Categories
14 Day Creative Challenge

The Unfortunate Story of A Large Dog.

The German Shepherd changed things. She considered revenge, but then, he had always nurtured a sick fantasy of being mistreated by women. How inconvenient life could be at times.

Still. He had known she would only consider small dogs, and so, it was absolute that he must pay. The unfortunate event would be dressed as an accident. She would smile politely as a fall occurred.

Days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months without a glimpse of opportunity. No staircase to fumble him down, no veranda step to miss at the expense of his face. It was odd. And yet, she remained vigilant, eyes wide open to any subtle clue that the Gods of revenge were ready to offer a hand in support.

The dog, whose name was Bart or Simpson (or something vulgar) was really rather sweet, which became confusing. It was as if a thorn in her thumb had become a familiar, almost welcome, friend; the sting long gone. All that remained was the dog, and her aloof husband who, for some reason, was acting a jealous fool of the dog and her joyous embrace of his overly large paws.

She would think on his odd behaviour again, in the morning. Or now, perhaps, as the Nurse set her cast for the third time in three weeks and told the same old story.

How unfortunate that the nurse had also fallen down the stairs in that very same year.

Photo by Maria Orlova on Pexels.com
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.

Photo by lil artsy on Pexels.com
Categories
Life

She Drifts, Again

It really did seem like the perfect plan.

And so I did it.

I set up an official page on instagram to act as the much longed for social media home of ‘The Little Blog of Everything’ and all things creatively me.

My goodness, it will be lovely to share an expanded version of ‘the creative journey of me’ with you.

There’ll be drawings and art.

No doubt, music and books.

There’ll be updates on life and the journey to picture book publishing I’ve just restarted, after baby.

My name on instagram is brookecutlercreative.

See you, there, my beautiful bloggy friends.

Or just, here. I’ll still be here, too. xx

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Categories
Life

The Quiet

The quiet has come upon me, and so I have to write.

It’s a strange quiet, a wonderful one, however mixed with a soft melancholy. It’s been with me, on and off, for as long as I can remember, and so it is that I recognise this feeling as my soul.

The little girl me felt it when she looked out at the big world, an ant amongst giants.

The teenage me felt it when she saw the grey sadness of all the adults passing by.

And now I feel it. When I am not thinking life, but feeling it all the way through to the tender aching parts.

Every version of me has used this quiet to write.

So what is the purpose of this particular post, you might ask, and if you were to ask this you’d be right to do so. I am asking this. But the truth is, I know the answer.

The answer is: my soul has nothing to say, still she must speak.

And this is how she does so.

This is how she sways into the world beyond my eyes.

She has never needed a reason for that.

Photo by ANTONI SHKRABA on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

A Poet

Of all the labels I reject

a poet’

is the one golden cage

ringing true to my soul.

It holds my heart,

this stamp that tells me-

not who I am,

but what I do in the world

and how these depths consume me.

And though a label

is but a boundary with imaginary walls

in a universe unending,

a poet

I am

in words

and heart.

A poet I am,

I am.

Categories
Peaches In The Darling Sun

Dancing Girl

She danced like no one was watching.

She went to that place where all artists go when they create.

She is my daughter and she is five, but actually she is ageless, and it was this beautiful, ageless essence that danced her.

We thought we were there to watch a busker play his peaceful guitar.

We weren’t.

We were there to watch her.

And to know it was a moment so precious that those of us who witnessed it won’t forget.

My darling girl.

She danced like no one was watching.

Photo by Tiu1ec3u Bu1ea3o Tru01b0u01a1ng on Pexels.com
Day 16. Magic.
Categories
Life

Imagine

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.

Photo by Anete Lusina on Pexels.com
Categories
Life

Creativity Rises

I intend to write one thing and another is born.

Creativity rises.

It controls me, not the other way around.

The poem I’ve just written began with a feeling of being stuck. Stuck in COVID lockdown. Stuck in a middle ground of dried up creativity.

