If I held all of my dreams out in front of me, all the dreams I had ever dreamt in my lifetime, then what would I perceive? I often pondered this question, even though I wasn’t always aware of it in my consciousness.  

For one thing, I had been a vivid dreamer. I knew for a long time that dreams were more than just images one saw in their sleep. They were things that one could touch and feel. Sometimes, they had such an uncanny striking realness that I myself couldn’t help but be mystified and thankful or cry out in utter discombobulation. Perhaps I had gone through much of my life in a dreamlike state, if only because the world I resided in was so quaint and serene.

  But for the reader’s sake, I shall start from the beginning, both how and before I ended up in that huge house, on that mystifying night.

            In actuality, I can’t say that my whole life was centered around that one event; that one setting. Before it, I was completed, or so I thought.  I had a home. I was contented, free, loving and loved.

 The truth is, so many things had happened before that place. I often wondered why I was there, what I had agreed to, (or had no choice to) and when, or if, I would ever come home. When I arrived, I had already lived, laughed, learned, and loved; not to mention cried. So I knew I had a life behind me. I had a life I left behind.

It all seems ironic as I look back on it now; how so much could revolve around one memory. One event that opened my mind and let me know that I wasn’t alone. Many significant occurrences had happened before that point, and I was molded into an everlasting form. I was still me, as I always had been.

Truth be told, I was twelve at the time, so my life had long begun.  But I reckon those moments happen to all of us in life, regardless of our age. The moments when we know that things will change forever, even if our life has been different to begin with.  

I could compare this to the fact that I started to remember when I was two years and a half years old. That was when I officially got a family.

 In the beginning, I dare say that I was what a few people might consider an orphan. I had no idea who my biological parents were, and I had no memory of them whatsoever.

However, I didn’t lead a life similar as to the orphans you see in movies—you know, the kind that are forced to scrub the floor and do the dishes all day; only to be fed cold mush for all of their labor. All in all, I guess you could say I lived a pretty contented life growing up in the town of Pleasantville, Indiana.

Though I had no trace of my biological family, I still had an adoptive father in my life. He was one of the many people who had heard about me when I was mysteriously found alone in a room at Pleasantville Nurturing Hospital. I was a tiny baby wrapped in a pink blanket with nursery rhyme characters embroidered on it. There was but a single note attached: Please take care of Essie, God’s little Miracle.

 He fell in love with me right away, and that was when he finally decided he wanted to become a parent. Though the adoption process was quite lengthy, he told me afterwards that it had been worth every minute.

“I fought for you, I jumped through hoops, I waited the long months, and I faced the uncertainties. I did this all because I loved you, even though we aren’t a family by genetics. We’re a family brought together by love, faith and caring, which is all the more stronger,” Dad told me once.

Upon hearing this, I found it fairly surprising that someone could work so much for something so small. You see, I was only a little babe, clearly born prematurely. But then my father said that it wasn’t size that mattered, it was the heart that beat inside of the creation.     

Dad always told me that I wasn’t an orphan. I was his little girl, and I always would be. I tried to always remember that, even when I had trouble understanding why I was adopted. I often compared the matter to abstract piece of artwork. Sure, the colors were vibrant and vivid, but one had trouble envisioning what the picture truly portrayed.

Nevertheless, on many nights, when I counted my blessings, Daddy was always one of the first things I said. I knew I was lucky.

My adoptive father was a wonderful man. He was a lector, a cantor, and a Eucharistic Minister at our local church which we attended every Sunday. As a profession, he was mainly a college professor, majoring in religious education, but he went on to teach high school as well. Once in a while, he would visit religious schools to talk to them about God and faith.

Whenever he got the opportunity, he would be a substitute teacher at the grade school I attended, both before and after I went there. His name was Shawn Miracle, and I was pleased as pie to take on his last name and be known as his daughter. I became Essie Miracle, and my father always told me that I was his little miracle, sent by God above; just as the note said.

Yet throughout my whole life, something always seemed as if it were missing, or unsettled.

