Categories
Poetry

The Web

It is beautiful,

I think,

to be a very small thread

on the web of it all.

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Categories
Poetry

Best Friends

Oh, the softness you are.

The sweet story of you

whistled through my pages,

the sharpest sorrow, bringing me to

life.

There is nothing more beautiful

than the glistening shards

of a lifetime of broken hearts

melting together again.

This softness,

this story of two best friends,

fills my heart with quiet.

When the roar is over

there is only me

smiling softly.

And you,

somewhere.

Somewhere in time

gone by.

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Categories
Life

Brave

I’m feeling such a tender ache within me, this morning. The aching quiet, I call it, this softness. This knowing of connection between humans and life, between humans and other humans.

Tenderness — more specifically, sitting within the depths of this beautiful, intense feeling with others — is something I’ve accidentally avoided in the past. I had no idea I’d been avoiding it until…oh, about ten minutes ago when I realised how beautiful it feels, and how much I’ve been craving it. And avoiding it.

I thought I wore my heart on my sleeve. I do wear my heart on my sleeve, so it’s easy to see how I’ve fooled myself. But when I really think of the years gone by, I think of that bright, bubbly sunshine I used to be…and I see that her sunshine was a wall. Of protection. A wall to keep the depth of intensity in. Or out.

I still get a little scared. I still want to run. But every time I run, I lose a beautiful, beautiful moment of human connection that could have changed two human lives for the better. Every serious moment I cover with humour, I suppose, is way of rejecting myself and the truth of what is asking to be.

Perhaps I’m over thinking it. But to me this is more of a feel, a feel that is running very deeply through me on this cloudy morning.

This tenderness is so lovely, far too lovely to live without.

From now on, I choose to be brave.

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Categories
Life

This Sack Of Potatoes

It’s a beautiful memory.

Six-year-old me. Bundled in a blanket. Mum hoisting me into the air, swinging round and about and back again.

‘This sack of potatoes is SO HEAVY!’, she jollied, as she wobbled me up the porch steps and into Nan and Pops arms for the evening. She was a young, single woman. I suppose she must have been going out on the town.

That moment. It was thirty-one years ago, but actually— in my heart and in my mind, it’s now. I see it—and feel it— clearly. Dreams live on the same street as memories: sleeping dreams, and dreams for a brighter day. Books and the characters to whom they introduce us: they live in the magical, beautiful blackness, too.

Now.

That’s where they live, I think.

Home.

And bloggy friends? One day, I will call us (and this bloggy land of ours) a beautiful, beautiful memory.

But in the twinkling dust of eternity—we will always be now.

And we will always be able to find each other at home.

My goodness.

To me, that is just one of the loveliest, lovely things.

photo of woman taking notes
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Categories
Life

This Quiet Place

I’m feeling a little tender, today.

It’s a lovely feeling, don’t get me wrong. Soft and sweet, like a warm rainy day. It’s a feeling I’ve sat with at various points over the last few years, a new softness that has grown into me like the sweetest of dreams.

It’s just…it’s an aching quiet, actually, is what it is.

A middle land. A place for me to live within the beauty of this moment, a place to also feel the absence of the hearts and souls that bring me to life. How beautiful it is to connect with souls who fill you with life itself. How beautiful it is to love them. If only I could bottle them and keep them with me always.

I’ll never regret a moment of this winding life.

The aches that have held me so firmly in place some days, the internal fights that have cracked me open. The surrender. It’s all a part of it, isn’t it? This life we all try so hard to control— there is no controlling it. Even if we could catch the wind in a jar…how could we possibly know it was in there?

I am handing you this small patch of quiet in the hopes you might pin it to your heart, or your soul, or somewhere nice. That the soft of me might bring you some comfort, or friendship, or whatever it is that might be missing for you in this moment.

To those friends I am missing: I love you. You are a part of me.

To those I will never meet again, it was sweet. (Or not. Just sayin’)

And to the parts of me that are magically brewing in some invisible place, waiting to be seen and known and touched: I am here.

I will wait.

In this quiet place, I will wait.

woman wearing brown shirt inside room
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