So I sat down. I opened my computer. And I saw a cupboard on the blank screen of my mind.

I was in there.

In a dark cupboard, looking out at something…a little brighter.

The story began from there.

But it wasn’t the story I’d expected. It was something different, not at all what I’d originally planned.

Isn’t

creativity

amazing?

It drives.

I am just here.

Allowing it to be what it chooses.

Photo by kira schwarz on Pexels.com
Categories
Life

A Mysterious Animating Force

The sweet divinity that lingers at the edge of life.

Writers and artists know it well. Actors and musicians feel it within their bodies. And none of us have any clue as to what it is. Not even those who believe, beyond a doubt, that they do know the source of this most beautiful, magical wind.

To understand this force would surely be like bottling and dissecting infinity. How could you bottle a never ending force like that? More to the point, how could you ever truly understand what it was or where it had come from? I just don’t think it would be humanly possible.

I read a book a little while ago, by Sue Monk Kidd, named ‘The Book of Longings’. I’ve been re reading it, and last night I couldn’t help but smile as I came across a familiar idea. The invisible divinity. She mentions it in the book, and right away I knew I had to share it with you all. Surely as readers and writers, both, you have felt this invisible magic. How beautiful it is to know we are not alone in our recognition of it.

The act itself of writing evoked powers, often divine, but often unstable that entered the letters and sent a mysterious animating force rippling through the ink.

Sue Monk Kidd. The Book Of Longings

At University, I studied writing. One of the units I studied was called, ‘Writing: Finding your Voice’ but the thing was…it never seemed as simple as that, to me. That we each have a ‘voice’ we can use to write with in a unique and beautiful way, or that one could simply ‘find’ this voice. Like finding a tennis ball beneath a shrubby, weedy bush in the desert.

All I can say about this mysterious voice is that I feel its magic arise when I relax my entire body and stop thinking. I’ve heard the phrase thrown about that, to evoke the force, we need to ‘get out of our own way’. To me, this is both entirely accurate and also impossible to comprehend.

Just whose way are we getting out of exactly?

And what, exactly, is the mysterious animating force behind it all?

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Categories
Life

To Be

I’ve come to realise that creativity is just the art and flow of being yourself. There’s really not a lot more to it than that.

At its core, creativity seems to be made of the absolute depth of who we are. And the depth of who we are is always waiting, somewhere beneath the surface, to be shared in its most resonant form. (I believe this is true for every human being. Not just those who are considered creative types.)

For me, the purest form my creativity takes is music. My voice, in particular, seems an extension of the calming, soothing essence that naturally seems to spill from the deep, internal parts of me…and so my music always does seem to reappear in my life, no matter how far I stray from it.

For a lot of years I judged myself (my voice, my performance capabilities) based on what others were doing with their own musical talents. Somewhere in my teen years I grabbed a hold of the idea that, although my talent was constantly being validated, I didn’t have a voice that could compare to a real singer. According to young human me, real singers had a range that reached far beyond the heights that my limited range could. Real singers were perfect, never to stray a note in pitch at all.

How sweet it is to have found the most beautiful new gift of evolved perspective when it comes to my music: that being…my music is my essence. Unique and beautiful, and only mine, never to be compared to any other. My voice and my music are here to achieve their own purpose. And this purpose has nothing to do with an out of this world range or perfectly crafted technique.

There may be singers who use a wider range of skills to express their musical essence in order to thrill…but to thrill is not what I am here for. I am here to express the depths of my heart. I am here to heal with my voice and perhaps to bring peace, calm and emotion to those who connect with my music, writing and creativity. How beautiful, to finally come to know this of myself.

And so I continue to release my musical essence as it is.

No more excuses.

No more foolish voice within trying to compare my musical self with others.

They are all beautiful fruits to be savoured and cherished in the fruit bowl of musical life. I am a different fruit, who finally understands that apples and oranges never will compare.

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com