October 25
Katrina,
The house is quiet today, dear, most of the staff and field workers in town enjoying the fall festival this year. Here, at The Oak, I am left with my memories of the past and this beautiful view of the property. In all these years that I have been writing to you, Sister, visiting you, did I ever tell you about Thomas?
It was the day after our thirty-eighth birthday, Kat, and the museums and art galleries had been buzzing over the improvements to film that allowed color to be expressed in the photograph. More alive than ever seemed the faces, the places captured in those prints. And, I had finally decided to take photography as a hobby, a hobby that I desperately needed so that my life would no longer be filled completely with work, a hobby I had finally decided I deserved.
A Saturday, it was, when I went to the art gallery and saw a color photograph of a fall tree, and it was in that moment that I made the decision to purchase photographic supplies. Even if I only took photographs of The Oak or the old oak tree by the water, I wanted to try; and for once I felt capable of trying. How is it, Sister, that someone who makes important business decisions each day, decisions effecting people and money and lives, could, at the same time, feel so completely incompetent and incapable?
Not the first clue did I have about buying such equipment other than what I had read in literature. I asked the director of the museum, a man who was familiar with me due to our family contributions to the museum, and he recommended one of his assistants, an amateur photographer. And, that was when I met Thomas.
Thomas was a nice man, just a bit older than us but sharing the same birthday. Together, he helped me to choose all of the appropriate gear that I would need to begin, slides and boxes and tripods and more. Over time and visits to the museum, he began to explain in more detail about choosing the best lighting, about framing the subject being photographed, about distance and shadow and backgrounds. Thomas seemed so intelligent about photography and much more excited about the art than the books I had read.
He was employed as an assistant to the director of the museum, but took photographs on weekends and when time allowed. If he traveled, he took photographs. If the season changed, he took photographs. For no reason whatsoever than his passion for the art, he took photographs. A few of his photographs hung in the museum, but he had found little professional success with his pictures.
I took the hobby seriously, trying to learn what I could about taking those types of photographs I had seen in the museums, the pictures that contained emotion that spoke to the viewer as if the photograph had a voice that would not be silenced as long as the image existed. Outside, I would be, when business obligations had been cared for, setting up photographs of the areas that spoke to me, the lake with its swirling mirror of the world, the fields with their lives that vary with the season, the old barn with the character of a friendly but grumpy old man with many stories to tell, and The Oak, its dignity ever present, its stories endless.
Over the next couple of years, Thomas made periodic visits to The Oak, assisting me with photographing the landscapes, the house, the old oak tree by the water. He agreed that the property contained beautiful scenery for photographs and took a few of his own photographs of the entranceway, the drive up to the house, and the trees.
In time, I began to ask him to stay for lunch when the hour neared and he was on the property. Informal yet somehow impersonal lunches, like that between a teacher and a student, melted over time into lunches more personal, more revealing of information. Although I told him little, for there was little I was willing to share, he told me of his life, his childhood, and his travels. He was pleasant to be with and interesting to talk to. I found myself, on some occasions, quite taken with him and, on other occasions, doubting every word he said, wondering if George had returned in another body for no other reason than the knowledge that he could take advantage.
Thomas presented himself as trustworthy, and the director of the museum trusted Thomas without doubt or hesitation; but I never fully trusted anyone in those days, including Thomas. But, over time, little by little, I found myself feeling comfortable in his presence, comfortable in the sense of honesty and safety.
During the later part of those couple of years, I agreed to attend and enjoyed evenings out at local restaurants and theaters with Thomas and even began to have a few rare gatherings again at The Oak for business associates or charitable events. During the later part of those couple of years, laughter returned to the dining room and the grand entrance room, and the walls applauded the sunlight shining upon them as the audiences applauded the actors in theatrical productions.
And, during that time, Katrina, I spoke to Thomas of you, your marriage, and the changes in our relationship. It was Thomas who, like an angel sent to me, encouraged me to go to you, to talk, to try to regain such an important heart I had sent away. I thought much of you, of contacting you, of trying to change the past, yet I never did so.
Thomas was a gentleman, intelligent and encouraging. Never did he begin discussing issues of finance and never did he mention fancy dreams of the future. Instead, Thomas was happy with where he was in his life, settled but with goals, and appreciative to be living his dream of photography even if considered an amateur. Thomas respected the opinions of all but made his own decisions, and his decisions were made with a responsible character. Thomas was not prone to pride or recklessness and felt no ill will toward others. He was a good man with good ethics, and yet voices in my head, like ghosts from the past, would not leave me, whispering doubt at every turn.
In the winter, nearly two years after we had met, Thomas and I were attending a community candlelit picnic by the river. An orchestra played, their images reflected in the water as blankets and fires made of kindling brought from houses about town kept the audience warm. It was then that Thomas first mentioned marriage, but I would hear of none of it and, finally, told him of George. It seemed, however, that he already knew of George from rumor about town and cared not of that part of my past.
After much indecision on my part and through much persuasion on his, we agreed to be married. We made plans to meet at the train station and travel to the capitol, planning to marry there just before the opening of a new museum to house one of his photographs of The Oak.
The day we were to meet at the station, I ordered that the front gates to the property be locked and that no one be allowed to pass; I locked the great front doors of the house; and I never left the house that day, abandoning him there, if he actually showed there as he had promised. The ghosts in my head continued, as they had for months, to tell me that if I risked my heart he would leave me someday, and I would be alone and cold like before. I never returned to the museum and I never heard from him again. I never made any attempt to contact him, not even a note to try and explain, and I’ve often wondered if he even bothered to travel to the train station that day. Most days, I suppose he did not. But, whether it is ghosts in my head continuing their rants or if it is my conscience trying to ease itself from the heartache I may have caused another, I do not know.
The bags I had packed were unpacked and the camera equipment was boxed up, a reminder I cared not to have about me. Sometimes, I wonder what happened of Thomas, but I don’t allow the thought to remain for long.
Katrina, the weather grows worse as the season progresses and I am no longer able to visit. But, as always, I will be certain to send you beautiful flowers.
Sisters forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 18
October 18
Katrina,
Monica took me for a stroll through the house today, Kat, and The Oak has been decorated for a Halloween gathering being held tonight, a costume ball for business leaders in the community raising money for a new local hospital wing. I’ve heard that an auction will be held at the gathering to add to the money raised from general donations. Black cats and steaming cauldrons of witch’s brew line the walls and accent the windows while pumpkins and fall leaves are scattered here and there. Spider webbing has been hung artfully from the tall ceilings and down the rails of the grand staircase. Whoever decorated the room did a delightful job and was certainly in the Halloween spirit.
Once the charitable gathering is over, the house will be prepared for other Halloween guests due next week when The Oak shall be the destination of field trips of local school children, their teachers, and their parents. When they are here, their hand paintings will adorn the walls next to paintings of ours, Sister, and they will be shown how to create sock puppets and be allowed to paint new pictures if they want; they will be able to throw plastic rings to win prizes, eat caramel covered apples, and drink hot chocolate. They can listen to and watch people explain how The Oak was run back in our day or they can watch magic performed, and there will be plenty of candy for all.
