A good day

I was in the mood to do some spring cleaning the other day, so I thought that I would start with cleaning out some old boxes that I had stacked in the basement. At the bottom of the pile sat an old trunk that I’ve had, but not opened, since my days at college. I thought that it was filled with old college books. I was sure that now was most likely a good time to clean it out, and maybe sell that trunk at a future garage sale. I opened it slowly, since the hinges had rusted. A smile grew on my face as my eyes fell upon the musty contents. Buried within some crumbling old college papers was my very first diary. An old friend that I carried around. A secret place for my thoughts and dreams.

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A kind of healing

We all have scars. Some are deeper than others. Some are more obvious.

My cousin Jennifer was a ballet dancer who started dancing as therapy at age five, after a near-fatal burn injury left her entire back and parts of both legs covered with scar tissue.

I remember the first time I saw her dance professionally. From the audience, the scars on her bare back were indistinguishable from the taut muscled backs of her fellow dancers. She danced flawlessly, because as an artist, she had woven her external “flaws” into her mode of self-expression.

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