Mirror Work

Naked, my image is reflected back to me, in a full-length mirror. But a woman, I do not see: curves that rise and fall like hills that would be a dwelling place for a love. I see a broken hull of what should have been a sailing vessel. It’s body has been damaged in that delicate meeting place, where the tip of the bow breaks through the water. This vessel of mine, I call “bodyE"is held precariously, in suspension, disconnected from it’s own source. It won’t let me accept the good in life. It is somewhere in between yes and no. It’s the difference between joyfully receiving what is rightfully mine and merely parting the lips of my desire, for whatever might push its way in. The excitement of forced entry is the only touch it has known. I know it as an ache that took 48 years to feel, and is more persistent than longing. I cannot describe the wholeness I seek, except to say it is a touch my body has never known. I am being healed—this much I can trust—by examining my

reflection in a mirror. And naming the damaged parts can be a way of reclaiming my self.