Letters home. We think about writing often but seldom find the time or make the time to pick up the pen. Yet, in those unwritten words are priceless treasures, lifetimes of lessons learned never passed down to the younger generations, admissions of mistakes never shared with those taking the same path. In Letters Home, the character of Christina Allgood shares the story of her life, hoping that others will use her story to enjoy similar victories and avoid the mistakes she has already made.
July 6, 1999
Katrina,
What a pleasure of life it has been, Sister, to view the rebirth of spring each year as the trees across the property begin to stand tall, yawning and stretching their limbs toward the sun like a child awaking from a nap, their leaves rustling in a spring breeze as if sharing with the other trees the dreams they’ve had over winter. The grass then begins to seem, each day, a bit greener than the day before and more birds begin to return home from their winter abodes. And, here and there, a small bit of color can be seen as if the flowers are trying to awake a bit early, lifting their heads above the Earth just long enough to see if the sun will keep them as warm as their winter blanket of soil. In the spring, even the sun appears to begin shining more brightly, happy to see the seasons rotate as they do, happy to know that when summer is in season the sun will be able to spend more time outside, hovering above the Earth, keeping watch over time, and playing peek-a-boo with the clouds.
Spring is such a wonderful season, a season of variety. Well, one can feel the warmth of the sun on the face during the day and, at night, feel the luxury of being wrapped in a favorite blanket with a cup of hot cocoa and a good book in front of the hypnotic comfort of a softly roaring fire. Spring is like the magic of Earth in all its splendor, birthing new life and returning to life those who have been sleeping under the protective eye of winter.
The animals are out in the fields on this day, running and sleeping in the sun, peering up to the sky searching for signs of rain or wind or summer heat. The horses feel the rush of freedom as they trot across their territory, the icy snow of winter and the cold rain of early spring no longer chilling their legs as they make their way across the land. The cows are enjoying sunning in the fields, grouped together loosely but turning their heads to one another as if holding a group discussion on whether or not the weather will hold out.
Near the window, the bird that has spent his life here at The Oak watches the events of the property from his wooden house situated on a pole high above the ground, butterflies beginning to tease him with the gentle flaps of brightly tinted wings before landing on the rooftop of the birdhouse for a panoramic view of the area.
In the spring, I look across the fields of clover leading down to the lake, with the old oak tree there by the water, and I watch the returning birds building their homes, preparing to lay their eggs, and flying about through the air, happy to be alive, happy to be back at The Oak. What an incredible world it would be if all mankind were to experience such joy of life and living.
But, to know such joy, one must know love, and the spring is the season of love. But, what, dear Sister, is love? In my old age, sitting here at the window, love is still a mystery to me. The Oak just passed its century mark and we are soon to follow, but I think The Oak knows of love and joy and hope and speaks of these elements through its history and with some hidden force from within these walls.
Is love charity, the giving of the heart, of time, of money, of respect, or of patience? Is love concern that one feels for another, be they familiar or a stranger to us? Is love nothing more than physical passion or the fluttering that occurs when one sees an attractive face? Is love the force that binds two sisters separated by time, by life? Is love that connection we have with all living beings, with God, with mankind, with the animals, and with the Earth, each one helping in some way to care for the others? Or, could love be, in its purest form, hope, a process of positive thinking that drives people to goodness?
Yet, despite my questions of love, I know it exists in the world. Love is all about this world, Sister, and throughout this house, seeping out of the walls and up through the flooring in an invisible mist that effects all who pass through the front doors. Love is throughout this property, floating on the winds and being whispered by the trees and swimming in the waters, making its way into the hearts of all of the field workers and the house staff and any soul who walks upon the land.
Sister, my eyes tire and my hand aches and I must rest. For nearly ten years now, Katrina, I’ve written almost every day, sometimes only writing when my health allows. But, somehow, time seems to be slowing down my mind, as if a tape is rewinding, stopping at certain moments to play for me memories of the past and remind me of questions long since unanswered. I thought perhaps it was the winter months taking a toll, but spring has passed and summer is in season and my thoughts continue to slow. Perhaps it is my old age requiring me to review my years. Soon, I shall open the windows, and the fresh air, as always, will invigorate my soul.
I shall visit soon, Sister, if I am able and should the summer provide a cool, breezy morning. And, I shall bring your favorite flowers along with flowers from the garden so as to adorn your dwelling with lively colors and the scents of the hope that comes from the rebirth that was brought about by spring and is maintained by the strength of summer.
Forever,
Christina
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