Cars & Scars

My parents owned a 1980 Silver Buick LeSabre Sedan, amongst other colorful vehicles when I was growing up. When I say “1980” and “Buick Sedan” in the same sentence, you older folks like me know all too well what genre I’m referring to… boat-like in nature with a hood ornament the size of a softball.  It featured an extended wheel base and trunk large enough to store an entire 80’s hair band full of dead bodies in it. A huge “Run DMC” medallion-style clock was majestically perched on the passenger side of the dashboard, right next to the massive glove compartment large enough for a pair of boxing gloves, or other huge gloves to be worn only by oh, say… “The Incredible Hulk”?  I mean, shoot.  You probably could have fit an igloo cooler full of Tab Colas and a box of “Chicken in a Biscuit” crackers in there if you were so inclined. ​

This Buick was my dad’s pride and joy, and every weekend was spent at the “Pick-and-Pull”/junkyard procuring exciting parts with which to bedazzle the vehicle.  A radio with fake wood paneling, a fancy new gear shift knob, a self-made dashmat made of silver shag carpet.
Eventually we named the Buick LeSabre “Greasy Wheel” (“GW” for short) because the steering wheel had become so sticky that you actually had to pry your hands off “Ten and Two” when you parked, because of my dad’s mechanic maintenance habits.  He would drive it up on ramps in our driveway and tinker with it for hours, and then without using his huge jug of Borax soap, he would jump in the driver’s seat and take it for a spin around the block listening for any additional rogue and unwelcome noises before washing up for the day.  He would slam on the gas and the thing would take off like an Airbus A380 through our suburban neighborhood, loud and heavy as sin.  He would nod to whichever family victim happened to be in the passenger seat (as aforementioned passenger gripped their seatbelt for dear life) and attempt to reassure them with the phrase, “Just cleanin’ out the carburetor!”  Well, glad he got that out of the way, because the next thing that was going to need cleaning was the velour bench seat when it was soiled by the shocked and tormented passenger.
 
One day in the mid-eighties when I was about 10, we were rolling in The “G-Dub” one evening, returning from San Diego where my grandparents lived.  The drive to Mountain View was a hefty 10 hours or so, depending on LA traffic. We took turns listening to the radio, my parents using their turn to jam to what could probably be found today on a “Sounds of the Seventies” Pandora station.  When it was our turn, my brother Scott and I would pass up a tape of our choosing (read: audio tape). We had just finished our recent turn, and my dad ejected my “Wham! Make it Big!” tape. (May you RIP, George Michael.)  He passed it to me over his shoulder, then realized he had forgotten to hand back the plastic case the tape lived in, which happened to be slightly broken because I had accidentally run over it with my Barbie Motorhome one day.  He pitched it backwards over his shoulder, and for some wild reason, the sharpest part of the broken plastic intersected with the side of my hand, right under my thumb.  Pain seared through my hand, and to this day I cannot logically figure out why on earth that little piece of plastic hurt so much.  One look at my right hand today will show you that the memory of that random flying tape cover is forever with me, as the scar remains to this day.  It’s not even a cool story, like, I was climbing Kilamanjaro and a carabiner broke while I was on belay and I cut my hand open, straight through my glove, (possibly an Incredible Hulk-sized glove capable of being housed in Greasy Wheel’s glove box, at that!) on one of the volcanic cones.  Nope.
 
Some scars are visible, physical scars. Others are internal, emotional scars.  But they all represent a story, a time period, a suffering, an affliction.  Every scar has a story attached to it, and the emotional ones are arguably some of the toughest scars to live with because they require treatment or new perspective or constant management.  Every scar has a story, and every scar whether big or small quietly whispers, “I’m a survivor.”
 
Occasionally there is an injury that there is really no recovery from, as there are some emotional wounds that last a lifetime…..they remain open and exposed, raw; no real scar tissue ever forms.  In fact, it’s a constant fight to care for the wound and ensure that it’s clean and protected, to the best of one’s ability.  I’ve not experienced this, but something like the loss of a child, a parent, a spouse, are examples of some of those types of wounds.  One may not always heal, but I’ve been told that one can adjust.  If one loses a limb, one can learn to use a prosthesis, but one doesn’t grow a new hand or leg back.  Despite the type of scar or wound, the question remains the same: will one remain damaged and suffering, or will one use that wound to try and make something-anything redemptive- come out of one of the most horrific and tragic emotional pains a human can experience.  Mothers Against Drunk Drivers would be an example, or the Amber Alert System.  It may not close the wound, but it gives some amount of purpose to the pain.  Or so I’m told.  And PS, I’m not a doctor, so I can’t tell you any factual details about wound care….. it’s just how this level of grief was explained to me by a friend.  Respect. J
 
Whether internal or external, I believe scars have a way of impacting us that can be used to poison us or to propel us.  My scars used to poison me. I saw myself as the perpetual victim.  But once I realized over time and tears that my scars could actually be my greatest asset, my whole world changed and my vision became so much clearer.  I had found my Center-or rather, my Center had found me.  “Finding your center” is an understandably vague term, and so for the purpose of this blog, I’m defining “center” as a connection to one’s spirit which results in discovering inner peace.
 