I knew what many people might have thought of me feeling this way. They would’ve deemed me quite wishy-washy and ungrateful; a little orphan child with a nice adoptive family who still wasn’t satisfied. One who had all of the comforts and security that goes along with such a life, but still wished to know who her real parents were so she could someday be reunited with them; hoping to live together forever and ever and ever in peace and harmony and happiness. Then, she would know surely and certainly that her biological parents loved her and resembled her and whatever else.

No, that wasn’t the true girl I was. That wasn’t my biggest situation and strain in life, as many may have thought. Being adopted was something I could accept and live with, in my own way. I dare say I could even cherish it, for I believed it was something which added depth, mystery, and curiosity to my personality and perspective. However, on the occasions when I did ponder the matter, somehow it would seem strange. It was as if I were looking into a mirror and seeing myself, but seeing me with eyes that weren’t my own.

 I believe I was like the many other young people who were searching for their identity; their purpose in life. But somehow, I didn’t worry so much about where I was going. I didn’t let one questionable aspect of my life keep me from living it.

On the bright side, I observed that parents who adopted their children seemed to especially cherish them; since they couldn’t have offspring of their own. Or, at least my father had this attitude. He gave me a sense of belonging, a confident hope, and the motivation to fulfill my dreams.  

However, I reckon deep down inside of me I wished I had just been born into a regular family like everyone else. As kind, warm, fuzzy, loving, caring, and doting my dad was, I never really felt like I was his own. After all, I wasn’t. It was as simple as that.

He knew I was adopted, I knew I was adopted. So be it. There were times when I realized how ungrateful I was being, for I had everything a girl could want. A father who put you in the center of his world and adored you, a gorgeous house, pets, a pretty bedroom, great clothes, an excellent school, teachers who loved me, and tons of friends.

As close as I was to my father, I couldn’t help but feel as if I were his favorite student than his one and only daughter. Alas, no matter how wonderful life could be, there would always be something that wasn’t quite right.

However, Daddy made sure that I would never have him as a teacher when I went to high school, for he knew that many would deem that unfair. He didn’t want me to be subject to teasing and ridicule as a true teacher’s pet.

This thought never really dogged me; not as much as the fact that I knew that no matter how well I knew my dad, there would always be a part of him that I couldn’t quite understand.

A piece of the ultimate matter was only half relevant to me, or rather, my lack of biological relationship to my father. The other half was much more complicated. Whenever I wallowed in my own self-pity or drowned in my own insecurities, I overlooked the fact that I wasn’t the only one.

But part of me knew. It was the unconscious innermost layer of myself that’s truth only resided in my deepest dreams.

 I had yet to gather that other questionable aspects which I was exposed to didn’t have to do with me at all. They had to do with the person whom I was closest to—my father.

RATE THIS CHAPTER!

Author guidance for This story

Summary: Residing Dreams is a heartwarming tale destined to captivate and touch the souls of those who read this thought-provoking piece of literature. It is told through the eyes of Essie Miracle, an adopted adolescence who possesses creativity, kindness, beauty, and wisdom beyond her years. She was found alone in a hospital room as a baby, with but a single note attached: "Please take care of Essie, God's little miracle." It was only destiny for Shawn Miracle to hear of her mysterious appearance and adopt her as his child. They reside in the cheerful town of Pleasantville, Indiana. But it is soon realized that not everything in life is pleasant and peachy-keen. Essie's father has a secret, of which he can tell no one. However, many people see it's truth quite clearly, as does Essie. Her father has been hiding for a long time, and he lacks the confidence to openly declare the truth for fear of scorn, rejection, and shunning. When things become increasingly difficult, new opportunities soon beckon for Essie. On her unforgettable journey of life, she meets a boy who intrigues her and captures her heart, and she finds out that he has some dark antagonists of his own. As the dreams reside and reflections are pondered, it is clear that everyone faces trials and tribulations. In addition to this, each person has gifts and hopeful hope to make it through life's storms. Essie learns a multititude of lessons, and she uncovers the truth that love knows no bounds.

updated Dec 27 '08 by SaveTheUnicorns