November 23
Katrina,
Thanksgiving, Sister, a day brought about because a group of people believed in each other enough to struggle through difficult days and long nights, knowing in their heart that together, eventually, they would find their way to a better life. Perhaps their survival was due not so much to hard labor or good weather or fortune as much as to their belief in each other, their dependence upon each other, their faith that the group, that each individual, was worth fighting for, was worthy of something better, something more.
We all need someone to believe in us, someone who believes that we’re capable and competent, someone who believes that we’re good enough. Everyone needs someone who will lift the spirits from time to time, a reminder in times of difficulty that perseverance will prevail, a reminder that each of us has the ability to succeed, that each of us is good enough. When someone believes in us, the doors of the future fly open, waiting for us to choose one to enter; although the road may not be easy, mistakes will be made, and doubt felt from time to time, the journey is made easier, the possibilities seem endless, and the path is made to be a brighter walk through life because humanity without built a light within.
But, it’s not enough simply to believe in someone, for one must express it; a positive light beaming from one heart to another like a ray of hope, love in its truest form, humanity. Words unspoken have a power all their own, but have meanings often misinterpreted as their opposite.
The candle is dim and the wick short for those who do not have someone to believe in them, someone to express to them regularly that they are capable, good enough, worthy. And, those unsupported by the humanity of others are easy to recognize, the light of their eyes dimmed to possibility, the tone of doubt in their voice, the troubled expression of sorrow upon their face, a spirit that gives up too easily in the face of difficulty, and a body that seems alone even in a crowded room, heartbroken, lost.
If a small group of people, such as the pilgrims, believed in each other enough to create for themselves a new world, imagine the good that would come to the world, imagine the humanity that would exist if humans began to feel as though each human--each and every one--was worthy, was good enough. The world, I think, would be a much better place, a kinder place where the true potential of humanity was unlocked.
Forever Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated November 21
November 21
Katrina,
Sometimes, when The Oak is closed, a stranded motorist unfamiliar with the area or a local resident just checking to see if we’re open will find their way to The Oak. Betsy’s granddaughter, Lisa, will usually show them about the house, pointing out certain antiques or locations of interest, telling them of the history of the house, telling them about us. But, about this time, about fifteen years ago, someone found their way to The Oak for a different reason.
I could get around better then and, even this time of year, could venture out on to the porch for a breath of fresh air or take a brief walk about the property near the house. One afternoon, when one could comfortably remain outside for a bit of time if they remained in the light of the sun, a young woman of about twenty years was noticed by one of the farm workers as she walked up the drive, walking without intention, walking without concern. The worker, who had been tending to the cows and horses, noticed the young woman and went to her, and he noticed that her clothes were torn and her soul shattered. He brought her to me, up on the porch, holding her by her waist to help her stand.
She was unable to remember from where she had come but only that she felt as though she had been walking forever. She knew of no front gate to The Oak, no guards, and how she passed over the boundaries of The Oak we never knew. Unable she was, at first, to look me in the eye, and when she finally raised her head to me bruises were seen upon her face, her eyes and cheeks. Chills came across my heart, chills disconnected to the weather, when I saw the bruises, the cuts, the empty eyes of a lifeless soul sitting before me. She didn’t have to tell me what had happened to her, but she would do so in her own time. And, there on the front porch, she told me that her name was Hope.
Her body weakening, the farm worker carried her inside and placed her on the couch. Lisa gathered some blankets while I sat there beside Hope. The house staff brought to her foods that were soft to chew and liquids that would warm her and help Hope to regain her strength. I stayed there with Hope as the walls seemed to hover over her protectively, leaning inward and checking on her as a mother would a child.
After she ate and rested, she began to tell me of what had happened, of her traveling to a visit with a friend--hitchhiking it was called--of the car stalling in the snow, of the man she was traveling with taking advantage. When he had taken from her all he could, he threw her out of the car like discarded garbage and he sped away, and she ran until she could no longer run, and then she walked until she found herself at The Oak. She had never heard of The Oak, but patiently listened as she ate as I told her some of our stories about how Father built this house for Mother and how we grew up here. Lisa and I encouraged Hope to allow herself to be taken to the doctor, to the local office of police, but she refused. She was embarrassed, she was hurt, and she was frightened of possible retaliation. Much of the day had passed when her tears finally gave way, beginning to cascade down like a shower of confusion and betrayal. Finally, she was persuaded to go into town, and Lisa and I went with her to the local emergency room.
