No rose
(not a single one)
ever bloomed in an instant.
Listen to the silence
of the journey.
Let the rose bloom
as she will.
No rose
(not a single one)
ever bloomed in an instant.
Listen to the silence
of the journey.
Let the rose bloom
as she will.
Sweet bloggy friends. ☺️
How are you all? Well, I hope, and if not: that’s okay, too, because even rain is beautiful when you look at it a certain way.
I’m so sleepy but I wanted to say hello. I’ve been a little disconnected from here of late, and though most of you may not have noticed, it’s been weighing on my mind. There are some busy, happy reasons for my disconnection, which I’ll share over the coming months, but for now I’ll just say this:
I’m here when I am, and I’m not when I’m not. (Those of you who’ve been with me a while will know I’m a bit like the wind. Full on one day, not so much the next. This is a bit of a quiet season, I think. I hope that’s okay with you all. xx)
Anyway, I’m about to fall aslee…
Sorry, where was I? Oh, that’s right, awake. Good. Okay, good, I’m awake. But not for long so I’ll say goodnight.
Until we meet again. (Which may be soon, or not for a while, says the wind.)
xx Brooke
It would be okay,
I believe,
If you were to make a wish
and put it in your pocket.
It would be okay,
especially so,
if the wish was sweet.
For a wish made carefully
is often much sweeter
if forgotten
(in a pocket)
and found
somewhere along the drifting line
of life.
Somewhere lovely,
of course.
Somewhere really quite lovely,
I would think.
You are the beautiful breeze that knows you.
Take this life.
Make it your own.
The possibilities are endless.
The possibilities
are
endless.
Dare to look.
Dare to see.
This silence
is the cloud I fall upon
when I don’t know where to fly.
How beautiful
just to float.
Here.
Now.
Eternally.
I see the chains of humanity,
do you?
It is okay to see the chains.
They are there.
We have built them.
We can pull them apart, too,
link by link
until there is only
one sweet day
and a strawberry pie
to share.
This is the Apple Tree of Everything.
You may pick only one apple, today.
Hold it in your hand.
Look at it.
Really, look at this apple you have picked.
To say it is red is hardly enough.
There are black porous dots, scattered and bunched.
A deep red jacket of smooth and lumps— there is even a bruise.
This is your apple of the day.
Yours because you have picked it.
It is not perfect, but none of the apples on the tree are perfect.
For what is perfect when different is the only sameness the tree can offer.
This apple of yours is far from the ordinary you see.
And it is yours.
How completely beautiful.
But if I was always
happy
how would I know
the absolute beauty
of real
human
connection.
And how would I discover
the strength
I have
inside.
Please don’t ask me,
because I know you think
I know the answer.
We’re all looking for the answer
thinking someone else has it.
Some speak as though they know the answer.
That’s because they do.
They know their answer
but they don’t know mine
and they don’t know yours.
I suppose we’ll have to search
beneath the rubble of life
until we find it.
Then again,
perhaps each and every step of the journey
is the answer.
Perhaps we’ll never know for sure.