At days end...

This is a restful moment for these old swings. They have barely survived the constant, blissful abuse from the many hands of numerous grandchildren. A place where no competition exists for play, the swings are targeted. With expanse of space, clean fresh air and unconfined freedom, children’s imaginations can expand and broaden. 

The swings become a ship sailing with abandon across the great deep ocean, while the captains stand tall, waving flags bravely in the sea breeze. Sometimes, the chains and seats are a mountain climbers’ lifeline, dangling above high bottomless chasms below. Even monkeys can hang from the top and swing happily while chattering with each other. 

Tumbling down the short slide, reaching the bottom with excitement, an adventure is just beginning as further explorations lead back up the ladder, again. The big top of a circus reigns above, while trapeze artists twist and twirl below, the chains and seats balanced cleverly for a show of artistry. As each feat is achieved, a voice rings out, “Look at me!”

When twilight comes, all is quiet again. The circus is gone, the ship has sailed, and the ropes along the cliff are still. Even the monkeys have settled down. 

The fading colors of the sky paint the beauty of what has come and gone, and only our memory can fill in the silent moments. The echoes of laughter, the screams of delight briefly carried past us by the wind, and the visions of peaceful happiness of a day well spent. What will tomorrow bring when a new day blooms, when a different dream begins, and the old swing creates a new adventure? 

We can only wonder what will happen, after the day ends and begins again.

Magic in the clouds

Have you ever been surprised by early morning fog? The clouds that silently lower themselves, white and soft and gentle, their stillness quiet as the mist crouches and sits without a stir of breath. The wind has allowed them to settle, its absence giving them power.

Pinpoints of moisture probe the earth and release a scent of richness beyond description that emanates from the surface and wafts into the whiteness, gliding slowly, climbing gently, and delighting all in its' path.  The cloud holds its breath, while this birth of sensations slowly erupts and sails across the landscape, hidden and blanketed in filmy white.

I hold my breath, too, and listen, my footfalls loud, my own breath hushed, while I heed the gravid silence.  I know the birds are listening, too, their collective songs quiet for the moment. And when I do take a breath, the delicious heavy scents surrounding me permeate my body and my mind, sending pleasure directly into my soul and lifting me into the magic of the cloud.

Then suddenly, a breeze touches my hair and before long, the mist has disappeared, its magic dissipated.  When I look up at the clouds as they sail in their kingdom above, I know the secrets they hold, the enchantment they hide and I remember well the moments I once shared with them.

©2016 Linda Gatewood

An excerpt from Spring Promise, the 2nd book in the Winter Secret Series

While reading Spring Promise, one of my readers said that she was moved to tears when she read the following part of the story:

When the moon began to rise, it cast its light across the room, moving slowly to the bed and creeping up the sides until it shone full across the two sleeping figures.  Derek’s eyes opened, and he watched its progress.

He quietly got up and walked to the window, staring at the bright round full moon, knowing his time with her was shorter than he ever wanted.  Tomorrow was the first day of the dark of the moon.

Cynthia watched him as he stood in front of the window, the moonbeams covering his chest, his arms bare and relaxed by his sides.  He was everything to her, and her eyes loved him as his body shone in moonlight.  When he lifted his arms, she watched the movement of the muscles while shadows played across his skin.  He reached behind his neck and unlatched the smoke-colored quartz pendant, her gift to him that he’d always worn, and gently laid it on the table.   Then he stood very still.

She stopped breathing as she considered what was happening, what he was doing and why.  That one gesture of his was worth a thousand unspoken words, and she could understand all of them.  She never realized that her sharp intake of breath had been heard by him.

Slowly he walked back to the bed and sat next to her.  He took her hand and kissed the palm, staring at it as if it held secrets.  “There is something I want to tell you.”

She sat up and instinctively clung to his hand, holding it tightly as if he balanced on the edge of a cliff.  Her instincts came alive, and fear began to nibble at her heart.