And, I hope that at the end of the day they leave as happily as we always did from the fall festival. Mother, however, would have been appalled at so many children running across the property and through the house in dirty shoes and with paint on their hands. Or, would she?
Then, the week after the field trip visits, the final set of Halloween preparations will be put in place for any visitors who may come. At that time, the house will be decorated with the few items that were used when we were children, paintings that we created as children that Mother had kept in the attic along with other decorations. Compared to the decorations of today, the decorations we used seem simple, the streaming paper of orange and black and red and yellow, the small wooden pails of hard candy, the pumpkins, but they mean so much more to me than steaming cauldrons.
Kat, do you remember our fifteenth Halloween, the Halloween when Mother planned the big party at The Oak? Everyone from around the area that was our age whom Mother considered appropriate was invited to The Oak that year. And, for a change, Father was there. Weeks had been spent planning the party, with decorations and food planned that were certain to charm and amaze everyone. And, finally the day arrived.
The last minute details had been put in place; you and I had chores to do that, as Mother said, must be completed before attending the party. Together, we scrubbed our shoes and ironed our dresses, Betsy looking over us to make certain it was done correctly. We made our beds and said our prayers and read our texts for the day. And, with time to spare, we set out to walk through the fields and visit the animals.
The air was crisp as we walked along, listening to the leaves crack beneath each step, laughing as we spoke of ghosts and ghouls and witches, and teasing each other with an unexpected tap on the shoulder or a whisk of the hair as if a ghost were in our presence. For miles we spoke of the party, of how Betsy sewed our dresses, of our dreams for our future.
Wife and mother, you always dreamed of being, and you sought out your dream, finding it early and holding on to it with joy. I dreamed of travel, of photography, of amazing adventures, but was told by those to whom I mentioned this dream that it was an impossibility for me. Soon, I simply stopped mentioning it to anyone and deemed it impossible for myself. But, a dream we both shared was a hope that Henry, the teenage son of one of Father’s business associates, would come to the party and would dance with us, and we laughed as we pretended to be written on his dance card and danced with the ghosts in the fields of crackling leaves.
As the day grew on, we returned to the house and began preparing for the party, getting into our dresses and preparing our hair while drinking hot cocoa and eating freshly baked snickerdoodle cookies to warm us from our walk outside. Excited, we were, about the party, about the possibility of seeing Henry, and of seeing how dressed up everyone would be. As we heard someone coming up the drive, we went to the window to watch people as they arrived.
Mother was to greet the guests upon arrival so that we could make an entrance later coming down the grand staircase. And as you pretended, there in our room, to glamorously make your way down the staircase, holding your cup of hot cocoa like a wand, you tripped in your shoes, a sight I, at first, thought was funny. You were unharmed, thank goodness, but the cocoa had badly stained your dress. I took the cup from you and began helping you up when Mother arrived and saw your dress and the stain and the cup I was holding.
Mother was furious, for there was no removing the stain in time for the party. And, as Mother began to talk of clumsiness and unladylike behavior, I thought we were about to cry. Though we tried to explain that it was merely an accident, Mother was certain that I had spilled the cocoa on your dress and even more certain that I had done so intentionally. We had learned, in these moments, not to interrupt Mother’s lectures.
So, at Mother’s instructions, we removed our dresses. Then, you stepped in to the dress I had been wearing and went to the party, descending down the grand staircase, I’m certain, with great glamor and poise. And I, upon instruction, remained alone in our room for the rest of the evening.
Father visited with me during the party, Kat, as I heard the music playing in the grand room down below. Did I ever tell you of this? I told him of how the accident occurred, but even he found it hard to believe; I don’t believe that he believed the truth. Though we were alike in so many ways, you were always the more graceful of the two, the more balanced, reasonable, and level headed. Father left our room saying that he was not sure what exactly had occurred, but that it was never good to make up stories, and I remained exiled to our room.
When the party was over, you returned to our room and we both cried. You told me of the wonderful party, the food, and, yes, your single dance with Henry who, much to our surprise, turned out not to be such a good dancer after all. You described the dresses worn by the girls and the suits worn by the boys and the music that was played. You even sneaked some of the food up to our room for me to enjoy.
We worked together, the next day, though you had been told not to work with me, trying to remove the stain from the dress.
How strange, Sister, that I should begin by recalling our wonderful Halloween decorations and should end up here, with this memory of days gone by. What Halloween ghost is whispering in my ear?
Yet, as I sit here, the smell on the air is wonderful, cinnamon and vanilla and pumpkin mixed together and baking until a luscious consistency is born. The aroma of apples and crusts and nutmeg and cloves rises up through the second floor. And, wonderful memories, memories of tastes and laughter and fall festivals, of Halloween holidays and pumpkin pies and listening to crisp leaves crack beneath the feet of two walking sisters return to my senses as if they exist in this moment instead of the past.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
Monica took me for a stroll through the house today, Kat, and The Oak has been decorated for a Halloween gathering being held tonight, a costume ball for business leaders in the community raising money for a new local hospital wing. I’ve heard that an auction will be held at the gathering to add to the money raised from general donations. Black cats and steaming cauldrons of witch’s brew line the walls and accent the windows while pumpkins and fall leaves are scattered here and there. Spider webbing has been hung artfully from the tall ceilings and down the rails of the grand staircase. Whoever decorated the room did a delightful job and was certainly in the Halloween spirit.
Once the charitable gathering is over, the house will be prepared for other Halloween guests due next week when The Oak shall be the destination of field trips of local school children, their teachers, and their parents. When they are here, their hand paintings will adorn the walls next to paintings of ours, Sister, and they will be shown how to create sock puppets and be allowed to paint new pictures if they want; they will be able to throw plastic rings to win prizes, eat caramel covered apples, and drink hot chocolate. They can listen to and watch people explain how The Oak was run back in our day or they can watch magic performed, and there will be plenty of candy for all.
And, I hope that at the end of the day they leave as happily as we always did from the fall festival. Mother, however, would have been appalled at so many children running across the property and through the house in dirty shoes and with paint on their hands. Or, would she?
Then, the week after the field trip visits, the final set of Halloween preparations will be put in place for any visitors who may come. At that time, the house will be decorated with the few items that were used when we were children, paintings that we created as children that Mother had kept in the attic along with other decorations. Compared to the decorations of today, the decorations we used seem simple, the streaming paper of orange and black and red and yellow, the small wooden pails of hard candy, the pumpkins, but they mean so much more to me than steaming cauldrons.
Kat, do you remember our fifteenth Halloween, the Halloween when Mother planned the big party at The Oak? Everyone from around the area that was our age whom Mother considered appropriate was invited to The Oak that year. And, for a change, Father was there. Weeks had been spent planning the party, with decorations and food planned that were certain to charm and amaze everyone. And, finally the day arrived.
The last minute details had been put in place; you and I had chores to do that, as Mother said, must be completed before attending the party. Together, we scrubbed our shoes and ironed our dresses, Betsy looking over us to make certain it was done correctly. We made our beds and said our prayers and read our texts for the day. And, with time to spare, we set out to walk through the fields and visit the animals.
