The fabric of my life is not silky smooth and pure white.  It’s torn.  splattered with dye, dirt and blood.  has its fair share of flaws and runs.  mended with patches.  It’s not full of pretty patterns and square edges.  One could say it is a rag of a quilt, but I’m okay with that.  It has character.  It is me.  It’s unique.  No one can replicate the grass stain in the corner.  No one can take away the memories of the tears and patches.  It is only mine.  It is my story in cloth form.  It’s constantly changing.  I can add pieces to it as I grow and I can bust out my seam ripper if need be.  Even if the fabric is washed, it will still be uniquely mine.  Each tear and patch stirs up a memory within me.  Every stain has affected me in some way and you can’t just “Shout it out.”  Life doesn’t work that way.

I hope to share my “fabric” with you through my writing.  I hope you can see beyond the conglomeration of blemishes to see the big picture.  The beauty of the fabric I call life.


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