Lisa and I stayed with Hope, holding her hand and comforting her as much as possible as doctors and nurses spoke to her, performed tests, and poked and prodded in manners difficult even under the best of circumstances. A police officer came and talked to her there, asking questions of a personal nature and speaking with the doctors. But, although everyone wished her well, made referrals to counselors, and promised to try to find the one who had perpetrated this act, they seemed to treat her as if she had a common cold or something similar, lacking in the compassion that Hope so desperately needed.
When the hospital staff asked where Hope would be staying, I explained to them that she would remain at The Oak. At The Oak, we would be able to keep her safe and help her to heal. Hope was not certain at first, the prospect of staying with strangers was obviously frightening, but we convinced her that it would be the safest place for her. From The Oak, her family could be contacted and the difficult situation explained with patience. At The Oak, gates could be guarded so that danger would not be allowed inside. At The Oak, the walls Father built with hope could rejuvenate her spirit.
So, to The Oak Hope returned, and began the process of healing. And, during the weeks it required for her family to work through the snowstorms and travel to reclaim her, she helped me to heal somewhat too. How true it is that those as young as Hope can teach to those of us who are old lessons we never learned.
As she began to disclose more of the brutal experience that brought her to The Oak and more about her home life (her home life, thankfully, was a positive experience), I saw within her a forward looking soul that I had once been long ago, and I felt comfortable enough to tell her of pieces of my life, save important secrets. Hope was strong and brave, and kept repeating to herself that everything would be okay. Yes, everything would be okay. And, in those weeks of watching Hope struggle, survive, and grow stronger, of listening to her talk and reason, I began to feel more at peace with my similar experience, and all of the years that I had spent wondering if I had deserved such brutality were exchanged for knowledge that no one ever deserves as such.
Hope’s parents were still alive and doing well, and Hope had a sister as well. She spoke fondly of her family and seemed greatly confused that I could turn my back on my only sibling, a sister with whom I shared so much, and that I could turn away from the world until I was barely part of it. And, though she was broken and healing at the time, it was Hope who encouraged me to make peace with the past and move on. Though Hope had been brutally wounded, she still held tight to faith and looked up to God and looked toward the future with a positive heart.
It was about five years after Hope returned to her family that she returned to The Oak to visit with Lisa and myself. She thanked us for our help the day that she arrived and for our help throughout the weeks of her stay, and as she spoke she had a smile upon her face that lit up the room and a newborn child in her arms that lit up her heart. The man who had harmed her was captured and, after a difficult trial that brutalized her again, he was punished, punished for harming Hope. And, unlike myself, Hope pursued the future, beginning a family and working to help those who had suffered the same brutality as she by speaking up and speaking out, leaving the past behind her where it belonged.
And, that, my dear Sister, is the real secret of life--learning from the past, but leaving the past behind and moving forward. Hope knows that. Hope knows that dwelling in the past, in the wrongs that have been committed, presents us with nothing but roadblocks and dead ends. Yet, learning from the past will prevent mistakes from being recommitted and moving on will lead us to a better place.
Another opportunity had presented itself to me, showing me of the mistakes I had made, offering me a chance to try to make amends with different parts of my past, and I turned away. Do you think, Sister, that life ever tires of presenting us with opportunities, tires of our rejections and simply slips away?
I’m sorry, Sister, I’m sorry.
Forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
Sometimes, when The Oak is closed, a stranded motorist unfamiliar with the area or a local resident just checking to see if we’re open will find their way to The Oak. Betsy’s granddaughter, Lisa, will usually show them about the house, pointing out certain antiques or locations of interest, telling them of the history of the house, telling them about us. But, about this time, about fifteen years ago, someone found their way to The Oak for a different reason.
I could get around better then and, even this time of year, could venture out on to the porch for a breath of fresh air or take a brief walk about the property near the house. One afternoon, when one could comfortably remain outside for a bit of time if they remained in the light of the sun, a young woman of about twenty years was noticed by one of the farm workers as she walked up the drive, walking without intention, walking without concern. The worker, who had been tending to the cows and horses, noticed the young woman and went to her, and he noticed that her clothes were torn and her soul shattered. He brought her to me, up on the porch, holding her by her waist to help her stand.
She was unable to remember from where she had come but only that she felt as though she had been walking forever. She knew of no front gate to The Oak, no guards, and how she passed over the boundaries of The Oak we never knew. Unable she was, at first, to look me in the eye, and when she finally raised her head to me bruises were seen upon her face, her eyes and cheeks. Chills came across my heart, chills disconnected to the weather, when I saw the bruises, the cuts, the empty eyes of a lifeless soul sitting before me. She didn’t have to tell me what had happened to her, but she would do so in her own time. And, there on the front porch, she told me that her name was Hope.
