Tales of The Ink Gypsy…

We are all very familiar with what we look like. We see our image reflected many times during the day. Usually we see what we expect - the hero, or heroine, of our personal story. Some days we walk holding our chin high, other days we’re battered by the challenges on our path. Both are to be expected and we are not surprised. We’re not perfect, we know that, but generally what we see in the mirror is good. The character reflected is good. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s our story after all and the hero is always loved, isn’t he?

But it’s not often that we see what’s really there. Sometimes we catch sight of ourselves unexpectedly and are shocked. Where once we saw a princess or prince we now see glimpses of other characters - the jealous queen, the compromising hunter, the witch in disguise. The image frightens us and we wonder: Did I miss my chance? Is this the end of my story? Am I only a supporting character after all?

It was in one of these glimpses of myself that I finally began to empathize with the difficulties my mother experienced and perhaps why we never seemed to get along. My father had a very public job. The image of a ‘together’ home and family was very important and that burden fell squarely on my mother’s shoulders. She gave up her dreams in order to fit her role and a challenging little girl who questioned everything didn’t make it any easier. That I was a challenging child I have no doubt but it wasn’t just that.

There’s nothing like seeing your own mother’s face when you look in the mirror to make you recoil from your reflection. When you see that aging image it suddenly becomes very clear that if there ever was a time that was ‘yours’ that time has passed. You don’t have long before the crown is passed down to another. That’s a harsh lesson in reality when you feel your reign has barely begun. The only way to be ‘fairest of them all’ forever is to die at your perceived prime so you may always be remembered as young and beautiful. That makes for a very sad and very short life.

There is another truth staring back from the mirror, though often this part is hardest to see. The truth is that once a queen, always a queen. I hope I can remember this as my reflection ages, rather than waste years searching for ways to recapture my youth, perhaps even choking another’s dreams with my jealousy. When I wrote ‘Just Add Water’ I finally began to understand this though my mother and I weren’t on speaking terms at the time. We are now finding ways to communicate as she finally starts to live her own life and my hope is that if she can find her way beyond that turmoil so can I. You see, I think my mother and I are more alike than either of us originally thought. Talk about dancing in shoes of irony!