He continued, “I have a confession to make.”  Derek paused so long; the shadows fought with the moonbeams as they wrapped themselves around the room. His head was down, and he wouldn’t look at her; his face was part of the shadows.  

Cynthia began to dread what he had to tell her, instinctively knowing what his intentions were.  Was this the moment she had always been fearful of?  The moment when he told her he was leaving for her own good?

His voice was low as he said, “My life hasn’t been what it should have been. The scars are deep and will never go away. This is so unfair to you.”  In the moonlight, he lifted his head and his eyes turned the color of cold hard steel.

“No!” she said.  “Don’t say that.”

When he finally looked at her and saw the alarm that lit her face, he softened his words. “I wish it was different.  I wish I was a different man and had lived worthy of you…of our child.  I wish I could promise you a safe life.”  He looked longingly at her, her satin skin bathed in moonlight, her deep-blue eyes now filled with anxiety.  He reached for her and crushed her to him, burying his face in her hair, feeling the silky texture against his skin.

I appreciate those who enjoy my stories and are able to experience the joys and sorrows and fears of my characters in a story that could be true, but more importantly, is always true to the feelings of people everywhere. If you haven’t yet started the Winter Secret series, its time!  http://amazon.com/lindagatewood/  

© 2016 Linda Gatewood

Spring Promise

Spring Promise, the 2^nd book in the Winter Secret series, continues the story of love, suspense, and intrigue between Derek and Cynthia. As one reviewer said about the series: “Step into a world of intrigue and romance. Gatewood kept me cheering for her two main characters as they twist through impossible odds to defeat evil at its worst. What a joy to read a book filled with mystery and romance without 'X' rated language or scenes. Character development is compelling as Gatewood aptly displays how truelove can help heal hearts that have been hurt through the misfortunes of life. If you love mystery and love, this is a great book to cuddle up with on a cold winter's day!” - Kathy Rae

www.amazon.com/author/lindagatewood 

Kind Words...

If there was ever a message in a song, this one would be for today. Forming a habit of speaking kindly to one another almost seems outdated in our current world of negative social comments, backlashes, and adverse input.

Forming habits that uplift others is a tireless work of constraint, and constant resistance to the popular, edgy, and enticing wave of destructive criticism. Anyone who engages in social media has been exposed to the new insight of the toxic souls of some human beings.

In the song, it suggests, “the tones will be welcome and free… give courage and hope from above” Imagine a day of only kind words from everyone you know; imagine a day where you speak only kind words to those around you. “Let us oft speak kind words to each other, kind words are sweet tones of the heart.”

Speaking kindly is a habit worth cultivating. It’s like clearing the flowerbed by removing the ugly, greedy weeds that thrive off the lovely flowers, competing for nourishment and diminishing their bloom.

Let your words bloom with kindness, thoughtfulness, and a sincere care for those you interact with each day. “Like the sunbeams of morn on the mountains, the soul they awake to good cheer…”

Music: Joseph L. Townsend, 1849-1942; Ebenezer Beesley, 1840-1906

Memorial Day was an important holiday to my grandmother.  She and grandpa raised a large family during the roaring 20’s and the Great Depression, in a small rural farming community originally settled by their ancestors and a few other families.  Their relatives built the first post office, first school and the first cemetery, and ties were strong to the community, their families large and prolific. Many of the graves in the cemetery belonged to our family members.  As the town grew over the years, so did the graves of my ancestors.

My grandma would start making beautiful paper flowers weeks ahead in preparation for Memorial Day.  These were added to those already saved in the attic, along with flags for soldiers, to adorn the graves of our relatives. A great celebration was planned as members from far away traveled this one time each year to meet. It was an unofficial family reunion.