Her body weakening, the farm worker carried her inside and placed her on the couch. Lisa gathered some blankets while I sat there beside Hope. The house staff brought to her foods that were soft to chew and liquids that would warm her and help Hope to regain her strength. I stayed there with Hope as the walls seemed to hover over her protectively, leaning inward and checking on her as a mother would a child.
After she ate and rested, she began to tell me of what had happened, of her traveling to a visit with a friend--hitchhiking it was called--of the car stalling in the snow, of the man she was traveling with taking advantage. When he had taken from her all he could, he threw her out of the car like discarded garbage and he sped away, and she ran until she could no longer run, and then she walked until she found herself at The Oak. She had never heard of The Oak, but patiently listened as she ate as I told her some of our stories about how Father built this house for Mother and how we grew up here. Lisa and I encouraged Hope to allow herself to be taken to the doctor, to the local office of police, but she refused. She was embarrassed, she was hurt, and she was frightened of possible retaliation. Much of the day had passed when her tears finally gave way, beginning to cascade down like a shower of confusion and betrayal. Finally, she was persuaded to go into town, and Lisa and I went with her to the local emergency room.
Lisa and I stayed with Hope, holding her hand and comforting her as much as possible as doctors and nurses spoke to her, performed tests, and poked and prodded in manners difficult even under the best of circumstances. A police officer came and talked to her there, asking questions of a personal nature and speaking with the doctors. But, although everyone wished her well, made referrals to counselors, and promised to try to find the one who had perpetrated this act, they seemed to treat her as if she had a common cold or something similar, lacking in the compassion that Hope so desperately needed.
When the hospital staff asked where Hope would be staying, I explained to them that she would remain at The Oak. At The Oak, we would be able to keep her safe and help her to heal. Hope was not certain at first, the prospect of staying with strangers was obviously frightening, but we convinced her that it would be the safest place for her. From The Oak, her family could be contacted and the difficult situation explained with patience. At The Oak, gates could be guarded so that danger would not be allowed inside. At The Oak, the walls Father built with hope could rejuvenate her spirit.
So, to The Oak Hope returned, and began the process of healing. And, during the weeks it required for her family to work through the snowstorms and travel to reclaim her, she helped me to heal somewhat too. How true it is that those as young as Hope can teach to those of us who are old lessons we never learned.
As she began to disclose more of the brutal experience that brought her to The Oak and more about her home life (her home life, thankfully, was a positive experience), I saw within her a forward looking soul that I had once been long ago, and I felt comfortable enough to tell her of pieces of my life, save important secrets. Hope was strong and brave, and kept repeating to herself that everything would be okay. Yes, everything would be okay. And, in those weeks of watching Hope struggle, survive, and grow stronger, of listening to her talk and reason, I began to feel more at peace with my similar experience, and all of the years that I had spent wondering if I had deserved such brutality were exchanged for knowledge that no one ever deserves as such.
Hope’s parents were still alive and doing well, and Hope had a sister as well. She spoke fondly of her family and seemed greatly confused that I could turn my back on my only sibling, a sister with whom I shared so much, and that I could turn away from the world until I was barely part of it. And, though she was broken and healing at the time, it was Hope who encouraged me to make peace with the past and move on. Though Hope had been brutally wounded, she still held tight to faith and looked up to God and looked toward the future with a positive heart.
It was about five years after Hope returned to her family that she returned to The Oak to visit with Lisa and myself. She thanked us for our help the day that she arrived and for our help throughout the weeks of her stay, and as she spoke she had a smile upon her face that lit up the room and a newborn child in her arms that lit up her heart. The man who had harmed her was captured and, after a difficult trial that brutalized her again, he was punished, punished for harming Hope. And, unlike myself, Hope pursued the future, beginning a family and working to help those who had suffered the same brutality as she by speaking up and speaking out, leaving the past behind her where it belonged.
And, that, my dear Sister, is the real secret of life--learning from the past, but leaving the past behind and moving forward. Hope knows that. Hope knows that dwelling in the past, in the wrongs that have been committed, presents us with nothing but roadblocks and dead ends. Yet, learning from the past will prevent mistakes from being recommitted and moving on will lead us to a better place.
Another opportunity had presented itself to me, showing me of the mistakes I had made, offering me a chance to try to make amends with different parts of my past, and I turned away. Do you think, Sister, that life ever tires of presenting us with opportunities, tires of our rejections and simply slips away?
I’m sorry, Sister, I’m sorry.
Forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated November 15
November 15
Katrina,
Pride is a strange god born of both Heaven and Hell. A god that can bless us with necessity, a desire to do a good job, to do a good deed, to follow the right course, and can also curse us with the blinders of ignorance and self-righteousness. Pride can focus our attention on the truth or it can create a long heavy curtain to hide the truth from our eyes, convincing us not to look behind the veil. Pride is a positive and a negative voice, sometimes misused and sometimes misinterpreted, but how it is used is up to each of us.
