Categories
Life

Relative Darkness

I’m sitting in the relative darkness and life is happening, all around.

In the bedrooms, my children are sleeping. In the branches, possums are creeping across the night. There are bugs out the window by the thousands, spiders spinning elaborate webs: the most stunning miracles of architecture.

And here, there is me.

Still wondering: what is it all for?

I still feel alone, in many ways, although I’m quite happy to be alone in my alone-ness. Everyone has their own version of alone. My version just so happens to be the way in which I view the world. Just a small difference. Just a tiny glitch of alone on the vast sea of everything.

I suppose I should learn to accept our society as it is. Everyone has vastly different belief systems, and I think that is entirely lovely, one of the shining pearls in the ocean of humanity. I just wish we could happily be ourselves, without the nonsense, though. To be truly authentically ourselves, without having to bend who we are to fit our art into trends. To fit our personalities into social groups. To fit our broken pieces into shining humanity: the great big flying flock of perfection.

I find myself currently wrestling with a box. A place I do not wish to be.

A box, largely self made, partially made by well meaning folk (much like myself) longing for connection and home. What is a box, in the context I speak, you might ask? A trend. A stereotype. A label.

I am (what they call) an Empath. It’s clear that my personality and many of my traits and sensitivities fit into this box they have called Empath, and it’s been so beautiful (and very handy) to have had so many resources and like minded souls to help me feel as though I’m not alone in the universe.

But as much as it thrills me to have found a beautiful little tribe of the sweetest, softest hearts to love: I am suffocating beneath this label. And I don’t want it. I just don’t. Because as like-minded as we who can identify with the label Empath are, we are also a whole world of different, in many ways. Not only that, but we are also very much the same as others who wouldn’t identify as highly sensitive. We are human. Just like everyone else. Not special, not broken. Human.

I want to be free. I am a wide-open, free as the wind that blows me, soul.

I do not want a box. I do not want a box.

I am ready and willing to help other sensitive muffins open to the fullness of who they are, but I just can’t move past this feeling of no, stop, reassess. Yes, it’s clear I am sensitive. But I don’t want this to be a focus in my world, I just want it to be something that is.

If I carry on with my new blog, Empath Days, this will tether me to a box I don’t wish to belong in, and that’s the part of this whole thing I can’t come to accept. Am I overthinking? Probably (I am me, after all). The frame ‘Empath’ has served me well. It has served as contrast and recognition, a mirror to help propel me forward. But I do think that’s all it was meant to be on my life journey. A rocket launcher. A breadcrumb. Not my life’s work. And certainly not my identity.

I started Empath Days (my new little venture, aimed at Empaths and sensitive folk) because I wanted to help others, like me, find their way and feel less alone. But I can do that here, I can do that at the supermarket, I can do that at school pick-up, ’round the dinner table. There are many wonderful Empaths (let me just use the term because it’s easy) out there whose purpose it is to guide other Empaths into wholeness through a specific channel.

I just don’t think I’m one of them. At least, not at this point in time.

Right now, if I am anything, I am a writer of my heart: a liver of my dreams.

If I do have a purpose it is to guide others to open and release from the boxes of this life. To find their dreams, to open their box. Not to encourage people to find a box and stay there. Are we not here to live? Are we not here to fly wherever, whenever, however?

I believe we are.

So I’m going to stop Empath Days in it’s tracks.

I don’t want to be an Empath. I want to be all of me.

I want to create what I create, and I want it to be beautiful, all of it, especially the journey to each sweet prize. The creative process: I want it to be free flying everything.

I want to teach what I’ve learned and drown in my passions.

I want to write my book, my poems, my soul.

I want to live, however I live.

Oh, and I want to love. (Always, always I want to love.)

So I’m going back to the drawing board.

I’ll be back, sweet bloggy friends, when I’ve had a chance to unscrambled my thoughts, a little.

xx Brooke

Photo by Burst on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Control

Control.

Lack of it.

Need for it.

Flight from it.

Control.

There will always be

hunger

for freedom.

Photo by Emre Kuzu on Pexels.com

Categories
Inspiration

Yayah! WOOT!

And just so the lot of you know:

THIS

will be the

BEST damn year

of

ALL

our lives.

