Tranquility in Order

I have seven scars. The very first one was caused by a vaccine that didn’t react well on my shoulder when I was a newborn. For many years, that scar was a source of embarrassment. People would point at it and ask what had happened. I knew it wasn’t my fault, yet it felt so visible, so difficult to hide, that I avoided sleeveless tops and dresses for a long time. My second set of scars is more hidden. Unless you are part of my family, you probably don’t know about them. I had surgery on both of my thumbs when I was about one year old because I couldn’t fully bend them. These marks are quiet reminders of something overcome long before I could even remember it. The third and fourth scars came from bicycles and skates. My poor mother endured a lot because of me. She would clean my wounds while insisting I stay still, doing her best not to hurt me. There were countless scraped knees and forearms. I loved speed. I loved pushing my limits. And, of course, falling was part of that story. The f...