When I was a little girl I used to love to put my Momma’s long stand-up mirror on the floor, and pretend I could walk on the ceiling. What a difference it made to turn that reflection upward! It was enchanting to look in the mirror that usually depicted the same vision of me and what lay behind, to see instead the clean slate of snow-white ceiling, uncluttered and mess-free and full of possibilities.
I could escape into a make-believe place where all the ordinary rules didn’t apply. With just one peek over the mirror’s edge, I was transported from my room full of things to be done and distraction. I felt weightless, carefree, and capable of anything. The white canvas of imagination was all that remained for this girl to float in. Even the sound of Momma banging pots and the constant chatter of the living room television were far-off in the distance. I was suspended; drifting high above them, unhindered in every way just to dream.