When was the last time you paid attention to detail? How often are we so caught up in own world of self-design that we neglect to see the detail in our own truths or other worlds spinning around us?
Today, while I was searching the furthest recesses of a dark bureau drawer, my fingers came across the cold, etched surface of my silver compact. It was a Christmas gift from my mother-in-law, as I remember. An intricately carved silver mirror, a treasure only women can appreciate. The type of sentimental trinket you seldom use but appreciate for the detail and simplicity all in the same moment.
Mirrors are timepieces of our very existence, like journal entries, I suppose. We log-in to check our progress and record our evolving journey through this life, chronicling our voyage from birth with the honesty of a trusted confident. As a trusted friend they show us our true nature, often seen without makeup or clothing, we can hide nothing from them.
My fondness of mirrors has changed with the decades. As an infant I could have stared at the face reflected back at me, recognizing my image as curiously as I did that of my parents. It was a thrill that must have compared with finding my toes for the first time. Trying to recall the coos and giggles in a life full of discovery, never realizing the lessons of each breakthrough.
As a child, my senses were in overdrive, experiencing as much as physically possible. I paid little attention to my physical appearance. There was too much to witness. I lived for the moment, sampling as much of life's pie as my senses would allow. Mirrors were never extremely important in youth.
As an adolescent, I stared in repugnance at the face and body I no longer recognized as my own. I remember the agony of my first sign of acne or the breasts I couldn't imagine would fill my blouse. Can't you recall the first time you were aware of your physical presence?
"Mom, what am I supposed to do about these," I pointed at my chest, half proud while the other half terrified, standing face to face with my naked body in the mirror. "How will I ever compete in track again," I whispered out-loud, as my mother laughed her way to the telephone to share my discovery with her friends. She was taking such pleasure at the changing details of my life and body.
In my twenties, I grew more comfortable with the images of self. The breasts, which were once nuisance, are now part of my identification. My stride was effortless and full of confidence. I was pleased with the sassy curve of my waist, the simple freshness of my face and the color I had chosen for my hair. Reflections were welcome gauges of my compatibility with those around me.
During my thirties, the details of my image became more vivid. I no longer held the youthful beauty I once did, but I held wisdom and compassion I never felt possible. No longer did I look at my reflection without absorbing the peripheral view of the world around me. I stopped to witness the crisp, white purity of the wall beyond my shoulder, the wind gently caressing the curtain to my side, and the fingerprints my son left just hours before.
Now in my forties, I am comfortable with who I am. While peering into the mirror, I notice the barely visible lines running from the corners of my eyes, realizing they are from years of laughter watching my children grow. The furrow in my brow, touch of gray in my hair, and the hint of color in my cheeks, all speak of where I am at this very moment. I am an ever-changing, ever-present being on a journey filled with detail. Aren't we the poetry of life?
Mirrors reflect the verses we have written, neither prophesizing nor revisiting. They can only reflect our present truth.