Each of us has a need for pride, a belief in our self that we are worthy of life, of happiness, of hope. It is pride that will help us to strive to improve, to grow, to learn, to be better tomorrow then what we are today. Pride will help us to continue walking along the road when the journey becomes difficult and the wind becomes strong, and pride will help us to hold on to the hand of hope, the hand that will walk with us through the fires of life. But a positive pride is a seed planted and nurtured by others who believe in us, those who inspire us to believe in our self, those who wish to help us grow.
When no one cares enough for another to plant the positive seed of pride, a spirit feels a hole in the soul; it is a hole needing to be filled but the spirit knows not what to use to bridge the vacancy, the gulf of emptiness that exists. Then, negative pride is born as the spirits of negativity whisper in the ears of the unfortunate words of false esteem and unreal hope, and the soul follows the only voices offering solutions for the void. And this pride feeds on itself, growing selfishly without the humanity of the positive pride. But, even in the brightest light as well as in the most quiet of moments, the negative pride is an empty shell, a poor disguise of the hollow within.
Dear Sister, it is possible for people to change, to improve, to increase their humanity. Is it possible that humanity could conquer the negative voices of pride and help souls to know the honest worthiness of living? Surely, in time, people will learn that being alive is the only necessity for being worthy of happiness, of positive pride, and true esteem. How wonderful the world would be if we instilled into every spirit that they are worthy of pride, worthy of living, worthy of happiness, joy, and hope. When will the human race recognize our need for one another, each of us, all of us?
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
Pride is a strange god born of both Heaven and Hell. A god that can bless us with necessity, a desire to do a good job, to do a good deed, to follow the right course, and can also curse us with the blinders of ignorance and self-righteousness. Pride can focus our attention on the truth or it can create a long heavy curtain to hide the truth from our eyes, convincing us not to look behind the veil. Pride is a positive and a negative voice, sometimes misused and sometimes misinterpreted, but how it is used is up to each of us.
Each of us has a need for pride, a belief in our self that we are worthy of life, of happiness, of hope. It is pride that will help us to strive to improve, to grow, to learn, to be better tomorrow then what we are today. Pride will help us to continue walking along the road when the journey becomes difficult and the wind becomes strong, and pride will help us to hold on to the hand of hope, the hand that will walk with us through the fires of life. But a positive pride is a seed planted and nurtured by others who believe in us, those who inspire us to believe in our self, those who wish to help us grow.
When no one cares enough for another to plant the positive seed of pride, a spirit feels a hole in the soul; it is a hole needing to be filled but the spirit knows not what to use to bridge the vacancy, the gulf of emptiness that exists. Then, negative pride is born as the spirits of negativity whisper in the ears of the unfortunate words of false esteem and unreal hope, and the soul follows the only voices offering solutions for the void. And this pride feeds on itself, growing selfishly without the humanity of the positive pride. But, even in the brightest light as well as in the most quiet of moments, the negative pride is an empty shell, a poor disguise of the hollow within.
Dear Sister, it is possible for people to change, to improve, to increase their humanity. Is it possible that humanity could conquer the negative voices of pride and help souls to know the honest worthiness of living? Surely, in time, people will learn that being alive is the only necessity for being worthy of happiness, of positive pride, and true esteem. How wonderful the world would be if we instilled into every spirit that they are worthy of pride, worthy of living, worthy of happiness, joy, and hope. When will the human race recognize our need for one another, each of us, all of us?
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated November 10
November 10
Katrina,
As the holiday nears, The Oak is preparing to close for the colder months. Periodically, so that the local residents who wish to visit can come see The Oak, it will open as the snow falls and the water freezes, a day here and a day there. In the winter, ice skaters will glide across the water after it becomes ice, turning and spinning and jumping and twirling. The snow will soon make the mountain treacherous to climb as the snow and ice covering steep sections settles on the mountain in ways that prevent proper footing and the trees, protective of the newborn snow, hover over the flakes and prevent the sun from creating change too quickly.
Winter is the season when the Earth shows all that nothing ever remains the same, but nothing ever truly dies; rather, it changes into something different, something new. In the winter, the rain changes into snow and ice, later returning to liquid to be absorbed into the Earth and various bodies of water. The winds from the north that blow through the winter months will return to their home after the season to prepare to come again. And the winter itself, in time, will change into spring. Life is about change, opportunities for choice, for chance, for mistakes, and even opportunities to redeem ourselves from our wrongdoings should we choose to see them for what they are.
