When you fail, when you falter, when your efforts and strivings slip from your fingers and crash or crumple, may you open yourself to this possibility: even the prayers that dissolve into choked sobs, the seeds that die stillborn and curled in on themselves, the weavings that tangle into hopeless knots do serve some mysterious, necessary purpose. Resting on this paradox, may you return to your altar, your garden, your loom and begin again. May you begin again and again.

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