The woman in the mirror is flawed
age spots where freckles once sprouted,
streaks of white, peppering former auburn,
inner scars marking discontent.
How then is she expected
to know wholeness?
In days when mind was sharp
self-confidence wobbled;
where spirituality was planted,
self-judgment undermined.
The path to wholeness
pitted with potholes.
How often emotion overrode
common sense, and choices
led her astray, how thick
the mud of guilt she mired in.
Repulsed at her own reflection
she was anything but whole.
Less self-defacing these days
she examines the worn bits
with wry acceptance –
acknowledges the toil.
If wholeness is perfection,
she’s ready to let go.
(Image my own. AI enhanced)
One Woman's Quest 