Sage

By Wendy Anne

Sage, perceivably a perfect example of a successful serial entrepreneur, devoted mother, and wife, has within her an ancient secret awaiting discovery. Though her public persona is nothing short of an ideal existence, she leads a second life imbued with spiritual, sensual, and esoteric behavior. Sage’s mind procures a curator’s elucidation in the structure of an inner monologue that belongs to an eclectic spiritualist, peculiar artist, indigo empath, intuitive witch, and anarchist; she travels between the realms of arbitrary, sacred, ambiguous, and fundamental worlds. Within said worlds, she embarks upon a journey where she traverses through greater dimensions, lucid dreams, premonitions, and connects to an immortal lover that begins to drain the essence of her organic life tied to her five basic senses.

In the perpetual cycle of good and evil, trials and tribulations found both within her inner psyche and external circumstances, Sage learns immortal secrets so powerful that they have the potential of changing the course of all beings that thrive on the third dimension of earth realm.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781648010859

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Sage

Wendy Anne

Copyright © 2020 Wendy Anne

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64801-084-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64801-085-9 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

One

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

My Mortal Goddess

Breathe Deep

The Well

Three Little Words

Scarecrow

Possession

Floofing in the Rain

Zoe

Chapter 2014

Writer’s Block

Bart

Dedications and Acknowledgments

Masculine Divine, my muse

Bart Mongiello, beyond-life twin

Chris Mark, my sobriety

Mike Passarella, the motivator

Paul Lavoie, ignition switch

Robbie Ward, my Thoth

Joe Miglionico, my photographer

Dad, warrior spirit

Feminine Divine, my muse

Trinity Phantom, life’s illustration

Shooby Mark, my encouragement

Vivien Anne, my rock

Meredith Lagges, the organizer

Leah Derr, my editor

Ma, my discipline

Magic, my passion

Love, my inspiration

Truth, my light

Great Spirit, my creativity

The Great Awakening, my direction

Healing Energy, my reason

Prologue

A draft of brisk air carried a glimmer of a young goddess whose astral feet drifted on a soft breeze of salacious white smoke clouds. The energy was clear and potent, and the ambiance of her heavenlike Nirvana met with any shades of white. There were iridescent walls of sallow vanilla with tinges of pearl glimmering like mica in a piece of granite and tall exquisitely sculptured achromatic opal pillars expanding into infinite space. Her dark chestnut tresses curled freely around her youthful features though her young-looking decoy was merely a guise of her old and powerful soul, as she chose to remain the appearance of an adolescent girl whose life was shortened during her most recent incarnation.

Her beloved, who stood beside her, though the same spiritual age, looked like the fully mature young adult who inherited his form during the early twentieth century. His manifestation, tall and slender with icy blue eyes and delicately carved contours with just the right amount of masculine edge.

It would be an entire life cycle before they were together and thriving in the same realm again, but both were aware that temporary life cycles were but a speck of time when compared to their immense love portrait painted with eternal insignias. She would reincarnate once more, and he would watch over her from the ether realm. Before long, she’d become an infant born of an eclectic gene pool and located in the United States, where he can preoccupy her dreams and her eternal subconscious. Once the appropriate moment arises, her temporary amnesia will become replaced with the totality of her immortal knowledge. Until that time, her beyond-life lover would remain trapped within the memories of the evolved spiritual archives of a higher dimension. A portal in the shape of a well of white onyx and halite stones with traces of gray veins erected in the center of their misty incantation. Encompassing this well of incarnation was a coven of beings that are, but are not beings of the everlasting covenant. They wore glowing iridescent cloaks covering all but what would be their faces, which were instead beaming white auras.

The vibration of their words permeated her soul as they told her that she’d forget everything, save for that particular moment at the well of life where she was about to plummet into the dark of ignorance and impregnate into a finite mortal existence where she’d temporarily go by the name of Sage.