The air was crisp as we walked along, listening to the leaves crack beneath each step, laughing as we spoke of ghosts and ghouls and witches, and teasing each other with an unexpected tap on the shoulder or a whisk of the hair as if a ghost were in our presence. For miles we spoke of the party, of how Betsy sewed our dresses, of our dreams for our future.
Wife and mother, you always dreamed of being, and you sought out your dream, finding it early and holding on to it with joy. I dreamed of travel, of photography, of amazing adventures, but was told by those to whom I mentioned this dream that it was an impossibility for me. Soon, I simply stopped mentioning it to anyone and deemed it impossible for myself. But, a dream we both shared was a hope that Henry, the teenage son of one of Father’s business associates, would come to the party and would dance with us, and we laughed as we pretended to be written on his dance card and danced with the ghosts in the fields of crackling leaves.
As the day grew on, we returned to the house and began preparing for the party, getting into our dresses and preparing our hair while drinking hot cocoa and eating freshly baked snickerdoodle cookies to warm us from our walk outside. Excited, we were, about the party, about the possibility of seeing Henry, and of seeing how dressed up everyone would be. As we heard someone coming up the drive, we went to the window to watch people as they arrived.
Mother was to greet the guests upon arrival so that we could make an entrance later coming down the grand staircase. And as you pretended, there in our room, to glamorously make your way down the staircase, holding your cup of hot cocoa like a wand, you tripped in your shoes, a sight I, at first, thought was funny. You were unharmed, thank goodness, but the cocoa had badly stained your dress. I took the cup from you and began helping you up when Mother arrived and saw your dress and the stain and the cup I was holding.
Mother was furious, for there was no removing the stain in time for the party. And, as Mother began to talk of clumsiness and unladylike behavior, I thought we were about to cry. Though we tried to explain that it was merely an accident, Mother was certain that I had spilled the cocoa on your dress and even more certain that I had done so intentionally. We had learned, in these moments, not to interrupt Mother’s lectures.
So, at Mother’s instructions, we removed our dresses. Then, you stepped in to the dress I had been wearing and went to the party, descending down the grand staircase, I’m certain, with great glamor and poise. And I, upon instruction, remained alone in our room for the rest of the evening.
Father visited with me during the party, Kat, as I heard the music playing in the grand room down below. Did I ever tell you of this? I told him of how the accident occurred, but even he found it hard to believe; I don’t believe that he believed the truth. Though we were alike in so many ways, you were always the more graceful of the two, the more balanced, reasonable, and level headed. Father left our room saying that he was not sure what exactly had occurred, but that it was never good to make up stories, and I remained exiled to our room.
When the party was over, you returned to our room and we both cried. You told me of the wonderful party, the food, and, yes, your single dance with Henry who, much to our surprise, turned out not to be such a good dancer after all. You described the dresses worn by the girls and the suits worn by the boys and the music that was played. You even sneaked some of the food up to our room for me to enjoy.
We worked together, the next day, though you had been told not to work with me, trying to remove the stain from the dress.
How strange, Sister, that I should begin by recalling our wonderful Halloween decorations and should end up here, with this memory of days gone by. What Halloween ghost is whispering in my ear?
Yet, as I sit here, the smell on the air is wonderful, cinnamon and vanilla and pumpkin mixed together and baking until a luscious consistency is born. The aroma of apples and crusts and nutmeg and cloves rises up through the second floor. And, wonderful memories, memories of tastes and laughter and fall festivals, of Halloween holidays and pumpkin pies and listening to crisp leaves crack beneath the feet of two walking sisters return to my senses as if they exist in this moment instead of the past.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 17
October 17
Katrina,
All seasons hold wonder and beauty and are an asset to the Earth, but spring is an incredible season. The dim grass of winter will begin to change in to a jacket of vibrant green, each blade growing taller as if trying to greet the sun with a handshake and a good-morning smile. The trees will begin to playfully wave their branches at the world, showing off their new buds and their new leaves, stretching out their limbs as though they’ve just woken up after a long winter nap. The birds will return from their winter abode to reunite with friends, together singing to the sun of their activities while on winter break.
Spring is a joyful season. Colorful flowers will peek out from beneath their earthy blanket like a child waiting on Christmas, wondering if it is yet time to arise and determining how cold it is outside of their cocoon. Squirrels will sit in the warmth of the day, looking upward and periodically scratching their heads, uncertain if winter is truly over or if they are about to begin their favorite season, a season where they perform treasured acrobat dances on trapeze phone wires and awe crowds with their abilities to climb anything vertical.
Spring is a season of celebration. House-cats will sit in open windows, meowing reviews to the birds of their singing and watching the Earth come back to life. Dogs will rest in the grass with their front paws crossed, yawning, watching the bees fly figure-eights in the air.
Spring is a Heavenly season. It is a time of rebirth, of new beginnings, of growth. Spring is an opportunity for change and the result of winter hope. Spring is the symbol for all that we have been, all we are, and all that we can be, a reminder that the cycle of life is a circle of change that continues on without end, presenting us with endless possibilities for improvement.
Like the Earth, humans have seasons of change, periods of growth followed by periods of reflection and germination. People seed lives and the lives around them with dreams, plans, thoughts, and actions. We hope to know that when summer is over and the fall begins we’ll leave something good behind, a seed to be comforted by the blanket of winter so that it will sprout in the spring and bloom.
Spring is a new opportunity for life to bloom, for people to grow, and for all living things to look to the sun with joy and thankfulness of being alive.
There is no better time of year to make the first step of change than in the spring, the time of beginnings. As the Earth awakes to new life, so can the souls that walk this Earth. But, just as the flowers have reservations of birth, wondering if the world has warmed enough to help them grow, humans too have hesitations, fear of the first step. Yet, once the fear of the first step has been overcome, one step will lead to another until we are walking comfortably and ready to run.
The baby bird, up in the tree, forces his way into life by pecking at the shell of an egg with strength and determination to live. Soon, the bird is able to peak over the edge of a comfortable nest with curiosity, viewing the world from the height of a tree. The world is filled with wonders for this new creature, the sound of rustling leaves mingling with the barking dogs below, the feel of the breeze that carries the fragrance of flowers. But, the bird cannot leave the nest until learning how to fly, how to soar high above the ground, until learning how to use the skills and strengths unborn yet inside him. Yet, in time, the baby bird will take that first step with shaky knees, swallowing hard for reassurance, flapping his wings in terror and excitement, stepping outside the nest and singing as he learns to fly, a bit off balance at first, until he is soaring.
But, let us not forget that spring is born of hope, and hope can be found in every moment. One need not wait until the rebirth of the Earth to create a rebirth of the self. Don’t you agree, Sister?
Forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
All seasons hold wonder and beauty and are an asset to the Earth, but spring is an incredible season. The dim grass of winter will begin to change in to a jacket of vibrant green, each blade growing taller as if trying to greet the sun with a handshake and a good-morning smile. The trees will begin to playfully wave their branches at the world, showing off their new buds and their new leaves, stretching out their limbs as though they’ve just woken up after a long winter nap. The birds will return from their winter abode to reunite with friends, together singing to the sun of their activities while on winter break.
