Sunday, 11 June 2017
My Body Tells a Story
Every part of my body tells a story.
That scar on right elbow, a mark of when I tried to handstand in a park. On the concrete path that was sloping away from me and fell forward straight onto my elbow. But the memory of trying to do gymnastics with lovely flatmates and the giggles we had lives on with the scar. And taking the skin off it because I ran and jumped headlong onto a crash mat and won the challenge to see who could slide on it the furthest.
My lips that still need a ton of moisturising lip balm on them after a summer two years ago when I sunburnt them so much that they turned purple. But the hot weather of that summer brings memories of coaching cricket every single day for 3 months and the happy, proud moments that those days brought.
The scars on my legs that my best friend in high school told everyone happened when I was bitten by a shark. She told the story to protect me, so I didn't have explain to everyone. They actually mark a 3 year old's incredible survival from meningitis. A horrible disease that I'm incredibly lucky only marked me with scars.
The freckles that exist all year round, but multiply with even a sniff of sunshine. They link me to my mum. The same dapple over our nose connecting us both and making it obvious that I am her daughter.
The long straight scar that bisects my right foot. The cut made by a surgeon to realign my ankle and help a child walk again. The little girl that was in wheelchair and learnt to walk gradually with the help of a zimmer frame.
The arms with muscles. The right hand arm more defined from every cricket ball I have thrown or bowled. They show the afternoons spent playing the game I love. With teammates and colleagues who have shaped the way I am as a person. I am proud of the strength I have and my body's ability to play sport.
My body is so much more than it's appearance because behind every part of it is meaning and the story of my experience.