One

Subdued thoughts become emotional expressions that yearn for someone to

Truly comprehend

I imagine the affinity we’d share during a journey inspired by

Love without end

There will be bright and beautiful music or times when life sings

A painfully darker song

But we will triumph the darkness, and our bond

Will keep our hearts strong

Crawl deep inside my mind to explore a world intended for

Empath’s to take to heart

If you’ve lost the way to the potential of your inner magick,

allow me to help you restart

Awaken, sweet companion, there’s a lightworkers’

Battle to be won

Time to restore faith and happiness by reminding the world

We’re all one

Part I

Sage

I

The Sensualist

I wake to cool, brisk air filling my large bedroom, descending through the crack between my slightly opened bay windows, parted like lips. The brightness of day leaks through the vertical blinds acting more as décor and less like a shield for protecting the burning sunlight from protruding through.

Is it eight thirty already? The neatly made bed on Bruce’s side and the sun glaring off the mirror, reflecting the morning sunlight straight into my eyes, are good indications that I need to pull myself out of this contented haze of slumber.

Bruce, unlike me, is quite the morning person. By the time I slip out of bed, my family has long since abandoned me to start their day. I’m commonly avoided like the plague during early hours. In addition to discipline, I also lack manners in the morning. I’m intolerant of pretty much anything until there’s at least an hour to become fully coherent of my surroundings. This is because I am nocturnal and cannot sleep soundly at night. I awake with wretched morning-time fatigue, hungover from exhaustion. Half of me remains in a world of euphoria, hard to decipher reality from not. Even my equilibrium is slow to rise, leaving bruises on my legs from how clumsy I can be when I first wake.

Warm quilted blankets protect my skin against the cool breeze that cajoles me to stay in my place, at least for now. Willing myself into a productive day, I remove my listless body from the comfort and warmth with as much discipline as I can muster. Standing slightly sluggish before the full-length mirror, chills creep down my body, hardening every hair follicle and tightening my nipples. The empty canvas I awake to every morning fascinates me. I gaze into the mirror at my bare, sleepy face, my unbrushed hair stretching just below my waist, tangled in knots and tied together at the tips by untamed curls. With my untouched ivory complexion slightly flushed by the pressures invited by the hard embroidery decorative fabric throw pillows pressing on my skin most of the night—paralyzed in my tired mind. A perfect portrayal of me, just before the hour I will be spending becoming a polished and groomed woman in business attire.

I awake alone, unkempt, wild, half naked, and free to do as I please for several hours of solitude. I call this my rumination experience. I allow my hair to remain free-flowing. A satin and lace negligee barely covers my pale flesh. The curve of my ass peeks out the bottom of the petite soft scalloped edging of my nightie. I never bother with the constriction of panties when I sleep. I am in essence nude. My sheer garment looks more like a useless sultry tank top than nightwear.

The physical space of my entire house always seems to harbor such energy, as if there could be another presence lurking, but I am unaccompanied by any human being to the best of my knowledge. Perhaps astral travelers are wandering in their two-ounce forms, but if they can see me, their abilities are one-sided. I drop once more onto the bed, eager to please myself before I shower. It is a morning ritual to release endorphins. There is a sense of power in masturbation—a free, healthy high I can induce on myself. Compared to self-destructive, risky, and usually expensive, vices that sometimes require the involvement of another being, having sex with myself is an intense and safe way to get my blood flowing. If the hallways of my mansion do creep with another presence, then I become an exhibitionist almost every morning. Bringing my knees firmly to my chest, holding my long legs hard against my breasts with my left arm, I use my right arm to reach and fondle myself. My fingers are long and slightly ribbed artist hands that could be mistaken for a man’s touch.

I lick my fingers before rubbing their soft tips over the most sensitive spots. Starting at my nipples, I then drag my fingers down to my womanhood, circling my gem with my wet fingers like a ridged tongue turning chills of cold discomfort into flaming ecstasy. I squirm onto my rear, relaxing my legs into a straddle position arching my back and flexing my ass, as I build up the tension to later release. My ass tightens and retracts, causing my body to lift inches off the bed. I do this until I build enough heat and blood surge in my groin to let loose a climax. The satin sheets become damp with sweat below me as I start to cum. I moan loudly into my large vacant home, as the thick walls of my bedroom drown out the sound from reaching far beyond my immediate space. All the veins in my now-raw areas flush with the heat of excitement.

