I don’t remember the size of the pothole, but I went from cycling fast with a huge grin on my face, to lying face down on the street, my lips touching asphalt and the bicycle thrown all the way across the side of the road.

I got up quickly and ran towards the bike; I wanted to make sure it was okay, never mind me. As I stood up, I realized that my right knee was bleeding. It must’ve hit the ground real hard. I had a handkerchief in my pocket and used it to wipe the blood off. I didn’t want my parents to worry about me being hurt; plus, if they knew about it, I might have my bicycling privileges revoked for a while, something I couldn’t even think about.

But of course, when I went home, they could tell from the way I was walking that something wasn’t right. The next day, I was at the doctor’s office, who, from what I can recall, told me to just rest and completely avoid bicycling for what felt like eternity.

Over the following weeks, my knee healed and, much to my childlike delight, I was able to resume biking. There was a tiny reminder though, on the knee: an inch-long scar situated almost perfectly in the center of the top of the knee.

~

That was almost thirty-five years ago. I think about how things have changed since then. Of course, nothing is permanent – our bodies age, our personalities change, our interests and hobbies evolve – but there are times when it may seem like we’re stuck in a loop that we don’t to be in, a cycle that we seemingly can’t get out of.

About eighteen years ago, I was in a car accident where a guy ran a stop sign at forty-five mph and totaled my car. The paramedics who came to the scene were surprised that I was still alive, given how close the other driver had come to directly hitting me. That October evening was the start of my cycle, a cycle – unlike the one I used to ride as a child – I often found myself stuck in, with myriad health symptoms ranging from dizziness and food allergies to migraines and muscle aches.

I tried to live a ‘normal’ life, working, and partaking in my hobbies, trying my best to not let the symptoms interfere with my daily activities. But over time, my mind started to go into hypervigilance territory, where it tried to protect me from running into triggers, that, prior to the accident, I wouldn’t even have thought of as triggers. Bumping my knee into a table? Pre-accident, within an hour, I’d forget that it even happened. Post-accident, it launched a worry cycle: How long will this last? Why did I have to be so clumsy? What sort of treatment do I need? Should I make an appointment with the physical therapist?

My mind would tell my body to stay extra safe, just in case: stay away from that bumpy trail; don’t pick up that heavy-looking box; don’t stretch your hand that far out. The more I got into that overprotective territory, the more vulnerable my body seemed to become: I’d look sideways for a few seconds too long and my neck would hurt for hours. I’d sit on a lopsided bench and my back would ache for the rest of the day. The more my body did what the mind told it to, the more those moments of overprotectiveness morphed into habits, building up to a cycle that I never wanted to be a part of.

Over the course of years, I started to doubt what I was capable of and whether I could heal completely. Last year, I walked almost two-thousand three-hundred miles, yet I still felt fearful about things like jumping off the curb, something that I loved to do, prior to the accident. I started to believe that this is how it’s going to be, that aches and pains would come and go and be a part of my life. Some days might be unbearable and others might be mild, but my mind, lacking belief in my ability to get out of this cycle, got conditioned to accept this as the new normal.

~

A few weeks ago, I was having tea on the couch, after a long January day at work. I was tired from working and being in pain for days at a stretch. My right knee had been hurting for over twenty months, when I bumped it into a rod in the garage. When that had happened, I thought that a week of ice packs and gentle stretches would heal it. I guess things took a different course than I thought.

I brushed my hand over the knee, trying to soothe it and get some blood circulation going. It was then that my fingers felt the soft presence of that scar. Curious, I looked at it closer; it was the same size, in the same position and almost the same texture as when I was eight. There were a few beautiful wrinkles starting to scribble themselves over it, but other than that, it was like I was looking at my eight-year-old self.

I tried to recollect that evening when I had fallen down from my bike, and the first thought that came to mind was my attitude towards the whole incident: I was worried more about the bike than my knee. Sure, I was eight and you wouldn’t expect an eight-year-old to know that he ought to be careful with his body, but even in the weeks following that evening, I don’t recall worrying about the knee. I just moved on, pain or not.