During the holiday season of the colder months, hearts melt, displaying warmth and affection not expressed throughout the year. The human race becomes more giving, more forgiving, more open to change, and more open with their hearts as they begin to reach out more to others and close less their eyes to the truth. And, for a brief time, thankfulness, gratitude, and appreciation begin to rule over the disillusioned and the discontent.
As children, we walked with Father to visit each of the farm workers and every member of the house staff, calling each of them by name and asking of their families as Father wished them a blessed winter season, truly meaning it in his heart. Grateful, Father was, for the changes in The Oak that the workers had helped to create, for the heartfelt care and concern the workers shared for the property; and grateful, the workers were, to be employed by an open heart.
How many people are as fortunate today?
Sister, are you there?
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
As the holiday nears, The Oak is preparing to close for the colder months. Periodically, so that the local residents who wish to visit can come see The Oak, it will open as the snow falls and the water freezes, a day here and a day there. In the winter, ice skaters will glide across the water after it becomes ice, turning and spinning and jumping and twirling. The snow will soon make the mountain treacherous to climb as the snow and ice covering steep sections settles on the mountain in ways that prevent proper footing and the trees, protective of the newborn snow, hover over the flakes and prevent the sun from creating change too quickly.
Winter is the season when the Earth shows all that nothing ever remains the same, but nothing ever truly dies; rather, it changes into something different, something new. In the winter, the rain changes into snow and ice, later returning to liquid to be absorbed into the Earth and various bodies of water. The winds from the north that blow through the winter months will return to their home after the season to prepare to come again. And the winter itself, in time, will change into spring. Life is about change, opportunities for choice, for chance, for mistakes, and even opportunities to redeem ourselves from our wrongdoings should we choose to see them for what they are.
During the holiday season of the colder months, hearts melt, displaying warmth and affection not expressed throughout the year. The human race becomes more giving, more forgiving, more open to change, and more open with their hearts as they begin to reach out more to others and close less their eyes to the truth. And, for a brief time, thankfulness, gratitude, and appreciation begin to rule over the disillusioned and the discontent.
As children, we walked with Father to visit each of the farm workers and every member of the house staff, calling each of them by name and asking of their families as Father wished them a blessed winter season, truly meaning it in his heart. Grateful, Father was, for the changes in The Oak that the workers had helped to create, for the heartfelt care and concern the workers shared for the property; and grateful, the workers were, to be employed by an open heart.
How many people are as fortunate today?
Sister, are you there?
Always,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated November 7
November 7
Katrina,
We must have been six or seven, Sister, when Leroy allowed us to sit around him in chairs made of hay while he taught us how to attach one board to another so that a bird could live safely and securely within its abode. It was Father who approved of letting Leroy show us the secrets of these small, yet important, constructions that we so cherished, Mother seeing this as information completely unnecessary to a female child. And Leroy, who seemed to me to be the oldest person on Earth, was pleased to share his knowledge with the two young souls who treasured the birds as much as he.
There, in the sanctity of the barn, Leroy carved end pieces of wood with a knife, gently blowing off the shavings now and then and speaking of the importance of making certain that the end of each piece of wood fit snuggly into a hole carved into an adjoining piece of wood. A cool spring breeze blew through the barn at times, punctuating Leroy’s tales of life and how they related to the birdhouse as if the breeze was agreeing with him, empowering him, and trying to convey to us the strength of the message. Each piece of wood in the birdhouse, Leroy explained, like each person in the world, has a role to fill; each piece of wood becoming stronger in its own right by supporting the other pieces of wood; multiple sticks of wood working together to assist each other in being more, in being better than what each could have been alone.
I remember Whiskers sitting there with us, sniffing and scratching at the hay, rolling about and then giving himself a bath, and then stretching to fall asleep at our knees as Leroy talked about strength. It was Leroy’s father and grandfather who had taught Leroy how to build a birdhouse, encouraging, gently redirecting, and applauding Leroy’s efforts as he learned and failed and improved until the goal had been reached. Inner strength, Leroy explained, of a piece of wood or an animal or a human, doesn’t begin within but from without.
Inner strength, that undeniable confident voice within that reminds us that we are capable, is a seed that must be planted early by others working together to strengthen the one. No seed planted in the field, Leroy explained, can grow without the aid of the Earth and the Sun and the rain. And, in return, like the pieces of wood of the birdhouse, the seed will be nourished and encouraged from the outside until strong enough to nourish itself and, in gratitude, will plant seeds of strength within others and nourish them. All working together to empower each individual, each plant, each animal, will result in a harvest of blessings.
