In all this hubbub, I find that
I’ve folded my small world around me
Drawn in tightly
Hunkered down.

My protective stance is to withdraw 
Rather than strike out.
Yet that, too, is hurtful.
A withdrawal from life diminishes 
More than just me.

I think of myself as too small.
What use am I among the vastness
A silly, mistake-prone, appendage, 
An intrusion in the flow?

And so, I discount myself.
I think that any contribution I make
Must somehow be perfect
Or it is useless.

I forget that ‘perfection’
Is a process.
It never starts at its culmination.
Growth, itself, is one of the beauties of life.
The unfolding is, itself, 
A slow and stately dance. 

There is, you see, 
A humility that withdraws
Ashamed of its very self
But there is also quite another - 
A humility that offers itself
Even knowing it is not perfect.

That is the gift of vulnerability.
And mine invites yours.

My own thread
Does not add much
To the tapestry of life
But I do love 
The flawed and nubby
Pattern we make together. 

Photo and tapestry by Fiona Dix posted to flickr and used per cc 2.0