The Mirror: A Poem

This poem was inspired by my first semester in Hawaii. That first night, when I slept in the bedroom I had not slept in since I was four years old, was very strange and solemn to me, and I couldn't help but feel like I had disturbed a kind of sanctuary, a place where only ghosts of my past self had dwelt all these years and now had to give way to my real, living, but much older self. A mirror that has hung on the back of my bedroom door all these years made the greatest impression on me, as I have a special fondness for mirrors. I was almost afraid to look into it for the first time. I wondered if it was saddened to now reflect an adult woman's face, when it had over a decade of lonely years to obsess over my child-self's reflection. Yeah, I know, weird, but I felt sorry for it. And so I wrote a little poem. Not in my usual style, and certainly in need of polish, but it captures rather well the feeling I had at the time.

The Mirror.

There is a pale old mirror hung
Upon Grandmother's door,

It catches all the window-light
And hurls it to the floor.

The carpet pale is grey with dust,
The air is thick with haze:

Each mote reflected in the glass
Is minutes, hours, days . . .

This room belonged to Granddaughter
When she was barely four,

So long ago that the old room
Does not remember her.

But ah! That pale old mirror
In that lonely room apart

Still holds the image of the child
Within its glassy heart.

The shy little girl-image
Waits in her looking-glass world,

And dreams of brighter, sweeter times,
When she and Grandma's girl

Would draw out dreams with crayons
To hang proudly on the wall,

Or stand up in their mirrored cribs
And pretend they were tall.

The image in the mirror smoothes
Its polka-dotted dress

And passes years with memories
Of times ere loneliness.

Passes years with hoping,
Though the hoping is like pain,

That the child will come back to smile
Into the glass again.

*

And then, one darkened evening
When magenta stained the sky

And clouds all hemmed with vivid flame
Burned through the shuttered blinds;

When the glass was filled with shadows
And hardly dared now to hope more,

A young voice sounded in the hall,
And pushed open the door.

A figure stumbles in the darkness,
Groping for the light--

The mirror-child is trembling:
Something is not right--

A slender hand now finds the lamp,
A finger flicks it on--

Harsh and vivid shines the light
And the face it spills upon.

*

The mirror's frame is red with rust,
And dimmed now is its glass,

And standing now before it is
The child returned at last . . .

But years have come and lived and died;
A flowing tide of water.

The glass endured, impervious--
Not so the young Granddaughter.

A moment more she lingers there,
Entranced, but not sure why,

She stands and her reflection stands,
And they stand eye to eye.

The one looks in and the one looks out:
A woman, strange and clever.

O Mirror! Did you weep when the child
Within you vanished forever?

Toy Story 3: What Starts as a Review Ends as a Meditation on Why I Cried

I finally got to watch "Toy Story 3" today, after months of waiting. Going to the preview screening of the first half of the film was awesome, but of course it meant I was stuck on a cliffhanger for a looong time, haha. I read a few reviews before going, but deliberately stayed away from spoilers; I prefer to see movies without knowing that much about them beforehand, which is also why I'm staying away from "Inception" reviews right now. I couldn't help but gather, however, that TS3 made numerous people cry. I thought this a good sign, but of course people have cried in past Pixar films too--my younger brother still tears up whenever he watches "Up", and Jessie's song in "Toy Story 2" is heartbreaking every. single. time. I expected "Toy Story 3", therefore, to continue Pixar's tradition of creating thought-provoking, heart-touching, funny and sweet and complex and beautifully multi-layered films (with the exception of "Cars". Sorry, I just don't connect with that one).

So did it? Well, in my opinion--yes, absolutely. It was funny, scary, excellently plotted and paced, gorgeously animated, and forms a very fitting and natural end to the Toy Story saga. I remember watching the first "Toy Story" when I was four years old very clearly, because it was the first time I really lost myself in a film. I had favorite movies before then, and I had loved films before then too, of course. But while watching TS in the movie theatre, I quite literally lost myself in it. It was only when my friend's mom nudged my shoulder to offer me popcorn towards the end of the movie that I came to my senses with a jerk, suddenly aware of being in a large, dark room, surrounded by strangers. I was disoriented, dizzy, and confused. I had forgotten where I was, being so swept up into the story on the screen that I had temporarily entirely left my own.

