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
Poetry

Unity

Unity is the magic pill.

But unity

does not look like

shaming the broken.

Hear it.

It is this,

my truth,

I speak.

Categories
Poetry

I Have Loved

I only have to give

this love that I have.

I only have to give it,

and cherish the way it feels

to know I have loved.

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

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Categories
Poetry

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.

Categories
Life

The Art of Living Carefully and Beautifully

I made the beds as if it might be the last time.

I didn’t think, ‘Oh. Gosh. You know, I better take more care in making these beds, I might be gone by tomorrow morning.’ It wasn’t like that.

I just folded the sheets over in a way that made my hands feel one with the sheets. I folded the pyjamas and placed them on the end of the bed while watching the way my hands moved; I marvelled at how beautiful those hands looked and felt to me.

It’s the most delicious season of life, this point in time where I’m naturally going with the flow that turns planets and unfurls flowers and plants.

I am just so grateful for all that beautiful loveliness, and I really wanted to come and share some of its whimsical wind with you.

And so I say:

I hope you know you are loved, but…I hope you also know it’s okay to forget, sometimes. Forgetting makes the remembering so, so precious. Truly.

I hope you always remember mistakes are the beautiful door to the changes life has been wishing for you.

I hope you learn to forgive yourself and others, and then go and eat a massive slice of chocolate cake on a random Tuesday, just because.

And I hope you…well, maybe I’ll leave this last hope up to you.

Hope something beautiful for yourself.

I promise, this wish will bring to you the most beautiful things.

xx Brooke

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Categories
Poetry

A Gift

As if

to fall asleep in the arms of another

could be anything less than a gift

to be cherished.

Life and her beautiful pages;

how precious she is,

indeed,

for the sweetness of it.

Categories
Life

Far Too Long

It’s been far too long since I’ve written like this.

I’ve just been reading over old diaries, feeling my voice through them, knowing my heart.

It made me think of how I used to do that, here. How I used to be unafraid, how I understood that sharing my heart was something I needed to do, like breathing.

I write my heart because I want you all to see it is okay to be vulnerable.

More than okay.

Necessary, even, if you are someone like me.

So I wanted to find you again, in this place, as myself.

And I wanted to tell you, whoever you are, whatever your story: it is okay to be yourself.

It is okay to be your beautiful, however you are, self.

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Categories
Poetry

The Angel There

As the ice drips

from this frozen heart,

here grows the beauty

of feelings gone by.

How I remember you,

dear echo of friendship.

How clear it has become that

kindness

was the angel there.

Categories
Life

1946

He bought it in 1946 for six pounds, which apparently was quite the sum back in the day. He’s 92 and wonderful, my darling neighbour, Joe, I’ll call him. The gigantic relic of a dictionary was his. Now it belongs to me.

Joe and I lounged in his well kept living room and sipped champagne to celebrate my family’s one year anniversary of owning our home. He had remembered, not us. We were flawed with gratitude and awe.

As we sat, he told me stories of his life; the pains, the joys, stories of beautiful friends and loved ones here and gone. I could have sat there all afternoon. Instead I settled for an hour and a champagne, and two home-made yoyo biscuits (made by a dear friend of his, and absolutely delicious, might I add.)

The dictionary came up in conversation and I mentioned how I’d planned to buy a special one myself, some day. Brooke, the writer; of course she’d need to invest in something so truly lovely, full of all that writerly goodness. And just like that, the dictionary, the precious illustrated dictionary, had become apart of our family.

I will cherish it for as long as I live. Not because it’s the dictionary I’ve always wanted, but because it will remind me of a beautiful soul that has touched my life deeply.

As I sat with him I told him, ‘Joe. You have such a pure soul,’ and it’s true. I’ve never felt a person quite like him and I wish there were more people in the world who felt as beautiful, to me.

The purest of hearts. The ones that lift us to be our best. The ones we all hope we might be for others.

I plan to go for tea again with him soon, my darling friend, Joe.

I cannot think of how I might repay his kindness.

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