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The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 27. Friends

Darling are the life-long friends.

And darling is the way they come and go so effortlessly.

How they delight me so with their laughing words and ways.

How they play all the strings of my heart, like a symphony deep in the blue of me.

dawn dusk idyllic ocean

All of the wonderful things they are—

The words, the smiles, the love.

What I wouldn’t give to fold it all up, that wonder.

Wrap it in a bundle of the fluffiest kind.

Open it whenever the world spins me a wet-cheek day.

An angry sky day.

A day that goes something like this…

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Friends.

Darling, darling friends.

I hope they know how I adore them.

That the days, the weeks, the months we spend apart sink them deeper into the guts of me…

Where I’ll love them all the more, need them all the more.

Like sunshine. Like chocolate.

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And so another day comes to an end where I fall into bed with a grateful heart.

Grateful for darling friends.

The kind who accept me for every crease, every crack, every quirk.

So beautiful is my world, while you’re in it, dear keepers of my heart.

And so beautiful it always will be.

xx Brooke

 

The darling blog of May

 

 

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The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 21. The Rose Coloured Glasses

Give me a rose to colour your glasses with.

Not just any rose.

A pink one.

Painted with the darling of the happiest day.

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Doesn’t a pink world feel lovely?

So rosy and sweet and soft.

Like a kiss upon the nose.

Like a hand upon a cheek.

Like…love.

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Imagine.

If everyone in the world wore the glasses of love.

Glasses of rose.

How bright and lovely the days would be.

How bright and lovely the world would be.

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May there be a rose for anger.

A rose for pain.

A rose for every minute the world needs more bright.

Because darling is the world that’s kissed by glasses of rose.

And darling are the people who wear them.

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The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 19. Moon River

 

Moon River, wider than a mile,

I’m crossing you in style some day.

Old dream maker, you heart breaker,

Wherever you’re going,

I’m going your way.

 

Two drifters, off to see the world.

There’s such a lot of world to see.

We’re after the same rainbow’s end,

Waiting ’round the bend,

My huckleberry friend,

Moon River and me.

 

Sigh. xx Brooke

architecture atmospheric bay bay bridge
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

The darling blog of May

 

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The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 8. Darling Darling Music

If words are the darling of my mind, then music is the darling of my soul.

Today I remembered it.

Just today. When I sat at the piano and sang my soul into the moment all around me.

What darling bliss it was.

I used to write songs, you know? My first experience of the muse and its silent, roaring power.

That power.

Can you imagine? A life as a song?

My life.

Memories, and loves, and the deepest of heartaches.

Today, I remembered them all: the gifts that music gave to me.

Darling, darling music.

Same time tomorrow?

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The darling blog of May

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The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 8. Darling Little Sugar Pot

Meet my darling little sugar pot.

I met this little darling in an op-shop, not too long ago, actually.

Our eyes met, and that was it: love.

Love so great, in fact, that I bought her despite the fact that I don’t take sugar in my tea. Or my coffee, for that matter.

There was just something about her sweet little-cottage charm that told me she belonged at our house.

She was perfect in her own right, but also, perfect for me. Perfect for all the guests she’d delight with her dainty, sugary goodness.

So I cupped her in my hand and I walked her up to the counter, where a kind old lady met me with a smile.

And just like that: she was mine, this darling little sugar pot.

The most darling little sugar pot I ever did see.

Sugar pot

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The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 4. The Darling Moon

What if

The darling moon

Fell in love

With the Sun?

Would two lights shine from the black?

Or

Would day-time drift

the lovers into the open

blue

Where they would shine

A single ray

on a hill by the sea.

Never too bright, never

a smudge of char on the

cracked stone.

And

What if

The darling Sun

Fell in love

With

The

Moon?

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The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 1. Mister Darling Brown Eyes

Mister darling brown eyes is not the darling of this post.

He is not my husband. He is not my Son. He is not even someone I love or have ever loved.

But.

He is where all this started—this Darling Blog of May, and so must his story be told.

Now. Where was I? Ah, yes. Mister darling brown eyes.

And that fateful night, so many years ago…

***

It was the end of a very fruitful twelve weeks of acting class and a bunch of us—serious actors in the making— spilled out of the classroom for the final time. We were huddled against the Melbourne cold, stomping along the grey of it all, searching for a place to warm our fingers, a place to hold us while goodbye sank into our aching bones.

So. To the pub it was, then.

We were a mixed bunch. Some of us bright-eyed and fresh-faced (me, nineteen then), others weathered and creased—courtesy, no doubt, of years of face pulling under hot, stage lighting.

Then there was him. Mister darling brown eyes. And mister darling brown eyes…well. He was all the lollypops and rainbows. He was leather jacket and jeans. He was hair like ribbons of dark chocolate fudge.