This high creates a bit more momentum to propel me into my day, as long as I do not allow it to relax me. I force myself to my feet to pursue the next morning ritual, which is getting ready for work. Perhaps I take a bit long during my daily transformation, but it isn’t vanity that encourages these lengthy changeovers. I’m truly interested in the upkeep and appearance of virtually everything around me. If I’m left in any space long enough to claim it, I will make an effort to enhance that space, that is my way, and my physical appearance is no exception. As an art enthusiast, I’m usually unsatisfied with all of my artistic endeavors, and I can be merciless picking at what I perceive to be flaws, especially when it comes to my look. I believe that things that seem trivial to most sometimes have a deeper effect on an artist’s mentality because some artists are innately intoned to fine details. This seems especially true for profound writers; they can become inundated with minutiae detail to the point of torture. For today’s look, I paint my face with an array of shimmering neutral colors, adding the charcoal powder to my eyebrows to deepen the definition of my arch, and comb my lashes with thick and lengthening black onyx mascara. While scrutinizing, there could be more symmetry regarding my winged eyeliner, and my foundation isn’t as flush as I’d like, but it’ll suffice.

Lost in this morning transition, I feel a sudden surge of thought about last night’s episode. Something was puzzling about the events of my dream. I cannot remember it, but I recall the digital clock numbers burning the times of night into my eyes every time I stirred from sleep.

I even woke Bruce several times last night in a sweaty fright. Panic attacks often wake me, and I am lucky that Bruce is an understanding husband. The demands of my job and the shrewd memories of my childhood manifest in all forms of anxiety. I have learned to deal with it to a certain degree, and so has he. I occasionally take sleep aids to help rid my anxiety long enough to drift from the chaos of my analytical frame of mind, but I am a bit wary of most prescription drugs, and so they’re typically over the counter or herbal sleep aids.

The longer I stray from the realm of my sleep, the less I tend to remember. This is not a bad thing. I couldn’t see the benefit in allowing it to corrupt my day as well. I’m adept at distracting myself until their hold on my emotions stops influencing my mood. Sensual dreams are a bit different because I inadvertently feel overcome by nymphomania for hours of sexual frustration, whether I fully recall the dream or not.

Bruce is capable of falling back into slumber when I wake him, and he doesn’t seem particularly affected by his dreams. Fortunately, he’s been a morning person all the years I have known him, many of which we bedded together. God blessed me with an amazing husband during this existence. It is a wonder how he deals with so many of my idiosyncrasies as graceful as he does. My unconventional undertones can be a bit difficult for some people, even him at times, but he knows and appreciates that I every so often need to relish in eccentricities to break the monotony of life, and he handles my sleep disorders with great resilience and compassion.

II

The Professional Woman

We are treated to such an enchanting and picturesque sight during New England winters. There is constant change in the rolling hills, accompanied by various types of precipitation. The weather is cold and crisp today; white-blanketed trees, beautiful rock formations, and old Victorian homes serve as a magnificent backdrop during my long drive. In the dead of winter, it is as if the gods decided to trace and magnify each line to mark it in perfect crystalline white. The myriad fixtures on the highway, ice statues, some with a hint of light blue, are entrancing on the eyes. The hollow trees, if not standing so tall and glorious above me, would seem like skeletons, once fruitful with bright foliage are now leafless and empty. Even the bluest skies cannot refuse the beautiful gloom of winter. I half wonder if it is the danger of driving in such weather conditions or nature’s deceptive tranquility that cause people to drive so slowly on these days.

At this moment, traffic at a full halt, so I manage to reach into my purse and apply some more final touches to my daily transformation while my car is infused with vivid natural lighting. I dab blush powder slightly over my nose and cheeks to brighten my foundation, as I amuse myself with a full reach-around of my tightly fastened hair, its weight already seeming to pull on my neckline. In my peripheral vision, I catch a glimpse of the cars starting to move around mine impatiently. Alas, I have briefly become one of the reasons traffic is slowed instead of my typical speed-thirsty self who’d usually find a parade of cars following my lead. The honking and middle fingers of New Englanders aimed in my direction during this lovely morning traffic are met with smirks that work like gasoline on a fire that is the typical Mass-hole temper.

My phone rings as I step out of the car, but I let it ring while attempting to iron out any visible creases in my skirt. Using the one area of my Lexus not covered in sludge as an imprecise mirror, I unfold the larger tucks of my suit coat to better compliment my waistline. It’s Rose, my secretary. She has a knack for calling me at the most inconvenient times. That or I am simply annoyed that there are not many times I enjoy hearing her high-pitched, overly flamboyant voice so early in the day.

