Some Believing Mirrors Work Overtime

The pillow my sister made for me one Christmas.

My sister is my strongest Believing Mirror. Let me try to explain one the reasons why that is the case:

My sister holds the key to all of my memories. I suffer from a kind of self imposed amnesia. Often, when we talk she’ll recollect an event and look across at my questioning face. She realizes I haven’t a clue. “June, don’t you remember, we got up very early that morning, and mommy let us go outside for the first time in our lives without even combing our hair?” “Oh, yeah,” I’d apologetically reply, “I’d forgotten that.”

At some point in my life, I decided I wasn’t worthy of such memories and henceforth arbitrarily dismissed personal moments as they spun past. So, my sister does it for me, until I am capable of doing it for myself, should that day ever come. There are countless blank time periods that lack detail and significance. My sister fills them in with faithful regularity and even composes touching moments that cause my heart to quiver and tears to swell. Fortunately for me, she is a natural story teller of clever wit and insightful commentary.

For a very long time I did not understand the reason why I could not fill in the empty spaces of my own existence. Well, that’s not completely true. I knew the precise moment my life was altered; I just did not consciously recognize it until recently. Nor did I realize its profundity and the absolute impact it would have on my time here on this earth. Please, do not think horrible thoughts. I was not molested, or abused as a child. It had nothing at all to do with mistreatment. It was just a bad mistake, an overheard conversation that was certainly meant to be private, but was nevertheless, overheard by nosey five year old ears.

Yes, my sister holds the key to all of my memories. What does she think of this job? For a long time, I don’t think she even realized she was employed, but thank goodness she is prompt, conscientious, and asks for no compensation, otherwise, the pages of my book would be utterly… blank.

The Loathsome Inner Critic

It has just recently been reported that my inner critic, "The Wretched Whisperer" (WW for short), has been in a terrible accident and has severely injured her throat chakra. It is my understanding that she will have to undergo extensive surgery. Unfortunately, she always recovers, just in time to wreak havoc in my life. Just as her name implies, she never, and mean never, speaks above a whisper. That behavior is downright insidious, annoying, sneaky, and low. Her soft sickening voice utters nasty sentiments such as, “You are so stupid…So…you think you have talent?...No one is going to appreciate that!” Who would think that whispering could be such a subversive act?

The WW is that fly on the wall that everybody wants to be, the lurking voyeur who peers into my most private moments, ready and willing to annihilate my best intentions. She thrives best in humid, sticky environments, vibrates at low frequency levels, and feeds on negativity. Absolutely nothing is sacred to her, with the exception of the god of pessimism. To him alone she does obeisance.

The WW loves to travel and will go anywhere at a moments notice, but it should be noted that she cannot journey to higher levels of consciousness, abhors zen like retreats and has never been able to find her way in or out of a mandala. She is not privy to my prayers, so to escape, I seek refuge in them. She frequently tries to interrupt the meditative process, but goes limp from lack of air.

The recent accident has lessoned her presence in my life. The injury to her throat has rendered her speechless; therefore, I will take this opportunity to rise above the whispers and persevere.