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.
I firmly assure you.
Love
is all
there is.
Stop mucking around
and get on with it, world.
The pizza tastes better, there.
Here I am again with nothing to say.
How often have I done this, since the birth of my blog? How often have I just been here because being anywhere else hasn’t seemed like an option? Many a time.
I feel as though, for a very long time, I’ve been in between here and there. Not quite knowing where here is, and not even willing to guess where there might be.
I get the distinct impression I am meant to find here and stay here, without even a thought or wondering of ‘there’. After all, when we get ‘there’ it will become ‘here’, just as today will always be today, and tomorrow will never come. (I wonder if that makes any sense at all. I am running on very little sleep. I do hope you will forgive me.)
All this rambling makes me think of a moment I had today as I sat upon a picnic rug in our yard, with my baby crawling around at my feet. In my left hand I held a large ball and in my right, a small ball. It occurred to me that without the presence of the other, neither could actually be called ‘small’ or ‘large’. The terms large and small are always relative to something else. How would I know I was holding a large ball if I’d never seen a small ball in my life? I marvel at the wonderful nerdy goodness of that.
And it makes me think of all the other ways us humans have framed our world in order to communicate clearly. What would happen, do you think, if every ‘large’ ball was just a ball? To take it even further, what would happen if every ball was nameless; just an odd sort of circular object that sat perfectly in your hands, without a preconceived idea or purpose. What might we think to do with it if its possibilities were not as clearly defined?
Gosh I’m rambling. I really don’t even know why, or what all this is about, so I will say goodnight. Goodness, I’m tired.
I hope the world is being kind to you, bloggy friends.
If not, I am sending my heart.
The sun will shine again.
I promise.
xx Brooke
I open my heart
and close my eyes.
And I am just me.
Just me
in this silent night.
Let me be empty.
I’ve seen that image, again.
She sits alone (you could not get any more alone) at her husband’s funeral and we all just sit here and shake our heads, because what else is there to do?
I’m speaking of the image of the Queen at prince Philip’s funeral, but you already knew that. You must have. Who could un see that quiet ache, just another handed to us by the raging depths of humanity.
***
I have hidden from life.
Strike that. I am hiding from life.
Because it wasn’t the Queen sitting there alone that day, it was me. I feel the pain that deeply.
It wasn’t someone else’s little boy sitting in the back of a war zone ambulance, parentless; it was mine. That one slices my heart.
I can’t hide from that darkness, though I want to.
I have to see it.
I have to say it: I am torn to shreds.
***
I cried in my husband’s arms the other night.
I mean I really cried, remembering a time in childhood where I was chosen last of all the children in my class to join the netball team.
I cried, at first, for the poor and beautiful little girl whose heart broke that day. But the depth of my tears came from the realisation that that very moment in time made me the person who will always go in to bat for anyone who needs me. That girl will try her very best to lift others, so that no one else has to feel the pain of being unloved, unworthy, unchosen.
Born is the true beauty of aching life.
And born is the paradox. The knowledge that the other needs to feel that very same empathy-birthing pain, in order to truly see. Even though I’d give anything to protect them from it.
***
You see it, don’t you?
This ache, this wide open ache of humanity, has birthed the very best of us. It has grown our hearts and gifted us the ultimate; the chance to hold and love others from the very core of our being.
But, goodness gracious me.
It hurts to be fully human.
Fully seeing, fully being…
everything.
The stories we tell ourselves
about what life
is,
does,
means,
will make our hearts
or break our hearts.
The choice,
I suppose,
is ours.
Make, break
or both, sometimes.
If only the answer were simple.
Then again…
what is simple?
Unity is the magic pill.
But unity
does not look like
shaming the broken.
Hear it.
It is this,
my truth,
I speak.
I only have to give
this love that I have.
I only have to give it,
and cherish the way it feels
to know I have loved.
Energy speaks
truer
than words.
There is sadness in the corner.
A beautiful sadness that calls to me, many a day, and I can’t help but follow. I can’t help but wonder why.
When life is ever so dear, and joy is found sweetly in the eyes of the ones I love, why is the sadness in the corner? When the rest of the room is flooded with colour; the corner.
Why is it aching, why is it grey?
Whole and beautiful life is here,
but the corner.
Why is there sadness in the corner?
brooke-cutler.com 