I
read an old poem this week, a poem about a woman cursed to see the world only
through a mirror. She sat isolated in a
room, never looking directly out her window at the color and life outside. Everything she knew was a reflection of
reality.
And
I know I am that woman. Every beautiful
thing, every dim, half-realized image is a promise of something more beautiful
that I do not yet know. One day I will
look through the window and see what I have been missing all along. One day I will know fully, even as I am fully
known.
For
now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.
Lola Anne, 1946
She has looked through the window.
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