And take one more step.
That pottery is caminando .
When you are betrayed by a lover, and your chest feels like a collapsed building, the natural instinct is to lie down. To cancel plans. To pull the covers over your head and let the world spin without you. herido pero aun caminando
It is not yet a masterpiece. It is not yet whole. But it has not been thrown into the landfill. It is still on the shelf. It is still useful. And every morning, when the sun hits its golden scars, it glows just a little brighter than the unbroken cups. You are not a victim. You are not a hero. You are something rarer: a witness.
We wait to feel better before we act. The wounded walker knows the reverse is true. You do not walk because you are healed. You become healed because you walk. The rhythm of the step—heel, toe, heel, toe—is an ancient metronome that slowly resets the nervous system. The Scars That Glow There is an old story from Japan about kintsugi , the art of repairing broken pottery with gold lacquer. The philosophy is that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken. And take one more step
You will not walk straight. You will drag one leg. You will favor the left side. People will notice. Let them. A limp is a map of where you have been. It is honest. The only gait that is truly broken is the one that refuses to move at all.
In Spanish, the word herido comes from the same root as herida (wound) and herir (to strike). It implies a blow that was meant to stop you. And yet, caminando is a gerund—an ongoing action. It is not “I walked” (past) or “I will walk” (future). It is I am walking right now, through the pain, in real time. To cancel plans
But what about the pottery that is still cracked and leaking a little water? What about the pottery that is sitting on the shelf, glued but fragile, wondering if it will ever hold flowers again?
