Mirrors

I want to return again to A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L'Engle one last time before I shelve the book for a while. An idea she explores that has stuck with me is the idea of mirrors and how they help us see ourselves. Of course, as she writes, "[t]he bathroom mirror tells us a certain amount about our outside selves." But in the same way that a mirror reflects us to ourselves so we can see what's going on with our hair or clothes or makeup, we find figurative mirrors, people in our lives, that can help us understand who we are. L'Engle puts it this way:

I don't know what I'm like. I get glimpses of myself in other people's eyes. I try to be careful whom I use as a mirror: my husband; my children; my mother; the friends of my right hand. If I do something which disappoints them I can easily read it in their response. They mirror their pleasure or approval, too. 

I think L'Engle is right: we have, whether consciously or not, "mirrors" in the people around us, especially those to whom we're closest. However, there is danger here. L'Engle goes on to say that "we aren't always careful of our mirrors." How true! I realized as I read that passage that many of my struggles with anxiety stem from looking into the wrong mirrors to understand myself. L'Engle describes comparing herself to the picture of a perfect housewife and mother that other women around her apparently held, and feeling like a failure as a result. For me, the false mirror is often not even rooted in another person's expectations, but rather in my own false expectations for myself.

Struggles with feeling incompetent, inadequate, too reserved, too timid, and too lacking in confidence have often plagued me. I have felt these struggles with regard to school and work and relationships. But these struggles, I've noticed, are frequently based on a vague image I have in my head of what the ideal woman is supposed to be like. Since I don't measure up to the imaginary ideal, I am somehow a failure. No one else is even telling me these things; I'm just making them up! How ridiculous, I might say to myself. Nevertheless, there that image is, in my head. However unsubstantiated and underdeveloped this image may be, it's difficult to shake.

What's the answer? Well, as L'Engle suggests, choose mirrors carefully. I find that, like L'Engle, I can often get a truer picture of myself from my closest companions whom I trust than I can from my own prejudiced viewpoint. My sister, who is mysteriously capable of reading me like a book, can tell me when I'm truly off base and behaving poorly, or encourage me when I mistakenly feel down about myself. But, more importantly, the ultimate mirror I should look into for a true self-understanding is the One who knows me most intimately, the One who created me and has adopted me as His daughter, the One who loves me without fail or change.

For this reason, I cherish Psalm 139. I can declare with the psalmist that God is "intimately acquainted with all my ways" (verse 3). Therefore, I can also ask God to "search me . . . and know my heart; / Try me and know my anxious thoughts; / And see if there be any hurtful way in me, / And lead me in the everlasting way" (23-24). Much like a good accountability partner (a trustworthy mirror), except, unlike a fallible human, able to see the depths of my heart without any confusion, God can understand my deepest motives, know and relieve me of anxieties, convict me of any sin, and guide me in the truth.

Purring Silently

Sometimes when I get home after being gone at work all day, I'm greeted with the warm, furry, willing cuddles of my cat. She's not always super cuddly, but when she is, she provides a special comfort which I especially cherish: her purr. The odd thing about my cat's purr is that it is nearly silent. If you don't have your hand firmly on her chest or upper back, or have your ear placed directly on her body, close to her heart, you won't know it's happening. Her purr is felt rather than heard.

It strikes me that my cat's silent purr, although not typical, is still an expression of her feeling secure and comfortable. It's a happy response from her. Just like her atypical, quiet but happy response, I sometimes tend to be reserved rather than outspoken in my expressions of happiness.

The feelings I've experienced during pregnancy so far (I'm about 22 weeks along) have been complex, to say the least! I haven't, however, ever really felt that exuberant, gushing over of emotional excitement that I've seen in my friends when they've gone through pregnancy. And so I have tended to question myself and to feel guilty: "Why don't I feel excited? Am I not happy to have a baby? What's wrong with me?"

Some of my close family and friends have reassured me that it's normal to feel apprehensive and that I'm just highly aware of the huge changes that a baby will bring, and so my excitement is naturally tempered. I've talked with a few ladies who have also, it turns out, had similar feelings of apprehension and lack of highly expressive happy feelings during their pregnancies. These talks helped me to realize I'm not abnormal; for good or ill, I just have a personality that tends to think ahead and take (what I perceive as) potentially negative or scary changes into account in my emotional responses. (I also tend to worry about the unknown, but that will have to be a different reflection!)

The talks with friends and family were invaluable, but perhaps my cat's purr has most tangibly helped me learn this encouraging lesson. Deep down, even though I may not express it without reservation, I have joy about the baby joining our family soon. It's OK for the joy to be shown atypically. Those closest to me, who can feel my heart, know and reassure me that it's there.