Categories
Poetry

Stop. Imagine.

Stop.

Imagine.

There is a human here and a human there.

Both are different, vastly so.

Human number one feels okay being bombarded with a box full of emails. He tackles them, one by one, and then he continues on to more busy things. He flies to the top of the work chain. He never rests. Not even when he’s sick. Successful. They say.

(Nobody can figure out why success looks like that.)

Human number two feels overwhelmed by emails and noise, so instead he chooses to paint. Beside the trees. He struggles with focus, but he needs to struggle with focus, because if he focused he’d lose his flow. His authentic flow. The thing within him that changes the lives of others in profoundly beautiful ways.

(Nobody can understand him. Nobody can figure out why he’s broken like that.)

He feels ashamed. He has a choice. He takes medication so he can be more like the first guy. Everybody breathes a sigh of relief.

He slowly dies inside.

And so does everyone around him because

where are all the beautiful things?

Imagine.

Stop.

All toxic cultures die.

Everybody is happy, being the person they were always meant to be.

Everybody.

The end.

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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
Poetry

The River and The Stone

The river is always changed

after the stone

has pierced her

still waters.

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
Writing

The Orange Light. Micro Fiction.

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Burnt orange light feels safe.

Pop’s old library is full of it; lamp dappled walls, beautiful to look at, even more beautiful to feel.

How do you describe a feeling? You can only feel, and open up so others can know what you’re trying to tell them. Some people never open up. Some open and close and open again, like a snail rolling in and out of its shell.

I look for the switch, every day. The switch for the orange light inside of me. I’m the snail, and it is dark in here.

            I will keep searching until I feel the light. When I feel the light, I will open, and journey on.

Again.

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
Poetry

I Am Here

Do not look at my face

and tell me

I am beautiful.

Do not look at my skin

and see your hands

upon my life.

Look at me.

Look at me.

I am here.

I have always

always

been here.

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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
Poetry

Love and Pizza

I firmly assure you.

Love

is all

there is.

Stop mucking around

and get on with it, world.

The pizza tastes better, there.

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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