beauty marks and battle scars

I went to Onset Bay today - a far cry from the crystal clear azure waters and shell-laden white sands of the Carribbean, but I'm happy to have my seagulls back. These poor nostalgic birds are so very undermined.

So I'm walking along the beach in my bare feet, awed and grateful for such perfect weather in which warmth has been kindly provided without the blinding aspect of the sun. Surprisingly, the area is very nearly deserted. I'm staring at the ground, hovering in that absentminded place between being lost in thought and not thinking at all. While the latter is certainly more relaxing, the former tends to be more productive (at least for selfish reasons) and leads to things like contemplative blogs laced with philosophic concepts.

I realized that I love being barefoot. And I love being barefoot because I can feel everything that I walk on. And I love feeling everything that I walk on because the earth (meaning the ground, not the globe) is the very essence of life. It is the foundation of God's creation and everything else in creation revolves around it. Certain soils allow for certain types of plants and vegatation to grow. Certain trees provide certain types of fruit or shade or leaves. Certain rock formations allow certain types of animals to hibernate or build their homes. Certain bodies of water allow for certain types of transportation, nutrients, recreation or simply add to nature's vast and incredible beauty.

Then there's us. Humans. We build our lives around this earth (or at least we should, although much to my growing concern society has been forcing the earth to build itself around us). We cannot build homes where the ground is unstable. We cannot plant polluting machines or businesses anywhere near precious bodies of water. This earth takes a selfless beating every time we drive our vehicles over it or crack our weapons into it or leave trails on it with our little feet.

I love being barefoot because it brings me that much closer to nature, this amazing mass that God created to endure all kinds of physical abuse for the sake of our survival and enjoyment. Every scratch from a wayward branch or piece of seaglass, every bruise from an unseen stone or fall from a tree, every drop of blood from the thorn of a plant makes me smile. Yes, there may be pain at first, but in the end there is always a smile. These physical blemishes are proof of God's creation and proof of our existence. Sometimes they turn to scars, and while many will frown at them in disdain or attempt to medically remove them, I will wear them proudly because all these scars mean is that I have lived. They do not make me ugly at all, and I think to despise or cover them up is horribly vain. These are the true beauty marks of our flesh - not genetically positioned moles on our faces or bone structure or hair color.

While I treaded the sand at the beach today, knowing that the rough grains and jagged shells would cause me to break out the body lotion for the soles of my feet later on, I was reminded of a time when my brothers and I were too young to even be aware of the tarnishing effects nature could have on one's body. We would head to the woods in search of adventure, climbing trees and falling out of them, building forts and bruising a few fingers, pushing prickly vines out of our way, grabbing snakes, worms, toads, salamanders, berries, endangered flowers and anything else that was irresistible to a kid in a moment of reckless abandon. We were pirates, native Americans and the newest members of the Swiss Family Robinson. Finally, when dusk had crept up on us like bedtime so inopportune, we were called in for dinner and forced to retreat from what in our minds had been one of the greatest days of our lives.

You see, when we were kids, we always lived life to its fullest. We would stumble and bumble our way into the house with mud caked on our clothes and tree sap stuck between our fingers and blood running down our legs, and we never would have known it was there if our mothers hadn't shrieked and ushered us quickly into the bathroom to wash up. And when it was finally time to snuggle up under our cartoon-covered sheets and dream about forcing our younger siblings to walk the plank, did we lament the fact that our legs, while thoroughly scrubbed clean and smelling like baby powder, were now covered in unsightly cuts and bruises? Of course not. They were battle scars, and if we even noticed them, we'd be bragging about how we got them in school the next day as we indulged in a coveted package of Dunkaroos.

Bottom line is, I'm quite happy to live my life not worrying about what every step - literally - will do to my outward appearance. I want to take notes from myself as a little girl and continue living life to the fullest, enjoying every experience offered to me and not being too vain to be adventurous. I believe there is such a thing as being too careful. I want to laugh and appreciate the wrinkles that form because of it. I want to climb trees and be proud of the wounds that will later prove I accomplished my goal of climbing higher. And if I'm a little more rounded than sculpted because I spent more days lying by the magnificent ocean instead of pounding treadmills at the gym, then so be it.

No regrets.