Time has been busy. It has been delivering changes, challenges, and a swiftness of currents as fresh and poignant as the ebb. Time has been responsible for expanding creative focus and developing concentration, my quickening breath smothering the distant horizon in a foggy haze before its glass feels too vast, its fathoms too deep.
I’m rubbing the reflection with a clenched fist, gently at first, the solid edge of my palm parting the waves, my fate line cutting a sleek path into the dense kelp forest.
And slowly it appears, blurry at first, excess spray sinking into the dunes, the clearing confident and sharply carved. There it is, a new chart, stamped professionally and creatively. There’s a wildness about it, all unkempt and tussocked, but extraordinarily beautiful.
Both my little grandsons are now two years old. They talk to me, in their fabulously constructed half sentences that deliver their messages perfectly. They also talk to one another, no longer in tongues but in words that lead to direct action. We’ll do this, this way, and we’ll do it now. Their reflection is in all of us, if we choose to see it.
Mirror, by Sylvia Plath
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful ‚
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.