In the Mirror

Embracing the wild, the strange, and the now as pre-birthday reflection

Enchanting. Part of a series of photos by Alexander Mass on Unsplash

"Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is."
Sylvia Plath, "The Mirror"

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The Woman in the Mirror

Other photos in this series by Alexander Mass on Unsplash

At some point each week, I look for photos to share with my drawing group. There is always a portrait and then, based on the week, a mix of animals, flowers, statues, toys, and other assorted objects. When I pick the portrait, I am pretty much choosing for myself, something for Sunday-me to draw. I may not draw the giraffe, the salamander, or the tea cup, but I will almost always be the one drawing the portrait. Having it already chosen is a gift Sunday morning when we meet.

When I ran into the photo above, I was immediately captivated and, sadly, immediately skeptical. But when I looked at the details about the photo, it was clear that I was wrong. Stopping to look more closely, I saw the mechanism, the mirror in hand.

I love this photo.
It is not the kind of photo I would draw. I don’t have that skill, but this photo speaks to something about my own nowness. I find it enchanting.

I left the tab open, and saw her again, in passing, through the week.

As I thought about this post, which appears on (or around) the solstice and just before a life marker for me, I thought about the photo. There is something captivating in the blurring, the dappling of light, the reflection, the otherworldliness, her disregard for the viewer, and the sense of multiplicity.

I thought about standing in front of the kitchen window a week or so ago, not for the early morning light swatch, but later, while I made a second cup of coffee, and thinking that I am so weird right now and so loving this phase of weirdness and so completely not caring what anybody else thinks about it. This isn’t about happy or sad. This sits somewhere beyond that equation, though without leaning hard into, and embracing, the weirdness, the balance would be worse. The realization hit me like a flash, a simple and delighted awareness and acceptance of things that are making me more and more detached from expectations, assumptions, and the world’s persistent attempt to dictate what life should look like and what counts.

I’m wandering somewhere wild, somewhere real-world-adjacent, somewhere where paper boats don’t adhere to our physics, somewhere where symbol and metaphor abound and every rock or shell may be the answer to a puzzle or the key to a door that hasn’t yet appeared.

In my pre-birthday-make-a-list-that-justifies-the-gift window, I spent hours watching videos, looking for just the right thing. I found the single right thing, but I also emerged hungry for things that fit the systems I am building, enjoying, and inhabiting. I found myself quietly considering other things that seemed unexpected, envisioning a me even more deeply ensconced in the inner wild.

Waiting for that cup of coffee, I thought about the fact that I am more and more caught up in this space I am walking. I am not swept away. I am not without agency or choice. Instead, I have walked into oceans and forests and abandoned lighthouses, fully aware, intentional, and determined. I have spent time mapping the ruins of a castle, outlining the ever-widening and ever-encroaching void of the past, and exploring rooms and stories that both survey and straddle the gap.

I realize how strange I sound.
I realize the things that are sustaining me right now are things I don’t talk about or, like now, talk around.
The world has expectations.
The world makes assumptions.
The world does not accept what it does not understand.
The world is narrow even when it pretends to be otherwise.
The world is relentless.
And yet, I live partly in the world.
I have a surface I keep intact to meet the world.

That morning, making coffee, I felt the clear and decadent awareness and embrace of my now, of the shadowy terrain it feels I sometimes wander and the ways I continue to challenge my own narrative, question my own limiting beliefs, and carry my own lantern.

I wonder, moving into a birthday, if I could have given myself a better gift than something close to radical acceptance of interior life, of all the ways the wheels I use turn, overlap, and connect. It’s a phrase I am not sure I would ever have expected to write, and yet it felt empowering to realize that, yes, I enjoy all of these things now, and I don’t need anyone to validate that.

I have been obviously, even from the tiny surface porthole I open once a week, obsessed with a lot of things that are probably considered a little bit fringe, a little bit outside of my typical terrain, a little bit strange, sometimes surreal and uncanny and even nonsensical, all of my postmodern sensibilities about language and structure and form coalescing in new ways that are learning to simultaneously respect the encroaching void and forge new paths, charging off with equal parts enthusiasm and doubt, letting the doubt fall away while the wind blows through my hair and then, later, feeling the doubt wash over me when I hit publish and wonder that I have yet again posted something more fable than narrative, something I fear highlights an inability to dismantle an inner narrative and prove it wrong.

The enthusiasm is what I hold against the doubt. The hunger is clear. The desire, the sense of meaning, and the mist of the unknown are all entwined. This is a game of art and a game of language.

I am playing with fire at times, sparks of inspiration I have never let myself follow before.
I am building fire at times, seeking warmth from the cold and light in the dark.
I am looking into fire at times, trying to understand what I see within, how pieces connect, and how stories continue.

I could substitute the ocean for fire.
I could substitute the woods for the ocean.
I could substitute the crumbling ruins.
They are all one and the same.

And this, the terrain as a whole, is the only thing at this point that fully holds my attention, challenges, captivates, and inspires me. It depresses me at times, too. But, mostly, building systems and scaffolding that ensure I always have doors to consider, puzzles to solve, and words to follow is the lifeline.

I don’t feel the need to spend a lot of time trying to explain or convince anyone.¹ I can’t say that there is anyone I trust with the invisible map. It is delicate, soft, and vulnerable. All three of those are words not often given to me.

But I loved the photo.