Spring is a joyful season. Colorful flowers will peek out from beneath their earthy blanket like a child waiting on Christmas, wondering if it is yet time to arise and determining how cold it is outside of their cocoon. Squirrels will sit in the warmth of the day, looking upward and periodically scratching their heads, uncertain if winter is truly over or if they are about to begin their favorite season, a season where they perform treasured acrobat dances on trapeze phone wires and awe crowds with their abilities to climb anything vertical.
Spring is a season of celebration. House-cats will sit in open windows, meowing reviews to the birds of their singing and watching the Earth come back to life. Dogs will rest in the grass with their front paws crossed, yawning, watching the bees fly figure-eights in the air.
Spring is a Heavenly season. It is a time of rebirth, of new beginnings, of growth. Spring is an opportunity for change and the result of winter hope. Spring is the symbol for all that we have been, all we are, and all that we can be, a reminder that the cycle of life is a circle of change that continues on without end, presenting us with endless possibilities for improvement.
Like the Earth, humans have seasons of change, periods of growth followed by periods of reflection and germination. People seed lives and the lives around them with dreams, plans, thoughts, and actions. We hope to know that when summer is over and the fall begins we’ll leave something good behind, a seed to be comforted by the blanket of winter so that it will sprout in the spring and bloom.
Spring is a new opportunity for life to bloom, for people to grow, and for all living things to look to the sun with joy and thankfulness of being alive.
There is no better time of year to make the first step of change than in the spring, the time of beginnings. As the Earth awakes to new life, so can the souls that walk this Earth. But, just as the flowers have reservations of birth, wondering if the world has warmed enough to help them grow, humans too have hesitations, fear of the first step. Yet, once the fear of the first step has been overcome, one step will lead to another until we are walking comfortably and ready to run.
The baby bird, up in the tree, forces his way into life by pecking at the shell of an egg with strength and determination to live. Soon, the bird is able to peak over the edge of a comfortable nest with curiosity, viewing the world from the height of a tree. The world is filled with wonders for this new creature, the sound of rustling leaves mingling with the barking dogs below, the feel of the breeze that carries the fragrance of flowers. But, the bird cannot leave the nest until learning how to fly, how to soar high above the ground, until learning how to use the skills and strengths unborn yet inside him. Yet, in time, the baby bird will take that first step with shaky knees, swallowing hard for reassurance, flapping his wings in terror and excitement, stepping outside the nest and singing as he learns to fly, a bit off balance at first, until he is soaring.
But, let us not forget that spring is born of hope, and hope can be found in every moment. One need not wait until the rebirth of the Earth to create a rebirth of the self. Don’t you agree, Sister?
Forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 16
October 16
Katrina,
In the summer months, from the window or from the porch, I’ve watched the visitors come and go. Restless and unable to slow down, they are, as they walk the fields, view parts of the house, and visit the monuments; they are uncomfortable it would seem to slow the pace of life and leave behind their offices and places of business. Phones, they carry, and use frequently as they speak of business and other affairs, paying little attention to those who came here with them. In notebooks carried in purses or on the backs of literature they are given, they scribble notes, reminders of what else they feel they should be accomplishing.
Do they ever scribble of home, family, or holidays, I wonder; or do they note reminders of personal accomplishments yet needed to be made?
There once was a time when families lived off the land and businesses were few. Now, over time, we’ve created a society where that is no longer possible; working the land nearly an image of the past as farmland has grown tall, concrete buildings instead of corn, industry instead of feed. Families are now living off of businesses just as businesses are living off of families, an interdependency created by man that was not born within them.
But, somewhere in the rush of progress, in business ventures and efforts to climb corporate ladders, in the lure that has been created toward an elusive dream allegedly able to be bought with money, it has been forgotten about the importance of family, of personal interaction with people, of life outside of the business world. Acceptable, it has become, to make a life of business instead of using business to make a life.
People must learn to balance business and life, allowing themselves to enjoy life while it is available to them. After all, what good is business if one dies alone, having money in his coffin but without family to bid him adieu?
Father knew that.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
In the summer months, from the window or from the porch, I’ve watched the visitors come and go. Restless and unable to slow down, they are, as they walk the fields, view parts of the house, and visit the monuments; they are uncomfortable it would seem to slow the pace of life and leave behind their offices and places of business. Phones, they carry, and use frequently as they speak of business and other affairs, paying little attention to those who came here with them. In notebooks carried in purses or on the backs of literature they are given, they scribble notes, reminders of what else they feel they should be accomplishing.
Do they ever scribble of home, family, or holidays, I wonder; or do they note reminders of personal accomplishments yet needed to be made?
There once was a time when families lived off the land and businesses were few. Now, over time, we’ve created a society where that is no longer possible; working the land nearly an image of the past as farmland has grown tall, concrete buildings instead of corn, industry instead of feed. Families are now living off of businesses just as businesses are living off of families, an interdependency created by man that was not born within them.
But, somewhere in the rush of progress, in business ventures and efforts to climb corporate ladders, in the lure that has been created toward an elusive dream allegedly able to be bought with money, it has been forgotten about the importance of family, of personal interaction with people, of life outside of the business world. Acceptable, it has become, to make a life of business instead of using business to make a life.
People must learn to balance business and life, allowing themselves to enjoy life while it is available to them. After all, what good is business if one dies alone, having money in his coffin but without family to bid him adieu?
Father knew that.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 15
October 15
Katrina,
Truth is relative. What appears to be the truth to one may not be the truth of another. An interaction viewed by one as harmless or beneficial may to another be viewed as hurtful or inconsiderate. Truth is relative. Where one may feel pain, another may feel nothing; where one may see happiness, another may see something far more complex and ill at rest.
Truth is relative, the information written on the slates of our lives being filtered by the information already there, comparisons drawn for meaning and possibility, conclusions drawn for future reference. As humans live throughout their lives, from birth to death, the information from those interactions are written on the slates to serve as reminders of where we’ve been and the effect that it had, reminders that will effect future reactions. And, no information of life goes missing that has been written by the ghosts of the past, those ghosts of interaction and the ghost within our self.
Truth is relative, reason enough for humans to interact with goodness in their heart and the angels of hope about them; the angels are able to whisper kindness into the soul of the sender and the receiver and convince hopefulness and humanity to be written on the slates. The angels, like positive ghosts of possibility, can effect the sender, creating a messenger of peace by whispering in their ears words of the same, they can effect the message by helping words of wisdom to be sent, and they can effect the receiver by opening the heart and helping the message to be received in the light of hope.
But, take heed, for one must know the truth of their own slate before knowing the truth of the messages they send to others, for the ghosts who have written on the slate of the sender may disguise the truth of the message, and once a message is sent it cannot be erased from existence. One must take care in their interactions, for what one writes on the slate of another shall return and be written upon their own slate. For what ghosts are summoned and sent to haunt others, shall return to haunt the sender.
And, one must never claim to know another’s truth, for one cannot know the truth of another; a soul is unable to read the slate of another in totality, unable to grasp the context of the messages on the slate.
And, one must be careful to never judge another’s truth, for the truth is decided by the ghosts who have written upon the slate and the slate is the same for no two souls.
