Believing Mirrors

I would rather talk to D at the cafe than write this morning. In part because I don't know what I am writing about; mostly because I enjoy talking to her. We have lost time to make up for after years of seeing each other here and not speaking. We're old friends now.

I am feeling a void this weekend. Dry and uninspired. It is my experience of Lent: everything clears out, and from the quiet void I can see the beginnings of new life.

I do have an inspiring moment at yoga this week. Both Monday and Friday I do chataranga without putting my knees down first. Even as Julie instructs us to go to knees then lower our bodies the rest of the way, I choose the harder route. And I discover the secret: putting my mental energy into my arms. I'm not sure where it was before; I think I was willing my core not to drop me, rather than believing my arms do have the strength to hold me up. I feel super strong.

I read about Believing Mirrors yesterday. "Believing Mirrors reflect us as large and competently creative. They mirror possibility, not improbability." I think, "I can get something out of that to write about." Why do we look in the mirror and say of our physical being, "I am." But of our creative or emotional being so often say, "I can't"? Do we wait until we are some body before we believe in our reflection? Cinderella didn't see her possibility until her reflection included a ballgown. And even then perhaps what she saw was the possibility of a handsome prince in her future, rather than the possibility in her own sparkling self. 

I didn't have much time in the garden yesterday, so I don't get far with my musing. I do see the possibility of the garden, though. I have been watching for the bleeding heart and the ostrich fern to emerge. I almost miss them yesterday. You have to look close to see new life emerging. A scan of the bed from standing height passes right over both. But I bend down to brush dead leaves aside, and there they are. I believe in the bleeding heart and the fern.

The banana tree (are you tired yet of my banana tree?) is such a wonder. It puts out a new shoot--out of last year's stalk--and then we have a freeze and it mushes. Then the sun warms it and it immediately puts out another shoot out of the second frozen one. Then it freezes again, and out of the dead comes yet another new shoot. It simply won't give up. Each foiled try becomes the basis for a new attempt, layer upon layer building promise out of failure.

As a wander in my garden I find two of my trillium up (maybe it will bloom this year), and the dogwood buds just beginning to unfold. They are one of my favorite buds. They reveal themselves so slowly, like the ceiling in a planetarium or the curtains at a peep show, slowly sliding open to divulge the characters waiting to put on the show. As I stand marveling, a male cardinal above me begins calling. An answering call from a female comes from the other side of the garden. They call back and forth, until the neighbor's dog barks at my cat and the male flies off. I hope they find one another again. Toward evening, and again this morning as I lie abed, window open, I hear the hoot of an owl close by and the answer from the distance.

I spend Friday evening with dear friends and good food; sitting on cushions around my coffee table talking about our lives, our futures. And now it comes to me: friends are mirrors of possibility to each other. The see in us what we cannot believe for ourselves. Some people mirror negativity, it is true, calling out the worst in us, or casting doubt on our desire to explore our changing size and creative shape. They want to hold us to what they have known us to be, comfortable and predictable. But these good friends and others in my life over the past few years have been the catalyst for my writing self. They encourage and challenge and love this growing me. I look in the mirror through their eyes and see my ballgown. I can imagine the handsome prince in my future, looking for all the world like a hardcover book.   

I see several hawks overhead through the day, making lazy circles. I wonder what hawks symbolize and look it up before I go to sleep. "The hawk beckons us to hone our focus on the areas that are out of balance in our lives. They move between the seen and unseen realms gracefully connecting both worlds together." There are unseen realms in my near future; the hawk calls me onward, the banana tree inspires me to keep believing when I get cold feet, the bleeding heart and ostrich fern are proof that there is always and forever new life, my friends mirror my possibility--and I hope I show them theirs.