And he-was-eyes.

Eyes so deep they saw right into the guts of whoever they chose. And right now, thanks to the two of us being shoulder to shoulder, those brown eyes chose me.

YES.

Anyway.

Mister darling brown eyes. The cosy little corner. The euphoric moment mister darling brown eyes took my quivering hands and declared his undying love for me.

(Cough. No. That’s not what happened.)

In actual fact, mister darling brown eyes gushed about his girlfriend— who was adorable, apparently—and I nodded, smiled and talked about my family, the weather, ice-cream, fluffy ducks. It was, of course, only a matter of time before the topic of conversation turned to something…serious.

How serious?

Shakespeare serious.

Are you fan?’ he said.

‘Not so much,’ I said.

And all the crickets sang. And all the angels wept.

‘Never mind,’ said mister darling brown eyes. ‘I can fix that. I’ll recite you a sonnet.’

He went on to explain that Shakespeare is best heard, not read. Shakespeare is rhythm; Shakespeare is dreamy, lilting, song. Mister darling brown eyes lowered his face and smiled, dared me not to be moved by this sonnet of his, dared me not to be changed.

I nodded. (Okay. I may have tilted my head and sighed a little, I can’t be certain.)

‘Go on,I whispered. And I leaned back in my seat and proceeded to fall in love with love.

Not with mister darling brown eyes, no.

With love.

With Shakespeare, sonnet number 18, to be exact.

So, no. Mister darling brown eyes never did become my husband (which is lucky because I needed that title to give to my gorgeous hubby, Dave.)

 Still.

Mister darling brown eyes was a gift to me because, without him, I may never have heard about those rough winds that shook Shakespeare’s darling buds of May.

And this, my Darling Blog of May, would be nothing but thirty-one days of blank pages.

Now, where would the darling be in that?

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Life

The Little Blog Of Everything

This is an everything blog.

A little bit of sugar, a little bit of spice.

And, right now—like Forest and his many park-bench dwellers—you (the reader) and me (the writer) just never know what we’re going to get from this place, do we?

But Brooke, I hear you say. You are the writer. Hold the wheel. Steer.

Just take us to a place we know, a place we love.

A place we choose.

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You may have already met the many versions of writerly me—especially if you’ve followed along on my Sunny Mummy journey—and if so, you may be wondering which me will be the captain of this particular ship, at any given blog post.

Will it be the very serious me; the scholar and the thinker, the champion of all things books and arts and creativity?

Will it be the dreamer, the romantic, the philosopher? The Mum?

Or will it be me of the adorably nuts kind; me who wishes the world was made of chocolate, and cherry-red wine, me who thinks she’s way funnier than she actually is. (And yes. The latter is the captain of this particular blog post. Sorry about that.)

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So!

What will the next post be? A photo blog: short, sweet and poignant? Or will it be wordy and slow, important and true?

And deep?

This is my confession.

I don’t know.

All I can say about this little land of words is that it is, and always will be, a place for anyone who finds it, a place for anyone who needs it. A place that changes and moves, because life changes.

Life moves.

And that’s what I want for this space.

Life.

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With this confession lies an apology of the sincerest kind. Sometimes you will be lost here, wishing for direction, wishing for routine wrapped in a neatly labeled box.

This place will give you all of the things, sometimes. And none of them sometimes, too. What exactly it will give you, I can’t be sure.

BUT.

What I can be sure of is this.

My heart lives in this place.

And where my heart lives, I live.

All of me.

And hopefully…

All of you, too.

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Life

The Aching Quiet

The aching quiet.

You’d know it, I’m sure.

The moment something could have been said but wasn’t. The moment silence was filled with a smile, a giggle, a tear.

That’s what I think the aching quiet is.

An ache of the highest happy.

An ache of the deepest sad.

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I’ve met the aching quiet many times in my life.

It’s the glance between would-be lovers in a crowded room; The bashful smiles that live with them for days and weeks and months.

It’s Dad, at the game, when his little girl socks the ball a mile; It’s the face in left-field, who never saw that coming.

It’s the woman who discovers the burger guy’s name and number on her chip bag; It’s how high he flips the patty when she sees it there and smiles.

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If words are what life sounds like… the aching quiet must be how life feels.

The stuff of life that reaches the very bones of us, the yarn that weaves us together and makes us all the same.

The aching quiet, I think, is the pauses between the words. The deeper meaning of what we say.

It might even be a gooey caramel surprise for some. (Uhem, me.)

Yes.

I really do love the aching quiet.

Don’t you?

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Life

The Value of Kindness

It was all I had ever wanted. A horse. Majestic and lovely, the only dream my little girl heart desired. Every week the library door would slide open and out we’d whistle, me and Mum, our bags heavy with books we could only hope would be as good as their covers. I’d spend a lot of my browsing time at the fiction shelves: love stories, fantasy sagas—anything I connected with in the first paragraph, in the bag it went.

