The Secret Language of Symbols: Broken Mirrors
When the image we have of ourselves falls apart
We've all heard the superstition that breaking a mirror brings seven years of bad luck. Even those of us who don't believe in such things might feel a momentary twinge of unease when a mirror falls off the wall and smashes.
But why? It's only a piece of glass, after all.
Mirrors have fascinated and frightened us for thousands of years. Before manufactured mirrors existed, people gazed at their reflections in still water. Imagine what it must have been like for our ancestors to see another version of themselves looking back! Was it simply a reflection, or something more mysterious?
It reminds me of the Greek myth of Narcissus, the beautiful young man who fell in love with his own reflection in a pool of water. At first, he didn't realise that the beautiful face looking back at him was his own. He became so captivated by the image that he couldn't tear himself away, and he eventually wasted away beside the pool.
We tend to associate Narcissus with vanity and self-absorption, and of course his name has given us the word narcissism. But I think the myth is rather sad. Here is a young man so entranced by an image that he loses touch with life itself. He can see the beautiful face in the water, but he can never embrace it. The moment he reaches for it, the reflection disappears.
I wonder how often we become similarly caught up in an image of ourselves, whether it's one we admire, one we're ashamed of, or one we've spent years trying to live up to.
In ancient cultures, people sometimes associated reflections with the soul. People used mirrors for divination, and some traditions held that they could provide a passage between the living and the dead. The custom of covering mirrors after a death partly stemmed from the fear that the departing soul might become trapped in one.
The familiar superstition about seven years of bad luck is often attributed to the Romans, who supposedly believed life renewed itself every seven years, although historical evidence for this explanation is uncertain.
Whatever its origins, the broken mirror has remained an unsettling symbol.
So what happens when mirrors break in our dreams?
A room full of shattered mirrors
A client recently described a dream in which he found himself in a large, ornate and rather posh room. He was standing in front of a mirror, looking at his reflection. He wore a tuxedo, with a cashmere overcoat casually slung over his shoulders.
A rather splendid image.
Suddenly, the mirror shattered.
He turned around and found himself surrounded by mirrors. Every time he looked at himself in another mirror, it shattered too. Wherever he turned, the same thing happened.
I was struck by the contrast between the luxurious surroundings, the elegant clothes, and the sudden destruction of every reflection.
The room and the clothes suggest wealth, status, success, perhaps even a touch of grandeur. The cashmere coat, casually draped over his shoulders, adds something to the picture. It has an air of effortless sophistication.
And there he is, looking at himself.
Then the image disappears.
Unlike Narcissus, who couldn't tear himself away from his reflection, my client couldn't find a reflection that would remain intact. I found myself wondering about that difference.
The mirror and the persona
Jung used the term persona, originally the Latin word for the mask actors wear, to describe the face we present to the world.
We all have one, and we need one. I'm different when I'm sitting with a client than when I'm at home with my husband or laughing with friends. That doesn't mean I'm being false. I'm still myself in the role, but I'm not the role. We behave differently depending on where we are and who we're with. I'm still me, just a slightly different version from the one my mates know.
The trouble begins when we become so identified with our persona that we mistake it for who we are.
Perhaps we've become attached to being the successful professional, the competent parent, the person who always knows what to do, or the one who never needs help. We might have spent years developing this identity, and it may have served us very well.
But what happens when it no longer fits?
A mirror in a dream may represent how we see ourselves, but it could also suggest how we want others to see us.
In my client's dream, I wondered about the elegant clothes. Did they represent an identity he was comfortable with? Something he aspired to? Or perhaps a part he felt he was expected to play?
And why did the mirror shatter when he looked at himself?
When the old image no longer fits
Sometimes our familiar sense of who we are is challenged. A relationship ends, we lose a job, become ill, grow older, or discover something about ourselves that doesn't fit with the person we thought we were.
Sometimes the change is welcome. At other times it can feel as though the ground has disappeared beneath our feet.
Jung believed that psychological development involves becoming aware of those parts of ourselves that have remained unconscious. This can be distinctly uncomfortable. We may discover vulnerability beneath our apparent confidence, envy beneath our generosity, or anger where we've always prided ourselves on being reasonable.
We're not necessarily delighted by these discoveries.
Sometimes the image we've worked so hard to maintain begins to crack.
