Once upon a season, not even so long ago I may have considered myself the hero to the written word, skillfully wielding my pen like a sword. If not the knight delivering divine messages of enchanting lore, then certainly at minimum the damsel in distress awaiting to be discovered. But if I were still to believe in that limited version to this epic tale, the authentic words to my own story would never have escaped the confines of my soul. Bound by what felt like an eternity yet seemingly a moment in time. As it turns out, most ghosts that go bump in the night still have day jobs, utilize caffeine to remain in the dreamscape, and walk among us virtually undetected by most. The stories that haunt our minds therefore providing a mirrored reflection to what we have yet to discover. Truth be told, within every fairytale exists the lines of a story that never even made the book. If that were not true, I would have always remained the hero to this parable instead of realizing I was most assuredly cast the villain. Compelled by time and expectations to bring destruction to all ghost-written stories from our past while bringing an end to an age-old fairytale.

My legacy is a controversial one, passed down through generation by generation. Stories still whispered to our children and found within the secret archives interwoven throughout time. Or at least that is what I tell myself so I can look in the mirror, grab another cup of java, and narrowly escape yet another day at work. Otherwise, the task seems almost impossible, the duality of our world beyond escape. Craving a break from my reality, I often detach from the existing storyline all together, reinventing my character as a regular mom, wife, and daughter to those who know me.

When I was nine years old, I remember snuggling up with my grandmother in her dearly beloved, well oversized armchair, sharing a cozy moment of unconditional love and perhaps what was to be my first sip of divine transcendence peering beyond the veil. “This chair will be yours someday,” my grandma would whisper, as she extended a knowing nod with a gentle smile that emanated the inner warrior held within. A brief glimpse of fate reflected within an unparalleled clarity beyond repose. Submerged within our coveted chair while nurtured by the protective force of my grandmother’s presence, my little mind fully grasped and aware to the significance of her candor. Between those sips of higher knowing however, my youthful demeanor quickly re-emerged very confident we both would endure, forever and always within the expansive, cradling arms of our beloved chair. Why would we ever want or need to exist beyond our current state, I mused within my youthful perspective oozing of innocence.

As with all time, the seasons moved on. While my inner strength grew through bursts of shared metamorphosis, my grandmother began to wither leaving a gaping hole within a sacred space where two once sat. A heavenly abode once tangible becoming virtually extinguished and earthbound by the roots of a family tree held between the cushioned comforts of that simple weathered chair.

My ancestors always spoke of a family curse. I never believed those stories echoed truth until that very same chair became my own, and the place where two once sat later converged as one. By then, the encrypted occult lured me awake well into the nights while extending with bold vengeance throughout my days. And the hours spent gazing beyond the mirror brought new awareness to our shared upholsteries of iniquity regardless of how often I coveted that liquid coma of unremembering or pleaded my soul to remain within the lines of our existing story. Forever the sleeping beauty; never the beast.

It’s quite iconic how a simple piece of furniture can conjure up so much hidden stigmata arising to the surface. Like an old familiar heirloom eclipsed in time despite the years of distorted erosion, compelled to remerge when called to remember. Aspects of a repeated lineage continuing forward over and over again until the cycle could finally be broken and the hauntings of our past irrevocably laid to rest. A victory I almost felt the hero of well before I ever realized I had more appropriately been cast the villain. Perhaps preferring the fairytale version, never to gaze upon the mirror.

The inequities set into motion through a well-loved armchair are perhaps more akin to the rising of a beast here to slay what once brought comfort to many. Because it was also within that shared armchair of antiquity that I began to compose a new story. Possessed by an inner calling and governed by a hidden timeline perhaps written in the stars yet supressed in a perpetual loop of purgatory limbo until my soul eventually caved, reluctantly forging pen to paper forever binding my experiences to the written word. Elevated between dimensions I could see beyond all time, experience realities quickly dismissed by the mind, while bringing gnosis to those ready to receive. Not in a hero type way as perhaps I once surmised. More like an amateur journalist navigating the depths to a vast sea of potential while breaking trail towards dialogues yet to be spoken.

Within that beloved armchair of mine, time warps were not even questioned. The light from within always assured. Our individual ability to heal and transcend hardships, only a thought away. Governed by majestic enchantment where every soul holds the creative power to an ever-expanding world of divine wonder. Heralding a procured yet hidden message arriving only when summoned to the surface. A radical perspective deemed fiction at best. Creative imaginings at worst within a tortured soul holding no merit or credibility towards words that were better left unspoken.

