The Weight of Becoming

We are born with faces that belong to our fathers. Then comes the time when we must choose a face of our own. It is a quiet violence, this shedding of the old skin to reveal something that has been waiting underneath. In the north, we know the ice must crack before the water can flow again. The transition is not a celebration; it is a heavy, necessary labor. We stand before the mirror or the reflection in the stream, waiting for the paint or the cold to settle into our bones. There is a fear in being seen before the work is finished. We hide in the shadows of the trees or the long, low light of the afternoon, holding our breath. To change is to lose the person you were yesterday. Does the soul recognize itself when the mask finally takes hold?

Ryszard Wierzbicki has captured this threshold in his image titled Masks. It is a quiet study of the moment before the transformation is complete. Can you feel the stillness of that waiting?