Humans are like that, Katrina, interconnected like the pieces of wood in the birdhouse and dependent upon each other for nourishment and strength until we are strong enough to stand on our own and, even then, requiring assistance to maintain strength. The subtle clues of encouragement, or the lack thereof, will create the structure of the life to come. For all to survive, for all to be nurtured and to learn to nurture others, humans must feel that we all are valuable enough to encourage and worthy enough to help with actions instead of merely pretty words, for those who experience lives without true nourishment suffer a fate worse than physical death.
Oh, Katrina, do you remember how The Oak was so open when we were young, the windows risen to allow the breeze to dance through the house, cooling rooms and carrying aromas about the house, bringing to us on its waves the sounds of the birds, the sounds from the fields?
Memories often return in dreams, Sister. Do you remember when you learned to ride a horse, frightened at climbing aboard the animal with a body so much larger than your own? But you did it that summer day at only five years, beneath a blue sky free of clouds and the sun beaming down. With Mother keeping her hand on your leg and Father holding on to the reins, you tucked your skirt beneath your body, sitting side saddle, of course, and slightly lifted your face towards the Heavens. Slowly at first, until you became more comfortable, easing into each step as you rode in circles with Mother and Father’s help. How proud everyone was when you were comfortable enough to hold the reins and lead the way around the tiny enclosure all by yourself, yelling back to Mother and Father that you were riding! I remember it like it was yesterday, Sister, but I can’t remember where was I at the time. Sister?
Yes, how I remember those wonderful days, days filled with hope and learning, the days of two children, sisters, running through fields of wildflowers on sunny days in our perfect little world with Whiskers by our side. I revel in these old memories, a comfort to me in my old age. It’s like that wonderful sensation of waking up on a hot summer night for a glass of water and feeling the coolness of the kitchen floor beneath bare feet. It’s wonderfully inescapable, this history of ours, and somehow bittersweet.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
We must have been six or seven, Sister, when Leroy allowed us to sit around him in chairs made of hay while he taught us how to attach one board to another so that a bird could live safely and securely within its abode. It was Father who approved of letting Leroy show us the secrets of these small, yet important, constructions that we so cherished, Mother seeing this as information completely unnecessary to a female child. And Leroy, who seemed to me to be the oldest person on Earth, was pleased to share his knowledge with the two young souls who treasured the birds as much as he.
There, in the sanctity of the barn, Leroy carved end pieces of wood with a knife, gently blowing off the shavings now and then and speaking of the importance of making certain that the end of each piece of wood fit snuggly into a hole carved into an adjoining piece of wood. A cool spring breeze blew through the barn at times, punctuating Leroy’s tales of life and how they related to the birdhouse as if the breeze was agreeing with him, empowering him, and trying to convey to us the strength of the message. Each piece of wood in the birdhouse, Leroy explained, like each person in the world, has a role to fill; each piece of wood becoming stronger in its own right by supporting the other pieces of wood; multiple sticks of wood working together to assist each other in being more, in being better than what each could have been alone.
I remember Whiskers sitting there with us, sniffing and scratching at the hay, rolling about and then giving himself a bath, and then stretching to fall asleep at our knees as Leroy talked about strength. It was Leroy’s father and grandfather who had taught Leroy how to build a birdhouse, encouraging, gently redirecting, and applauding Leroy’s efforts as he learned and failed and improved until the goal had been reached. Inner strength, Leroy explained, of a piece of wood or an animal or a human, doesn’t begin within but from without.
Inner strength, that undeniable confident voice within that reminds us that we are capable, is a seed that must be planted early by others working together to strengthen the one. No seed planted in the field, Leroy explained, can grow without the aid of the Earth and the Sun and the rain. And, in return, like the pieces of wood of the birdhouse, the seed will be nourished and encouraged from the outside until strong enough to nourish itself and, in gratitude, will plant seeds of strength within others and nourish them. All working together to empower each individual, each plant, each animal, will result in a harvest of blessings.
Humans are like that, Katrina, interconnected like the pieces of wood in the birdhouse and dependent upon each other for nourishment and strength until we are strong enough to stand on our own and, even then, requiring assistance to maintain strength. The subtle clues of encouragement, or the lack thereof, will create the structure of the life to come. For all to survive, for all to be nurtured and to learn to nurture others, humans must feel that we all are valuable enough to encourage and worthy enough to help with actions instead of merely pretty words, for those who experience lives without true nourishment suffer a fate worse than physical death.
Oh, Katrina, do you remember how The Oak was so open when we were young, the windows risen to allow the breeze to dance through the house, cooling rooms and carrying aromas about the house, bringing to us on its waves the sounds of the birds, the sounds from the fields?
