My Talk With God in the Mirror

I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, and saw the blemishes. They had come to visit like a thief in the night, stealing my pores and making it known that they found a home for a few days, a home that was really never meant to be theirs. I splashed my face with cold-water letting the water run down my chin; secretly hoping the uninvited guests would disappear with each drop. But even now, I know they will always show up at this time of the month. Then as I rub my eyes I notice they look a little greener, gradually slimming to brown right around the pupils. Today my face looks older; the bags under my eyes are more evident. Of course I've had my share of sleepless nights worrying, and those times of burying my head in the pillow so only the fabric and I knew I actually had tears to cry, otherwise it seems they only come out during funerals or when I have had too much poison in my belly. Well, and in the shower on occasion, I'm a woman. Today I look down at my hands as I put toothpaste on my toothbrush, my beautiful hands. They have been with me through so much, carrying the reins of many horse rides, shooting hundreds of thousands of basketballs, writing so many words, embracing countless hugs, touching ocean waves and city walls, turning pages of books to flood my mind with knowledge, and helping me carry the world with me wherever I travel. Because of them I have memories. My hands I have to thank for much of my success.

How many days have my hands tried to help cover these blemishes on my face, and accent the greenish brown colors in my eyes? How many times must I look in the mirror before I discover, my face is only my face and my hands are only my hands? My hands have been my greatest servants, and yet they can be so useless at times, those times I never seem to improve much. Those times when they shouldn't have shoveled another bite in my mouth, or brought another bottle to my lips. Those times when I have allowed fingers to intertwine with mine as though somehow that will cure the loneliness. In the end I know my hands are only trying to help, but they get in the way. I have become too familiar with them and what they can do for me and I forget about something that isn't tangible, something that is far from what my hands can grasp. My soul. Now, that is a thing that can be hard to get in touch with these days eh? After all, we cannot see our soul in the mirror every day, and I find it hard to tell my soul to fetch me a glass of water. However, behind every action my hands commit, lies the inner voice of my soul, either agreeing or disagreeing with the movements. It's not that we can't hear it because the voice is too quiet, no; the world has just become too loud.

I look in the mirror today and notice my hair has not met a pair of scissors in over a year and a half. Yes, this sight is frightening to any hairdresser but this stirs within my rattling brain a thought. What if our souls were worn on the outside, how frightened would we all be? What if others could see my soul the way they see my hair? What if those blemishes on my face could also be found in my soul? I imagine them to be dark shadowy places, with webs and dusty shelves above empty chairs; places we wouldn't dare let a visitor rest their head, not even with a flashlight in hand. So I look at my greenish eyes in the mirror and say, "Why not clean up the corners of my soul, the places I don't dare set foot because of my own insecurities and fears?" If I can wash my face every day, and spend money dressing up a body I have become all too familiar with, I think maybe, just maybe, I can give some more attention to my soul.

So I stared deep into those eyes this morning and said, "Body, I have experienced much with you. Itches, bruises, and scrapes, stomach growls, lovers' hands, wonderful food as it touched your toungue and drinks I cannot even name. I have experienced with you much pain from injuries and some pain from stupidity. Body, you have been with me through it all but too many times I have allowed you to be in control. You are greedy, lustful, lethargic if I allow it, you cry out to me for pain relief when you ache, you beg me to press the snooze button too many times, you tell me to give up when I am making your feet go faster than you'd like. You body, although I'd like to thank, I must also inform you, that it is time for discipline. Yes, I've tried before and failed, but my soul is strong you see. It doesn't quit. Souls these days are too submissive, letting the outer self control what lies within. I cannot let you, body, and let you take control of the part of me that will always live. In case you didn't know, one day you will be no more. Those dollar bills you keep in the bank won't matter, grocery store trips to feed your belly won't matter, the way you look in heels or the way you curl the hair on your delicate head won't matter, and yes, even the way you present yourself to others, well, that won't matter either. Unless...unless the way others perceive you becomes something more. Body, if someone can look into those greenish brown eyes and see my soul shine, then and only then should you be proud of what your hands are doing for you." 

Then I put my toothbrush back in its place and smiled, because it was then that I knew today was going to be a good day. My hands and I were off to do great things, letting my soul lead the way, and somehow my hands were found typing on this keyboard writing this short story. And now my soul has urged me to share it. The whole time I've been writing, my stomach ironically, has been growling for attention, but of course I chuckle silently saying, "Body, this time, your wishes come second." 

Thank you God for that conversation in the mirror this morning.