are those that have gone to this place, chasing something that has no description.
Scars are evidence of the past, and their existence alone is proof that the bearer of those scars was willing to take a leap of faith. Where that person lands on their leap is nobody’s fault, but simply a product of the risk itself.
And, of course, there is nothing sexier than a good scar. A real scar is the most permanent, concrete representation of the past. It’s placement, whether across the heart or next to the eye, is simply the beginning of a beautiful tale.
Para el viaje, H.S., K.B.