“The wound is the place where the light enters you.” – Rumi

I imagine most of us are born pure and whole in the womb. And as we move through life, some of us are damaged.

A lot of things can damage us  as we are being formed – parents, peers, siblings, our own bodies, traumas and cruelty, accidents and terrors, abuse and poverty. Life can damage us too – the pain of our own families, conflicts with friends, losses of loved ones,  accidents and diseases, the hatred and cruelty of others, lost love,  even the death of dogs.

And then, life damages us all the time – we are disappointed, hurt, injured, betrayed.  All kinds of things are triggers for us, we are sometimes the children of trauma, and there is no life without trauma. I am amazed at how often I feel hurt, how often I feel the old damage tremble and shake inside of me and rise up.

In our world, the news itself can be damaging, all those angry and violent images pouring into our consciousness every day in many ways.  The angry men and women in Washington and on cable news. There are so many people willing to judge, hate and argue, all things that can hurt more, keep wounds open, or create new ones.

Some of us damaged people know and accept this about ourselves.

I know many of the damaged who refuse to see themselves in that way, and deny it in every possible way. It is not an easy thing to see or admit. It is a painful thing to acknowledge, it is one of those hard truths you can never quite digest.

I have long wished more than anything to be whole, and accept that this can never be,  but Rumi is right, the light has entered my body and consciousness through the wounds. All that is good in my life came from those gaping holes.

I suppose I wish people would acknowledge the damaged, and make allowances for us.  It is, in its own way, a kind of handicap. But life does not work that way, like everyone else, it is for us to heal ourselves or stumble blindly through life. The damaged often have to work harder at ordinary things, they may not seem ordinary to them.

Rose Kennedy, who knew something about damaged people, wrote: “it has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”

I am a damaged person, I know there are many others out there reading this. We seem to always find one another and are drawn to each others experiences, seeking understanding and hope. We get each other, and the joys and travails of our lives, a secret unacknowledged world. We have secret codes, winks and shrugs. They all say the same thing: I know. I met one at the gym the other day, he smiled at me and shook his head. I knew.

I get messages from them all of the time, one this morning, from Anne, undergoing back surgery, frightened and alone. “Sometimes the only thing that keeps me going are your photos of the farm, I don’t know how I can handle what I need to handle.” I used to wonder why people sent me messages like that, and I came to understand. Because they know, too.

I know Anne wants me to reassure her, and tell her it will all be all right. I don’t know if I can do that. She knew about me, and I think she just wanted me to know.

Damaged people know a great deal about healing, and I have been exploring ways of healing all of my life. From the time I could read, I sought out help. I began the process of healing, for me, for my sister. I work at it all of the time, every day of my life.

When I was still a kid, I snuck off to secret meetings with shrinks. I hid this from my parents, who did not want to see the damage in their children. I took refuge in a Quaker Meeting.  I took Valium for 30 years, became addicted to it. I saw psychoanalysts, talking therapists, spiritual counselors, dynamic social workers, I moved 14 times 17 years. I ran a way from my family, I herded sheep with dogs, wrote about animals, fled to the mountain.I devoured the works and journals of wise men, my bandages and balm. For all their wisdom, they could not heal me.

I fought and argued my way across the country with bosses, with anyone in authority, with my self, I could never quite fit into the world. I was unable to love or be loved in a healthy way.

I knew something was wrong with me, but I had also learned to hide it. Most people never knew.  I was like a high-functioning alcoholic, only I didn’t drink. Eventually, it would always come out. And it did, like many damaged things, I broke down. Had to try and put myself together.

So bit by bit, I joined this curious community, and we are a community. We are a brotherhood of sorts.

And to  great measure, I have found healing. The damaged people know there is no such thing as total healing, we can come very far, but not all damage can be repaired. But some of it can, a lot of it can. I am here and alive to tell you that.

Meditation has helped me, so has music.

My photography has had a profound effect on my healing, so have my blog and books. Nothing is more healing for me than writing, I believe writing has saved me more than anything else, has brought me back to life and held me together and helped me to learn who I am.

Animals have healed me, especially dogs. And donkeys have healed me, especially Simon. Animals heal us in many ways, by giving us love that is dependable (people rarely do that), but not hurting us or judging us or finding us wanting. They are empty vessels sometimes, we can fill them with love, and that is healing, they can teach us who we are, and that is healing.

Talking therapists have healed me, worked so hard to repair the damage, find the better and unbroken parts of me, put them back together. So have spiritual counselors, with their gentle and fuzzy magic, with their googly positive thinking and love of potions and mind massages. If you want to be whole, said one, imagine being whole. That didn’t work for me.

Nature has healed me. In nature lies the magic and mystery of world, nature reminds me of who I am, where I come from. Each tree is a representation of sanctity to me, each beam of light streaming through the woods a healing light, a dose of medicine. Seeing beautiful things every day – that has healed me.

And above all, love has healed me. Knowing there is someone who can see through the damage, see beyond it into the soul that is very real, that hides behind the smoldering ruins and yearns to live and be free and be seen. Such people are rare, and blessed, and I have been very lucky to heal enough to find one to love, and who loves me.

We have always seen beyond the damage into the true heart of each other, and there is perhaps nothing I can imagine that is more healing than that. Knowing what I can be has made me better than I am. And we have always known the healing power of the creative spark.

And creativity heals. Creativity takes courage, and courage heals us. Creativity has taught me not to be satisfied by the stories of others, not to accept  how things have gone with others, not to accept their ideas about me, or to be further drawn into the hatred of anger of others, and never for too long.

I am very lucky. Creativity has taught me to unfold my own myth.

And my own myths give me the light to see by, they may be the most healing things of all.