And then the memories started flowing: that time when the train I was on with my parents, derailed and fell off the tracks, as we scrambled our way out of it, feeling nothing but gratitude for the fact that we were still alive; that time when I was around twelve and was in a communal playground with a swimming pool and we were told by the sports instructor to run towards the pool – which was empty – jump into it, climb up and keeping running and how I jumped into it and landed face down on concrete and broke my tooth, because I was pushed by the guy behind me; how, while in undergrad, I went rafting in the Ganga river with my friends and the raft hit a rock and every one of the six people on the raft – including the tour guide – fell into the river, except me, who kept on hanging on until I somehow managed to get it to the shore; how I almost got electrocuted when I was parasailing and got within a few feet of electric poles because the driver of the vehicle towing the parachute wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.

All those incidents had one common thread: I had been through the tunnel of adversity – like we all do in our own different ways and circumstances – and had walked out of it. This didn’t imply that it was all easy and problem-free; it was challenging and there was a huge element of grace and luck that kept me safe and healthy, but there was also something else – something I couldn’t quite label – that was like the lantern guiding me through that tunnel, keeping fear, self-doubt and worry at bay.

Sometimes, I now find myself worrying about how long the pain from stepping over a tiny stone might last. Where’s the previous version of myself that would’ve treated it as a funny incident and would’ve told it to friends as a joke about how clumsy I was?

~

As I kept gazing at the scar on the knee, it occurred to me that even though a lot had changed in those thirty-five years, there was one thing that had stayed the same: there was an unopened gift sitting quietly in the basement of my mind, hidden underneath the rubble of doubt and fear: it was a belief that my body and mind knew how to heal themselves, that they would speak up if they needed resources; what I had to do was listen to them, believe in them and give them the help they need.

I realized that I fell down that evening for a reason; it wasn’t just me being clumsy and not noticing the pothole. The gift had a price tag on it: the scar, a tag that I would revisit decades later and lean upon as a source of healing, a lamp in the dark, reminding me of my true self, of the strength and compassion that lies in my mind and body – in fact, in all our minds and bodies. It was my responsibility to remember that gift and let it blossom – especially in moments of doubt – knowing that it would reunite me with that resilient strong self that I forgot I used to be, and can still be. It was a scar, but also a star.

This doesn’t mean that I ought to completely stop seeing all healthcare providers and start climbing rocks and leaping down from ladders, or that it solves all problems right away. I have to treat myself compassionately and kindly, and listen to my mind and body and always respect their boundaries and desires.

What the light of that gift does though, is, it guides me through the tunnel in a kind and safe manner, as opposed to stumbling frustratingly through the unknown darkness. And I have to do my part too: I need to tidy up the worry pile and keep that lamp lit and continue to trust my true self – which has been with me since I was born – and, in moments of darkness, remind myself that while a lot of things do change, our core essence is always with us, a faithful lover forever walking with us along the trail of life, holding our hands and soothing our knees.

And you reminded yourself that you had been considering a dermal filler or a Botox injection since the past few months; you just hadn’t gotten around to it. You picked up your phone and made an appointment with the dermatologist for the next week.

And just like that, in one swift slash, all those creases and valleys were flattened and emptied. I was gone from your face. All that remained was a hollow echo of our memories. It didn’t stop at that: over the course of next several days, you continued using topical creams full of chemicals, underwent laser resurfacing procedures and started antioxidants.

Do you remember me anymore? I was part of the family of wrinkles that used to live on your face. That was my home. I thought you and I were one being, one team. I thought my presence would rejuvenate you, make you feel nostalgic about your life, make you revere its preciousness and its impermanence.

~

While I was still alive, I sometimes thought of myself as a piece of art being written in the journal of our life. It’s full of poems, drawings, photographs and songs written as sheet music. It started slowly, with maybe just a word or two in a poem, or a couple of notes of music, but it built up over time. We may not have noticed it, but every moment, a new entry got made, letter by letter, photo by photo, day after day, year after year. Every time you laughed, cried or smiled, your facial muscle’s movements wrote another entry in that journal. Every time you shook hands with someone, another line got written.

It didn’t show up right away, though. It took years to mature and bloom upon your face, your wrists, hands, legs, thighs, arms, feet. Over years and decades, we had entire poems, symphonies and collages of photographs scribbled all over our body.

While we were younger, that journal was hidden in a pocket in your pants. It seldom got opened and I was fine with that; as long as the art kept being made, I was ok with living in the cave of the earlier years of our life. But later, as we started to age, as the journal started to slip out of your pocket occasionally, I wanted to be seen, heard, read. I wanted to be acknowledged. I wanted you to realize that this was your life; each crease on your face was a line drawn in the sand on the beach of our life. The valleys between those creases were thriving with memories and experiences, hidden underneath the surface. I wanted you to look at them and reflect upon your life.

