One day on retreat, five antlered deer - one a cute adolescent - munched on squawbush and rested in the shade of a pinyon pine in the field outside my cabin. I watched them and photographed them through my windows. Hidden behind glass that reflected the outdoors, I was able to examine hides up close as the bucks neared where I was standing. Torn ears, necks striped with scars... They wore their histories without shame, no need to cover up any possible imperfections.
After they had moved on, I pulled a peach out of my little fridge. It, too, wore scars. And so do I. I guess we all do, whether they are worn as obviously as those of the deer and peach, or they're kept hidden beneath shirts or coping mechanisms.
The deer and the peach have no self-consciousness regarding their wounds. Still, just as we do with human models, artists often paint portraits of deer with unfaltering coats. A still life with peach will have no bruise or blemish.
I don't want to go through life pretending I don't wear evidence of aging, pregnancy, and doctors' good fix-it skills. I am learning to accept my history without shame. Still, I spare all those at the pool from seeing the road map I call my belly - a line of decency I don't cross over in a culture that cringes when reminded that, in order to stay among the living, sometimes the surgeon's knife must leave its mark.
I know a woman whose favorite peaches are those with bruises. It is true that the wounded parts of the peach are the sweetest. With a different way of looking, maybe we could treat ourselves and each other a bit more tenderly, since in one way or another, we are all scarred dears.
(You know I could have said we are all just peachy...)
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