A difficult tale.
Wunsaponatyme…there was a grown up lady who lived in a house full of smashed up mirrors.
Now that was really sad, as before she’d lived there, she’d already had enough mirrors smashed, without having to live in a house enduring more smashing. She had plenty needing mended without this onslaught of slivered glass. Some of the mirrors were into such tiny pieces – it was like a shower of splintered ice across the hall carpet. Some would say that was even dangerous.
One day, she told a friend about the mirrors. How can I know who I am if I cannot see my own reflection?
The friend, who was very wise, and deserved a National Award for friendship, amongst many other friends, put her arm around the lady, and wept. She too had noticed the broken mirrors. How would her friend survive? The tears of the two friends were like a large bandage, but they did not stop the mirrors breaking.
Then one day, a wind swept through the hall, and the lady was punched, hard in the solar plexus, pushing a black hole into her. This was worse than the glass. It ended her heart. Almost.
Too long the wind rattled through the hole – and too long the glass remained unswept, until at last, a large hand opened the front door and shouted – leave. Now.
Right down the middle, the lady was crushed, and yet she had to leave. She cried for the wind, for the wind was very stupid to have caused so much damage, when the lady was made of silk and song and child and womb and beautiful patterns, and it parted the marrow from her bones to know the wind would never understand it’s idiotic power, and how to release it’s energy into good.
Leaving a vortex is not easy, even when the vortex is empty and vile.
She was swept up into calm, but not for a long time. Splinters hurt her feet – she walked the crooked dance of one who does not have all the answers yet.
Deep in the woods, another mirror waits. A straight mirror, large and strong, and even a bit fancy, with filigree around the edges, just because the lady liked beautiful patterns. A sturdy mirror. She glances at it, wary of its sturdiness.
The forest is a kind place. Bears sleep under the trees, biding their time, aware that this time the mirror may be quite the right size for the lady, who looks now into its centre, aware of shards of splinters melting in the soles of her feet.
Now that was really sad, as before she’d lived there, she’d already had enough mirrors smashed, without having to live in a house enduring more smashing. She had plenty needing mended without this onslaught of slivered glass. Some of the mirrors were into such tiny pieces – it was like a shower of splintered ice across the hall carpet. Some would say that was even dangerous.
One day, she told a friend about the mirrors. How can I know who I am if I cannot see my own reflection?
The friend, who was very wise, and deserved a National Award for friendship, amongst many other friends, put her arm around the lady, and wept. She too had noticed the broken mirrors. How would her friend survive? The tears of the two friends were like a large bandage, but they did not stop the mirrors breaking.
Then one day, a wind swept through the hall, and the lady was punched, hard in the solar plexus, pushing a black hole into her. This was worse than the glass. It ended her heart. Almost.
Too long the wind rattled through the hole – and too long the glass remained unswept, until at last, a large hand opened the front door and shouted – leave. Now.
Right down the middle, the lady was crushed, and yet she had to leave. She cried for the wind, for the wind was very stupid to have caused so much damage, when the lady was made of silk and song and child and womb and beautiful patterns, and it parted the marrow from her bones to know the wind would never understand it’s idiotic power, and how to release it’s energy into good.
Leaving a vortex is not easy, even when the vortex is empty and vile.
She was swept up into calm, but not for a long time. Splinters hurt her feet – she walked the crooked dance of one who does not have all the answers yet.
Deep in the woods, another mirror waits. A straight mirror, large and strong, and even a bit fancy, with filigree around the edges, just because the lady liked beautiful patterns. A sturdy mirror. She glances at it, wary of its sturdiness.
The forest is a kind place. Bears sleep under the trees, biding their time, aware that this time the mirror may be quite the right size for the lady, who looks now into its centre, aware of shards of splinters melting in the soles of her feet.
Labels: relationships, restoration
posted by Miss Fairy Sparkle at
7:12 PM
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