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Poem

There is poetry in repair
in the way broken things
learn to hold themselves together again.
Watch the spider mend her web at dawn,
each silken thread a testament to persistence,
how she refuses to let one torn strand
define the whole of her creation.
I've been learning from her,
and from the masters
who fill the cracks with gold,
knowing that to be broken
is not to be worthless—
that healing leaves its own
kind of shimmer.
My grandmother taught me
that darning is a form of meditation:
in, out, under, over,
the needle pulling truth through fabric
like time pulling wisdom through pain.
"See how the threads cross?" she'd say,
"That's where the strength comes from."
And isn't that the secret?
That we are strongest
where we've had to learn
to hold ourselves together,
where we've had to practice
the ancient art of beginning again.
There is no shame in patches,
in visible mending,
in showing the world where you've been stitched back whole.
The scars are not ugly—
they are a map of survival,
each one a story of rising,
of choosing to continue
despite the unraveling.
So bring me your torn places,
your frayed edges,
your places worn thin from worry.
Bring me your shattered faith
in small miracles.
Let us sit together
in this quiet art of reconstruction,
threading hope through the eye of possibility,
weaving tomorrow
from the fabric of today.
Because mending is not just repair—
it is transformation,
it is revolution,
it is believing that what is broken
can be made not just whole,
but holy.
And in the end,
we are all just learning
to be master menders
of our own lives,
stitching moments together
into something that looks
remarkably like grace.

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