Woman in the Mirror

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“Are you judging me? Are you judging me?” I say to the woman behind the mirror. I stand before my reflection and stare into her hollow accusative eyes. She stays with me, uninvited; a toilsome labour of self-reflection she brings. She stimulates transactions of empirical enlightenments; striving to overcome her weakness has made me strong. The woman in the mirror has motivated me into becoming. 

I dismiss the familiar look in her eyes. I do not recognize her; I am the rebellion. I am frightened for my dear mortal life when I recognize my place among the raging stones, the rising giants, calling forth world peace. I face the woman in the mirror and then ask myself her hard questions. That’s when I face my significance and the idiocy of my imperfections, moulding a monarch of medallic mediations. It seems if I put on her perspective, of the woman glaring back at me, a secondary transience makes me forget my becoming, marking me insignificant. But I am insignificant. In our global village of burgeoning billions I occupy a tiny place in the spans of social transitioning. 

Society has been evolving since the first hiccup of humanity, yet remains much the same; as disjointed minds transformed by the collective conscience. Historically, I believe the force of this generation’s transformation will be remembered for the better, by evolving technology and increasing compassion. Technology has poised an overt melioration, and its influence has increased augmented knowledge allotted to each individual. And with enhanced technological capabilities, compassion has shaped global dialogue. Knowledge, then, beaten with wise and compassionate considerations becomes a recipe for world peace. Active ingredients include passionate perusal, fathomable faith, and an iridescent insatiability for truth and higher justice. 

Through the mirror, I am disappointed by my reliance and increasing technological competence and intimidated by my capacity for active compassion. There is an army within me. This army shoulders compassion and is ready to march, fierce, towards global enemies of destruction, displacement and organized cruelty- warfare unhung under the seasoned nose of righteous justice. 

For instance, a documentary depicting a country’s civil war in Africa interviewed civilians living near the border, enlightening me on a new method for transitioning peace over civil or guerrilla warfare. Near the border, for civilians, was the safest place to flee; rebel armies did not attack near the border lest the world see what they were doing… and be moved by compassion? There’s the thought! Migrate internally displaced refugees to the country’s borders, leaving the rebels isolate, then combat the injustice within. The battle is near; time to check mate on civil war and rebel pukes who will not stop mutilating their own country. How can such a mass migration be lead? It is a vision. 

Or, rape in the Republic of Congo; in my mind’s eye, when I am face to face with those who have knowingly hurt a child, they see their sins in my eye, and I am not the one who is afraid.  

Wondering what the woman in the mirror thinks of all this… I search her stare, looking for myself. She reminds me, instead, that I am a small fry with enormous aspirations; it seems, I may be a little over my head… This is the dark judgement I face; the rejection of my undetermined potential, the disapproving distrust of vast visions. 

I glare back at her; what I cannot see I still believe. Her stare is unnatural, un-navigating. She depicts only my flaws and weaknesses. She’s never looked at me lovingly. But rather, with pity for such a small thing who seeks global reconciliation. There was a time, when I considered everything she thought might be right and good. If ever I have known her, we have grown apart. And she doesn’t know yet, who I’ve become. 

She’s a stranger. She was not with me in my dreams, when I danced in the desert places; bringing hope and harvest. She does not guide me, as I believe in the rising compassion and changing dynamics of this global soup. She is not with me, in my mind’s eye, when I walk rows of desolation, smiling to enfold my tears as I look upon those with death in their eyes. The woman in the mirror has limited vision. She judges me but remains a reflection; she cannot tread footsteps, nor invite paradise to come with a raised cry of victory.

When I let her linger for too long, she becomes me. A vision of myself. Her dull state of satisfaction and lifelessness drag a course of anguish through me. Her insight winds me, tumults me, and separates me from myself. Her cursing stare unravels me, and the fragrance of peachy propositions endorses me to forsake this painstaking road to celebration. 

But then, sometimes, I think she nearly sees me, too; her eyes soften… and I wait for her to remember and to forget- to forget the weight of mistakes and remember who has the Glory. Perhaps she will, one day, when what is believed is seen. Where I tread, I set peace to my feet with the beat of the drum and sharpen my sword for victory. 

It’s time. I turn away from her concerned condemnation; her shame and uncertainty cannot change this design. Because already winners have won, and the battle’s been brung- beyond the borders of bounty.

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Darlene Pevach

About the Author: Darlene Pevach

Child poet and long time writer of over 30 years turned advocate for community development. Professional connections accepted via LinkedIn

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