Forever Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
Truth is relative. What appears to be the truth to one may not be the truth of another. An interaction viewed by one as harmless or beneficial may to another be viewed as hurtful or inconsiderate. Truth is relative. Where one may feel pain, another may feel nothing; where one may see happiness, another may see something far more complex and ill at rest.
Truth is relative, the information written on the slates of our lives being filtered by the information already there, comparisons drawn for meaning and possibility, conclusions drawn for future reference. As humans live throughout their lives, from birth to death, the information from those interactions are written on the slates to serve as reminders of where we’ve been and the effect that it had, reminders that will effect future reactions. And, no information of life goes missing that has been written by the ghosts of the past, those ghosts of interaction and the ghost within our self.
Truth is relative, reason enough for humans to interact with goodness in their heart and the angels of hope about them; the angels are able to whisper kindness into the soul of the sender and the receiver and convince hopefulness and humanity to be written on the slates. The angels, like positive ghosts of possibility, can effect the sender, creating a messenger of peace by whispering in their ears words of the same, they can effect the message by helping words of wisdom to be sent, and they can effect the receiver by opening the heart and helping the message to be received in the light of hope.
But, take heed, for one must know the truth of their own slate before knowing the truth of the messages they send to others, for the ghosts who have written on the slate of the sender may disguise the truth of the message, and once a message is sent it cannot be erased from existence. One must take care in their interactions, for what one writes on the slate of another shall return and be written upon their own slate. For what ghosts are summoned and sent to haunt others, shall return to haunt the sender.
And, one must never claim to know another’s truth, for one cannot know the truth of another; a soul is unable to read the slate of another in totality, unable to grasp the context of the messages on the slate.
And, one must be careful to never judge another’s truth, for the truth is decided by the ghosts who have written upon the slate and the slate is the same for no two souls.
Forever Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Letters Home; Section 1, Letter dated October 10
October 10
Katrina,
Snowflakes are falling outside, intermingled with the raindrops as if the rain is teaching the new snow of the season how to fall, how to softly touch the ground, how to say hello to the Earth as if the Earth is being playfully awakened from a night of sleep. In the fields, the horses run, their manes blowing in the winds, running for the sheer exhilaration of the feeling of freedom, of being alive. Most of the birds have flown further south for the cold winter months, but a few remain, and they sit upon branches of the trees, the empty water fountain, and on the ground glancing up to enjoy the beautiful snow before returning to their preparations for winter.
The Earth and the animals know how to prepare for winter just as they prepare for each season. The Earth calls upon all its elements for help, the trees warming the Earth with their leaves, branches becoming homes for woodland animals, and the Earth repaying the favor by nourishing them all throughout the winter months. The animals work in small groups, gathering food to help them through the winter, gathering twigs and leaves to add to the warmth of their winter abodes.
Life, my dear Sister, requires teamwork, an interactive dependency upon one another. We need one another for teaching and learning, for keeping spirits high and reminding each other of the important aspects of life, and we need each other for compassion and assistance now and again. For many years, Katrina, I forgot this lesson.
While Betsy was still alive, my hardening heart somehow remained somewhat hopeful that love would find me and that I would somehow find what I needed to heal the hole inside, yet I forgot my responsibility to the success of those matters. Betsy found hope each day, seeking it out like searching for just the right apples for a pie, and she reminded me each day of the power of hope, of healing. But after Betsy died, after I saw you leave for the last time, hope began to dim like a candle burning out.
When hope is fading, one begins to care less about the journey towards the future; one begins to care less about taking the journey at all. Days begin to blur as monotonous activities fill hours simply to pass time as opposed to treasuring it, making use of it for a better tomorrow. I began to care little for social functions, charitable events, or the goings on in town. I became less willing to take financial risks and concerned less with getting to know new business associates or complimenting the familiar ones on their success with glamorous parties and delightful dinners.
Some of Father’s business dealings continued on as they always had, businessmen contractually obligated to certain responsibilities remaining in their deals with The Oak. Other businessmen who had worked many years with Father remained as well out of gratitude or comfort in the familiar. Other deals failed or never occurred at all, the exception being new businessmen who knew and needed the fortune of The Oak to support their deals. Yet, somehow, The Oak survived as did Father’s business, and I always satisfied my responsibility to the business but not to his reputation, not to the human side of business.
Within a few years, I began remaining here at The Oak, rarely, if ever, leaving its boundaries. There were no parties, no dinners, no social events held here at The Oak and I attended none elsewhere and, in time, to none was I invited. I was as alone as I could possibly be on this property with all the caretakers about the house, the fields. The only saving grace I may have, Katrina, from all those years is that, as Father did, I always took care of those who took care of The Oak. No, I didn’t lose all hope or goodness.
Have you ever watched the squirrels in the springtime? I can usually see them outside the window, their acrobats on the branches and on the ground amusing. The squirrels will dance about for one another, their heads moving about as if they’re talking, sharing the best locations to find nuts, extending their little arms and standing for emphasis. The squirrels seem to understand the importance of their interaction, each one offering something of importance to the other. The squirrels depend on each other to aid in survival, to brighten the day, to share the load to be gathered, to make the business of each day pleasant more than simply bearable.
The squirrels understand the necessity of teamwork in life, a lesson I cared not about for many years, my contact with others as minimal as I could make it--not out of hatred but out of fear of being hurt again in the deepest parts of my heart and in new ways I was certain someone would find. To protect myself, I stayed away from those I felt might have caused me harm, and I stayed away from you. In the end, I was harmed, harmed at the center of my soul by the only person I thought I could trust: Myself.
Do my reasons excuse my actions, actions that broke the first unwritten rule of humanity, the rule that explains the importance of our actions, the dependency upon each other, and the effect our actions have upon others? Will my regret grant me pardon? Was I or will I be punished somehow for not helping others or for some other rule broken? Or, was there no one helping me? How is it, Sister, that a soul arrives at a fork in the road and chooses the path to walk alone?
Forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
Snowflakes are falling outside, intermingled with the raindrops as if the rain is teaching the new snow of the season how to fall, how to softly touch the ground, how to say hello to the Earth as if the Earth is being playfully awakened from a night of sleep. In the fields, the horses run, their manes blowing in the winds, running for the sheer exhilaration of the feeling of freedom, of being alive. Most of the birds have flown further south for the cold winter months, but a few remain, and they sit upon branches of the trees, the empty water fountain, and on the ground glancing up to enjoy the beautiful snow before returning to their preparations for winter.
The Earth and the animals know how to prepare for winter just as they prepare for each season. The Earth calls upon all its elements for help, the trees warming the Earth with their leaves, branches becoming homes for woodland animals, and the Earth repaying the favor by nourishing them all throughout the winter months. The animals work in small groups, gathering food to help them through the winter, gathering twigs and leaves to add to the warmth of their winter abodes.
Life, my dear Sister, requires teamwork, an interactive dependency upon one another. We need one another for teaching and learning, for keeping spirits high and reminding each other of the important aspects of life, and we need each other for compassion and assistance now and again. For many years, Katrina, I forgot this lesson.
While Betsy was still alive, my hardening heart somehow remained somewhat hopeful that love would find me and that I would somehow find what I needed to heal the hole inside, yet I forgot my responsibility to the success of those matters. Betsy found hope each day, seeking it out like searching for just the right apples for a pie, and she reminded me each day of the power of hope, of healing. But after Betsy died, after I saw you leave for the last time, hope began to dim like a candle burning out.