That experience hasn't ever happened to me again. Sure, there are movies I absolutely adore and have been swept up into--the Lord of the Rings trilogy comes to mind, as do many others: "Star Trek", "Ratatouille", "Pan's Labyrinth", "The Princess Bride", "Lawrence of Arabia", and most recently "How to Train Your Dragon"--but I always, at least at the very tip of my subconscious, am aware that I am watching something on a screen, am aware of my surroundings, am aware of my own body and self independent from the story I'm watching. That kind of pure absorption only happens to me now when I read a really good book. Perhaps a magical experience like that cannot happen more than once. Perhaps I've grown up too much.

"Toy Story 3" did not make me forget where I was while watching it. I laughed, and listened for the sounds of other people laughing with me. I glanced at my siblings sitting next to me to gauge their reactions to certain spots. I readjusted and readjusted my 3D glasses (Yes, I did see it in 3D, but it was on discount and definitely worth it). TS3 didn't work the magic of making me lose myself utterly in film. What it did work was the magic of making me cry.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a hardened sort of film-watcher. It's actually painfully easy to get me emotional. I've teared up while watching many, many films. The beginning of "Up" made my eyes swim. I still get a painful lump in my throat when I watch Frodo farewell Sam at the Grey Havens. "Ice Age" has a few scenes that almost bring me to tears. It is, however, difficult to get me to actually weep. I could probably count the times that's happened on one hand. But it's time to add "Toy Story 3" to that select list, because it didn't just make me drop a tear or two. I had tears streaming down my face, dripping from my chin. I had to clench my jaw to keep from sobbing aloud. I wept even as the credits began rolling, and when I did manage to finally compose myself, I tried to talk about the movie with my mom on the drive home and started crying again.

I was stabbed in an emotional solar plexus I didn't even realize previously that I had.

St. Augustine, in his "City of God" and "Confessions", condemns plays and fictions as sinful, because they can compel us to feel emotions for things that are not real, thereby (according to him) hardening our emotions against distressing realities. St. Augustine was a great theologian and a great man, but I think he's not quite right on this one. It's true that film can, in some ways, desensitize us, but it can also strike our hearts in ways that make us better people. During the scene that caused me to cry in "Toy Story 3", I was overwhelmed because I sympathized with Woody and acutely felt what his character was going through, but in addition to that, I sympathized with Andy, just as fully as I did the toy protagonist. That in itself doesn't really disprove Augustine's argument about fiction damaging the viewer. What does, however, is that the grief I felt wasn't really just about pictures on a screen; it was about myself. When Andy's brilliantly animated face subtly flickers through a myriad of expressions, I knew what he was feeling, and knew it like a knife, because I have felt it too. I didn't ache for Woody just because he was a character I liked; it was because I've had to struggle with goodbyes and uncertainties as well. What Pixar manages to do in this film is not merely get me to sympathize with the characters, but actually through them sympathize with myself. That may look like Andy and Woody up on the screen, but it's also me. I see hard choices and issues and fears that I've had to tackle in my own life, the things one usually just grits one's teeth about and plunges through somehow without letting emotion get in the way--and it's like living those moments again, but now I can shed a tear or two not only for the hurt but also in relief because I know I've made it through difficult times and I can see that reflected in the story unfolding before me, too. Okay, so perhaps Augustine would still think I am a nutcase. But as Gandalf so wisely says, 'Not all tears are an evil.' I cried, sure, but I'm not embarrassed about it. It was something of a healing experience, as silly as that sounds. The last act of the film was one of the most perfect moments of cinema I have ever watched. One of the most painful parts of growing up is struggling to say goodbye to a childhood that slips away so gradually you tend to lose it before even realizing it's gone. "Toy Story 3"'s final moments basically serve as a beautiful distillation of childhood, mine, yours, and everyone's; childhood in a concrete form that you can really say goodbye to and finally get some real closure for.

So I guess I did kind of become absorbed in the film after all, but not to the point of losing myself, as I did all those years ago when I was a five-year-old kid on a playdate with a friend. This time, I lost myself in the film deep enough to find myself in it. And that's a special kind of magic all of its own.