Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 4

August 4,
Katrina,


It’s a wonderful quiet time when the world slows to a pace where one can hear the birds singing their good morning song as they skip with joy from one tree branch to another, gently waking the other woodland animals. Deeply inhaled fresh air tingles the sensations and allows one to hear the stories of the trees carried on the air, stories of growth, lessons of peace, moments of truth.



The Earth understands how to care for itself and others, balancing the two beautifully and without failure of either. If one listens with the heart, then it is in the outdoors where one can realize that nature cares for itself, interference completely unnecessary. Limbs which have grown old are dropped to the ground only to become a winter home for small woodland animals until years later when it crumbles into pieces and works its way down back into the Earth as natural fertilizer to assist with the nourishment of new growth. Small creatures will give birth beside slow running streams; teaching their young to survive by playing games of hide and seek in the tall, uncut grass; smiling and laughing in their own unique way; the young growing and later returning to their home in the grass to give birth to their own young. Water, with its cool, quiet power, will always manage to find its way across the rocky and uneven creek bed until its path reaches the river which reaches the ocean which reaches the sea which discharges itself into smaller locks of water which gently make their way into tiny creek beds.



The trees shade the water and the creatures, offering protection and supplies. The creatures feed the trees and remove unwanted material from the path of the water. Or they can help create or block a path instead. The water nourishes the trees and the creatures and acts as a road-map, directing them here and there. They all work together as one, understanding the give and take that results in survival, in success.



Life is a circle, natural and complete. We are all connected in some manner. And, only through respect can we come to understand and protect this precious cycle of life. For, when the cycle is nurtured, all arcs are uplifted. But, if one part of the circle is destroyed, then the cycle is broken and the remaining arcs shall suffer from the destruction of the one.



As I listen to the birds talking to each other and hear the stream running for home, I listen for the trees telling their story of creation. As the rustling leaves whisper the words, sounds carried on the wind, the branches reach out in dramatic form to aid in the telling of the story, of the secrets of survival. The tree survives because the roots grow deep, intertwining with other trees as if holding hands and teaming up against the storms of life. The tree survives because its foundation is strong but it allows its branches to bend; because it gives to others shade, comfort, and nourishment; and because it allows itself to receive nourishment from others. The forest and the water and the animals work together, helping each other, respecting and protecting their cycle of life.



If only humans would do the same. Power hungry, we would rather shed blood than shed ignorance, more willing to share fists than hope. Have we done our part, Katrina, to enlighten the world? Has anyone?



The Earth has no secrets, the trees tell no lies. And, although at times the wind may become angered and rage or the water to flood, the elements always return to harmony, somehow making the negative into a positive. Have I done my part to protect the cycle or have the secrets I’ve kept and the anger I’ve harbored disturbed the flow of truth and prevented the return of harmony? Do you despise me, my Sister, could you ever forgive me, for the decisions I’ve made?



As years have passed, Katrina, I have learned.



I remember two children running through the fields, laughing because it felt good, laughing because we could. Could we ever return to those carefree days and reclaim childhood innocence?



I miss you.



Forever sisters,
Christina



This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.