When hope is fading, one begins to care less about the journey towards the future; one begins to care less about taking the journey at all. Days begin to blur as monotonous activities fill hours simply to pass time as opposed to treasuring it, making use of it for a better tomorrow. I began to care little for social functions, charitable events, or the goings on in town. I became less willing to take financial risks and concerned less with getting to know new business associates or complimenting the familiar ones on their success with glamorous parties and delightful dinners.
Some of Father’s business dealings continued on as they always had, businessmen contractually obligated to certain responsibilities remaining in their deals with The Oak. Other businessmen who had worked many years with Father remained as well out of gratitude or comfort in the familiar. Other deals failed or never occurred at all, the exception being new businessmen who knew and needed the fortune of The Oak to support their deals. Yet, somehow, The Oak survived as did Father’s business, and I always satisfied my responsibility to the business but not to his reputation, not to the human side of business.
Within a few years, I began remaining here at The Oak, rarely, if ever, leaving its boundaries. There were no parties, no dinners, no social events held here at The Oak and I attended none elsewhere and, in time, to none was I invited. I was as alone as I could possibly be on this property with all the caretakers about the house, the fields. The only saving grace I may have, Katrina, from all those years is that, as Father did, I always took care of those who took care of The Oak. No, I didn’t lose all hope or goodness.
Have you ever watched the squirrels in the springtime? I can usually see them outside the window, their acrobats on the branches and on the ground amusing. The squirrels will dance about for one another, their heads moving about as if they’re talking, sharing the best locations to find nuts, extending their little arms and standing for emphasis. The squirrels seem to understand the importance of their interaction, each one offering something of importance to the other. The squirrels depend on each other to aid in survival, to brighten the day, to share the load to be gathered, to make the business of each day pleasant more than simply bearable.
The squirrels understand the necessity of teamwork in life, a lesson I cared not about for many years, my contact with others as minimal as I could make it--not out of hatred but out of fear of being hurt again in the deepest parts of my heart and in new ways I was certain someone would find. To protect myself, I stayed away from those I felt might have caused me harm, and I stayed away from you. In the end, I was harmed, harmed at the center of my soul by the only person I thought I could trust: Myself.
Do my reasons excuse my actions, actions that broke the first unwritten rule of humanity, the rule that explains the importance of our actions, the dependency upon each other, and the effect our actions have upon others? Will my regret grant me pardon? Was I or will I be punished somehow for not helping others or for some other rule broken? Or, was there no one helping me? How is it, Sister, that a soul arrives at a fork in the road and chooses the path to walk alone?
Forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 7
October 7
Katrina,
The autumn leaves are being blown by a gentle wind outside, cascading downward outside my window like a tangible rain of bright colors. How I remember as children extending our arms as we lifted our smiling eyes up to the sky, turning and dancing, enjoying the falling leaves. I remember piling the leaves in a basket so that Whiskers could jump in, scratching at the leaves until settling on a comfortable position for napping. The fall season holds so many memories of the past, memories of childhood, each leaf outside the window seeming to remind me of them.
It was in the autumn months when the most wonderful apple recipes would be made, the house filling up with the smell of apple and cinnamon and vanilla as pies and cobblers and cakes would be made, usually being eaten in less time than the time required for their preparation.
In the fall, thick, warm blankets of soft fabrics were brought down from the attic and placed upon the beds for the cool nights. Flames filled the fireplaces with light and wonder, and logs were placed in small piles beside the hearth. In the barn, care was taken so that the animals had extra warmth, extra hay in their stalls and extra food for their stomachs, and their water troughs were removed of ice each morning.
But, except for the autumn that you wed, the greatest enjoyment of the fall season was always the fall carnival held at the edge of town. Advertised as the greatest carnival in the territory, it was truly a marvel to the two of us. Never did we attend a fall carnival without eating at least one, and often more, caramel covered apples, apples that we would wash down with orange sodas, lemonade, or hot cocoa. We would begin saving our own money, a bit here and there, in the summer so that we could buy those tasty treats in the fall.
As we enjoyed the tastes of the carnival, we would walk through the midway and from tent to tent, witnessing things we could only see at the carnival. Fire-eating men, men who could swallow swords, women who knew the future, and women who could perform ballet on the trapeze or on the bare backs of horses were always at the carnival. Snakes with two heads and roaring lions tamed so that a man could put his head inside the lion’s mouth without harm were there too, along with mummies that were supposed to have been found in countries far away. Singing quartets would perform gospel songs and clowns would walk about giving children balloons or lollipops. Contests would be held for the best pie, the best cake, and the best cookie. There would be contests to catch pigs that had been bathed in lard, and farmers would exhibit their animals as they competed for the blue ribbon, a prize to be proud of indeed. And, when it was over, fireworks would light the night sky, filling the sky with a rainbow of colors and the air with explosions of excitement.
But, my favorite memory of the carnival, Katrina, is the one we attended when we were ten years old. Do you remember?
The air was a bit chilly even though we were wearing our sweaters, but the sun was shining and the orange, red, and yellow leaves were falling down about us. It was perfect carnival weather. Father and Mother were listening to the quartet sing as we were allowed to explore what the carnival had to offer.
We sat on a bench for a while, eating caramel covered apples and listening to an elderly gentleman, short in stature with a long white beard and hair to match, tell a story of how, after a bear attacked him, he killed the bear with nothing but his bare hands. The man stood beside a stuffed black bear that stood as tall as the circus tent and as wide as a door, the stuffed bear there to serve as proof of the accuracy of the man’s story. We listened with wide eyes as the man dramatically told of being all alone out in the wilderness, being awakened by the roar of the bear in his tent, as he told of the open mouth of the bear and the teeth prepared to eat him. He told of wrestling the bear, of hitting the bear with a frying pan, of winning the match, and then, after the battle, simply returning to his tent to sleep. It never occurred to us to ask him how a bear that size could enter his tent.
Later in the day, we drank hot cocoa as we watched magic performed. The magician (an elderly man who was short in stature with long white hair and a beard to match who seemed to us remarkably familiar) wore a tall, coned-shaped hat painted with the colors of the rainbow. He carried a magic wand with an emerald at its tip, and flowing robes, he wore, of purple and gold and blue with white stars and clouds and streaks of lightning painted upon them. Remarkable feats he accomplished, floating books of magic through the air, floating a woman through the air, and restoring pieces of paper he had torn. He could make words appear on slates, words that seemed to have been written by an invisible hand, and I sat there in awe and wonder of his talent, his ability.
We heard music performed and ate until our bellies ached; we saw jugglers, men on stilts, and clowns who acted as though they could not figure out how to ride a bicycle; and that night we saw an incredible display of fireworks. But, my favorite part of the day was exploring the tent containing paintings and photographs like no other I had ever seen.
Father and Mother had both been to Europe and had traveled the world, often returning with pottery or figurines, fabrics or valuable pieces of art, souvenirs of one kind or another, but we had only heard tales of the wonders of worlds far away. Then, at the carnival that year, the world seemed to come to us.
