Our wounds, like milestones, mark our lives us, and our scars remind us of what we have gone through.
As the baker's hands are scarred by burns, we, too, forever carry with us the cuts which, though already healed, continue to cut us in transfigured ways: sorrow at our loss, anger and hatred for a betrayal, the silence which only true despair could bring.
It may no longer be important if these bruises still hurt; it will never be a question of the amount of pain I go through as it is why we went through it. Going through is the only thing that matters--because it is far easier to stop short of the danger, trespass death and flee in terror.
But when we are made to run the gauntlet,when we sustain the blows and are still able to laugh and dance and praise, this is when we truly learn about what dying means and with it what living means. You only begin to live as you emerge from edge of death--wounds and all.