Post #3 from our Easter week in Burgundy.
Not always, but often, I take a picture of myself reflected in a window or mirror not out of vanity, but out of some existential need to prove that “I was there”—there in Oporto or Mauritius or Savannah or the Maldives or my bathroom in Milan.
I see this woman getting older, I see her eye glasses changing, I see her taste in clothes remaining relatively steady, her posture is probably even better than before. Time goes by, yoga happens, and before you know it, it matters whether you slouch or not. I see her edited into settings she never dreamed of as a child. I see her passing through, passing by. Moving forward, pausing to take a look at where she happens to be. I don’t say “happens” lightly. But maybe I should…”the incredible lightness of being” and all that.
But this time, the camera and the window have played a telling trick on me: they show me ghostlike layered over-under-into the background. The Universe is playing with photoshop again to prove its point: “Charlotte, you’re not as in control of what and who you would become as you thought you were. Aren’t you glad?”
Yes, I am. Glad. And very, very grateful.