Linda Raha's Writing Corner
The garden beckons like an old friend who knows me well. This friend does not mind my muddy shoes, my hair in tangles, or my mismatched garden gloves. I can drop in whenever I like; the door is always open. The rooms are flooded with sunlight, and I can rest upon a bench. This place
I have always loved to walk along the seashore, collecting bits of treasure, odd pieces of driftwood, pretty shells, shiny stones that glitter at the water's edge. It is easy to fill a pail with many things. You must choose wisely, because you can only bring home so many gifts from the sea. There are
This past weekend, I found some beautiful 'blues' to celebrate; carpets of blue wildflowers covered nearby fields, and the bluest rivers of water, sparkled in the sun. What is it about blue flowers that seems so magical? I only know that they entice my heart in the most captivating way. And why is it that
I can't remember a time when I so longed for spring to arrive. Perhaps, it is because of the state of the world at the moment. Perhaps, it is because we grow winter-weary at times, and the thought of spring is such a happy thing to think about. Yesterday morning, I watched the sunrise... No
Sunrise has been so lovely in these last string of days; pale ribbons grace the sky, the softest hues of morning arise. If life had a kite string, it would be nice to run along with that kite of carefree, breezy days. The warm sun is such a tease and so is the wind, like
I step outside into a world of winter-white. It is like stepping into a photograph, the remembrance of a time, not so very long ago. The years have come and gone, like drifts of the deepest snow I must pass through. Still, I feel the wind upon my face; I touch my cheeks, remember the
I could not think of a goodbye song to play for my mother. Melodies flitted in and out of my head. Surely, there must be a song, something musical to be said. Instead, my daughter called to say that kisses were floating down from heaven. My granddaughter watched the flurry from a church window on
Early in the morning, you hear the most beautiful music in all of the world; it is the sound of birds singing to welcome a new day. Often, I hear them out on the porch even before daybreak. In the darkness, they begin to serenade the day. These creatures do not know what this new
I am feeling just a bit melancholy on this last day of November; perhaps, it is not so much melancholy, but the soft surrender of mixed emotions this season often brings. As the greatest love story of our lives is about to unfold at Christmas, there are the subtle notes of love songs that play
Sifting through the memories, a fine mist rises, a cloud of white, a poof of something yet to be. Like a baker, waiting for the bread to rise, I must be patient. What is it to knead these thoughts into a slice of life, morsels of words on a page? I know only this; it