But this dream offers another possibility. Perhaps the shattering mirrors express a fear of looking too closely. What might the dreamer discover if he looked beyond the elegant clothes and splendid surroundings? Is something changing, or is there something he would rather not see?
Of course, these are my questions. His own associations are what matter.
Why so many mirrors?
What particularly interests me is that there isn't just one broken mirror.
The dreamer turns around and finds himself surrounded by them. Each time he looks at himself, another one shatters.
We learn a great deal about ourselves through the reflections other people give us. Our parents, partners, friends, colleagues, and even strangers all contribute, in one way or another, to who we think we are.
But their reflections can be contradictory.
One person sees us as confident, another as arrogant. Someone admires our independence, while somebody else experiences us as distant. We may spend years trying to reconcile these different versions of ourselves, or trying to control which version others see.
And, of course, some of the images reflected back to us in childhood may have been thoroughly distorted. ('You're just like your mother/father/uncle!') Yet we can carry them for years, still believing they tell us something true about ourselves.
I wonder whether some of this shows up in the dream. Is the dreamer struggling to find a reflection he can trust? Or are the mirrors showing him that the image he's been relying on can no longer be maintained?
Another detail catches my attention.
He doesn't break the mirrors himself. They shatter when he looks at them. There's no deliberate act of destruction. Simply looking seems to be enough.
Destruction or transformation?
Broken glass can be a frightening image, and I wouldn't automatically assume that this dream represents some welcome psychological breakthrough. Losing our familiar sense of ourselves can be deeply disturbing, especially if it has given us security and a place in the world.
Yet sometimes the identities we've constructed become rather restrictive. We may find ourselves living according to an image formed long ago, perhaps to please a parent, gain approval, avoid rejection, or simply survive.
Interestingly, Jung discusses a series of mirror dreams in his book Psychology and Alchemy. In one, a mirror used to navigate an aeroplane is smashed, causing the plane to crash. Jung saw the mirror as a possible symbol of the intellect and wondered whether the dreamer was relying too heavily on conscious understanding while neglecting what the unconscious might offer.
We might think of the intellect as a kind of mirror. It shows us an image of the world, but however clear the reflection, it's still only an image. We can see a tree in a mirror, but we can't touch its bark, smell its leaves or sit beneath its branches. In much the same way, we can understand something intellectually without really experiencing it. And sometimes we become so absorbed in the reflection, so convinced that we're seeing the whole picture, that we forget there's a world beyond the glass.
I couldn't help thinking of this when I heard my client's dream. Might the shattered mirrors suggest that his familiar way of understanding himself was no longer serving him? That something beyond his conscious self-image was asking to be recognised? It's an interesting possibility, although I wouldn't want to assume that the same symbol carries the same meaning in two different dreams.
From an alchemical perspective, I might also think of separatio, the process of breaking apart what has previously been joined together, so that its different elements can be examined. Something that once appeared solid and complete begins to separate, revealing what was previously hidden within it.
But, once again, I'd be wary of imposing an alchemical interpretation on the dream without knowing more about the dreamer's experience.
I wanted to know how he felt when the mirrors shattered. Was he frightened, angry, bewildered, perhaps even relieved? What did the grand room mean to him? Did he enjoy seeing himself in the tuxedo? Was it familiar clothing, or did he feel as though he were playing a part?
And what was happening in his life at the time?
All these questions helped us explore what the dream meant to him, rather than what I thought it meant.
One final detail I find rather intriguing.
When the mirrors shattered, the dreamer himself didn't shatter. As far as we know, he was still standing there.
Only his reflections disappeared.
I wonder what he might have discovered about himself if he'd stopped looking for another mirror.
And perhaps there are questions here for the rest of us. How much do we depend on other people's reflections to tell us who we are? What happens when those reflections no longer fit? Is there an image of ourselves we're reluctant to let go of, even though it may have outlived its usefulness?
In these blogs, I share my thoughts on dreams and their symbolism. When I discuss a client's dream, with their explicit consent, I put far more work into it than I wish to reveal here: time spent exploring their associations, memories, and feelings, through which the dream's personal meaning emerges. My aim in this series is to help readers become curious about symbols and recognise their possibilities, while keeping the fuller exploration of a client's inner life within therapy.
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