Yes, Rose? I answer impatiently, hoping to deter her from keeping me long. I am on my way to a closing. Is there something I can do for you?

Elliot will be running late, she replies, and needs you to wait for him before you make your closing. His negligence is frustrating, but I am useless without my lawyer present in most cases. I am not sure if I need him in this particular case because I was careless regarding their file. However, better to have him and not need him, than need him and not have him.

The conversation is cut short as I impatiently stride into my client’s office. At first glimpse, the office is dusky and disorganized. There are too many uncomfortable plastic chairs scattered about a small area with no practical placement. The walls are busy with patches of yellow cigarette stains that are visually unpleasing. In an instant assessment, the business demands heavy aesthetic transformations. I am the CEO of a business consultant corporation called Executive Business Correspondence. I am the founding owner and have a handful of executive consultants to handle much of the work, but I still enjoy the rush of deadlines and new clients, big or small.

As a consultant, my credibility is based on my ability to run my own business. This also enables me to relate to my clients as a fellow company owner. I have my surveyors follow guidelines with instructions once the businesses are evaluated by some of my top financial advisers. I collect information regarding profit and loss and make charts based on analyses and censuses to offer plans that help organize my client’s business affairs. Likewise, I spend a great deal of time teaching clients how to advertise properly. Because I have many pending and ongoing contracts that incorporate a vast arrangement of willing businesses, I can corner the market in ways. I am a walking referral, a network in myself. I get my clients to scratch each other’s backs if you will. This makes my job much easier, and I have built outstanding credentials throughout the years. I always loved the concept of barter trade in early eras, and so I adopted similar—yet more evolved—business practices. Elliot’s services come in handy when pursuing breached contracts or feeling out new ones, but it’s wise to have Elliot present for legal reasons, and of course, he is one of my favorite male comrades when dealing with reluctant sexist men. I show up to businesses that have potential but are under poor ownership. My profession can be complicating and trying sometimes. They need me, but most do not necessarily want to have a woman to tell them how to run their business or, worse yet, sign an agreement that requires them to pay me to do so, especially when one considers that men dominate the business world. My position can occasionally bruise the egos of male business owners. For this reason, I take precautions before the execution of any new client contracts and usually bring the perfect male specimen to soften the blow, and Elliot is that perfect man.

He is a young and brilliant corporate lawyer and extremely self-confident. We have worked together for several years, and although he sometimes has issues with time management, he compensates in all other avenues, especially when motivated by money. And, I admit, there have been occasions where he has provided the customer with more consultation than I have.

Elliot and I are long-term associates and business partners. I am very particular with keeping a steady work base, and most of my employees have been with me from the beginning, but I would only consider myself his boss by way of steady clientele, while we are in all reality, by and large, business partners. The truth is, Elliot and I have made a large profit together, and we have helped other people do the same by securing contracts. It is my job to see the contracts through and bring businesses to succession, but obtaining contracts and handling legal affairs is half of the job—hook, line, and sinker.

I wait for him impatiently and piece together a game plan to make this as simple as possible. Avoiding tension is necessary to keep my positive composure, and my face could easily exert the disenchantment I feel regarding the obvious lack of charm in their business, and Elliot’s tardiness, but instead, I seem like a ray of fucking sunshine. Though it is true that I haven’t mastered my poker face, I have become aware of the thoughts that perpetuate expression, which helps me to control my body language cues by way of channeling my focus on facilitating optimistic thoughts leading to a more cheerful appearance. Thus far, I can tell that this business could use more love and ambiance, which is my forte and absolute favorite thing to do. This perks my demeanor, and I need to do this because I am selling myself—more like a concept. I cannot hand them a product, only a service. Therefore, I need to be adept at the self-presentation. My business demonstration is sometimes malleable and requires a lot of improvisation, but there are no amount of files or mechanically derived lists quite as revealing as personality attributes and the atmosphere that I create. And this is just as true for clients as it is me. Calculations and reports are necessary, but they certainly don’t tell the whole story.

The obnoxious screech of Elliot’s Porsche temporality distracts the interior renovations and stories conjuring in my mind. He is here, and perfect timing, because my clients arrive at the moment of his loud entrance. Elliot always dresses sharp. He enjoys the intimidation factor of showing up in expensive tailored suits. He trusts that this is eye candy to a struggling businessman.