Memories often return in dreams, Sister. Do you remember when you learned to ride a horse, frightened at climbing aboard the animal with a body so much larger than your own? But you did it that summer day at only five years, beneath a blue sky free of clouds and the sun beaming down. With Mother keeping her hand on your leg and Father holding on to the reins, you tucked your skirt beneath your body, sitting side saddle, of course, and slightly lifted your face towards the Heavens. Slowly at first, until you became more comfortable, easing into each step as you rode in circles with Mother and Father’s help. How proud everyone was when you were comfortable enough to hold the reins and lead the way around the tiny enclosure all by yourself, yelling back to Mother and Father that you were riding! I remember it like it was yesterday, Sister, but I can’t remember where was I at the time. Sister?
Yes, how I remember those wonderful days, days filled with hope and learning, the days of two children, sisters, running through fields of wildflowers on sunny days in our perfect little world with Whiskers by our side. I revel in these old memories, a comfort to me in my old age. It’s like that wonderful sensation of waking up on a hot summer night for a glass of water and feeling the coolness of the kitchen floor beneath bare feet. It’s wonderfully inescapable, this history of ours, and somehow bittersweet.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Letters Home; Section 1, Letter dated November 2
November 2
Katrina,
Thanksgiving is coming, and the house is now decorated with the colors of fall, the tablecloths, the curtains, and the china matched perfectly to the season of gratitude. Outside, the snow is quietly falling, trying not to wake the Earth as it sleeps, and in the distance I see the old oak tree collecting snow on its branches like unexpected treasures found in the sand.
And, thankful I am in my old age of all I have been granted in this world. We were fortunate, Sister, to be able to grow up here at The Oak, a home made with love, a house with hope as its center stone. Here, especially on Thanksgiving, we enjoyed juicy turkeys and hams, sweet potatoes and corn, biscuits and marmalades, and limitless desserts of fruits and chocolate and custard, and hope.
We were blessed with safety in our younger days, blessed with fall festivals and stories that were told to us by bear-catching men who doubled as magicians, and blessed by a childhood of laughter and picnics on sunny days down by the lake near the oak tree. Educations, we received, and importance was placed upon them. And, we were blessed with regular visits to museums and art galleries, blessed to experience the cities and the countryside, to travel, and to learn of other cultures, to know of lifestyles other than the affluent.
Even since the last time I saw you, I have been blessed in many ways though I’ve not always recognized those blessings or appreciated them. Blessed, I’ve been, at continuing to reside here at The Oak, to watch it grow and change, to be amidst memories of our childhood and to view The Oak as it prepares for its future. Blessed, I’ve been, that the business deals of Father and myself have supported The Oak, myself. Blessed, I am, that my health has continued to allow me, at times, to look across the fields of clover, towards the lake and the old oak tree.
Blessed, yes, for the visitors who have come here to The Oak, telling of their lives in ways that has taught me much about my own life. Blessed, indeed, for an opportunity to share my life, my mistakes, and to warn others of the dangers. Blessed, true, for all the people that I have met along a long journey, people of business, strangers, and people of familiarity who have helped to teach me, helped me to reach the place I am now, helped me to recognize my mistakes, helped me to heal.
And, yes, I was blessed with a childhood with the greatest sister I could ask for, a sister, a confidant, a joyful soul with a trusting smile who ran with me through fields of wildflowers.
Yet, how could it be, Katrina, that two children so similar, born of the same mother, born in the same hour, could look at the world so differently, could lead such different lives? Can one be born cursed by a predetermined future, or cursed by slates of an earlier past? Can one be born cursed by the slates of another? Sister? Is there such a thing as a demon seed, a seed within a few that writes upon the slate negativity, working as a filter so that happiness is diluted, little by little, until it seems either nonexistent or unimportant? Or, is it simply each of us, day by day, constructing our lives like a jigsaw puzzle in the process of creation?
From the very beginning, we were so different. You, Sister, were always the bright-eyed cheery child, prepared for life each morning with a trusting smile, with laughter, while I was more difficult to please, more guarded of events that occurred, more guarded of intentions and true emotions. It was I, according to our Mother’s accounts, left alone in the crib for incessant crying and who was difficult to take a bottle. The demeanor you exerted was much more pleasant, so we were told.
As we grew, our bond seemed to me unbreakable, two children dressed as one, playing, learning, growing. We shared the same crib and later the same room, we shared parents and chores and meals, yet we seemed to grow separately as well. We were two children of the same age but reared differently in the same home by the same people. Proper, we decided, when certain dreams were encouraged over others. Necessary, we said, when Mother would remain leaned, smiling over a certain shoulder during studies. Habits, we called it, of who received the first hug or greeting upon entering a room. Early, I noticed, that punishments always fit the crimes but that punishments were different for each child, punishments for one involving long periods of being alone. Sometimes, Sister, I wondered if they were truly removing from me not the freedom to roam but the one thing that meant the most to me, my time with you. Perhaps, I was simply jealous, Sister, of the sister I wanted to be.
