If not this moment,
when?
If not under this orange-grey sky,
beneath these sweeping willows, fair,
where?
How do we taste the rain
and know it is good
if we do not open our mouths?
The warm salty promise
of new found life,
calling us home,
asking to grow our bones
in partnership with the sun.
When? Where? How, life?
Now.
Here.
This way, life.
I am the soft of you
and you are the soft of me.
There is nothing
that taints this great love.
Nothing,
not even the words
you cannot say
while I stare,
while I marvel at your majesty
and blooming life.
Sweet nature.
Sweet love of my life.
I see you, darling.
Good morning, sun.
And river.
Flowers and trees.
Happy day to you, wind,
and the bird song you sweep over mountains.
(Good morning, birds, and mountains, too.)
I will let you be, this day of life.
I will let you all be as you will,
and I will call you
lovely.
The sun is one
but never can shine
as one.
Her rays will splay,
and always touch the world
(in slices)
as they do.
How they splay
is a question for each new moment.
Who they will touch,
and in what way:
undiscovered.
The sun will shine as she will.
The sun will always shine
as she will.
Shall I sing to you only of sun shiny days?
I cannot.
The clouds are grey over the meadow
and the rain falls fat and cold
upon the emerald green.
I will not tell you the sun is shining.
It is not.
The day is grey.
It is grey, and it is beautiful.
So incredibly beautiful, you see.
How lovely the humans are
as the tulips tip toe around them.
Today
there is a deep sadness in the rain.
I feel it in my belly,
and I ask it to be kind
to those who feel the pain of the sky
when it cries.
When the morning comes
she will spin into the web of it all,
and she will make the great adventure
across the weave of the day.
The walk was all the lovely things.
I bet you didn’t think you’d be coming with me.
Well.
Here we are.
Each of us in the bush.
Side by side, a million miles between us.
Happy weekend, friends.
All the love hearts.
xx Brooke
I’m avoiding doing the dishes. It’s not the first time I’ve written those words on here, and it won’t be the last because I often avoid doing the dishes if I can help it. Sometimes, I can turn the experience into something beautiful, and by that I mean I put on some wonderful music and disappear into the invisible place that only I know. That’s when doing the dishes suddenly becomes the most wonderful thing ever.
I have nothing to say, and yet I felt a strong pull to connect with you all: these days, for me, that usually means that I either have something to say that someone needs to hear, or…one of you has something to say that I need to hear. I wonder which one it will be? Perhaps both.
Isn’t it beautiful how life regenerates? I’m going through a transition phase at the moment (which I’ll share more about in the coming months) and where it frightens me so terribly to be in this place…I also feel a sense of excitement and new life breathing into my world. It makes me think of my trees. How often I’ve wandered along my walking track, gazing up at the hanging bark. This shedding always seems such a natural process and one that is entirely welcomed by the tree and its natural surroundings. What does this shedding mean for that particular tree, I always wonder. It means the shedding of the old. The beginning of a new life.
Unlike trees, humans seem to resist the shedding of our old bark, don’t we, usually because we’re afraid of something (sometimes because we’re afraid of everything.) I get that. I’ve been doing it my whole life. But how I long to be a tree and let the bark fall without question, fully trusting that the new bark will grow back stronger and better than ever. And that’s where that frightening word comes into it. Trust. Trusting in the unknown means relinquishing control, and that is not an easy thing for a human being to do, especially not this human being.
But If my trees can do it, then by golly gosh, my friends— so can I.
Bring on my new bark, I say.