Moreover, he prefers to assert his image among larger corporations. Thus, he is rarely seen wearing anything but his Brioni two-piece buttoned or solid wool suits. Elliot is true redheaded ginger, with a light brush of freckles across his deceitfully youthful face. He is average in physical size but exerts larger-than-life confidence.

The closing is simple today, as hoped because the overall dynamics are pretty typical. These people are small-business newcomers in a very competitive market, and they are struggling in a weak economy. They used their home as collateral and were desperate to pull themselves from impending disaster. I pitied them, decent people, without a clue. They were lucky by way of being handed a family business and never having to partake in the difficulty of creating a business from scratch, but it is unfortunate that they inherited virtually no knowledge of how to keep it running properly.

In my line of work, I have a great deal of enthusiasm for helping businesses succeed. I feel as if I am doing something great for the economy—a healthy percentage of the jobs in this country are comprised of small- and medium-sized businesses, after all.

Elliot and I proceed to my office after catching a quick lunch to tie up loose ends. More bearable than this morning, Rose greets us at the door with overly happy chuckles and smiles. She’s a rather attractive woman. Her overall structure is petite, including her slender face with short, tiny, well-proportioned features. Her caramel-colored eyes reveal a hint of green in just the right lighting—nothing stunning but put together quite well.

It was no shocker that Elliot called the office on his ride here simply to flirt with Rose. Rose has a weakness for any flirtatious man directing interest towards her. Pathetic compliments or flattering remarks spellbind her. Elliot thrives off this need, and I suspect that these two have paired before. Elliot, being the more educated of the two, enjoys the strategic advantage he has over Rose. Her codependency and naiveté create the need for someone to have some hold on her. They have great chemistry. It would be a match made in heaven whereby Rose provides the heart and energy, while Elliot provides the financial structure and intellect—if only Elliot could keep his dick in his pants. I can understand Rose’s interest in Elliot; if not for his obvious chauvinistic characteristics and his accompanying taste for sleazy women, he would be quite the catch.

Nonetheless, Rose is a predominantly bright character, infused with innocence and genuine kindness; and the sharks Elliot plays with have the potential to rip her apart. He attracts some of the shadiest people I’ve ever met and relishes around criminals and felonious types.

Maybe he spends too much time protecting and manipulating laws by playing the game of semantics with fellow wordsmiths and needs a break from golf club parties, forced formalities, frenemies, and small talk. Either way, he enjoys the type of people he wouldn’t meet at a country club, golf resort, or boardroom; and I get that. I don’t get why he wouldn’t try to roll with people who have less murk to their energy and has no issue spending time with people who require him to pay their bar tab and would steal his watch if he wasn’t careful. If I spent as much time around the toxic energy of the legal field as he does, I’d probably spend time around Buddhist monks or jump into a mosh pit regularly, and spend less time around criminals. And, boy, does he love belligerence. All of his language that is suppressed during business meetings or in a courtroom is well compensated for during his after-hour trips to strip clubs, football games, and biker bars. He once mentioned how he enjoyed the raw thrill of the unfiltered and naked realities of life, which is why he loves those places. He believes that profanity in its crudest form is no match to the evil found in a room full of lawyers eloquently perpetuating conflict for profit. In his eyes, there are just as many criminals prosecuting criminals or finding shady loopholes to make money, as there are innocent people found guilty. He argues a good point, but again, he’s a very convincing lawyer, which is why he makes the big bucks. Nevertheless, on a purely selfish level, I’m glad his field of expertise encompasses my own, and I’m protective of Rose, so I attempt to cockblock him every chance I can. As a result of the nature of their interaction, trying to have an intelligent conversation with either of them while they’re sharing the same air is like trying to quench thirst with sand.

Sighing, I take shelter in my office and allow the charade going on outside to continue.

My work area is modest in size, equipped with a small cherrywood desk, a sleek black reclining chair with ergonomic support, and a few dusty plaques from clients thanking me for our success. The office walls are a light mint-green, which works nicely to enhance the coral window trim and to add to the liveliness and promote my family unit; there’s an 11 x 17 family portrait along the windowsill in conjunction with various trinkets my daughter, Cheyanne, made several years ago. Finally, on top of my desk is my workload consisting of files that demand attention and a list of clients who I routinely call.

