You walk in carrying an old limp, and still the doorway opens wide, room to spare. Chiron, the centaur whose injury ripened into wisdom and never a planet with mass, forms a trine to your rising horizon, so the scar and the face you greet the world with share one settled climate you simply breathe. People sense your welcome is not naive, that it grew up out of having been hurt, and they let their guard down into it. What once cut you now tints your first contact with a warmth that asks for nothing back. The one thing to watch is taking the gift for granted, assuming everyone arrives holding wound and welcome in the same untroubled step.