Categories
Life

Home Alone

I’m home alone, tonight.

And when I say I’m home alone, I mean my children are here, my husband is not.

And when I say my husband is not, I mean I’ve been keeping a secret, and that secret is that for some weeks now, my husband has been my husband again. Married. All the way through, once more.

In other words, our year and a bit apart has come to a close.

We’ve decided to stay together.

When my heart woke and began to glow for everything and everyone, it became apparent that the love between me and my very own body-mind-heart-soul was the only love I’d ever truly need. And so why choose a new man who could never be perfect. Why not choose the same old lovely one, who I could work with, grow with, be with, knowing I am fully loved and beautifully cared for. Imperfect, he is. Just like his wildly creative, highly emotional wife.

This feeling that the sun shines from my heart: it’s shown me that no man will ever be perfect, no relationship completely shiny. As I lay alone all those many nights (often loving the single life, often really quite lonely, actually, and aching for the parts of our old life that were no longer available to my children in quite the same way) I wondered if the shine I sometimes saw in my eyes meant that I was home. And if so, was I now solid enough within my new found self to go back to my other home?

Home: the place my babies wouldn’t miss their Dad.

Home: the place that held me, knew me, loved me.

Home. To the guy I’d forgotten I loved so dearly.

Until I remembered, again.

I’m home now.

I’m home now.

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Categories
Poetry

Sleep

Each moment is new and beautiful in my eyes.

This heart has been touched

by the wind of change

enough to know that everything begins

but nothing ends.

Not really.

Not really.

And so I sleep in the arms of the one I love,

knowing I am safe,

knowing I am home.

Knowing nothing has ended

or broken.

Knowing that everything goes on

and on

and on.

Categories
Poetry

Today

I have found myself, today.

Once again I am everything I am.

I am the passionate stroke of theatre,

and the softest touch of poetry.

My colours are pastel:

peach and mauve,

whimsical tendrils

and earthy wooden grain.

I am woman,

and I am the ocean.

I am life

and I am love.

This day.

Authentically beautiful.

I shall sip on it and call it home.

Categories
Poetry

A Story

It smells like a roast

but it feels like a story

of love,

of a garden,

and of home.

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Categories
Poetry

Sail With Me

And surely as the river

of the sky soothes me,

every star of this night

will sail with me

home.

Categories
Poetry

Home

Home is in this house.

The quiet of my love for them.

The dreams of my essence, racing into a fresh new world.

Home, you are my refuge.

Family, you are my home.

Categories
Poetry

It Is A Gift

It is a gift.

An open heart

spun into ebony lace:

words.

So much more than what they seem.

The chance to see,

and believe

that anything is possible,

always.

No matter how wild the wind

on a quiet sea.

Close your eyes.

Never forget this kiss,

this treasure on the tip of your nose,

on the flat of your forehead.

It is safety, it is home.

The softness that whistles

the voice of all things.

Listen.

It is a gift.

family decorating their christmas tree
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Categories
The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 24. Home

This darling place to call my home, these darling friends to call my own.

It’s a soft feeling that fills me, a feeling that’s not left me since my first word fell upon the breeze of us.

photo of girls wearing dress while holding hands
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Darling comes close to describing us.

But the real truth of us lives within the quiet. Because the real truth of us, dear bloggy friends, is that our home (our connection) is too beautiful for words to know.

a beautiful dog breed with a thick coat
Photo by La Miko on Pexels.com

Darling are all the days of us.

The days my heart places questions within these invisible walls, and your hearts answer: I see you.

Thank you so so much for seeing me, sweet friends.

I so completely see you, too.

crop friends stacking hands together
Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

Who knows where tomorrow will find us—but for now we are home.

In this moment we are home, with the friends we have chosen.

And oh my darling goodness.

Home is all the lovely things, to me.

woman in white tank top smiling

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Categories
Life

Ben

It was gardening day.

Ben stared me down with those eyes and told me he doesn’t like flowers.

‘That’s okay, Ben,’ I smiled. ‘You don’t have to like flowers. So. What do you like, then, hey?’

No response.

You see, we’re all different, but Ben’s different from even the most different of us.

Ben isn’t broken.

In fact, Ben hardly knows me, and yet every week he puts my bins out without me even asking him to. He sits on the porch and watches the birds drift as I tug at the weeds and silently curse into the garden beds. He grabs the lawnmower cord and yanks it with one hundred percent confidence that this is one thing he does know how to do.

Ben’s just…Ben.

And I’m just the new girl on the block.

The new girl on my own block.

And the new girl on Ben’s block, too.

two woman sitting in front of body of water
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Categories
Life

Storytime

‘Look, Sun! The humans are telling stories again,’ said Moon as she picked through the glimmering blue ripples at her feet, sorting each loose shard into piles of keep or discard.

‘Oh goody! You know how I love storytime,’ said Sun, as he slid off the swing and left it to dangle between the car cloud and the witch cloud.

‘Oh, Sun,’ Moon’s heart fell as her eyes drifted back to the group of humans gathered below. ‘Today, the humans are talking about our beautiful friend, Raven. But instead of seeing his beauty like we do, they are frightened of him. They’ve put him in a little box called ‘Black magic and death.’  

‘Well, why would they do a ridiculous thing like that, Moon? Raven is no different than Cat, or Dog, or Fish. The humans have put them in the safe, family, home box.’

Moon smiled gently into Sun’s eyes.

‘Sun, humans tell stories for all sorts of reasons. And often the stories they tell hide the truth of what actually exists in front of them. When we look at Raven, all we see is a beautiful bird, because we’ve never put Raven in the box of black magic and death. The humans can’t help but see him differently, because that’s the box they were told he belongs in. ‘

Sun gazed at the woman that gently glimmered before him. How he loved her for the new eyes she had given him, and even though he didn’t know how he knew, every storytime brought them closer to seeing the truth of their own shared story box.

brown book page
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