It is a softness that wanders the fields with me.
Everywhere I go, it is there, sending me off on my uncertain way.
Sometimes, I feel like a small bird, left to battle the raging storms of life.
I do not fight this softness. I only seek to know it well (though sometimes I wish it were a tiger, fierce and free.)
It is me and I am it, this softness of heart.
Let it become.
The internet has stolen my words.
They were here, tied with a little bow, tagged: ‘Brooke’s heart’; now they’re gone, the internet stole them. Snuffed them out, like a candle, with ease.
The internet has been down all day, so I don’t suppose it cares for blogging. I don’t suppose it cares for drafts worth saving.
But then…
Maybe it wasn’t worth saving.
There are no accidents in the universe.
Maybe,
truly,
the stolen words were not at all
worth
saving.
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.
I always thought I’d become a hermit. I saw myself in the bush somewhere, surrounded by breaking sticks and bark for miles and I was home there. No one to argue with. No one to feel too much of.
I’m not far off what I thought I’d be, I realised the other day.
I have only a few good friends.
I enjoy only the shortest get togethers before I search for the nearest exit. I like it this way. A little bit of a lot, is better than a lot of a little bit, to me.
Not that I don’t like people, quite the opposite. People can be miraculous when they allow themselves to be. When they even know the miraculous is available to them…and that’s where the hermit thing comes in. Not many people around here know about miraculous humanity.
And so I’m not a hermit, not really.
But then, I am in a way.
I always will be, but for the few I choose carefully.
And I do choose. Carefully.
And usually with love.
I have known a life and more.
I have tasted shame,
I have found my way
on the dark and dreary road.
I am you,
and you are me.
Together,
we are human.
Together we are home.
Here on this hillside,
this sweet patch of earth,
I have become.
And there is no further to go,
there are no wings to grow,
I am there.
I am there.
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.
brooke-cutler.com 