Who in The World is That in the Mirror?

Inspired by Beth Kempton's Winter Writing Sanctuary,2024

Since I am busy talking about the mirror behind Her back so to speak, for the sake of simplicity, I am going to call it “She or Her” – always with a capital S or H to avoid confusion with other shes and hers. It makes sense to me that the mirror I know is female (this has less to do with certain genitalia than it does with propensity and outlook) but what others may see or ascribe to their mirror when they gaze deeply into Her eyes, is entirely up to them.

I am busy adjusting to being older and it has been an odd experience.

What She has chosen to show me over the years has always required many adjustments too; all my life, She has been nothing but deceptive and unreliable. With never having been able to discern the truth in Her revelations, I have always been left to my own devices. I refuse to involve friends or family in my quest to understand these things; it is my task not theirs.

When I was very young, there was much more yang than yin going on with both me and Her. She reflected a furtive, frivolous child who could barely sit still for a moment. Light reflected off messy, towhead hair creating a halo-effect while too-knowing olive-green eyes peered intently beneath bushy, platinum eyebrows. This child was often in trouble, pushing boundaries of what was allowed, and often guilty of some transgression – this is my best reason for why She showed me to be furtive. As for frivolous, I rarely occupied myself with anything that reeked of practicality – the worlds in my mind were wild, chaotic and not to be hampered by the rules and requirements of this one.

When I was a bit older, early grade school perhaps, She showed me a narrow oval-shaped visage with short, towhead hair and inquisitive but now more cautious than furtive, gray-green eyes. Hours spent alone after school (in those days, they called us “latch-key children”) shaped me this way. No longer under the watchful eye of adults (at least from the hours that the bus dropped me off till a parent arrived home, usually long after dinner time), made me more careful about the world outside. I protected myself with locked doors, drawn shades and by never revealing to anyone my frequent home-alone status. I still had my worlds within, wild as ever and subject to nothing but the whims of imagination but I had discovered other worlds not of my making, but equally intriguing – books!

She was unkind to me during the pre and early teen years, reflecting an abnormally skinny child, still with towhead hair, now long, straight and with bangs. Exceptionally large eyes looked out at the world and seemed to belong in a Margaret Keane painting; She saw their hollow sadness and felt nothing. I cannot hold this lack of empathy against Her, after all, much coming of age is fraught with such angst. Maybe it was all the Dostoyevsky, Poe, and Salinger I was reading. I remember The Little Prince caused me to cry inconsolably, but I do not remember specifically why.

I tried to make Her my friend during my teen years. Instead of embracing me though, She delighted in trickery with outdoor vs. indoor lighting so that my experiments with make-up produced harsh and unnatural contrasts on my pimpled skin making me loathe to even use make-up. She was so quick to point out all my flaws and I knew no matter how long we would be acquainted and whatever we might go through together, She could never be trusted.

The face and form in my twenties lulled me into a false sense of security - such a woman would never get fat, wrinkled and would always possess a certain je ne sais quoi - attractive to those she wanted to attract and unfortunately, to those she didn't. While not my friend, She was a sycophant in my audience of one; She applauded my James Dean outlook, “Live fast, die young and leave a good-looking corpse.” We smiled knowingly at each other – I would not live to see 30.  Indeed, I took a lot of risks and was an adrenaline junkie, but fate had the last laugh and age 30 is too far back now to even see in my rearview mirror.

I became a mother in my mid-thirties, and I watched my body turn into Humpy Dumpty and my blonde hair grow mousy beige. I had waited a long time for this wonderful turn of events and for the next decade or so found Her to be quite tolerable and suited to admiring, grooming, and readying my sweet daughter for various activities. My daughter was a younger image of me but oh so much better and unlike me, She seemed to honestly adore the child.

As my sweet girl eased into teen years, I roared into menopausal years, annoyed, nervous, impatient most of the time and a series of female afflictions drained my energy and joy. We moved constantly to keep up with the demands of my husband's job (I must mention, none of the mirrors in the various places we lived were any different or any better). Mostly I struggled and obsessed while She languidly observed and sometimes laughed sarcastically.

Working years went by quickly, and being a bit of a workaholic, I concentrated on what I could do and do well. I had no patience with anything I could not immediately accomplish, and either mastered it or ignored it. A voice kept telling me, “Not good enough”, and I was inclined both to believe it and to prove it wrong. I worried about other people's perceptions way too much and the weight of that worry sucked any pleasure or sense of wonder I might otherwise have had. I mostly ignored Her except during get-ready-for-work mornings and spot checks throughout the day to make sure I was keeping up appearances. Many of these years are just a blur - what seemed so important at the time reduced to less than a footnote in my life.

I retired at 67 years of age, and my husband and I embarked on this journey together, albeit with very different ideas of how one would spend and enjoy their time in retirement. A second joy entered my life in the form of a sweet mini-me granddaughter, an even more improved version than both earlier models. She and Her accomplice, the camera, fawned over the child to the point of adulation.

This past year, 2024...

I am busy adjusting to being older and it has been an odd experience.

Of significant note, I no longer blame Her for being unable to show me what I wish to see. In fact, I have realized I used to be very unsure of what I really wanted to see, and She simply reflected that uncertainty. I have apologized to Her, and I think we are beginning at last to understand and appreciate each other’s limitations.

The other day, I noticed in Her a spark of light (not at all like the halo effect I saw years ago) and it thrilled and intrigued me. It was but a glimpse of a wood faerie in the forests of my childhood scampering away and inviting me to chase her. Why, oh why, did She not let me see that spark before?! I see Her smile smugly, indulgently and maybe even a bit lovingly.

The visage before me now is healthy but a bit pale (all that sunscreen does its job well). The hair is a nice shade of white – no more a towhead but far from mousy. Deep hazel eyes look directly and openly through crinkled skin accustomed to laughter and a few frown lines sit like a shared crown between my brows.

I think I always knew that She was just about the surface stuff and could never really help me understand the truth of who I am. Quests for truth are mostly solitary endeavors for those brave enough to take them on, a lonely quest, really. Who truly knows what lies beneath…I confess I do not, and I know She certainly doesn’t…perhaps that wood faerie has some notion…I feel the urge to follow her.