Categories
Life

Chamomile

The word sipping is very pretty, isn’t it? Delicate, like the action it shows. I can see a small pair of hands, a little tea cup beside a little light. And I know it is home.

I know it is me.

I’m sipping chamomile tea and wishing to be held like this more often. Wishing to be seen in the softness, wishing to share it and have others agree it is a beautiful softness we feel.

Tea is like that. Delicate, like the first breeze of spring, like the bunnies that graze by the river, in the evening. It sounds like a fairy tale, doesn’t it? An unreal imagining, only it’s true.

And so, so beautiful as the delicate rolls all around me.

I have been struggling more than usual over the past few months. Missing the beautiful flow I found a while back, and yet also feeling the embers of momentum begin to burn within me once more.

I wake each morning at 6 and I meditate, followed by yoga if I can fit it in. This is holding myself and my family as best as I can, with love.

I’m proud of myself for giving myself and my family these gifts.

If only a beautiful sun would light the rest of my world, so I could see clearly the path ahead. I forget myself so easily. What I love. Who I am. Each step is as sure as it should be. Why is it I continue to search for relief on the horizon?

I am home.

Let me stay here.

Let me fall into this beautiful sweet depth, forever.

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Categories
Life

For The Birds

The birds are home and so am I.

I could say they are noisy, but they are not really noisy. They are only noisy if I think of them in relation to my world.

On their own, they are just who and what they are.

Birds.

Chirping, squawking birds.

I’ve deleted another of my posts (those of you who have been around for a while will know I have done this, from time to time) because the energy of the post didn’t feel like my truth.

It felt like the underside of my world. It felt like the dark parts of me, not my sunshine.

I choose only to shine on this world, when I can help it.

In the post I deleted, I spoke of scammers and manipulation, and where I have felt victimised as a woman in the past. These pains, I know, are real, and they will live within me and walk beside me in everything I do.

But they are not who I am. And the ways I have been victimised are not the people who have hurt me, either.

I see those who have bullied me, taken advantage of me, used or abused me, but I see the pain within them more. They have been small children, hurt by something in life, desperate to cover that pain with a bandaid.

Who am I to blame them when I am the bearer of the very same wounds that scar them?

I will try for the birds, to allow them to be.

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Categories
Life

A Silence

I am tidying the mess my three children have made. Motherhood has broken me, today. It has hurt me, it has hurt them, and all because I have failed to be perfect. And so have they.

But as I am down on my hands and knees, moving toys from here to there, I understand that I am in two places at once. I am here, among the chaos, among the evidence that three uncontrollable children live here.

And I am also seven years ago, when I paced around the living room, my stomach contracting with a baby that I would never actually get to meet.

Tonight, I know the gift of my children, despite the chaos they sometimes bring.

Tonight, I understand the beautiful silence of that night seven years ago. The same silence as tonight. A silence that asked me, then, to be fully there with my baby because we deserved that time to know each other.

A silence that lives imperfectly, now, for my children.

Each and every day that I live.

For them.

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Categories
Life

Writing

It comes when it is ready to come.

It chooses, I have no say.

I just feel and write what the feelings translate to.

A miraculous marvel.

A beauty of life I’m so, so thankful for.

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Categories
Life

The Soft Things

The quiet is here and so am I.

I will life to slow down, I ache for it; I am not made for speed.

I am made for the whisper of the trees, for the silver trail of snails on a rainy path.

I am with this world, but I am captured by it, not a citizen free; can we ever be free, when we have each other to hold? The answer is no, if the heart runs as deep as this.

No, built from sacrifice and deep, deep love.

But how I long to live the day exactly as I choose.

I would live beside the river.

I would walk and feel the breeze.

I would have my family, only.

And I would draw, and sing

and give my heart to the soft things.

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Categories
Life

Stolen

The internet has stolen my words.

They were here, tied with a little bow, tagged: ‘Brooke’s heart’; now they’re gone, the internet stole them. Snuffed them out, like a candle, with ease.

The internet has been down all day, so I don’t suppose it cares for blogging. I don’t suppose it cares for drafts worth saving.

But then…

Maybe it wasn’t worth saving.

There are no accidents in the universe.

Maybe,

truly,

the stolen words were not at all

worth

saving.

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Categories
Life

Small Ball

Here I am again with nothing to say.