I’ve always viewed the written word through an elestrial kaleidoscope for reasons beyond my own knowing. Gathered and discerned within a cozy nest of clarity, I discovered fountains of courage, inner knowledge, and assuredly deep unresolved sorrow extending beyond time. Misunderstood and cast out as evil, never given the courtesy of peering behind the veil. I’ve witnessed storylines depicting the same candor, legends arising from our collective past, and hints of curses yet to be broken. Books appearing in rows upon rows of fantasy and science fiction genres perhaps more palatable keeping the context within the lines of legend, forever remaining unattainable to the human experience. Feasibly less complicated left to fantasize the vast power we hold rather than learning how to wield it. Because if ever required to harness that said power of ours and the innate courage held within, then we would also have to take responsibility for what we as a society have already created. Alternatively, leaving the entire scope of creation under divine lock and key, well beyond our wheelhouse of responsibility or collective potential for that matter. Belonging outside the sphere of human reach while accentuating societies simplistic nature and fragile impermanence. My sacred armchair on the other hand brought forth dimensions of reality more akin to untapped, hidden potential locked deep within our vessels begging for their freedom. Often colouring outside the lines where others never dare to venture.

Regardless of the branded persona I seemingly play as a writer, the continuation of life is a complex choreographed wheel of cosmic proportions, birthing cycle after cycle of change. Once a season of time officially ends, another one is called into being. Similar to my beloved armchair showing its years of decay, there are many comforts in this world well beyond their season yet not quite willing nor ready to be released. Admittedly I may never let go of my time-worn chair. Not even for nostalgic reasons at this point, more as a coveted cocoon providing both protection and shelter from the storm.  

Through my eyes, my grandmother played a role of the ultimate comforter. Safe within her loving care, she would pearl together miles upon miles of vibrant colour, crocheting inner and outer warmth for many. Bringing calm to my inner child while gently arousing the warrior from within, time wading within her fountain of youth brought healing like no other. In moments of shared belonging, I was given the freedom to cast my own role within the limited landscape of our sacred moment whether surmised as a wizard, a knight in shining armor, a fairy godmother, or even the princess, undeniably pending my mood and demeanor on any given day.

Admittedly, I’m not as cozy as my grandmother ever was. I utilize that well worn chair of ours to envision new perspectives to old stories still echoed between the pages of time. Opening doors once deemed forbidden while creatively liberating many unsung heroes. Solving encrypted puzzles only visible within the subtle realms while fighting inner battles of shadowy worlds most never dare to venture. Mending what no longer works while finding strength and courage to navigate and write new stories. Not that I don’t cherish a good fairytale from days gone by. More so because sometimes old comforts are well beyond repair, with threads beginning to rip at the seams, cushions no longer holding firm, and foundations starting to give way regardless of the supports they once provided.

Some view the written tapestries interwoven within my stories like an eccentric blanket, thrown together haphazardly just to keep my own soul warm. The truth is, I’ve thoughtfully crafted for eternities searching to tie up loose ends, piecing together what once was, sewing beautiful new textiles gleaned from lessons learned, while repurposing the strong fabrics still visible between the lines. A vocation I didn’t even realize would be mine. Perhaps a curse already written yet patiently waiting for the subtle patterns to surface. Much akin to my childhood and the countless hours spent with my grandmother lovingly piecing together sprawling quilts made of old clothing, intuitively allowing the patterns to emerge. Whispered guidance well into the night willing a deeper trust within the collective fabric that binds humanity together. Carefully stitching those chapters between pieces of days gone by, creating a genuine blanket of remembering, forged by challenging experiences and gifted to generations yet to come.

The power of word unmistakably runs deep despite composition, interpretations, or language of tongue. Any writer knows this to be true. Like a family quilt pieced together by the fabric of our very existence, so too does the written word hold power, comfort, tone, and creative potential for anyone reading the lines. Which is perhaps why I feel so compelled from within the comforts of my deeply rooted chair to add new perspectives to legends once told. Stitching miles upon miles of vibrate colours back together, recreating outer harmony between the old familiar patterns yet to be retired and new ones begging to emerge. Cheering on said damsels in distress, creating empowered narratives to help save ourselves. Sharing a reality check with knights still bearing lacklustre armor, encouraging enough humility to lay down our swords. Forever daring society to examine our shadows while gazing upon the mirror. Remaining brave enough and perhaps just villain enough to help change the old narrative. In doing so, a mere pen becomes a sword battling outdated folklore within the cosmos of an already written word. Stars of individual reflection begin to twinkle together, blanketed by endless possibilities while beckoning new constellations to be born. Held tight within sacred moments of shared belonging we scribe together new words of inspiration, weaving threads of knowledge towards pathways of unlimited potential.

Words being omnipresent, spanning lifetimes of generations within seasons of time until new books dare to be opened, shattering the illusion of days gone by while summoning new perspectives to rise. Driven by the sheer power of free will, resilience, protective fierceness, and perhaps a little antagonistic grace. All to ensure our children and our children’s children for generations yet to come are raised in a more expansive, inclusive world where they know without a shadow of a doubt they are dearly loved, worthy, and very capable of becoming the legends to their own stories.

And so, I write.

Lauren Heistad