I’ve spent a lot of time in front of mirrors. Too much time. As a kid I would make faces, practice impressions, and make believe I was on TV. My sister and I sometimes played the “News Game,” whereby we would sit on my parents’ bed, facing their big dresser mirror, and pretend to be television news anchors. We’d begin by delivering the news straight-faced – “The weather will be sunny today; the Yankees beat the Red Sox 4-3 in extra innings” etc. Then, without warning, one of us would start acting like a maniac – screeching, laughing, making silly faces, bouncing around the bed – until the two of us burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter.
Once puberty hit, I’d spend interminable stretches in front of the bathroom mirror, picking at zits and fooling with my hair. Even now my family makes fun of me for spending so much time staring at myself. My mother has often wondered aloud whether I’m afraid I might shrivel up and disappear if I lose sight of my own reflection.
Our host family in Mexico doesn’t have a mirror in their bathroom, so I didn’t shave at all during those difficult first days on the Pueblo. My beard grew in wild and itched like crazy. I was curious what it looked like, what I looked like, and as the days rolled by I wasn’t entirely sure I’d even recognize my reflection. It had a curiously unsettling effect on me, not being able to check in with myself each trip to the bathroom, just to give myself the old “thumbs up” or flash myself a goofy smile. Perhaps my Mom is right about me being afraid to lose myself. It’s true I used to have recurrent nightmares as a child, wherein my father’s face would suddenly change form in mid conversation. The change would be ever so slight, but enough that my Dad didn’t quite look like my Dad. This terrified me. A part of me seems to need reassurance that everything is as it should be, as I need it to be. Part of me needs to know I’m still me.
Of course, when you look at something everyday, it’s harder to notice the inevitable changes that come with the passage of time. My nephews grow up so quickly between visits, and old friends seem to age in unnatural quantum leaps. Now that I’m back in the cradle of civilization – i.e. Metuchen, NJ, U.S.A. – I’m once again confronted by my own reflection several times a day. And I do look different. Older. A bit more worn down. In need of a haircut, certainly. You’d think one’s reflection would be objective, showing the cold, hard facts, but I don’t think so. For me, the mirror has been a canvas upon which I cast my hopes and fears, creating a sense of illusion like any good stage magician. It’s a seductive and convincing illusion, but as with stage magic, at bottom I know it’s not real.
I’m discovering how mindfulness meditation can be a far more accurate and useful mirror, a perfect gauge of my state of mind and body. I wanted to say “soul” a moment ago, but something got in the way. I think it was that punk I see everyday in the mirror.