It’s working time again, time that I sit in discipline and write. It used to be so much easier when I came to the keyboard regularly. I had a need and something to say. Now I have a want. I always have something to say. But I struggle with the discipline. I struggle with the flow. I have to work at it till it all comes back. I’m relying on Susan Wittig Albert’s writing prompts.

It’s good to have prompts to think about. This 2nd week of September, the prompt is catastrophes. We’re often advised not to dwell on the negatives and the past. Look forward, don’t look back. Sometimes I find that impossible to do. I’m easily triggered and my mind travels backwards and into dark tunnels. The topic had me time traveling back to my earliest catastrophe. It took me back to my 2 year old self when I was still in China.

Being so long ago, it is only a memory of the memory. I was playing in the courtyard chasing the chickens with my uncle who was only a year older than me. We were called in to have a dessert made with arrowroot flour. It was a hot sweet syrup. My uncle and I were fighting over the biggest bowl when I upsetted the bowl over my left arm. Being winter, I had a heavy long sleeved shirt on which was difficult to remove. I ended up with 3rd degree burn halfway down my arm starting from my elbow.

I have no memory at all of the spillage or the pain at the time or after. My burn would not heal with home treatment. So my mother took me to see a doctor in a bigger town. I do have memories of trips to the hospital by a bicycle taxi. I remember going through the gate and under an arch. I remembered that we had the bad luck of getting the same unskilled driver every time. But I have no memory of pain. My mother said I was a good baby. I did not fuss or cry much.

My burn did healed but I ended up with a big scar. I was very fortunate I did not lose any function of my arm. It did cause me some self image issues when I was young. I had often gazed at my arm, wondering what it would be like to have 2 normal looking arms. How would I feel? Would I be happier? How would my life be without a scar? Now in my ripe old age, it matters not a squat. I think we are all scarred having lived.