mir·​rors

I own a lot of mirrors. Some would say too many, but they make my space feel much larger, so Some can hop off.

In my old apartment I danced with my reflection as a partner in improvisation. I played in the shadows that came through the windows. I marveled at the zig-zags that reverberated through my space, revealing a specific corner of my neighboring building, brown and textured against the muted sky. I smiled--not just in my head, but a full squinty-eyed smile--when the light diffused around my room, bouncing among my mirrors like skipping stones.

I continue to dance in my new studio, smiling as I learn the new diagonals that passing cars cast on my ceilings as I fall asleep. My favorite piece here is a foot-wide mirror, embedded in concentric frames of wood and canvas and hung at chest height among sketches and souvenirs. I love this mirror, because every time I look over at her, I'm shown a tiny new frame of my apartment, made precious by its boundaries. She calls me to focus on something, based on where I am in the room, that I hadn't taken notice of lately. She lets me see my space anew every time I look her way.

Regrettably, and in Some's defense, my mirrors do bring a sort of baggage.

• I'm snacking on peanut butter and lunchmeat because I too can see the bones jutting out

• I'm dancing inside more than anywhere else, because my apartment feels safer than a studio

• I see what I put on my body each day:

  • I don socks that slip down, that make assumptions and host intrusive thoughts

  • I don bright jackets that occupy space, asking for more attention than I give in return

  • I don silver jewelry that traces me, begging people to notice the effort more than the quality

  • I don sneakers, rather than dress shoes, enabling a quick escape without risk of crease lines

Earlier this year I watched a video about Self-Awareness by Andrew Luttrell, Ph.D. It described an experiment performed on Halloween, in which a group of kids were instructed to take a single piece of candy from a bowl on an unsupervised porch. A nearby sign clearly requested the children take only one piece of candy. The variable across the groups was the presence of a mirror behind the bowl. For some, there was no mirror, while for others, reaching into the bowl meant seeing their own reflection as they retrieved the candy. The role of deindividuation was noted, as kids were dressed up as Halloween characters and not as themselves, so they may not see their reflection as their truest self. But the difference among the groups was still substantial: kids (particularly older kids with a more developed self-concept) were much less likely to break the rules (and take multiple pieces) when they were forced to watch their own reflections taking the candy.

Luttrell summarized, "What we've seen is that when we look to ourselves, we become more aware of ourselves; we have to face the implications of our behavior for who we are as people. And it becomes harder to justify bad behavior, because that bad behavior would reflect poorly on who we really are."

Maybe it is a good thing my apartment has so many mirrors. They make us beautiful by their boundaries and hold us accountable by their unwavering honesty.

Right now, I see just a corner of my floral suitcase and know that I'm seeing myself.