Colorful paintings of European castles sitting high on mountaintops were seen that day, castles with towers rising high and casting shadows upon the treetops down below. Mountains and autumn trees reached only as high as the base of the castles, castles that seemed to surely be as old as the mountain itself. There were paintings of kings and queens in royal dress, appearing angry and distressed as they sat on their thrones, as they were waited on by jesters bringing goblets of wine, and when they were in the presence of knights.
And, there were photographs that appeared to be real magic, not the illusions performed by the man with the long beard. Black and white, shadows and light, depicting eyes filled with emotion, moments captured like a firefly. In those photographs, faces told the story of their history, their adventures, and their hardships. The photographs showed the life of the rich, the life of the poor, and highlighted the differences between the two. Landscapes showed the differences between the seasons, between the deserts and the towns and the forests, while other photographs showed the differences between cultures. Photographs of animals from all over the world were shown for the prideful, playful beings they are at heart.
We had been regular visitors to museums and had traveled some, but we had never seen images that sparked my imagination like these did. I wanted so badly to be a photographer, to be able to capture moments of emotion on film to be saved forever. But, those were flights of fancy, Father and Mother said, for such work was too dangerous and not for ladies. But, at night, I would dream of visiting far away locations or, perhaps, only as far as town to capture on film moments that could last forever.
I grow tired, Sister, as has occurred so often lately. Remembering the past can sometimes drain the energy from one’s body. More frequently now, I haven’t the strength to leave my bed while other days I feel strong enough to sit on the front porch in the sunlight and watch the leaves fall around me. Some days, I only go as far as this desk, either to write or to simply look out the window, across the fields of clover now littered with fall leaves, towards the lake, and at that old oak tree still growing strong, reaching its branches to Heaven.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
The autumn leaves are being blown by a gentle wind outside, cascading downward outside my window like a tangible rain of bright colors. How I remember as children extending our arms as we lifted our smiling eyes up to the sky, turning and dancing, enjoying the falling leaves. I remember piling the leaves in a basket so that Whiskers could jump in, scratching at the leaves until settling on a comfortable position for napping. The fall season holds so many memories of the past, memories of childhood, each leaf outside the window seeming to remind me of them.
It was in the autumn months when the most wonderful apple recipes would be made, the house filling up with the smell of apple and cinnamon and vanilla as pies and cobblers and cakes would be made, usually being eaten in less time than the time required for their preparation.
In the fall, thick, warm blankets of soft fabrics were brought down from the attic and placed upon the beds for the cool nights. Flames filled the fireplaces with light and wonder, and logs were placed in small piles beside the hearth. In the barn, care was taken so that the animals had extra warmth, extra hay in their stalls and extra food for their stomachs, and their water troughs were removed of ice each morning.
But, except for the autumn that you wed, the greatest enjoyment of the fall season was always the fall carnival held at the edge of town. Advertised as the greatest carnival in the territory, it was truly a marvel to the two of us. Never did we attend a fall carnival without eating at least one, and often more, caramel covered apples, apples that we would wash down with orange sodas, lemonade, or hot cocoa. We would begin saving our own money, a bit here and there, in the summer so that we could buy those tasty treats in the fall.
As we enjoyed the tastes of the carnival, we would walk through the midway and from tent to tent, witnessing things we could only see at the carnival. Fire-eating men, men who could swallow swords, women who knew the future, and women who could perform ballet on the trapeze or on the bare backs of horses were always at the carnival. Snakes with two heads and roaring lions tamed so that a man could put his head inside the lion’s mouth without harm were there too, along with mummies that were supposed to have been found in countries far away. Singing quartets would perform gospel songs and clowns would walk about giving children balloons or lollipops. Contests would be held for the best pie, the best cake, and the best cookie. There would be contests to catch pigs that had been bathed in lard, and farmers would exhibit their animals as they competed for the blue ribbon, a prize to be proud of indeed. And, when it was over, fireworks would light the night sky, filling the sky with a rainbow of colors and the air with explosions of excitement.
But, my favorite memory of the carnival, Katrina, is the one we attended when we were ten years old. Do you remember?
The air was a bit chilly even though we were wearing our sweaters, but the sun was shining and the orange, red, and yellow leaves were falling down about us. It was perfect carnival weather. Father and Mother were listening to the quartet sing as we were allowed to explore what the carnival had to offer.
We sat on a bench for a while, eating caramel covered apples and listening to an elderly gentleman, short in stature with a long white beard and hair to match, tell a story of how, after a bear attacked him, he killed the bear with nothing but his bare hands. The man stood beside a stuffed black bear that stood as tall as the circus tent and as wide as a door, the stuffed bear there to serve as proof of the accuracy of the man’s story. We listened with wide eyes as the man dramatically told of being all alone out in the wilderness, being awakened by the roar of the bear in his tent, as he told of the open mouth of the bear and the teeth prepared to eat him. He told of wrestling the bear, of hitting the bear with a frying pan, of winning the match, and then, after the battle, simply returning to his tent to sleep. It never occurred to us to ask him how a bear that size could enter his tent.
Later in the day, we drank hot cocoa as we watched magic performed. The magician (an elderly man who was short in stature with long white hair and a beard to match who seemed to us remarkably familiar) wore a tall, coned-shaped hat painted with the colors of the rainbow. He carried a magic wand with an emerald at its tip, and flowing robes, he wore, of purple and gold and blue with white stars and clouds and streaks of lightning painted upon them. Remarkable feats he accomplished, floating books of magic through the air, floating a woman through the air, and restoring pieces of paper he had torn. He could make words appear on slates, words that seemed to have been written by an invisible hand, and I sat there in awe and wonder of his talent, his ability.
We heard music performed and ate until our bellies ached; we saw jugglers, men on stilts, and clowns who acted as though they could not figure out how to ride a bicycle; and that night we saw an incredible display of fireworks. But, my favorite part of the day was exploring the tent containing paintings and photographs like no other I had ever seen.
Father and Mother had both been to Europe and had traveled the world, often returning with pottery or figurines, fabrics or valuable pieces of art, souvenirs of one kind or another, but we had only heard tales of the wonders of worlds far away. Then, at the carnival that year, the world seemed to come to us.
Colorful paintings of European castles sitting high on mountaintops were seen that day, castles with towers rising high and casting shadows upon the treetops down below. Mountains and autumn trees reached only as high as the base of the castles, castles that seemed to surely be as old as the mountain itself. There were paintings of kings and queens in royal dress, appearing angry and distressed as they sat on their thrones, as they were waited on by jesters bringing goblets of wine, and when they were in the presence of knights.
And, there were photographs that appeared to be real magic, not the illusions performed by the man with the long beard. Black and white, shadows and light, depicting eyes filled with emotion, moments captured like a firefly. In those photographs, faces told the story of their history, their adventures, and their hardships. The photographs showed the life of the rich, the life of the poor, and highlighted the differences between the two. Landscapes showed the differences between the seasons, between the deserts and the towns and the forests, while other photographs showed the differences between cultures. Photographs of animals from all over the world were shown for the prideful, playful beings they are at heart.
