Mirror mirror on the wall, show me a secret, not if I’m short, not if I’m tall. Mirror mirror on the wall, Give me the insight to love, to love one to love all.
They used to scry with bodies of water – peer at their reflection until their psyche, or the spirits, were revealed and spoke to them in the language of prophecy or riddles. And then mirrors were used.
Something happens when you look deep into a mirror. Deep. Beyond the reflection. Beyond the need for a hairbrush. Beyond the application of lipstick.
Gaze into your looking glass and see what you can see. Alice stepped through. You can too. There’s another world in there. It may look like this one or not. Animals might talk. So might trees. The dead might gather with messages of love or ones of warning. You might see a secret path and the way out of a problem that wasn’t there before.
Perhaps the glass will waver and mists swirl. What do you want to learn from the mirror?
I want to learn that my body is a small part of who I am. That beyond my body, into my innermost being, there exists purpose that goes beyond pain and limitations. That my body is temporary and my spirit eternal. I want to realize that though my body is failing, I am not. I am well along the path to wisdom.
My innermost self, the me that I protect from this place called reality is not the illusion. The refection is. The Bible says Through a Glass Darkly.
Yes.
You must look closely. Gaze into your eyes. We’ve been told they are windows to the soul. We can see another’s thoughts in their eyes. Witness their emotions even if we don’t know why, even if we don’t understand why. We can detect anger. Impatience. Love. Joy. Boredom. Eyes reveal.
Look at your own. Fall into them. Beyond the color – blue, brown, green, hazel. What do your own eyes tell you?
If you see pain, love yourself more. If you see anger, love others more. If you see impatience, give yourself grace. If you see joy, give it away. If you see resolve, follow through.
With my broken leg, I’ve had to slow down my movements even considering that I had long covid and was already slow. Now, I’m at a snail’s pace. Life is different when you move slowly. When you must plan outings including a simple trip upstairs to get a forgotten hairbrush. You learn to prioritize, to multitask, and to be patient.
Patience, indeed. This has been a humbling experience. I thought the indignities of long covid were awful. At least with long covid, I could do for myself, it just took me a long time. With the leg, the pain would stop me in my tracks. “I have to sit down now.” “Can you help me?” “I can’t.” all became part of my daily lexicon. The “I can’t.” was the hardest lesson of all.
Um. Pardon me. For reasons I don’t really understand, I read The Guardian especially when y’all are having freakish weather. This is strange because I live across the pond in West Virginia. I’ve only been to the U.K. once and while I fell wildly in love with London, I don’t have any ties to your fair isles.
However, to-wit, and tut tut, I’m fascinated watching y’all carrying on in and carrying on about the snow. This episode has been extra fun because we too are having an early taste of winter. I’m sitting here gazing out the door looking at our first “significant” snow fall of the season – about 3″ maybe 4″ of the fluffy stuff (8-10 cm). It’s about 22 F (-5 or so C) which is cold, but not freakish.
I haven't even gotten fall's leaves raked yet.
Around here, that’s enough snow to have the school kids hoping school will be cancelled for tomorrow. Actually an inch is enough to have them hoping.
In these parts, we do what I call the “Appalachian Snow Panic” – dubbed such because “here” is located in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. It’s an odd little tradition, but at the forecast of anything more than a dusting, folks gather up the kids, grampa and Great Aunt Gertrude to go to the grocery store. It’s kind of required. They usually wait until the snow is actually falling to do the mad scramble for provisions. This adds not only drama, but the likelihood that snow crazed folks will play bumper cars on the roads.
Anyway. By 6:00 last night there wasn’t a gallon of milk or loaf of bread to be found. Even people with glutin and lactose intolerances join in the snow frenzy of procuring bread and milk. It’s evidently a beloved tradition that we will engage in time and time again between now and March.
Cold and sunny. Snow squalls expected later.
My question, yes I do have one, is, ahem, exactly how much snow did London get? I really can’t make heads or tails of it.
And, for the record, tell those folks whining about how Switzerland and other Nordic climes fare so much better to quiet down and take their hypocritical selves out to a pub or something. Snow removal, melting salt, and “grit” cost a heap of money. Y’all just need to munch on some toast, turn the milk into brandy-laced hot chocolate and cruise online newspapers in some other country. It’s a big bunch of fun.
Toodles, Connie
P.S. Can anyone explain to my Inner Anglophile how it is that I’ve believed, until last year’s Trafalgar Square snowball fight, that London routinely got buried in snow?
Step 1: Put the incorrigible machine in time-out in a corner. Drink coffee, run amok in the hallways complaining about people who click on stuff they shouldn't be clicking on, take deep breaths, ommmmm for a minute or two, maybe go to lunch or have inconsequential conversations disguised as Terribly Important Communications.
W. Va. Fur and Root 