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Notes From the Author's Life

—A note from the author’s life.

“Papa, look! I’m alive in the mirror,” I said, as I bounced on my parents’ bed, looking into a large mirror that stood above their dresser. “Which is the real me and which is the reflection?” I asked, waving my hands above my head and smiling at my father’s reflection.

“Maybe they’re both real, or maybe neither one is. Maybe everything is just reflections of reflections of reflections and nothing is real,” he said. And then he laughed heartily. Perhaps he intended to feed my imagination with this comment, or perhaps to impart a long forgotten understanding of reflections and their role in the universal play; an understanding that had long ago been deemed unbelievable; an understanding that, within his conscious belief system, was not allowed to be mentioned—at least not seriously.

—A note from the author’s life.

”This guy calls himself our president?” I shrieked at the television. “He wasn’t duly elected, hasn’t mastered the English language, and now we’re going to follow him into a war? Does that seem like a bad idea to anyone but me? Wake up and smell the coffee, folks!” I felt exactly as I’d felt as a child, when various men, who seemed neither well-educated nor spiritually inclined, were by some stroke of destiny, in charge of my life. And no matter how absurd or ridiculous their logic and behavior were, they were in charge of dictating my beliefs and defining my truth, while demeaning—and demanding that I disregard—my Inner Voice. Suddenly as I looked at the television, feeling absolutely powerless, I was consumed with rage and hatred.

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