A wounded deer leaps the highest.
When you saw a wounded who cry out for help, you may be the one sent by God to bring a favor.
Give it air & let the scar on your soul reveal itself, because, like the body, it too was made to heal itself.
It is not a matter of being broken, even though I am in fact quite shattered. It is understanding that my capacity to be fixed always exceeds the extent to which I’m broken.
Love is vulnerable. Love is family. Love is Life. We hurt one another. We just do. But we also need one another. We all know hurt people hurt people. Wounded people lash out in anger and in fear. I like to call them porcupines. These are people who desperately want a hug, but if you dare hug them, you will probably be stabbed.
I guess that is what wounded souls do. They carefully annihilate the essence and self-worth of another, embedding seeds of their sinister darkness into them, so that with time, they create prototypes of themselves.
To see a place as orphaned or wounded is also to reexamine the meaning of living and dying and to allow some curiosity and even a sense of marvel to emerge about the tactics things employ to persevere.
My inner child is not wounded.
