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.


A Story

It smells like a roast

but it feels like a story

of love,

of a garden,

and of home.

Photo by cottonbro on

Sail With Me

And surely as the river

of the sky soothes me,

every star of this night

will sail with me




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.


It Is A Gift

It is a gift.

An open heart

spun into ebony lace:


So much more than what they seem.

The chance to see,

and believe

that anything is possible,


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.


It is a gift.

family decorating their christmas tree
Photo by Jonathan Borba on


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
Photo by cottonbro on

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

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

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

Photo by Léo Vinícius on


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
Photo by Chama on





‘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
Photo by Wendy van Zyl on


The Little Peg Bucket Of Possibilities

In the early hours of this morning, the universe woke me from a dream. The details of the dream elude me now, but the message was a whack over the head that I’m unlikely to forget for a very long time.

The line that woke me was this: ‘wake up and smell the bullshit.’ All I remember was that it was a woman’s voice that had declared it, and she was engaged in a conversation with a person that I couldn’t see. Upon hearing those words within the dream, I woke from my sleep. It was 2:00 am.

When a reasonable hour rolled around— time to wake for the day— I lay in bed and wondered about the dream. As I lay there pondering the absurdity of waking at the exact moment the dream girl had asked me to wake in order to ‘smell the bullshit,’ I continued to wonder. What bullshit was this dream girl asking me to wake up and smell? Right then, an epiphany arrived in my spiritual inbox, and it took the form of an ugly bucket of pegs I bought a long time ago. I bought that bucket for no other reason than to hold pegs.

But as I lay in bed it hit me: that bucket of pegs was just another reminder of a way of life I no longer choose. A time when I was living so far outside of the boundaries of who I authentically am, I couldn’t even see the ‘bullshit’ I’d accidentally mistaken as ‘truth’. At the time, I was heavily living according to everyone else’s template, which of course meant that I was living outside of the truth of who I really am.  And as I continued to see the ugly bucket of pegs in my mind’s eye, I thought: what a wasted opportunity. 

“Brooke, I heard the soft girl whisper. It is an old story you have been living within all these years: a story of limitation, a story of fear-based restrictions that no longer serve the life you are moving towards. In the old world, this was indeed just a bucket of pegs.

But it is time to accept that you no longer live in the world you once knew to be true. Yours is a world made of choice, of colour, of magic— and this means that you must no longer allow yourself to revert to thinking along conventional lines. Let others see only a bucket of pegs if they so choose. But you must always remember this: it is your right to see more. And it is your truth to see more.

I instantly knew what the soft girl was telling me.  In the case of the bucket of pegs— had I taken more time to connect fully with who I really am when it came time to choosing that bucket I’d be spending so much time with, I would have remembered that I am soothed by beautiful, soft colours. That I am creative. That I feel things, perhaps a little more than others, so I need to make sure that I surround myself with things that feel good to me.

Had I been more aware of these things about myself at the time, and brave enough to step beyond the conventional idea of what a bucket of pegs should look like, I might have chosen a different bucket. A bucket that wasn’t ‘made for pegs’ at all, but instead was beautiful, and also fully functional as far as a peg bucket might go. How completely full and beautiful the simple experience of hanging out the washing might have become for me. Gazing over at my beautiful little peg bucket as it hung on the line, feeling a little bit of lovely every time I picked a peg from it. How I might have smiled.

The wonderful news is: it’s not too late for me to see the ‘bullshit’ of my old ways because I’m not dead yet. And while I’m alive, I make a promise to myself that I will always drive towards the possibilities in order to arrive at my very best life.

Always and forever, I choose to do that.

white textile
Photo by Skitterphoto on




My Tribe

To my dear bloggy friends,

I’m sorry it’s been so long since I checked in here with my actual voice. Truthfully, I’ve felt quite stuck in place, and really unable to move many places outside of the muddy waters of my head. I really am okay, though, and although I’ve still got quite the ways up the hill to travel: I’m getting there, one step at a time. I hope you can forgive my absence.

I was thinking of you all as I ran home from the lake, earlier, actually, and so I wanted to pop in and share my musings. I so appreciate the time you take to read my words and have them connect with the world you are creating inside of yourself. I’ve been searching for ‘boats like me’ this whole time. A tribe, to help me feel as though I belong somewhere.

Well. How about it when, pounding the pavement trying my best to not completely die, I realised…I’ve already found my tribe.

It’s all of you.

Isn’t that the most beautiful, wonderful thing?

I accidentally created my own tribe, and all this time I had no idea that’s what you were.

My tribe. My soul friends. I mean, really, that’s what you are isn’t it, and I think that is all the lovely things.

It occurred to me as I made my way back from the lake that even if we’ve never communicated: our energy connects as soon as you read my words and feel something. And according to the soft girl inside of me, the power of non-verbal communication (however invisible and abstract) is just as powerful a communication tool as the use of words. (How funny I’m saying that with actual words.)

And so it was that I discovered just exactly why this little bloggy land of mine has always felt so much like home.

It’s because it is. Home. To me and my tribe, my very bloggy family.

Thank you so much for allowing me to share a team with you, guys.

It really is the loveliest thing in the world.

xx Brooke

person gather hand and foot in center
Photo by Pixabay on