After all, it started as a journal, but as we aged, it became more of a mirror, an opportunity for you to ponder upon your life. I wanted you look at the wrinkles on your palms and think of times when your palms were smooth and flat, without any creases or hills and valleys, and think of what transpired between then – you had just started your first job as a barista, doling out espressos and cappuccinos over the counter, making five dollars an hour; you met your future husband in the café, where you served him a latte and he complimented you on your curly hair; your two-year-old daughter putting her little feet in her mouth as she clapped her hands; you feeling nervous as you started teaching your first class at the local high school – and now, forty-four years later: your husband died of cancer four years ago as you held his hand while he took his last breath, the same hand that had picked up the cup of latte you made decades ago; it’s been over a year since you talked to your estranged daughter; you retired as a high school teacher and now volunteer at the local foster home, putting handwritten notes like ‘You Matter’ in little boxes that are given to young adults.

All of these events involved a physical expression on your skin, whether that was you laughing out loud at your two-year-old daughter, or your hand holding on tightly to your husband’s as you watched him leave the earth, or your face crunching in agony thinking about how your relationship with your daughter changed. And each of those expressions moved muscles under your skin and drew a small wrinkle.
I wish you’d look at those wrinkles and think about how time and your life walked alongside each other, like a family walking on the beach, holding hands. Maybe you’d reflect upon how life evolves and things change. You’re no longer the person you were a breath ago. And I think that paying attention to your wrinkles – whether that involves looking at them, or caressing them with your fingers or kissing them with your wrinkled lips – gives you an easy-to-reach and always-available connection to the passage of time and the constant reminder that nothing is permanent and that everything changes, including your skin, your personality, your relationships, your life.

There’s no ‘good skin’ or ‘wrinkled skin’ – it’s just the footprints of time imprinted on your body. The older you get, the more visible that artwork becomes.

~

You were walking in a park a few weeks ago. It was early November and there was a light drizzle. You saw pink rose bushes in someone’s front yard. You took a photo with your phone and then touched one of the roses. It was pink, but there were yellow scars over its petals, scars that weren’t there in the summer. You put your nose to it, but couldn’t really smell its fragrance. The edges of the petals were pale white and crispy to touch and were starting to fold inwards, as if heralding the end of a phase of their life.

You wondered how much the flower had changed since it peeked out of its bud in spring, of all that it bore witness to and where it was now, in the cold, wet November rain. Even though it was withering and not the same vibrant flower it was a few months ago, it still was a rose, just in a different phase of its life.

~

Watching your wrinkles develop over time is like paying attention to the leaves on the maple tree as they start to grow in early April, soaking in the heat of the August sun, swaying in the gusty October winds and composting in the wet soil of January. You realize that everything goes through phases, changes form, lives its life, and eventually, comes back to the earth that birthed it.

Would you cut the leaves of the maple tree in your front yard in spring, just so you don’t have to look at them changing colors from green in summer, to yellow in autumn? I didn’t think so. Why then would you erase me from your body? Does my presence embarrass you? Do the yellow and red colors of the leaves in autumn embarrass the tree?

~

You google ‘wrinkles’ and the first search result that comes up is ‘How to treat wrinkles?’ I like to think that the word ‘treat’ is a noun, but most people think of it as a verb. I wish that when you look at me, when you touch me, you’d think of me as sacred, but instead, you look at me and feel scared. Just a couple of letters moved around, but it makes a profound difference.

I’m gone now, but I know you can do it. I know that you can learn to love and marvel at the beauty – at our collective beauty – of my fellow wrinkles that are adorning the rest of your body; that instead of injecting them with chemicals, you can proudly put them up on the billboard of your life; that you can hold your wrists up to your lips and whisper ‘thank you’ to the creases for faithfully recording every minute of your life; that when you run your fingers over the wrinkles on your arms, the deeper and silkier they feel, the wetter your eyes get.

I think that perhaps societal expectations got the better of you and you ended up sacrificing your artwork to instead conform with what you think other people want you to be. But I’ve known you our entire life. I know that you are capable of accepting yourself as you are – beautiful wrinkles welcomed – and that you can change for the better. I know that you can look inside yourself and realize that the only person you need to appease and conform to, is your own life, your own body, your own wrinkles.