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Mirror Mirror

Saturday, April 21st, 2007

My name is Debra. I’m an artist, surgery among other things. I write, search I carve wood, glaucoma I knit/crochet/spin fiber, I cook, I create healing products, and I play with beads. It’s what I do. I create.

While I’m Hermetic and Gnostic, I’m really just a kitchen witch with a passion for herbal healing and cooking.

I used to be an IT professional. I’ve written 5 technical books and was a contributing author to about 8 others. I’ve managed IT teams worldwide. There isn’t a software program I can’t figure out. I created a technical education center that earned many awards with the staff of instructors that I hand picked.

When the pressures of corporate life insisted that my team be treated as dispensable tools, I threw in the towel and created my own business, 5th Element Products. After a year of selling my bath and body products on line, I opened a brick and mortar store. While I had 4 incredible years there, it really did suck a lot of the joy out of me. It never got to be successful enough for me to hire someone to do the parts I hated, like bookkeeping and marketing myself. I understand business, but running a retail store just isn’t what I wanted to be tied to doing. So I closed the store and went back to selling things on line, allowing myself to focus more on completing a degree in Naturopathy and developing new products.

After 2 years of floundering about,  I ended up working as the webmistress and electronic marketing person (LED signs, in branch video feeds, ATM marketing graphics) for a medium sized credit union.  While I miss being my own boss, I find that I have far more time now to do the things I love to do when I’m not at work.  It’s become the best of all worlds.

And this is where the story begins…
site sans-serif”>For someone who was known for being in control, no rx who was marked as a top before I even knew what that term meant, it was amusing to think of myself in the servitude of a bitch mistress. But she had me tethered and bound more securely than any leather cuffs and silken rope could ever achieve. She held the font of my creativity, and I was obligated to my muse.

Calliope, the muse of eloquence, was the name she was given by the Greeks. I can’t tell if this is her or not, but I know she’s a muse. I’m certain of it. And she’s the harshest of taskmasters. Fickle and disloyal, she visits only when she wants. Never when I beg, no matter how prettily I do so, because she knows that begging is not in my heart.

She wants something from me in payment for the poetry and writing she’s inspired the past few years. She’s coy. She won’t come out and tell me what it is she wants, but I know that nothing else will appease her. Her desire is apparent and I am left guessing.

It’s been so long since she’s given me any gift of prose. She’s deliberately withholding her favors while she waits for me to figure it out. She has infinite patience with me, but she’s been doing this for aeons, what’s a few years to her? I feel her smile at me, gentle yet taunting. She knows that I ache for the time when my fingers would dance with her words. I remember the feeling of words pouring forth, exact and perfect. No changes were necessary, no pauses to search for elusive words. It was all there at my fingertips.

Then she left as abruptly as she came. I searched inside myself for the ability to write. Surely I could do it without her. But the words wouldn’t come. What ended up on the pages was juvenile and tart. Nothing inspired. Nothing that was even good. I called to her and my pleas fell on deaf ears. She was gone.

I went on with my existence, only occasionally thinking of her and the times we had together. Over the last few years the ache reemerged. She got my attention by picking at my soul. Giving me a phrase when there was nothing I could do about it. In the car on my way somewhere was a favorite time of hers. I’d commit the phrase to my memory and promise to write when I got a moment. But by the time I could stop and write down my thoughts, the phrase was gone for good.

Her plucking became more obvious. I could feel that moment of divine inspiration wash over me, but it wouldn’t stay. She was reminding me of what it felt like to write. She was making sure that I knew she wasn’t done with me yet. And with every failed attempt to write, she showed me that she wanted something and that it was my task to know what it was she demanded.

There were lessons to learn. I had to realize exactly what was my inspiration. I had to let go of some destructive connections that I attributed to that glorious feeling of inspiration. I had to purge some demons. I had to break some addictions. I just didn’t realize that’s what I had done for her. I cleaned the slate. But that wasn’t what she demanded. All of those things were simply housecleaning so that I could see what I had to really offer to her.

As the idea finally forms in my mind’s eye, I can feel the warmth of her smiling behind me now. I feel the inspiration pour through my veins and out through my fingertips. She’s back. I’ve given her what she required. For now.


