Saturday, August 1, 2015


I was having a very nice Saturday.
 Then someone showed up unannounced. As laid back as I am, you'd think that wouldn't bother me, but that's a major stress inducer for me. I put my hair up in the morning but don't often take it down to "re-do" it, and I don't always have on clothes I'd want people to see me in - this is "my space" to be relaxed, and be myself. But there he was at the door and Rick isn't home, so I hurried to get "presentable".

In my rush to get to the door, something happened that almost had me in tears.

 I have a hand mirror. A regular hand mirror, nothing special about it except it was a Christmas gift from my daughter's boyfriend years ago. I dug that mirror out of the ruins of our bathroom the night of the EF5 tornado that destroyed our house in 2007 - it was intact.
In all that chaos, it hadn't been broken.

 Today, on my way to the door I accidentally broke it.

 It survived the tornado like I did, and now it's broken.

 I don't usually put much stock into material things, but that broken mirror has hit me very hard. It seems personal, feels like an omen. I knew I thought about it surviving the tornado almost every time I used it, but I never knew how much I identified with it's survival.

Everything I've ever had that was nice has been broken, and this mirror felt like something I'd managed to keep safe.

Until today.

Silly thing, really, I suppose... in the grand scheme of things. But it really had become some sort of symbol to me about resilience. 


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