Naked but for these scars

I shaved every hair from my body. I was about to spend 2 months in solitude at a moutain retreat, an old monestry. I wanted a tangible measurement of the length of my isolation. As my hair grew back, my soul would mend.

The initial sensation of being completely shaved is coldness, followed by hightened sensitivity. I could feel every draft, i could feel the landing of a tiny fly on my skin. The slightest touch felt like a punch, grass felt like razor blades.

When i was alone, i spent hours just feeling my body, running my hands over evey square inch. I found countless scars, some forgotten, some surprisingly small, others unchanged. My head especially was a hairless sea with islands of scar tissue.

Over the next two months i meditated on the story of each scar. I wrote down these stories, some only a paragraph, three of them surpassed ten pages. Each story had a meaning, each meaning was a fragment of my being, of who i was, of who i had become.

Some scars were sins, others told of the value of friends and good health. One, from the removal of tumour, was concerned with the God of Destruction. I had no favourites - they were all a part of me, even the bad ones gave me hope and peace.

On my last day, with my hair regrown and looking fairly normal, i gave my self a new scar, the story of which you have just read.