But there you are, darling softness.
Keeper of my hopes, dreamer of my dreams.
How do you hold my heart, this night?
Full of dear, sweet memories.
Full of dear, dear
days and nights gone by.
Tag: Family
Categories
Happy New Year
It’s just gone 12:30, a new year has rolled in.
Of all the people I have to wish a dear and beautiful new year to…it is you, bloggy friends. My soul folk.
I ache to express what words cannot.
I love celebrating New Year’s Eve, which is quite funny, really, considering my perspective has changed quite a bit over the years.
What is a year, but a day after a day after a few hundred more days?
What is a day, but a spinning of the giant ball upon which we sit?
A year is a human construct.
All of life as we perceive it is.
Can you imagine the first cavemen sitting around the campfire discussing who they aim to be ‘next year’? To them, the sun rises, the sun falls.
There is no day. No month. No year.
Think of all we frame in a year. Time frames can limit us in ways I’m not sure we entirely understand.
But I will still always celebrate the new year as a beautiful way to express gratitude for life. It’s especially beautiful to have a reason to connect and celebrate with each other.
Anyway. ☺️
Happy new year, team.
I send you bucket loads of unconditional love and care.
Take it and sprinkle it every where.
xx Brooke
Categories
Merry Christmas
None of it makes a difference to me.
Some of you I barely know.
Some of you I have known and loved to the depths of my soul.
None of it matters.
Because each of you has my heart.
And each of you deserves to hear this on Christmas day:
Life is a journey.
You are not always going to get it right, and it is not always going to make sense.
But you will live.
Isn’t
that
wonderful?
I so adore you, bloggy friends.
Thank you, again, for allowing me to be as I am.
Merry Christmas.
Love, Brooke.
Categories
I Miss You
I miss you, my beautiful bloggy friends.
My goodness my heart misses you.
It is truly a strange thing, that here, more than any other place, my truth shines her beautiful light.
Everywhere else on earth, I am partly starving.
Here, I am free.
Like a feather on the wind.
I am free.
Thank you for holding me, here.
xx Brooke
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.
Categories
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.
Categories
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
Categories
The Stories We Tell
The stories we tell ourselves
about what life
is,
does,
means,
will make our hearts
or break our hearts.
The choice,
I suppose,
is ours.
Make, break
or both, sometimes.
If only the answer were simple.
Then again…
what is simple?
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.
Categories
They Know Not What They Do
Why,
when the road is so beautiful,
(dappled sun on white)
do these lashing tongues
slice my delicate sky, so?
I shall find a cave, as promised.
A dear and perfect home
to soothe.
And I shall cherish the broken,
never shall I fight, as they do.
They know not how their barbs sting.
Be silent and sure, my battered soul.
Silent and hopeful,
the slicing pain will end.
brooke-cutler.com 