Here on this hillside,
this sweet patch of earth,
I have become.
And there is no further to go,
there are no wings to grow,
I am there.
I am there.
Categories
I Am There
Categories
Darling World
Sleep tight, darling world.
How lovely and alive you will be tomorrow.
Categories
The Window
On days where rain settles on the window, I look to the future with dusty eyes.
How does one peer beyond the droplets there? How beautiful can the horizon appear when my eyes are glazed with the muck and haze of old?
There was a time, once —when I was young and stainless— when the window was free from drizzle, the horizon: apricot sun over a sea of gentle destiny.
But lovely as life seemed without a shadow, I have seen rain awash the hill. Where, in this wild world, truth and softness is but a dream to be wished, and love, a precious ornament easily shattered.
Still, I choose to be grateful. To count the rays of beautiful sun and see beyond the ghastly truth on the hill.
I must choose this light.
The alternative is too dark for me to bear.
Categories
In The Wind
I saw her when I closed my eyes,
I felt her in the wind.
And I knew I had to tell her
how tired I am,
and how I never imagined
life would be so hard.
I had to tell her
how I am in love
with them, and with life.
But how tired I am, and how I miss her.
Oh, how I miss her,
oh, how I do.
I saw her when I closed my eyes.
I felt her in the wind.
Categories
A Darling Home
An open heart.
A darling home
for my children,
my love,
and me.
Categories
Sparking Joy
I folded the tee shirt and watched my hands.
They were beautiful as they moved, delicate in the way they twisted and rolled within the fabric. I’d never noticed them do that before. And just like that I’d found a way to enjoy a chore.
As I continued to fold, I paid attention to the creases and the folds. How sweet it was to fold the shirt in a perfect square. To run my hands over the smooth surface of the garment. Another new way to enjoy a chore.
I now have perfectly folded clothes, packed away in perfectly tidy draws and it makes me feel oddly at peace.I have opened the draws several times today, just so I can see all the loveliness again. Does that make me a little mad?
I found a way to spark joy, as Marie Kondo would say, and it reminded me to ‘spark joy’ in more aspects of my life than just the laundry.
Like here, for example. On this blog. In this post.
I might wish you a beautiful weekend. And you might actually have one.
That would spark joy.
That sure would spark an awful lot of joy.
And when she aches
she will know a world beyond herself.
Where thunder becomes her;
a raging fire, waiting to be.
How is this small softness
so wide with grief beyond the day!
How is this smile,
so often true,
suddenly drawn with a question mark?
They will know her pain
only as the tilt of an eye.
They will be forgiven by this one
before they see her sorrow there.
Always, they will be forgiven by this one.
Categories
Hold Me Now
With this grace, I will hold my head high.
I will look to the sun
and grant it permission to fill my heart,
on this day, as with any other day.
There is a softness in the air that reminds me
of white clouds and open buds of rose.
Unbroken; there is no rain here
that I cannot meet with my spirit.
Hold me now, soft sky.
Hold me now, soft sky.
Hold me now.
Categories
Goodbye Christopher Robin
I cried and I smiled as the credits rolled, and I knew, in that moment, that I’d found another piece of home.
The movie was ‘Goodbye Christopher Robin.’
And it was…really very beautiful, actually.
How very different the world looks through the eyes of time gone by.
How very different the world looks when you become another version of yourself.
Sometimes, I wonder if I can still write.
Not just write, as in, write any old words.
I mean, I sometimes wonder if I can still write fiction that peels my skin from the bone. Words I read back after I’ve written them and find that they speak to my soul.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written any fiction. My poor novel is sitting desperately among the cobwebs of my computer, wondering where I am. The short stories I once wrote are just that: short stories I once wrote.
The truth is, I’m afraid.
Because I wonder if I can still write.
And so I procrastinate and procrastinate until I don’t even try anymore. I know it is simply a matter of starting. But. I don’t even start.
I am too busy to scratch my nose, also, so that is one actual fact I can’t ignore. Even if I was brave enough to face the looming blank page, there is no time for that in these early stages of newborn life. These moments, now, are stolen moments I am taking back from Motherhood.
And I’ve chosen to give them to this place.
My heart place.
My home. (Where all of you are. My beautiful bloggy family.)
If history has anything to say about this pattern of me, I will make my way, eventually, to the place of bravery that allows for creativity to run free of the well. I will, once again, bring my whole soul to the surface of my world. I will create worlds, and lives, and beauty through art.
But that time is not now.
Now, I am here. (Happily, peacefully, lovingly I am here.)
Savouring these stolen moments.
Waiting for the baby to wake, running from the fears I know are lurking in the shadows.
I am not afraid to sit still. Here. Now. I am not afraid of this.
I am afraid of losing my creative flow, though.
Because imagine. To lose something so precious.
Imagine.
brooke-cutler.com 