The Great Physician

I fall and skin my knee
get up, brush it off, wash it off,
and cover it with a bandage.
The cut heals
because that is what a body does.
But when I am careless
after a fall,
when I fail to wash the wound completely
or protect it while it heals,
infection is inevitable.
And, I know,
the larger the wound,
the deeper the cut,
the more thorough
my attention to it must be.
Not to obsess or hover over it,
but to look to another for help,
while patiently allowing my body to heal.
Then there comes a time
when the infected wound
lies well beneath the surface,
hidden from the eyes of me or any other,
spreading disease
under the veil of something else –
constant indigestion is really cancer,
cirrhosis of the liver is really alcoholism
rageful anger is really deep-seated fear of losing control.
In those times,
the bandage is merely a mask
for the healing that must occur –
a deep excavation of my soul
to the places never shown,
accompanied only by the
who holds the balm
of Love

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