(This blog post was proudly brought to you by the soul cleansing- complete and utter dork making- power of the full moon in Pisces.)

Yayah! Woot!

Categories
Life

Wildfire

I am a wildfire.

Where the flames fan wide

and the blue ripples split

the deep orange stream.

I cannot control what is wild and free.

I cannot control

a wildfire

like me.

Categories
Poetry

Cupcake

What I wouldn’t give

for a blanket fort

and a dinosaur cupcake.

Categories
Poetry

I Am Free

I am a star

bursting to life.

There are no walls

in the sky.

I am free.

Categories
Life

A Strange Sort of Beautiful

It’s a strange sort of beautiful, this life.

I’ve followed the breadcrumbs, even the ones I knew would blow up my world. (They blew it up: into a million pieces of possibility. Beautiful possibility, for everyone around me.)

I have been lost. I have been ecstasy.

I have been right when I thought I was wrong, and wrong when I thought I was right.

I have been in love—my goodness, I have been in love—and I have been broken, and I have been dirty, and I have been changed.

This whole life long, I thought I was one thing.

I never have been one thing. I have been a starburst of infinity.

Always.

And now I see her rise, this girl, to this woman inside me— how she soars with the swell of abundant life.

From the ashes, she flies. Out of the haze. At least for today.

There will be new love in this shining place. I’ll see it with my heart, I’ll know it with my soul.

There will be friendship built on truth and depth and eternity.

There will be a roaring spirit, in the place where magic lives.

And there will be you.

Always, there will be you, my friends.

photo of birds flying during daytime
Photo by Yogendra Singh on Pexels.com

Categories
The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 23. Misfits

In the garden of secrets

they lay,

arm in arm;

this darling band of misfits,

this chain of soul dwelling

children,

who know only

gasps

of freedom

beside the shallow breaths

of humanity’s ball and chain.

Categories
The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 14. Liberation

Crisp walls and lavender fresh linen. It was her mother who insisted on such drastic perfection and, until now, it had never occurred to Geraldine that life had the option to be anything other than perfect. She would be forty in a month, and although her Mother would not approve, Geraldine craved something more. Something wild. Something actually really quite bad.

She flung a leg out of the bath and breathed into her belly: hold one, two three…a cool, soothing wind on the out-breath. What if she did allow herself a regression to the grotty child that once she was? An ignorant small human, who far too often muddied the guest couch—and her mother’s delightfully manicured day. A child who, one day, would find the courage to tell her mother that the couch had been, in fact, the hills coming alive with the romping, stomping wonderful sound of music.

Darling,‘ her mother would say, through a smiling mouth and chainsaw eyes. ‘You must always be good.‘ Eventually, the words and the eyes had the desired effect, and Geraldine did, indeed, grow into the neatly folded girl her Mother had groomed her to be. Perfection in a girl, life under strict lock and key. Geraldine was the fly in the web of her mother’s high standards. Alive but not living. Rotting away under the critical eye of the long-legged other in her life.

Her bathrobe waited to give her a warm hug after the bath was over. What if she didn’t use it? What if she stood, dried, and walked about the house. Naked. She lived alone, but even so, free range nudity was a luxury afforded only to men, and those unfortunate women requiring external stimulation for the treatment of low self-esteem. Nudity— even solo nudity—was not for good girls.

Until, of course, it was.

Geraldine rose from the tub and reached for the gracefully folded towel that lay atop the sparkling white sink. Perfection died tonight. Her mother’s hold on her life died, all limbs bared, tonight.

The soft leather couch was like warm paint to her naked skin. Although the liberation of nudity felt wonderful, it was…still not enough. Geraldine needed more. And so it was, that more arose.

As if by some miraculous order of the universe, some equally trapped eternal wind searching for life, the doorbell rang.

Geraldine smiled.

She rose from the couch, without a beat, without a care.

Darling, indeed, she thought.

Darling, indeed.

 

 

Categories
Life

Fly Free

Fly free,

sweet bird,

from the spiral mind

that cages

and twirls you.

You are beautiful

always.

How funny

that you sometimes

forget.

woman at the beach feeding the birds
Photo by Taryn Elliott on Pexels.com