The looking-glass

The images of my self, manifold; the ever-multiplying “more” of my imagination; my camera lucida reckoning a connection betwixt the details, the fine lines and features of what I dream and what I draw of what, who I’d like…love to see, to be sans the sign, that outward appearing of time’s transpiration, that furrowing of worry and woe. Then there is that visage that I, by blinking, neither banishing nor changing; that mirrored countenance I behold, whether I boldly gaze full-face or askance as I sneak a glance at the looking-glass. It humors me not, for this face I present to the world, this daily-olden flesh by which I am known, is as it is, its own being and becoming.

2 thoughts on “The looking-glass

  1. Paul,
    So your face as you put it, is as it is… and as we discussed a few days ago looks a lot like your father….yet you’re still being and becoming… over these past 12 years that I’ve known you, when I look at you I see many things…. including years of wisdom and the gifts and burdens of ordained ministry and I have to say, you wear it all so well!


  2. Thanks, Loretta, for thinking I wear my face well. This poem/post arises from my ongoing reflection on aging and mortality. In some aspects, for example, in the area of accepting the inevitable, I believe I fare well. In other aspects, for example, noting, with less than joy, the signs of my physical change(s) – particularly, first thing in the morning! – mmmm, not so well. Yet, at the proverbial end (and at the beginning and at the middle) of the day, I, we, no one has a choice. We stick around long enough, we age!


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