We had been regular visitors to museums and had traveled some, but we had never seen images that sparked my imagination like these did. I wanted so badly to be a photographer, to be able to capture moments of emotion on film to be saved forever. But, those were flights of fancy, Father and Mother said, for such work was too dangerous and not for ladies. But, at night, I would dream of visiting far away locations or, perhaps, only as far as town to capture on film moments that could last forever.
I grow tired, Sister, as has occurred so often lately. Remembering the past can sometimes drain the energy from one’s body. More frequently now, I haven’t the strength to leave my bed while other days I feel strong enough to sit on the front porch in the sunlight and watch the leaves fall around me. Some days, I only go as far as this desk, either to write or to simply look out the window, across the fields of clover now littered with fall leaves, towards the lake, and at that old oak tree still growing strong, reaching its branches to Heaven.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 3
October 3
Katrina,
Answers, the human race seeks answers, inquisitive spirits searching for reason, solution, and change. From the time of birth, humans, being as we are, seek answers to unending questions. Humans wish to know how the world goes round and why it does so, why the sun rises in the east, why life exists and the reason for it, why do bad things happen, and why do we have to die. But, dearest Katrina, questioning is a two-edged blade, cutting through ignorance with one side to further science and cutting ourselves with the other as we search for answers that do not exist in the realm of the mortal.
Nature knows better. Nature cares not of why it is here on Earth or of why it was given an opportunity for life; rather, it spends its time soaking in the sun rays and enjoying the days, learning of growth and passing the wisdom in its life on to others as they grow. Nature asks but dwells not on questions of life and death; nature relishes the life it has while it has it. Nature wastes no energy trying to sort through unanswerable questions or pondering why the storms of life sometimes travel through; instead spending its energy living.
Perhaps nature has the truest of wisdom, the wisdom to respect the life we have now. As in many ways, humans could learn much from nature, the respect nature has for life often being a lesson eluding humans.
As humans search for answers, we spend our time--time that can never be returned to us--worrying about pasts we can never change and wondering about events beyond our control or consciousness. Yet, we search and we wait for answers to arrive and, meanwhile, our time slips away.
Humans should be living as nature, Sister, contemplating unanswerable questions but not submitting to them or allowing them to control our time. Time is the greatest commodity humans have; without time life is nothing, for time is the first requirement for change.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
Answers, the human race seeks answers, inquisitive spirits searching for reason, solution, and change. From the time of birth, humans, being as we are, seek answers to unending questions. Humans wish to know how the world goes round and why it does so, why the sun rises in the east, why life exists and the reason for it, why do bad things happen, and why do we have to die. But, dearest Katrina, questioning is a two-edged blade, cutting through ignorance with one side to further science and cutting ourselves with the other as we search for answers that do not exist in the realm of the mortal.
Nature knows better. Nature cares not of why it is here on Earth or of why it was given an opportunity for life; rather, it spends its time soaking in the sun rays and enjoying the days, learning of growth and passing the wisdom in its life on to others as they grow. Nature asks but dwells not on questions of life and death; nature relishes the life it has while it has it. Nature wastes no energy trying to sort through unanswerable questions or pondering why the storms of life sometimes travel through; instead spending its energy living.
Perhaps nature has the truest of wisdom, the wisdom to respect the life we have now. As in many ways, humans could learn much from nature, the respect nature has for life often being a lesson eluding humans.
As humans search for answers, we spend our time--time that can never be returned to us--worrying about pasts we can never change and wondering about events beyond our control or consciousness. Yet, we search and we wait for answers to arrive and, meanwhile, our time slips away.
Humans should be living as nature, Sister, contemplating unanswerable questions but not submitting to them or allowing them to control our time. Time is the greatest commodity humans have; without time life is nothing, for time is the first requirement for change.
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 1
October 1
Katrina,
It still seems strange how you were bedridden by the fever and I had barely a cold. We usually became ill at the same time, sleepy at the same time, we usually thought the same jokes were funny and the same stories sad. Yet, there you were, a small child of six years lying there in your bed, fighting for your life, and all I could do was watch. Mother and Father and Betsy hovered over you constantly, giving you medicines and keeping you warm or fighting the fever with ice baths, all of them distraught, worried, fearful of losing you. Once, I saw Mother crying by your bedside when she did not realize I was watching. “Why my Katrina, why Katrina,” she repeated over and over again, but the tears that fell upon your blankets did not soothe your fever.
They kept us apart most of the time to protect us both. But once in a while they would let me sit by your bed, and I would hold your hand and tell you stories of the animals in the fields, reassuring you that you would be all right as I held a compress to your forehead. We were sisters, the best of friends, and I felt powerless to help you, unable to take the fever from you, unable to make you or Mother or Father or Betsy feel better. So, I would sit by you, when allowed, and talk to you, believing that somewhere within your spirit, somehow, you could hear me, one sister to another, and feel the hope of The Oak surrounding you, strengthening you.
For nearly a week, everyone prayed and hoped, diligently doing all things possible to bring you through the sickness. And, then, finally, one day, like a sunrise you simply sat up in bed, the fever gone, and the rays of sunlight beaming through the window and dancing about on the floor. No one could really explain it, but we didn’t care to as long as you were alright and back with us. The doctor said that the fever put a strain on your heart but, if it did, it never showed, seeing as though you were back to yourself in no time, running through the fields with me, having tea time, and searching for shooting stars at night. And I was thrilled and relieved to have my sister back with me.
One would think that I would have learned my lesson then.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Read articles by Debra Phillips at www.associatedcontent.com.
Katrina,
It still seems strange how you were bedridden by the fever and I had barely a cold. We usually became ill at the same time, sleepy at the same time, we usually thought the same jokes were funny and the same stories sad. Yet, there you were, a small child of six years lying there in your bed, fighting for your life, and all I could do was watch. Mother and Father and Betsy hovered over you constantly, giving you medicines and keeping you warm or fighting the fever with ice baths, all of them distraught, worried, fearful of losing you. Once, I saw Mother crying by your bedside when she did not realize I was watching. “Why my Katrina, why Katrina,” she repeated over and over again, but the tears that fell upon your blankets did not soothe your fever.
They kept us apart most of the time to protect us both. But once in a while they would let me sit by your bed, and I would hold your hand and tell you stories of the animals in the fields, reassuring you that you would be all right as I held a compress to your forehead. We were sisters, the best of friends, and I felt powerless to help you, unable to take the fever from you, unable to make you or Mother or Father or Betsy feel better. So, I would sit by you, when allowed, and talk to you, believing that somewhere within your spirit, somehow, you could hear me, one sister to another, and feel the hope of The Oak surrounding you, strengthening you.
For nearly a week, everyone prayed and hoped, diligently doing all things possible to bring you through the sickness. And, then, finally, one day, like a sunrise you simply sat up in bed, the fever gone, and the rays of sunlight beaming through the window and dancing about on the floor. No one could really explain it, but we didn’t care to as long as you were alright and back with us. The doctor said that the fever put a strain on your heart but, if it did, it never showed, seeing as though you were back to yourself in no time, running through the fields with me, having tea time, and searching for shooting stars at night. And I was thrilled and relieved to have my sister back with me.
One would think that I would have learned my lesson then.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Read articles by Debra Phillips at www.associatedcontent.com.
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