To Heal a Wound

teachings on grief and healing from a wound.

Nils-Udo

Every time I come here to write I become overwhelmed by the things I want to say. The words and thoughts of so many people echo in my head, and the will to weave them all into the fabric of my writing overpowers me. I am made of others, and I hope others will be made of me too, deeply entangled in each other’s thoughts and dreams. There is no ending and no beginning to any piece of art. We simply make it our own, but everything is a continuation of everything else. These thoughts did not begin with me and will not end with me, I want you to keep this in mind as you read this.

This story begins with me burning my hand on a vintage lamp last week. That was the beginning of a laborious healing process that taught me a lot.

The first days the wound is at its most vulnerable state. It has to get worse before it gets better, I decide not to protect it with a band-aid, I trust my body deeply when it comes to healing cuts.

The following days I see the wound slowly change on my knuckles and notice how time and care can solve pretty much anything, the the blood cells patiently make a makeshift tent for my exposed insides and allow the space for the wound to close. This is a key moment where the wound must be protected; you do not hit a makeshift tent, you do not bomb a place that is rooted in vulnerability.

I also notice that as time passes, every time I bump my wound in the mundane things of life, the pain gets better, which serves as a reminder that I must be careful, especially these first few days. An open wound must be protected. You do not bomb a makeshift tent where children sleep with their mothers. A layer of skin begins to cover the wound, I watch as it creates a shield for my old grief. Grief does not pass, but life grows around it, little by little, with a lot of care.

Tell me, do you tend to yourself as your body does a wound?

As I said, I like to keep my wounds in the open air whenever possible, to give my body the space to do what it needs to do, I trust it deeply when it comes to a small burn on my finger, I trust it less when with bigger things. I guess the stakes are higher. Every day my wound disappears under new layers of skin that will make my new knuckle, I am grateful for the work my body does and the patience it has.

Days pass and I learn from my wound that any healing process needs time, that vulnerable times need care and patience, perhaps distance from evil and hopeful reminders of what can be. I wonder if a wound imagines itself healed to begin the process. Could it even heal if it didn’t imagine itself repaired?

During the most inflamed part of wound healing, a crescendo of redness and warmth rises in the area, this is not a warning, it is a call to arms that summons healing soldiers: white blood cells. A signal that whispers healing intentions: “Another World is Possible!” it shouts. I call it the hope and imagination phase, in it the wound must be further protected and cared for. The wounded must be protected.

Does the body summon the guardian white blood cells with song? I say all this happens in silence simply because I do not understand the language, but I imagine that my body has special calls, like humpback whale songs, that travel long distances between cells and organs. My body that sings through healing and dances away evil.

Nils Undo

Before beginning the process of scarring the wound needs to be cleansed of debris. It says you must let go to become new. This process takes its time. Yet, “the world demands that you adjust immediately,” writes Swarnali Mukherjee, so I try not to ask my wound to heal more rapidly, I wait patiently and in pure trust for it to do what it needs. I wish my trust was always this blind.

The proliferation stage is a blossoming of new life, where fibroblasts weave the collagen and endothelial cells that give birth to fresh blood vessels, nourishing the nascent granulation tissue. Cells glide gracefully over the wound, cloaking it in a new layer of skin, while the extracellular matrix solidifies the structure of this burgeoning tissue.

As I watch my wound close I realise that healing requires the strength of a community the body calls out for: cells, skin, blood, oxygen. The wound-healing journey is a symphony of biological orchestration that must begin in a protective embrace. I wonder how it feels to be unable to protect your children, the sense of powerlessness it must instil. You cannot bomb a place where children sleep.

Finally, the wound's story evolves into reparative weaving. The protective soldiers retreat and a scar emerges. A Re-membering, a coming back together. This subtle act is a whisper to the future: let’s not do this again. But what happens when trauma is forgotten? When the efforts of reparation become obsolete?

A forgotten wound is a death sentence.

Resilience and renewal require our utmost attention but most of all they need time and space to heal. A wound without rest becomes so broken it loses the will to repair itself. You don’t relentlessly bomb a wounded place without a desire for annihilation. You do not bomb sleeping children in makeshift tents.

I have left some incredible resources below for paying subscribers that have truly healed my soul over the last few days. Writings, podcasts, and music. I hope it serves as a balm.