Because I had no idea that my Center even existed internally, I spent a lot of time looking at external possibilities and slapping band-aids on my scars.  I ferociously rifled through a virtual medicine chest full of useless creams in an attempt to make my scars look better, I valiantly tried various types of makeup and techniques to hide them, but frustratingly, it seemed like nothing was working.  I didn’t like myself, and I didn’t believe in myself.  I was full of fear, I collected perceived failures like medals and displayed them so I could point to them and prove to others how much of a loser I was.  I adopted self-sabotaging behaviors with people, places and things. Until my Center was revealed, I held myself in zero regard- but what I couldn’t see was that I was actually feeding an extreme case of self-pity.  It was as if I had allowed my paper-thin soul be casually tossed into the raging ocean of life, and I didn’t know how to swim.  I was just flailing around in the water, struggling to breathe, collecting additional scars from anything that brushed up against me- coral, animal bites, you name it. 
 
I personally didn’t have a “burning bush moment”, or a conversion experience when I discovered my Center.  It wasn’t like one day I was randomly walking down the street minding my own business and I found this cute little tidy box with a shiny bow on top.  Nope.  It was more like slicing an apple: through some cuts with a large knife, my scars developed and eventually my core was revealed.  It had been there all along, and until my life was sliced open against my will, my attempts were totally in vain.  Today, I wouldn’t trade my scars for anything.
 
According to one of my favorite authors, Franciscan Friar Richard Rohr, “Spirituality is about what we do with our pain.”  And I personally have found this to be true for me, as these scars have given me hungry, passionate purpose in my life. Today, I tell my story to men and women in the capacity of volunteering a few days a week, for an hour or two at a time, with other people who are on similar journeys.  However, we share the same goal: we have found our Center, and one of the ways we practice maintaining the connection to that Center is through sharing the details of our journeys with others.  Maybe the human to human raw honesty can be a stepping stone or a catalyst for someone else’s potential hope of change and growth. This work also involves an ability to hold space for others who are in crisis, who are in the middle of their own fight.  We have been there, and we have survived, but we will never forget the acute pain of the assault. We can’t do the healing work for those in crisis, but we can be there, shoulder to shoulder, and walk with them as they manuever through it.  We’re not doctors or therapists (and we continually emphasize that to those we work with) -we’re just another human soul qualified only by our own human experience, and we NEVER give advice, merely offer our personal story and we listen, only offering the occasional suggestion or idea- but ONLY if asked.
 
What’s truly beautiful is how incredibly different and personal everyone’s journey is, yet the framework is so strikingly similar.  During the course of the past 6 years, I’ve had the privilege of listening to so many stories in this volunteer work, and I’ve had the sacred honor of hearing about many different difficult avenues through which people have experienced the revelation of their pre-existing Center. Through my own experience and hearing the experiences of others, a reoccurring theme is that the Center is usually revealed through a degree of suffering.  This, of course, is unfortunate news for those of us who are fans of comfort.  We can’t randomly decide to create our Center the way we can with learned behaviors…. It just kind of happens, if we are willing to let any seeds of positivity grow from our despairs.  And by the way…. Finding one’s Center is just a starting place.  It seems growth begins to happen after the commencement of becoming comfortable with being uncomfortable.   The Center becomes the guide, the continual teacher, never to reach any particular end goal or graduation.  But purpose develops where there was once only a pile of ashes.  The Center is similar to the locomotive on “The Polar Express”, except it just keeps stopping to pick up more life lessons along the way….it never actually reaches the North Pole.  In fact, reaching a destination isn’t the point, and in this case, would sort of be considered a failure.  It’s the concept of the continued expansion, the cyclical unfolding; always room for more learning.
 
The best way I personally can describe my Center is like I have this precious newborn baby.  All I want to do is honor it, protect and nurture it, feed it, cuddle it, watch it breathe, ensure that it’s healthy.  And as that baby grows, I just cannot imagine not having that child in my life.  At the risk of sounding gross or like a weirdo, I’ll tell you this:  Sometimes I look at my 7 healthy kids and think, “I can’t believe these babies came from me.  Like, they came from the pool of 1-2 million eggs I held inside my body from the day I was born.”  (AND of course, my husband played a role in making those babies too. J) To me, that is miraculous and amazing… to think that a little girl born in smoggy Southern California would be the vessel for birthing and parenting these 7 beautiful souls, and I did nothing special or out of the ordinary for that happen.  My Center is that miraculous to me too…. I can’t believe it was inside me all this time… but like a fetus, it took time to grow before it was birthed.  Every scar I picked up during the pain of the “pregnancy and birth” of my Center was worth it.  And now I continue to care for it, so that it will continue to grow.  I mindfully watch out for it in my daily life and listen for it during my meditation practice.
 
I look at scars differently now.  I used to think the scar on my hand was ugly.  I hated the scars on my leg from orthopedic surgeries I endured when I broke it in ’09.  I was dumbfounded and freaked out by the scars on my husband’s chest from when his lung collapsed-twice- when he was 18.  But now I see scars as a unique representative of a piece of life; a mark of history on one’s timeline.  I’ve seen how a shift in perspective can be all it takes to reveal the beauty in the mess, if I’m willing to look for it.  If the wounded spirit will indeed allow it, treasures can come out of the wound or as a result of the scar.  Alternatively, the scar can be our constant excuse to poison ourselves and negatively permeate those around us.  As Franciscan Friar and author Richard Rohr puts it, “If the pain of your story is not transformed, it will be transmitted.”
 
So back to the old Buick LeSabre named “GW.”  Whether this was his intention or not, my dad’s actions with that vehicle proved to me that anything, (or anyONE) can be remade.  Start over.  Turn a fresh page.  Bedazzle themselves.  In the process, one can start to view their personal scars differently.  As those layers of bandages are peeled away, painful as it can be, if the survivor is willing to have a shift in perspective, who knows what may be hiding under all that pain….it might even be one’s Center.  And perhaps it was there all along.