You, Sister, were my only friend, my best friend. How could I have expected that you would not grow older, wiser, and leave me for a new life, leave me to follow your dreams, your heart? I should have known better. I should have wished for you better. I should have made it easier for you.
And, on this Thanksgiving, I am truly thankful that, despite the grief I caused, your dreams of happiness, of love and family, became your life.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
Katrina,
Thanksgiving is coming, and the house is now decorated with the colors of fall, the tablecloths, the curtains, and the china matched perfectly to the season of gratitude. Outside, the snow is quietly falling, trying not to wake the Earth as it sleeps, and in the distance I see the old oak tree collecting snow on its branches like unexpected treasures found in the sand.
And, thankful I am in my old age of all I have been granted in this world. We were fortunate, Sister, to be able to grow up here at The Oak, a home made with love, a house with hope as its center stone. Here, especially on Thanksgiving, we enjoyed juicy turkeys and hams, sweet potatoes and corn, biscuits and marmalades, and limitless desserts of fruits and chocolate and custard, and hope.
We were blessed with safety in our younger days, blessed with fall festivals and stories that were told to us by bear-catching men who doubled as magicians, and blessed by a childhood of laughter and picnics on sunny days down by the lake near the oak tree. Educations, we received, and importance was placed upon them. And, we were blessed with regular visits to museums and art galleries, blessed to experience the cities and the countryside, to travel, and to learn of other cultures, to know of lifestyles other than the affluent.
Even since the last time I saw you, I have been blessed in many ways though I’ve not always recognized those blessings or appreciated them. Blessed, I’ve been, at continuing to reside here at The Oak, to watch it grow and change, to be amidst memories of our childhood and to view The Oak as it prepares for its future. Blessed, I’ve been, that the business deals of Father and myself have supported The Oak, myself. Blessed, I am, that my health has continued to allow me, at times, to look across the fields of clover, towards the lake and the old oak tree.
Blessed, yes, for the visitors who have come here to The Oak, telling of their lives in ways that has taught me much about my own life. Blessed, indeed, for an opportunity to share my life, my mistakes, and to warn others of the dangers. Blessed, true, for all the people that I have met along a long journey, people of business, strangers, and people of familiarity who have helped to teach me, helped me to reach the place I am now, helped me to recognize my mistakes, helped me to heal.
And, yes, I was blessed with a childhood with the greatest sister I could ask for, a sister, a confidant, a joyful soul with a trusting smile who ran with me through fields of wildflowers.
Yet, how could it be, Katrina, that two children so similar, born of the same mother, born in the same hour, could look at the world so differently, could lead such different lives? Can one be born cursed by a predetermined future, or cursed by slates of an earlier past? Can one be born cursed by the slates of another? Sister? Is there such a thing as a demon seed, a seed within a few that writes upon the slate negativity, working as a filter so that happiness is diluted, little by little, until it seems either nonexistent or unimportant? Or, is it simply each of us, day by day, constructing our lives like a jigsaw puzzle in the process of creation?
From the very beginning, we were so different. You, Sister, were always the bright-eyed cheery child, prepared for life each morning with a trusting smile, with laughter, while I was more difficult to please, more guarded of events that occurred, more guarded of intentions and true emotions. It was I, according to our Mother’s accounts, left alone in the crib for incessant crying and who was difficult to take a bottle. The demeanor you exerted was much more pleasant, so we were told.
As we grew, our bond seemed to me unbreakable, two children dressed as one, playing, learning, growing. We shared the same crib and later the same room, we shared parents and chores and meals, yet we seemed to grow separately as well. We were two children of the same age but reared differently in the same home by the same people. Proper, we decided, when certain dreams were encouraged over others. Necessary, we said, when Mother would remain leaned, smiling over a certain shoulder during studies. Habits, we called it, of who received the first hug or greeting upon entering a room. Early, I noticed, that punishments always fit the crimes but that punishments were different for each child, punishments for one involving long periods of being alone. Sometimes, Sister, I wondered if they were truly removing from me not the freedom to roam but the one thing that meant the most to me, my time with you. Perhaps, I was simply jealous, Sister, of the sister I wanted to be.
You, Sister, were my only friend, my best friend. How could I have expected that you would not grow older, wiser, and leave me for a new life, leave me to follow your dreams, your heart? I should have known better. I should have wished for you better. I should have made it easier for you.
And, on this Thanksgiving, I am truly thankful that, despite the grief I caused, your dreams of happiness, of love and family, became your life.
Sisters,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
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