Tag: Imagination

Categories
Life

Authentically Not Myself

I am authentically myself when I am not at all myself, and it is magical, beautiful, wonderful.

What do I mean by this? Well, I’m not sure. It’s a little too obscure to understand or explain, but I’m certain you’ve felt it. I’m certain you’ll know what I mean when I tell you.

I’ve been reading the BFG to my son. He’s seven, and the best, and so naturally I want to give him the most beautiful experiences life has to offer. Reading is one of those experiences, and the magic of Roald Dahl is…well, it’s magic. There’s no real way to capture that feeling, for me.

And when I read this beautiful story to him, I so often find myself transformed. Every night I become the BFG. I put on my unusually accurate english accent and off I go. I am the BFG (or am I Roald Dahl, it’s hard to really say.)

It’s what I loved so much about acting. Embodying and expressing energies that are not my own is so intoxicating I could easily become addicted to the very thing. The deep booming cutesy tone that flies from my mouth every time the BFG speaks to Sophie: it fills my whole body, it resonates down to the bone.

I so love it.

I so love being authentically me, without being me at all.

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Categories
Life

Elf

I just watched Lord of the rings, again;

I’m certain I’ve missed my calling as an Elf.

Twirling leaves, swaying, falling.

Flowing gowns, floating on air.

Softness.

Romance.

Light and trees.

I’m certain I’ve missed my calling as an Elf.

Oh well.

There’s always next time.

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Categories
A Blog a Day in May

Fairies

Life is too short to dismiss the possibility of fairies.

I’ve never seen one.

And the imposter within me doesn’t even believe.

But I’ll never stop looking.

I’ll never stop pestering my children to look.

And when we find such magical lands as this…

I’ll look harder.

Ps: This is a public garden about twenty minutes from my home. Isn’t it the most beautiful place?

xx Brooke

Categories
Life

Find Your Magic

Go on.

Find your magic.

Categories
Poetry

When I Grow Up

When I grow up

I am going to be

a kid again.

Categories
Poetry

Butterfly Catcher

I was born

to be a catcher of butterflies.

Pass me my net

and I will show you

the joy

and the wonder

that lay sleeping

in your bones.

Categories
Twelve Days of Christmas

Tonight

On the sixth day of Christmas, I craved a feeling.

A specific feeling, really.

I craved a couch. And a book. And me.

All of us rolled up together,

where nothing and no one could find us.

photo of woman sitting near the christmas tree
Photo by NastyaSensei Sens on Pexels.com

It’s not like I wanted to escape the day

or the responsibilities that lay before me.

I just wanted to read.

I wanted to remember the warmth—

snuggling on the couch with a book

and a lovely new imaginary friend (or two.)

christmas cold friends frostyPhoto by Pixabay on Pexels.com

There’s nothing quite like that feeling.

The touch of a book, the smell.

The firecrackers that tickle the skin,

melting me—word by delectable word.

Thank goodness there’s tonight.

I think I’ll read, tonight.

woman wearing white dress reading book
Photo by Min An on Pexels.com

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Categories
Twelve Days of Christmas

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

It’s the second day of Christmas and here I am writing to you!

Surprise! I know. It’s been FOREVER. I’ll try not to leave it so long next time.

I wonder if you’ll even get this little email of mine. Do you have a computer in the North Pole? Do you even know what a computer is? Oh. Ha ha ha. Of COURSE you do, Santa— I’ll bet you’ve given a million of them away, in your time. Maybe even a billion. Well! However many you’ve given, I’m sure they’ve helped to change the world in some wonderful way.

Or not.

I mean, I don’t really know…

Umm. Santa? I truly am sorry I haven’t written for so long. The thing is, somewhere along the line someone told me you weren’t real—which is completely ridiculous, I know, especially considering I can feel you right here in my heart.

I’ll never let you go Santa.

Nope. Not ever. And do you know why?

Because I believe in magic. I believe in the magic of you.

That’s okay, isn’t it? For a big kid like me to believe in you always and forever and always, again?

Because, Santa, you’ve gotta know this: the magic of you lit the fire inside me. The magic of you helped to build me—helped fill me with all the bits of happy—and I am just not cool with letting you slip away quite so easily.

Big kids are allowed to believe, aren’t we, Santa?

I really hope you write back.

I really hope you write back and say, ‘Yes, Brooke, it’s okay for big kids to believe, too.’ Because I think my joy butterflies need you to keep them alive, Santa, I really and truly do. After all, joy butterflies eat magic for breakfast, lunch AND dinner. Without you…my joy butterflies might starve!

Anyway.

I really have waffled on.

I just wanted you to know this, Santa, I haven’t forgotten you. You’re still here, always in my heart.

Always.

Lots of love,

Brooke. (The biggest kid of them all.)

portrait of girl wearing christmas hat
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Categories
Reading Writing

Alexis Wright: Boisbouvier Oration, Melbourne Writers Festival

I’ve never read an Alexis Wright, book. Until she won the 2018 Stella prize, I’d never even heard her name.

But I can’t stop thinking about the speech she gave at the Melbourne Writers Festival on Wednesday night, and I absolutely think you should read it, here.

It’ll be good for the writer in you.

It’ll be good for the human in you.

It’ll just…be good.

I promise.

xx Brooke

‘I absolutely believe that we need deep thinking and deep imagination in our literature to shock the daylight out of us, to make us see what is happening in the world, to make us think, and if we teach how to read more deeply, think more, then perhaps, perhaps, we might stop harming ourselves and the planet.

Alexis Wright, Boisbouvier Oration, 2018

(One more post to go for my Melbourne Writers Festival series. I’ll try to get that to you over the coming days. xx)

blur book close up coffee
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Categories
Books

Falling In Love By Lamplight

I can’t remember the moment I fell in love with books.

But I know it was by lamplight.

A warm orange flush against the wall.

The shadow of a Mum, and a girl, and a book, and a bed.

A memory for all the senses.

A craving for the comfort of night.

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Are you there with me?

Mum’s soft voice, her words scattering into the twilight.

Like fireflies.

Waves, fizzing onto custard sand.

Winged chairs, lifting into the setting sun.

I feel it like I feel yesterday, that love.

That magic.

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Little girl me sped through the days, just to meet the night again.

Just so the story could go on.

Nothing’s changed, not really.

Except maybe the shadows on the wall.

The little girl I used to be: somewhere along the line, her shadow twisted and popped.

And grew.

The lamp lit voice: it’s not Mum’s, anymore.

It’s mine.

Colouring in the hearts of my own babies.

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I can’t remember the moment I fell in love with books.

And maybe the when doesn’t matter.

Maybe the why doesn’t matter, either.

It’s the who and the what and the how that will never leave me.

The lamplight.

The two shadows, big and small.

It’s the truest story I know.

And it’s all about how I fell in love… for the very first time.

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