Copyright 2002
Debra Chaffins
All Rights Reserved

My meditation was finished. Gabriel put her hand on my shoulder, what is ed
startling me. In all the years that I’ve called upon her to guard and protect me, patient
she’s never truly acknowledged me, only performed the tasks as is her duty. Tonight, she reached out.

“I want you to tell my story.”

“But I don’t know your story.”

“Start by telling what you do know about me, all of your observations. This is a journey and you will tell my story as you know it.”

I feel like I know so very little about this angel. I always thought that the angels were male, but Gabriel is the androgynous one. She sports short, tousled hair, reflecting the golds and reds of the setting sun. Her robes cover any real hint of her figure. Her limbs are long and slender.

Looking at her sweet face, one understands Angelic Beauty. Her eyes are the color of the seas, ever changing with her moods. They brew a stormy grey of the sea at turmoil when she’s angry; a tranquil Caribbean blue when she’s at peace.

Her skin is perfection, and I long to run a finger along her chiseled jawline. I want to trace her features with my hand to burn them into my mind. I see her eyes look at my hands, then return slowly to meet mine. She silently gives me her permission.

Tentatively, I reach out and place just my fingertips on her cheek. I am surprised to find her face chilled. She reaches up and puts her cool hand over mind, pressing her face against my hand. Her eyes close and a gentle smile spread over her lips. She’s drawing my warmth into her and in return I am feeling her divine beauty coursing through my entire soul.

She opens her eyes and I take my hand away. Her smile fades just slightly as she sees that I am nearly overwhelmed. She nods for me to continue her story.

Gabriel’s robes are also the color of the ocean. A brilliant blue that calls to mind photos of the earth from space. The fabric reflects flame colored highlights from the setting sun. Every movement of the azure cloth catches an orange shimmer.

She shows me the clear blue chalice she is bound to hold in her duties. I realize it’s not glass, but a cup carved from aquamarine. It’s partially filled with the waters from every ocean. Miniature waves crash and tumble in the crystal chalice.

Gabriel flexes her wings and my attention is abruptly brought to her most amazing feature. High above her head they arch and flutter. Enormous wings of pristine snow white feathers. Her wings are tipped with a fire that does not consume. The bottom edges of both wings are edged with crimson and copper flames that spark and drip, giving the impression that she has just walked out of the fiery sun to be with me.

I am standing so close to Gabriel as I breathe in the scent of her. Night blooming jasmine, woodsy sandalwood and a hint of sweet lemon mingle and tantalize. I step closer to her, putting my head on her shoulder. Her wings rise up and forward and encompass us both as she whispers more of her story to me, one hand gently stroking my hair and keeping me still.


Copyright 2003 Debra Chaffins
All Rights Reserved

Pushing open the large heavy door, viagra sale
I stepped into the room. This is where you told me to be. I was astounded at the room I just entered…it wasn’t very large, price
maybe 20 feet across. It was an octagon of mirrors!

I stood in awe as the door slowly, softly swung shut. Recessed, unobtrusive lighting made the room shimmer with light. Images by the hundred repeating into infinity. Shapes blending until they became unreal specters. The room is bare except for a pedestal in the center about a foot high. I slowly begin to spin, watching the images take wing and fly in swirls and streaks. Faster I spin, feeling ethereal and unreal, blending into the smears of movement I am making. My eyes look upward to the high ceiling the fades to black so that I cannot be sure where it actually exists.

Collapsing in the mad laughter of a child in love, I stagger and sit on the edge of the pedestal, feeling it’s marble harsh coldness beneath me, black as the crone’s night. I take several excruciatingly deep breaths with eyes closed to center myself. As I slowly open my eyes to examine the room, I realize that the mirrors fit together very precisely. There is no way out of this room from the inside. I smile as I realize that although this should send me reeling in terror, the feeling refuses to materialize. I am to wait here for you, you will arrive. I am content to play this game.

Perhaps you are even watching me now. I smile brighter at that thought. I shall play for you. I stand up and step into the middle of the pedestal. I unbutton the front of my summery floral dress. With each button I undo I look up into the mirrors, playing to the audience of my reflection. I tease and flirt with the fabric in my fingers, finally letting the dress fall open and shrugging it off of my shoulders. It falls silently to my feet leaving me with a pale garter attached to the lace trim of sheer hose.

I admire the sheer sultriness of this naughty-girl image. I shall keep this slut look of high heels, hose and garter while I wait for you. I open my arms and very, very slowly turn completely around, letting the images multiply as I expect you are watching my show.

