The Wisdom of Wounds
The most profound spiritual teachers have a secret.
I’ve been thinking lately about the symbolism of wounds as a source of power. The bleeding wound is an emblem of radiant, raging life (If you prick us, do we not bleed?).
Our wounds mean we are alive, our blood a sign of our beating hearts. A wound is a vulnerable opening to the world, without any skin to protect it.
Catholic imagery is full of the gruesome torture of martyrs, guaranteed to hold the attention of kids in after-school Catechism classes - what ten-year-old doesn’t love this stuff? According to some accounts, Saint Lucy had her eyes gouged out. Or she plucked them out herself.
Wounds have the power to protect the Church. They offer salvation to the faithful. They might even glow.
In the iconography of Tibetan Buddhism, wounds destroy and liberate. They kill the ego and thereby open the door to awareness.
Mahakala is a protector deity whose image is displayed inside shrine room entrances. He tramples a corpse while wielding a flaying knife and a blood-filled skull cup, signifying the destruction of impediments to enlightenment.
A person who has never been wounded hasn't experienced much, but, by a certain age, everyone has wounds. Our wounds can corrupt us, make us hurt others, numb us, or destroy us.
There are some who are inspired by their wounds to show a compassion that understands the suffering of others. They might have difficult personalities, and have chosen to follow the challenging path of transmuting their flaws into wisdom.
They might become mentors and spiritual teachers.
The most profound spiritual teachers have a secret. They hold a little sadness because they have been through so much. They don't talk about their wounds. They protect their students - they want them to learn without suffering the same harm. These teachers have the humility and confidence to be open to the world as it is. They are always growing. They are not afraid of being wounded again.
Clear, concise, rewarding