A lot has changed, and a lot has stayed the same, seemingly immutable. At the start of the year, I wrote about stasis. I entered the year thinking that was going to change, awareness being the answer to all things. I didn’t realize there is something below stasis, and yet there is. Maybe at this point below stasis, there is a different kind of sedimentation that happens. It doesn’t make the way out any clearer, but sometimes I see the processes at work when light passes over.

Looking at the photo, thinking of stasis, and knowing that outer changes have been hard to accept, I was thinking that, not this year, but for the five or six years before, I drew weekly self-portraits. I am not sure I know what I look like. I never recognize myself on the page. The self-portraits often don’t even look like the same person, but I have always sporadically drawn them. There was a period, even, many years ago, when I vaguely know they were my way back to myself and my art. But in 2019, I started doing a weekly self-portrait in my illustrated journal. It was a routine part of each week. It wasn’t ego. It was simply documentation. This is (supposedly) me this week. I am here.

I knew that every Saturday, I would snap a photo and draw a self-portrait, quickly or small, tucking it wherever it would fit in the remaining space of the spread. I took lots of self-portrait photos.

This year, I took almost none, and I don’t think I drew even one self portrait. I didn’t call in a committee and decide to stop. I didn’t make an announcement or a list evaluating the why. I just stopped. I quietly let go of the weekly drawings, and, almost without realizing it, I also stopped taking photos. Outer change has been dramatic and hard to accept in the last two years. I think I simply don’t like what I see (and so don’t have any real interest in drawing myself).

So I was thinking about the photo (above) and photos that have been taken in the past or that I have taken to mark certain points in time, and I thought, wow, it would be really interesting to try and recreate that kind of photo. Logically, it seemed clear that trying to simulate the effect by holding a camera at arm’s length might not work, but I did spend time thinking about it.

Beyond the distance, the great light, the beautiful backdrop, and the depth of field, the photo depends on a mirror, and I immediately knew that I don’t have a large round mirror like the one she is holding. The mirror is the key to the photo, to the way the reflection seems like a window, a portal, and a second self.

I thought, well, maybe I at least have a small mirror and can experiment and see what happens. After rummaging around, I found a small mirror, which was not mine. I tried it, not noticing at first that it was a magnifying mirror. That definitely didn’t work, and I couldn’t find any other handheld mirror. I think there are a total of four mirrors in the house, all on walls, mostly up high so you can see your head and nothing else. These are not go-stand-in-front-of-the-window-holding-a-mirror-to-take-a-beautiful-otherworldly-photo mirrors.

I spent more time than I should admit thinking about this photo, about how to create the reflection, and then simply standing by the window and taking photos, as I have done in years past.

I do love the mirror photo series. The images somehow speak to what I keep calling a year of the liminal. I am very clearly not interested in thresholds and crossings and the sense that those things, as signs of movement, are requirements. Instead, I’m interested in this in-between, in mapping and wandering and being comfortable without a destination or end point.

Calling it a year is just a framework, a label.
I know it is not just a year. It is more.
It is a state of mind, and a state of being.
It invites softness and discovery.

I have a number of projects underway and planned as I start this next life year. I am excited by the things I am considering. I know I have to let some things go to make room for others, and my margins are more and more limited or curtailed, but I always enjoy thinking about the mix around my birthday. I have systems I am continuing to build, test, and enjoy. I have projects to finish, too, including something called Raven’s Gift that I developed and was super excited about last fall. I set it aside because it needs layout work so that I can share it, and the layout work has remained hard to fit in.

My journal is going to change a bit for a while.
My writing continues to shift as I push at my own boundaries and old narratives about what I can and can’t do.
I’m going to continue to roll dice and pull cards and explore systems of accretion, juxtaposition, pastiche, and palimpsest.
I’m going to pursue an art project that feels like it brings everything together.
I’m going to continue to embrace terrain that I might once have thought odd.

I’ve lived a life with very little memory and zero imagination. One of those seems to be the key to moving forward. The other remains the pressure point that underwrites everything.

I could use someone to clear the weeds and ivy, but otherwise, as I move into this next year, I walk gently over the creaking floors and continue to explore the life that matters to me in the margins.

Happy solstice.

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Weekly Pages and Pulls

Glimpses from my weekly illustrated journal and of a few pulls because I enjoy the art of the cards, and I am using them in various ways. I have a new journal experiment starting next week, one I’ve thought a great deal about, and I know that a few new cards will be showing up to be added into my systems. I am excited about both realities.

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Illustrated Journal Prompts

• Prompts for Illustrate Your Week - Week 26 (2026)

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Looking Back (Year Over Year)

• 2025: Birthday Wishes (another year with no fabric…hard to understand)

• 2024: Documenting a Year—Birthday Reflection and a Lighthouse (best-laid plans)

• 2023: (more of the same)

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A. Cowen, 2026

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Made It?

Thank you for reading.

I encourage you to join in the conversation in whatever way feels comfortable.

I encourage you to snap a selfie today. Capture who you are right now. Do it once or a dozen times. I encourage you to think about what makes you you and what you most enjoy at this point in your life when you aren’t trying to be what the world expects, normalizes, or understands.

You don’t need to convince me that you value your individuality and are living in your own wild zone. I believe you.

• Saying lemon curd or raven’s ink will let me know you’ve read.

• Tell me what one word or phrase you would put on an oracle card.

• What color dice would you choose?

Clicking the heart is much appreciated.

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1. This post isn’t that, although I’m sure some will read it that way.