“Lover, I am ready and wet for you, come to me.” I say, breaking the silence. I see a smudge on the mirror where I entered, so I look in that directions expecting you to open the door and come take me. I stand there until my arms get heavy and I finally abandon this pose.

I sniff and try not to make too pouty a face as I decide to sit and wait for you. In this silence I suppose I would hear you come so that I could jump up and quickly look playful and ready for you. I imagine different ways to greet you as the time passes.

“Darling?” I begin to pace a bit, becoming impatient. Perhaps you are detained and I played my cards too soon. You shall come and here I will be, nearly naked, which isn’t a bad thing…but so much less dramatic than I had hoped. Now I start to feel a bit silly for my playing at undressing. I feel myself becoming uncertain and a bit nervous.

I rub my arms and walk around the perimeter of the room, examining the mirrors and finding no flaws.

Now I want to start pleading, perhaps you are trying to make me feel small and uncertain. I make a face. That’s silly. I am doing this to myself. I think. Maybe.

Ok, maybe you want me to ask you more formally. My look immediately becomes devious. I smirk and step back onto the platform. “Fine,” I say, looking up. “May I Please have the Pleasure of Your Company?” I say clearly to the reflections. My look is challenging and smug. “Sir.”

The sound of my voice is unnaturally loud. I am startled as I hear the sound of the mirrors creaking like they threaten to shatter. I am immediately afraid and stand still, listening. The sound stops abruptly.

I didn’t think I had spoken that loudly. How fragile this room must be. I step down and touch one of the glass panels, leaving a smudge. It feels firm and thick and that confuses me more. I go back to the middle of the room and try my voice again.

“Lover,” I say at a normal level and listen…nothing…

“Baby, please?” This time a bit louder. Again…nothing.

“Answer me!” I demand at a near scream and prepare to duck. Nothing.

The thought of it comes creeping up my back, from that place where truths are given to me. Very warily, I try the thought.

“Sir?” I say at a very low level and close my eyes. There it is! That sound. The mirrors crackle and pop loudly, but do not move. How can this be? I say it again louder, “SIR!” The sound is deafening.

I fully expect an explosion, but none comes. The thought finally solidifies in my mind. So this is what this exercise is all about. You want that admission that’s been buried deeply in my heart. That one thing I fight so hard against. Will that release me from this room?

So, here I am…facing a choice. I can wait until you tire of this game, for you are not cruel, or I can say it. I stand up and pace again. I shoot glares at the walls. I stamp my foot at the thought. And then the voice bubbles up, the quote from the bard. “She who doth protest too much…”

“Of course I protest!” I cry out. My life has been strength and control of myself. “I am powerful and in control,” I rage. I can take care of myself. I don’t need anyone. I don’t need to feel weak, I can’t feel weak. I am above that! I am better than that! I am different than that!

So carefully have I lived my life, burying any insecurities against the world. No one who knows me would ever thing of the synonyms of submission when describing me. I am looked up to as a pillar of strength. This is who I am! This is the me that I have painstakingly created over all these years. Independent, I am the one that others look to for strength.

I shout loudly to the images “I AM…” and stop. Again “I AM…” I lower my head and my shoulders sag. I take a deep breath.

“What I AM is tired of being that pillar. I am tired of doing this on my own. It occurs to me, at last, that I don’t have to do this alone, to always be this strong.” I look up again. “i am Yours.”

“Master”

The word grows louder and echoes, filling the room with its sound and the sound of the mirrors shattering. The room is dissolving around me. I crouch in terror and cover my head as the mirrors start to fall in shreds, disintegrating into a fine glittery dust as it settles all around me. Shaking I wait for the pain of being torn to shreds, but it doesn’t come.

As the sound fades and silence returns, I open my eyes to see the twinkling of the glitter reflecting colors so sharply their beauty hurts. My eyes fill with tears seeing how lovely the glimmering mounds make. I slowly stand and am not surprised at all to see you standing there, hands held out to take mine.

You pull me close to you, holding me so tightly. Your firm hands and gentle fingers pressing me into you. Your voice low in my ear and you hug me to you. “That’s all I wanted from you, girl. Just your honest admission.”

 

And I know my world has newly begun for me.

Copyright 2000
Debra Chaffins
All Rights Reserved