Always remember your softness.
Always remember to wrap your gifts
and hand them to the world, carefully.
For, my dear, my darling
you.
Only you
can paint the world
the colour of your dreams.
Go on, sweet bloggy friends.
Catch your butterfly.
xx Brooke
I open my soul again and again.
Has my heart been heard this time?
So quietly it speaks for fear of breaking.
Hear me, please.
I may not carry the right words, always.
But my heart is pure,
my wish is simple.
To love, is all I wish.
To give
and to know
that I have lived in the world well.
Have I lived in the world well?
Have I lived?
It’s time
to unleash
my soul.
The fragility of life can be truly shocking.
There’s a beautiful line from a Sarah Barellies song called, ‘She used to be mine’.
It goes like this:
Sometimes life just slips in through the back door, and carves out a person, and makes you believe it’s all true.
It makes me think of how funny we all are. How we travel along believing we’re very much in control until suddenly we realise…we never were in control. Not ever. At all.
Perhaps we maintain the beautiful illusion of control, quite well, but ultimately when life steps in and presents its aching quiet…all we can do is look at it peacefully and understand: this is.
Life, ever fragile.
Always beautiful.
In fact, it’s the darkness that shows us what light is.
It is our fragility that shows us our strength.
It is our failures that show us the right way forward.
And it is anger, fear, hate that shows us how deeply beautiful surrender is.
How deeply beautiful love is.
Life frightens me, sometimes, but peace is the shining puddle I look for beneath every rainy day.
I feel it, now.
I feel it, now.
Sending sooooo much love, however life may be swaying you, lovely bloggy friends.
Always, so much love, from me.
xx
I have seen myself in the world around me.
In the people, things and places I love.
In the people, things and places I hate.
In the people, things and places I care only slightly for.
I block myself from myself when I am afraid.
When love is too much, too broken or not enough.
When dreams meet reality and reality must win, for the greater good.
I block myself from myself because I don’t know who I am.
And I think I should.
Because others do.
I should, too.
And so it is I unzip my skin and let it all fall down around me.
The aching of lost dreams.
The stinging hope for dreams to come.
They eat my soul, I hold them close.
I am meeting myself.
I am losing (and missing) myself at the very same time.
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.
Some days I fall. I’m not a good mum. I’m not a good human. I’m not a good me, on those days I fall.
It’s not a consolation to know that I do not fall alone. That humanity itself is in constant fluctuation, that some days we rise and some days we fall. I’ve fallen. Me. The writer of these words, the feeler of these aches. On those days I wish for more, I also wish for peace. The two do not go hand in hand.
But it’s not as easy as finding peace and being happy with that. Without this beautiful depth—without this wild and wistful wind that moves me—there would be no passion to whoosh me along the creative river of life, the river I know and love so well.
Is it about lowering the expectations I have of myself? Or is it about lowering my expectations of life? What, I wonder, would help me to feel at peace in a world that so often clips my wings.
I was given wings to fly.
I long to use them.
Is this me, using them? Right in this moment, is this the way I was meant to fly? To write about love and loss and sorrow and sacrifice? About life at its best and life at its worst and how, at some level, it’s all the same thing, anyway?
What is it all for?
And when will I stop asking: what is it all for?
And they wait for something more.
And they sip cold tea.
And they laugh with sad eyes.
And they speak with serious voices.
And they hide the soft pieces of their hearts.
And they wait.
And they wait.
And they wait for something more.
She shines quietly for peace
as the rain falls all around.
She watches the storms rage
and knows her role
is still
to be as she was born to be.
The sun.
Always the sun,
no matter the dark clouds;
no matter the storms that rage.
Sometimes her touch is soft.
Other times, she is fierce enough
to burn new eyes into the fabric
of all the things.
But always she remains the sun.
Always she remains the sun.
Tell my heart to the moon.
Tell it all the love songs,
and all the pretty little hours that have moved me.
Tell it a smile.
Tell it wisdom, tell it grace, peace, joy and fun.
For if ever my sun begins to fade,
tell the moon to remind me.
It’s time, now, to shine.
brooke-cutler.com 