From the Record Book of Aspen Darktower

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Today is a gorgeous day that feels like spring although it’s only February. While Mother Nature may merely be taunting us, I’m enjoying the sunshine as it streams through the windows and I thought of Aspen. What was a refreshing spring day like for her? And so I consulted the record book.

Aspen never dated her ramblings. She merely recorded her life’s details for her children. Upon buying a record book in Foxglove Pass, she began to fill it, and many others, with memories. Enjoy!

“Sometimes I think back to the first day I arrived in Cliffehaven, how frightened I was and how much anger I held within my breast. It’s strange how love is like a seed planted in the soft spring soil. You bury it to forget it exists, down deep where it’s dark and unseen. But how miraculous it is when it is warmed by the affections of another and watered by your tears that it begins to grow…even when you had forgotten it existed. Much like the sun warms a seed and the rain wash it to give it life, love places roots down in that dark place and its substance fills the void with life. As it begins to show evidence of its existence, and is properly manicured and gently tended, love will grow quickly and heartily. And when it matures, it gives off its fruit and rewards the keeper ten-fold.

A strong word of caution: When the spring begins to turn and the heat of scorn or the frigidity of loneliness interferes and that seed begins to die, so will the love that had grown so beautifully. It is then up to the one doing the tending to return it to the life of the spring and once again coax it from that dark place.

Each of us holds a seed within. Each of us can tend another’s seed and either make it grow or kill it. The choice is our own.

I look out over the grand city of Foxglove Pass, at the grandeur of the flags rippling in the breeze beneath the soft blue sky and radiant sunshine and my mind wanders back to home where the gray stones of the castle are cold beneath my hands, the village is bustling with merchants, and clouds of dust billow up from the farmlands as planting begins. If I close my eyes a moment, I can hear the waves of the sea crashing over the shores that are near. Gulls cry out as they fly inland and then back out to the water and the fragrant posies are sweet as I would breathe in the fresh air. Home is a simple place and I miss it so.”

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