When I was a little kid, I learned a lesson about Band-aids.
Here’s a story for you.
I had a big wheel when I was a baby nerd-linger, about 4 or 5 years old. It looked like this:
It was a one-seater, but if you were a child innovator like myself, you could take the back support off completely and fit two adventurers on the thing at once, so the both of you could tear ass down the street renegade style on these things, basking in the glow of the Northeast Philly sunshine. This was kind of unsafe, and quite frankly, a little dumb, so naturally, this is what I would do ALL THE TIME.
One day, I was the “back seat” rider. I was a good sharer and wasn’t above letting my friends drive the big wheel. Or maybe I was being chauffeured, I can’t really remember. Anyway, the two of us were riding at max big-wheel speed down Morrell Circle when my bum slid off the back of the plastic death-cycle only to ride and skid another 10 feet or so causing a monstrous tushy road rash.
At this point my memory gets a little blurry, but I seem to recall seeing some stars and maybe a bright light drawing me in at the moment of impact. That’s a lie actually, all I remember after that is that I had the world’s biggest piece of gauze taped to my butt. I was allowed to go back out and play after that as long as I didn’t get too sit-happy for the rest of the day.
Fast forward to a day later when we had to change the dressing on my big-wheel burn. It was the worst! As if taking the thing off wasn’t bad enough, covering it up really didn’t do me any good! It felt better while the Band-aid was on, but nothing really healed. It was a quick fix so I could carry on with the days shenanigans, but in the long run, it might have actually made things worse, as I could have benefitted from resting my buns and letting the healing powers of Great Northeast’s air work it’s magic.
Anyway, I didn’t let my parents put on another bandage. I threw a hissy fit and stayed off the boo-boo for a while. No big whoop.
But by now you are probably wondering, why is the owner of a float spa in Philly telling me this story about her childhood butt injury. Well, kind reader, it’s to relay the valuable lesson I learned that fateful day in my youth: sometimes, Band-aids are no help.
Here I am as a kid with a Band-aid on my face.
It’s not my butt, but close enough.
It sounds silly, but I took that idea on as a philosophy in my life. I mean, there are ouchies and boo-boos abound on this magnificent journey, we can be hurt in many ways, and often. And there are all kinds of Band-aids - food, alcohol, cigarettes, reality TV - things that keep us from finding the real solution. Things that we rely on, often times subconsciously, to make us feel better, to “help” us through.
And that was all well and good when you can identify when and what we are putting a “band-aid” on. The thing is, it’s hard to get to the bottom of things when regardless of what issues are going on, the rest of the world keeps spinning, and there you are with the gravity of it all. At least as a kid you have parents there with a bandage, and there to blame when there solution doesn’t work and your butt falls off.
As an adult, it’s all on you, and there is really only so much Ben and Jerry’s that you can consume before you realize you are really just burying yourself and your issues in empty, environment friendly, ice cream containers.
Recently, I have been using floating as a tool to help me find answers to the issues I’ve addressed with “Band-aids.” Since I opened the shop and have had mostly unlimited access to these amazing tools, and with out getting too personal (this is the first blog after all) I’ve been able to explore my mind, heart, and soul. It’s taken some time, but anything worth doing does. When you are by yourself, free from outside non-sense (because that’s all it really is), you can begin to see and hear your inner voice cry for help. I’ve been able to be vulnerable, to be afraid and brave, to surrender and learn. Even more, you can hear the answers, the consolation. When I am in the tank, I am able to drop my armor, and seek out wounds. I’m in there to assess damage, open myself up for true healing.
So there is the connection to my butt story. I’m on a mission, float fam. I’m on a mission to be better, to put a lesson to work, to grow. No more burying issues. No more unnecessary Band-aids. And no more, I repeat, no more cry-eating ice-cream.
Age 4, my favorite purple outfit that I specifically remember wearing the day of the big wheel accident. Oh, and my Michael Jackson doll.