Staring out the window at the city streets now paved in salty, grimy snow, I hear the muffled sounds of voices outside my office begin to fade. Just a few more moments, and I will be heading home as well.

III

Mother and Wife

My cell phone begins to ring as I rush home to my family, and I ignore it. I abhor talking on the phone while driving rush hour. As a general observation, nighttime traffic seems far worse than morning traffic. Maybe it is the tension that everyone feels during this time of night based on a variety of reasons. Second shift is beginning while day shift heads home, people who are more than fashionably late for dinner, and the occasional shopper who didn’t plan to take so long buying groceries—all forced together and barely moving. It is dark at this hour; nothing but red taillights ahead and streetlights above to beckon the eyes. I tell myself that the office and all of my high-maintenance employees (who can leave their work where it belongs) can wait until tomorrow. If it were possible, I am certain work would follow me at all hours. It has taken me years to achieve even a partial separation of my professional and personal lives. Music is an excellent way to shut out the sound of my ever so popular phone, and more often than not, it transforms my mood on my lengthy drive.

When I have a rough day, I sometimes listen to heavy metal that screams scores of truths that many people choose to ignore, while incorporating intense instrumentals. Of course, there’s also dance music that packs a fun punch but tends to increase my risk of getting pulled over for speeding. However, most of the time while driving, I prefer music with lyrics that speak to the heart and distract the mind or, instead, lure my brain into their semantically compelling trap with lyrics and sounds that penetrate my emotional boundaries. Today, I listen to Sade. Sade has a warm yet profound and husky voice. Her stories are ones of love, struggle, and triumph. She’s always classy, with something beautiful and intelligent to say, and incredibly underrated, but I suppose that makes her all the more intriguing. As her music helps to soothe me into my chair, I begin to enjoy the rest of my ride home.

Just outside the city, our 6,700-square-foot home sits on its own hill, overlooking fifteen acres of forested property. A creek crosses one corner of our yard, crowned with a small bridge Bruce and nine-year-old Cheyanne built together last summer. I have such passion for Victorian homes, but it was hard to find one in Massachusetts fully restored and with a decent amount of property for purchase. Moreover, they usually come equipped with impossibly small bathrooms and faulty wiring and almost always require some degree of restoration. My home is completely custom-built, and our architect’s mutual fondness for the Queen Anne era of Victorians is evident by the intimate detail in the woodwork and the obscure designs that he incorporated. I had artistic pursuits that integrate lavish endorsements for all senses, both while working with the architect and with the interior designer. There are Pythagorean symbols with ancient Indian and Egyptian undertones throughout the artwork, and artistic innuendos weaved into the decor telling stories to those who are adept in deciphering the historically contrived esoteric code. Most of the inside of our home is, however, abstract and contemporary. All of our tables are beautifully hand-constructed teak and imported from Italy. The bathrooms are my favorite rooms.

All four bathrooms are fully equipped with vampire burgundy hot tubs that fit four, and separate showers with dual separate showerheads. The beautiful stained glass cathedral windows and black marble floors give a Gothic feel, while the contrasting faux white tiger lily arrangements prevent the room from drowning in the gloom. At present, I’ve gone beyond merely visual pleasure and into the realms of scent, sound, and overall vibe. No room lacks oil diffusers, incense, candles, and some form of sound system; and all rooms are plenty spacious.

I gave Cheyanne the ability to be innovative by allowing her to individualize her surroundings—within reason. It is amazing to be in her little world when I spend time in her room. Cheyanne chose all the colors, and I allowed her to pick her furniture with a sensible parent-approved budget. Her bedroom is ice age blue, with purple crown molding outlining a cobalt-blue ceiling full of glow-in-the-dark stars. Her main source of light is crystal solar system chandelier that dangles above her cherrywood queen-size bed equipped with stuffed anime characters and a deep-green bedspread with a picture of a dancing golden dragon. Though the hallways of her wing are a bland eggshell white, they are outfitted with large black frames displaying her best pieces of colorful art. Her bathroom always smells of cinnamon and baby powder, though she prefers only her guests to use it.

I have been accused of allowing her too much expressive freedom, but to me, it is a gift I have given her—one that has nurtured the type of growth you do not typically see in children her age.

