Categories
Poetry

Withering

A rose. Think of it.

How like a rose we are.

Beginning as seed, gently, a bud.

How we open,

slowly,

never seeing our petals born;

never guessing when, at last,

the last

will fall.

And when we wither,

wrinkle and darling grey:

the beautiful rose that lived.

Think of it.

How easily we forget who we are.

Devine and growing.

Think of it.

Think of how lovely.

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Categories
Life

Shamed

Mistakes are our greatest gifts, and yet, we are buried in shame.

Do not make a mistake. Do not ever be bad.

We are shamed.

We are shamed.

We are human. Not one of us is perfect, not one.

I teach my children that their failures are the best things that could happen for them, their mistakes, beautiful lessons in how to do life beautifully.

Punishment breaks my heart. An eye for an eye, an ancient, barbaric way. And all of it pointless, in my eyes, because shame only drives the ‘bad’ underground, it doesn’t lovingly guide it to a better day.

Accepting our faults and carefully growing with them through life might work.

Shaming will destroy.

I choose the gentle way.

I choose self compassion, and compassion for others.

I choose…actually, I choose sleep.

I’m so terribly tired.

So terribly tired.

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Categories
Poetry

Fathers

It started with the Fathers of the Fathers.

Each ache, each man left broken

by the one who came before him:

not his fault,

that pain, continued.

But an unwanted gift, often unseen,

too often delivered.

It must now be seen.

It must now stop,

to break the rusty chain.

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Categories
Life

Alone

It is raining, and I am alone.

And there is sorrow in these parts, and knowing that life is terrible and beautiful, all at the same time.

I am alive with all of that.

I am alive with the sorrow and all the quiet of all the world.

I shall drink some coffee.

I shall drink it well, and hold my cup with love.

Categories
Life

The Quiet

The quiet has come upon me, and so I have to write.

It’s a strange quiet, a wonderful one, however mixed with a soft melancholy. It’s been with me, on and off, for as long as I can remember, and so it is that I recognise this feeling as my soul.

The little girl me felt it when she looked out at the big world, an ant amongst giants.

The teenage me felt it when she saw the grey sadness of all the adults passing by.

And now I feel it. When I am not thinking life, but feeling it all the way through to the tender aching parts.

Every version of me has used this quiet to write.

So what is the purpose of this particular post, you might ask, and if you were to ask this you’d be right to do so. I am asking this. But the truth is, I know the answer.

The answer is: my soul has nothing to say, still she must speak.

And this is how she does so.

This is how she sways into the world beyond my eyes.

She has never needed a reason for that.

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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
Poetry

Careless Life

Do not touch this softness.

I see you

angrily tearing at her bones,

leave her be.

Dear sweet, peaceful girl.

For she must rest,

she is weary,

must rest, she has been

battered and bruised

by the tentacles of careless,

careless life!

Categories
Life

Self Forgiveness

They abused their horses; yelled at them, hit them, spat daggers of anger at them, daily.

I was the thirteen year old victim of school bullying at the time, so I smiled when the abusers smiled and I laughed when they laughed (thankfully they weren’t horrible enough to laugh about the abuse.) I suppose a part of me must have thought: well, if they do this to horses, what might they do to me. I’d best tread carefully.

And so I did.

I was a mess of crumbling empathy, inside. Those poor horses. They must have been so frightened and so, so confused.

The two women, a Mother and her teenage Daughter, seemed otherwise nice. They had genuine love for their horses, I could tell by the way they spoke their names and stroked their strong, wide shoulders at the gate, as we talked.

Still. They really were rather horrible, to my thirteen year old eyes. That would never be me.

The day my horse bucked me off in the paddock was an ordinary day. Nothing unusual had happened to upset me. No dark clouds threatened to ruin the perfect sky, or my day as a little sad girl, joyously bounding around on her beautiful, crystal pony.

I was up on the horse.

And then I was down.

And my beautiful grey girl felt the wrath of a Brooke I had never ever been.

I screamed at her. I used words I didn’t even think I knew. I purposely chose sentences I had heard the ‘horrible ones’ using. And although I would never have hit her, I may as well have, because when the dust had settled…I felt such remorse. How had that venom lived inside of me? Did I really think all those horrible words about my very best friend?

I instantly hit the self preservation button, blamed the ‘horrible ones’ for making me behave in this way. Without them, I would never have done this. I was a beautiful, kind person, and wise beyond my years I had been told. Until now. Kind people absolutely never did ‘bad’ things.

But, you see, they did, apparently.

I did.

Every chemical of panic flooded my nervous system.

Horrible me’ had to go under the carpet and she had to stay there, never to be seen again. Only beauty lives here. Only sweet kindness and love.

Today, 26 years later, as I stood in front of the mirror, a flash of feeling came to me, a sludge of shame. And a memory. Of the little girl who had betrayed her own goodness, and tore another beautiful soul down.

Today, I saw the truth of what I had done, and I cried.

My beautiful girl. She had deserved so much more, and I had been capable of giving her everything she had deserved…until the moment I hadn’t.

That was the day I became fully human, imperfect and perfect, all at the same time. I wouldn’t understand this idea until many, many years into the future. Sometimes, I don’t understand it, now.

Self compassion is a beautiful learned skill, and my own has held me well, today. I can hold that silly little girl who really didn’t know any better and I can promise the me I am now that I will better protect my energy in the future.

Too many times I’ve allowed myself to be influenced by others in a way that has been damaging to me, and sometimes to others. I like to think my beautiful pony gave me one of the greatest lessons I’ll ever learn in life, however late I’ve learned it.

It is up to me to protect my boundaries.

It is up to me to choose love, and not the opposite.

And when I slip up and inevitably fail, it’s up to me to love myself enough to find self forgiveness.

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

The Rose

Even the most darling rose

is a work in progress.

Be the rose.

How beautiful

that she will show you the way

to freedom.