I used the word "imperceptible" to describe myself.  During a writing workshop the instructor provided several prompts.  I chose When I'm imperfect...

What followed included a piece written about my discovery of a minuscule eggshell--or the piece of one.  The fragile shard lay hidden in a pile of mown grass debris left by the side of the road.  I saw its cracked edges peering from the yellowing mound, brushed it off and placed it on my palm so that I could get a better look.  It was delicate--faint crack marks etched inside the broken shell .  A bird must have struggled with some difficulty to break free.

As my piece was "workshopped," (a verb used to describe other writers providing gentle, productive feedback) one of the comments came from the instructor.  "I think there may be a certain assertiveness missing here.  Sometimes when there is a slightly tentative voice, the writer connotes some hesitation, some self doubt, and the reader picks up on that.  You may want to consider increasing your assertiveness."  This feedback rang true. I can be dangerously passive. There is a part of me that desires to stay small, yet paradoxically wants to be heard, wants others to read my work.  Yet I often believe my work is not worth reading.

I wrote, "The shell is me too--imperfect, cracked, stained--almost imperceptible...and I don't know where the other half of this shell lies, either.  I think I keep searching for it, perhaps with the incongruous hope that I can crawl back in, patch things up a bit and stay safe.  Incubate."

Earlier in the week, I pulled a blazer from the netherworld of my closet.  I hadn't worn it for a while.  Forgotten about it.  It was like finding something new to wear.  As I gave that one last glance in the mirror before heading off to work, I reached inside one of the jacket pockets.  On a crinkled, yellow legal pad strip of paper I'd written, "Outrageous hope and permission to dream."  Like the eggshell, I looked at that scrap, that shard and remembered--remembered the voice that comes, almost imperceptibly, and reminds me of my own voice--that I have permission to dream, that it is okay to hope outrageously.  

And so I'm thinking that on that scrap of paper I may have discovered the other part of the shell.  My confidence.  My courage.  My assertion--that decision to move away from the tendency to hide in the carapace--to believe that it is okay to be noticed, to be heard--to be more than imperceptible.  Like bright pink tulips blooming in a gray cityscape.  Spiraling up. Cracked bulbs birthing life, sounding life.