On the day before Memorial Day, all the flowers were loaded up and hauled to the cemetery and placed appropriately.  The next day, everyone visited the cemetery, and as an impressionable child, I was led around the grave sites and listened attentively to the personal stories of each person belonging to our lineage.  Some had been pioneers and suffered great hardships; some died of terrible, swift diseases, many were soldiers of war.  Some were buried with stillborn babes in their arms. A few had secrets that were whispered in passing, while others had accomplished great deeds during their lifetime and were spoken of reverently.  They came alive for me as time slipped away and we were all united together, both the living and the departed.

After the ceremonies and eulogies were over, we returned to grandma’s house for a feast of delicious food prepared in celebration and appreciation.  After the meal, as twilight was close to descending, some visitors returned home, some stayed over-night.  My grandparents and a few helpers returned to the cemetery and gathered the artificial flowers and brought them home, carefully repacking and storing them in the attic to be used again next year.

After my grandparents were finally laid to rest in that same cemetery, the Memorial Day tradition began to fade for some, and the times changed. Camping elsewhere on that weekend became popular along with the great appeal for family attractions and entertainment. The numbers who gathered at the cemetery lessened, and fewer came with flowers.  Many years later, when I moved back, closer to the little community founded by my ancestors, I found myself once again walking through the headstones, supporting my aging mother, while she told me the stories of each of our relatives, their secrets and achievements regaled and honored, their sacrifices shared, their tragedies touching my heart.

We placed flowers on their graves and felt at peace as they were, once again, gathered around us, united and bound together forever, their histories firmly planted in my mind, their presence solidified in my bones and the foundation strongly laid for my very purpose, position and requisite existence in this life.
© 2016 Linda Gatewood

Thoughts on a Mother’s legacy…

The other day, I was visiting with a good neighbor, and we were discussing the various memorabilia that we treasure in our lives. I have to admit that I save anything that has a good memory attached, a habit that has filled up my closets and storage. Some of that stuff, though, I have inherited.

For instance, I inherited a dress, stored away in a box, which was made and worn by my grandmother long ago.  My mother saved it because her mother, who made it, had saved it. As each person who had cared for it passed away to the next life, it was my turn. I wondered which of my children would care for it for all the years ahead.

They never knew their great-grandmother who sacrificed so much in her life in order to purchase the fabric and thread for a special dress. Even I don’t know what the occasion was that she sewed, so carefully, the lovely dress. I do know that she had to be very thrifty with 8 children to raise, a husband who farmed and raised sheep, earning little income for the family, especially during the great depression. To help supplement, she made lovely flowered corsages to sell, and sold eggs from her chickens.

Cash was scarce in their family, so creating a lovely dress for a special occasion, would be a great sacrifice and toil of love. She was a person who did little for herself, using all her energy to care for her family and her neighbors. She served as the Relief Society President in church for many, many years, delivered babies, and cared for the sick in ways we’ve all forgotten. She handed out meals to the poor and homeless, who knocked on her door at all hours. She never turned away a soul in need.

Luckily, I have her personal family history to glean my information about her. It was written by those who knew and loved her. I’ve often wondered how it would have read if she had written it herself. I doubt she would have mentioned a word about all her selfless deeds, or personal struggles. Those would have been secrets taken to her grave and shared only between her and her maker.

The dress has been properly, verbally passed on, along with all the sentimental value possible to attach to an object, and gratefully accepted to be revered by another generation – something tangible to keep the stories alive.

I ran across a poem once that is a reflection of our desire to preserve all we can, to cherish our memories, and to understand the reason why. Good memories come in many packages. I don’t know who wrote it, but will share with you.                                                                 ©2016 Linda Gatewood

The packrat syndrome I’ve always had,

I hate to throw things away.

The comfortable things that you have around,

should be saved for another day.

How much more true of the people you knew,

the friends of yesteryear.

Don’t let them stray or throw them away,

just because they’re no longer near.

Collecting starts when you’re very young.

but it changes when you’re old.

The scrapbook has to be extra big,

your lifetime friends to hold.

For its people who count, not those things

when you were big or small.

By the grace of God, you see the whole world

through the friends that you recall.