Home at last. It is always such a pleasure to be here in my beautiful home with my small, tight-knit family. My home is my palace—my reward for surviving my past, with such a willful effort to attain it.

Dinner is family time, an opportunity to examine each other’s thoughts and measure growth. I find that routines such as these are usually only boring with boring families. This is not the case with us because we are a trio with a diverse range of hobbies and talents. Our time at the dinner table often extends well into the evening while we converse about a wide range of topics. One example of a topic is to view this world without prejudice and to honor the knowledge that comes from ancient intuition, or subconscious. I also encourage Cheyanne to be open and honest about her thoughts and feeling, so long as there are no hidden intentions backed by primitive thinking such as subjective ignorance endorsed with ego. We lead by example and are diplomatic regarding disagreements while appreciating the knowledge that comes from one another’s perspective. At this very dinner table, we instilled in Cheyanne the understanding that why is often more important compared to the ploy that sometimes comes in the form of what. We have fed her hungry curiosity with incentives that lead to the true potential of cause and effect. In this way, Cheyanne is less susceptible to becoming compromised by the conundrum of distracting decoys that society often introduces. It is wonderful listening to Cheyanne speak with excitement about her day, especially when it pertains to her experience working on her academic endeavors. She is an incredible student, much to my relief and sanctity. She has many of my gifts and curses including my rebellious overtones. Though I count my blessings, that she’s only a small percentage as defiant as I was, and mainly because I’ve given her fewer reasons to be.

Cheyanne inherited her sensitivity and benevolence from me. As a result, she will overthink and overfeel virtually everything, and I offer her an ear and sympathy because I can honestly relate. I am not strict about a lot of things, but I am extremely strict about a few things. This allows her to vent to me, so long as she respects my rules. My rules are quite simple—tell the truth, be humble, behave kindly, and remain accountable at all times. I forgive her when she makes mistakes, and I’m proud of her as long as she makes an honest effort and doesn’t lose her truth in the process. I don’t allow her to bullshit herself or me, but I’m respectfully compassionate about the truth, especially when the truth is painful. My strategy seems to work because I don’t sense that she is the slightest bit guarded around Bruce or me. He and I, like now, sit at the table with an empty plate, while hers is perfectly full, save for a few pieces of carrots she managed to swallow quickly because she’s so excited about expressing her daily adventures. Once past her history project, and a screenshot of her art projects, some of which are far beyond my shading capabilities, she begins speaking about her favorite teacher.

Mrs. Whelan is having us work on a poetry project. It’s due Friday, but I was so excited for her to read it, that I submitted mine early. That’s great, sweetie. Poetry shouldn’t take long because when it comes from the heart, it just seems to flow like a river of emotion into a deep, sometimes arbitrary, ocean of words. My voice is encouraging, but I’m granted a fake smile, so I know something’s wrong. What is it, did the teacher give you a bad grade on your poem? Her lip begins to quiver as if she’s holding back tears, but I realize she’s trying to stay strong, so I refrain from wrapping my arms around her and allow her to speak assertively. It’s not that at all, the teacher loved my poem. That’s the problem. She liked it so much she read it to the rest of the class. It was the class that seemed to think it was weird. Some of them even laughed at me. I feel so embarrassed and hurt because I thought it was good. I reply with an encouraging voice, backed by the truth this open opportunity offers me to convey. My darling, nothing extremely amazing has ever come out of any human being who let conventional thinking or the opinions of others hold them back. Only the opinion of someone who understands rich and compelling narratives, and understands literature, has an opinion worth honoring in regards to your writing. And that person, my dear, is your amazing teacher. I’ve met her, and she is truly a unique and wonderful human being that knows literature extremely well. I would believe her, and not let the opinions of those with very little experience get to you. For the first time tonight, she starts filling her face with food, and the table is silent, except for her chewing while she contemplates my words with an inquisitive look on her face. Finally, her plate is empty, and she responds, Right, Mommy, some of my favorite artists, scientists, and historians would exist, but I bet most of their work wouldn’t if they let people’s opinions get in their way. I award her with a genuine smile. You are more evolved than most children. Some people take too long to figure that out. I’m so proud of you! Cheyanne wraps both arms around each of our necks, pulling our family trio into a group hug. "Love you, guys, but it’s