And then there were the horse books. How to look after a horse. How to ride one, love one, train one. Whatever you needed to know about horses, there was a book for it. And I wanted to read it.

 In the bag it went.

What was it that enchanted me so about horses? I had no idea. I was a city girl and had been my whole life. It was only recently we’d moved to a place I considered to be the country—eucalyptus trees, grassy paddocks a plenty— but even that place had too many asphalt roads to really be considered rural.

The only thing I knew about these wonderful creatures was that, however little sense it made to my city girl sensibilities, the very thought of them thrilled me. For whatever reason, I had gravitated toward these kind animals, and I needed to satisfy that pull in some way.

So, I took horse riding lessons. Gone were the books. Now I stood up close to the real thing; scratching the flat of a fuzzy forehead, closing my eyes to the sweet, earthy smell of horse. What if…gosh. Just what if I could own one of these magnificent beasts.

The challenge was set. With superpowers that would melt even the hardest of hearts—or perhaps it was the big blue eyes and gentle head tilt, that did it— I convinced my parents a horse was the perfect pet for me. I would love my horse so dearly, I’d said to them, that any chance of me neglecting the thing would be a non-issue. And if anything, I’d love it too much and they’d never see their beloved daughter again.

After the triumphant ‘yes’ vote, life for me changed dramatically. I felt it the moment she rolled on in: true love, her dapple-grey bottom booming out the back of the float, the first part of her to come into my life…the last part of her to leave it. But I’ll get to that bit a little later. For now, the beautiful dream continues.

It really was love between me and her. She loved me for the potato chips I’d be munching on most days, during my after-school visit. Those greedy wobbling lips of hers, that whiskery chin. The flared nostrils and the wide eyes. All angling for my afternoon snack. Whoever would have thought it: horses and crisps! But yes. It’s true. It’s a thing.

And me…well. I just loved her. So often, I’d be taken by the very odd feeling that, somehow, those big, almond eyes of hers could see into my soul. To me, despite her youth, her eyes told the story of a horse who’d lived a thousand life times. An old soul, if you will.

When winter came, I brushed her thick coat and bundled her into her pretty winter rug. When the need arose I scratched the dry mud off her legs, picked the caked mud out of her hooves—I did everything a responsible horse owner should do and I was proud of it.

Of course, it was when the rains came that the water trough needed cleaning and refiling. The hose didn’t reach; I’d have to use buckets to refill. Bloody hell. As I clomped from tap to trough and back again, rain falling heavily on my driza-bone, I spotted Mum peeking out from behind the curtains, my baby brother snug on her hip. Was that a smile on her distant face? Was this the moment I’d finally risen above my title of pampered princess of the family? Yes. It was. And right there in the pouring rain I celebrated, feeling every bit the accomplished graduate.

Enter the intruders.

The odd little man who owned my baby’s paddock—the very same man who taught me it was possible for one to ‘bleed like nobody’s business’—agisted two more horses on the property. This would change everything.

A fourteen-year-old girl and her Mum would come and look after these horses, ride them, feed them, yell at them…hit them. I was twelve, by then, and very impressionable, as it turned out. Was this the way to treat a horse when they misbehaved? I tried it their way. When my horse misbehaved, I growled at her, just like they did. I did not hit her—that awfulness will never hold a place within me. But more times than I care to remember, I was unkind. Many years later, as an adult, I would remember these moments of unkindness and cringe. George Saunders was spot on when he said, ‘What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness.’

This was my failure of kindness. And yes, I regret it, deeply.

My failure of kindness is the broken heart of this story; the one regret that lives on from those precious days with my beautiful girl. She’d always been a little bit naughty but she did not deserve the vicious words my reckless teenage self, delivered her. If only adult me had been there to tap her on the shoulder. To lead her back to those wise almond eyes and show them kindness. Teenage me would never live to regret kindness.

As I slipped further into the surly depths of teenager land, fate stepped in. We would be moving house, no horses allowed. Me and my beloved pony: we were breaking up. And although it pained me to admit it…maybe this was not such a bad thing, after all.

Our last days together were tender and filled with all the pleasures of an unbreakable friendship. It was as if she knew this was it for us, as if she knew that she’d been unkind to me too, and that this was her last chance to leave a warm and lasting impression.

As the float drifted that big, grey bottom away, there were none of the tears I’d expected of a broken heart. Instead, there was relief. No longer would I have the opportunity to hurt my very best friend, no more failures of kindness from me. Only heart smiles and memories of a wise, loving friend who taught me the profound value of kindness.

And the undeniable value of a good bag of chips.

 

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