How often have I done this, since the birth of my blog? How often have I just been here because being anywhere else hasn’t seemed like an option? Many a time.

I feel as though, for a very long time, I’ve been in between here and there. Not quite knowing where here is, and not even willing to guess where there might be.

I get the distinct impression I am meant to find here and stay here, without even a thought or wondering of ‘there’. After all, when we get ‘there’ it will become ‘here’, just as today will always be today, and tomorrow will never come. (I wonder if that makes any sense at all. I am running on very little sleep. I do hope you will forgive me.)

All this rambling makes me think of a moment I had today as I sat upon a picnic rug in our yard, with my baby crawling around at my feet. In my left hand I held a large ball and in my right, a small ball. It occurred to me that without the presence of the other, neither could actually be called ‘small’ or ‘large’. The terms large and small are always relative to something else. How would I know I was holding a large ball if I’d never seen a small ball in my life? I marvel at the wonderful nerdy goodness of that.

And it makes me think of all the other ways us humans have framed our world in order to communicate clearly. What would happen, do you think, if every ‘large’ ball was just a ball? To take it even further, what would happen if every ball was nameless; just an odd sort of circular object that sat perfectly in your hands, without a preconceived idea or purpose. What might we think to do with it if its possibilities were not as clearly defined?

Gosh I’m rambling. I really don’t even know why, or what all this is about, so I will say goodnight. Goodness, I’m tired.

I hope the world is being kind to you, bloggy friends.

If not, I am sending my heart.

The sun will shine again.

I promise.

xx Brooke

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Categories
Life

Fully Human

I’ve seen that image, again.

She sits alone (you could not get any more alone) at her husband’s funeral and we all just sit here and shake our heads, because what else is there to do?

I’m speaking of the image of the Queen at prince Philip’s funeral, but you already knew that. You must have. Who could un see that quiet ache, just another handed to us by the raging depths of humanity.

***

I have hidden from life.

Strike that. I am hiding from life.

Because it wasn’t the Queen sitting there alone that day, it was me. I feel the pain that deeply.

It wasn’t someone else’s little boy sitting in the back of a war zone ambulance, parentless; it was mine. That one slices my heart.

I can’t hide from that darkness, though I want to.

I have to see it.

I have to say it: I am torn to shreds.

***

I cried in my husband’s arms the other night.

I mean I really cried, remembering a time in childhood where I was chosen last of all the children in my class to join the netball team.

I cried, at first, for the poor and beautiful little girl whose heart broke that day. But the depth of my tears came from the realisation that that very moment in time made me the person who will always go in to bat for anyone who needs me. That girl will try her very best to lift others, so that no one else has to feel the pain of being unloved, unworthy, unchosen.

Born is the true beauty of aching life.

And born is the paradox. The knowledge that the other needs to feel that very same empathy-birthing pain, in order to truly see. Even though I’d give anything to protect them from it.

***

You see it, don’t you?

This ache, this wide open ache of humanity, has birthed the very best of us. It has grown our hearts and gifted us the ultimate; the chance to hold and love others from the very core of our being.

But, goodness gracious me.

It hurts to be fully human.

Fully seeing, fully being…

everything.

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Categories
Life

Heart Broken

My skin is peeled, once more, and I am flesh on open bone.

Why is it that darkness must be, in order for light to be known?

Why is loss needed to highlight the beauty of having had?

Why is betrayal needed to highlight the beauty of loyalty?

It hurts.

Always, it hurts.

Will it ever stop hurting?

How, says a universe of contrasts, will the world continue to spin without its opposite end?

My skin is peeled like lemon, like sugar sweet.

My skin is peeled for aching humanity.

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Categories
Life

Truth

I am drinking night-time tea, writing, as if to write to a lover of feelings yet to be spoken.

I’ve been in the garden today. I sometimes wish my Nan was still alive so I could ask her: ‘Is this what it felt like for you?’ She was a big gardener. I thought it must have been because she liked gardens.

I want to ask her if she, too, felt the whisper of the earth and was afraid to tell us. I want to ask her if delicate roots intrigued her, if rose buds felt like dear, sweet children.

Such beautiful voices have been suppressed. Beautiful voices of truth and earthly wisdom, voices of absolute love and dear, dear compassion.

You will not silence me, fearful past.

I will speak of this beauty.

I will shout it, and the world will know its truth.

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