Sorrow is quiet and soft.
How strange, that during the saddest times, the quiet is the loudest voice of all.
Tonight, I send my voice into the stillness.
To honour the love and the sorrow that lingers when we lose our most precious hearts.
Quiet, the place where unconditional love floats free.
Peace. Our soft and gentle, forever home.
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
Hush.
Here in the silence
that lingers between each star.
Close your eyes,
let the sweet velvet black
hold you.
And you will know
(you will know)
that this is all you need.
The twinkling silence that is you.
This is all you need.
How lovely it is
to find home again.
In this home
I am what I am,
and what I am
is a river,
a rock,
a lion,
a ballerina.
What I am
is all I am.
All I am
is all there ever was.
All I am
is all
I am.
Peace.
It’s soft and it’s cool.
It’s free and it’s flowing.
And quiet. (Good heavens it’s quiet. I close my eyes for that one. Truly. I close my eyes.)
Peace.
It lives in the candle beside me; within this flame, still and perfect.
I drink tea alone—peace lives there.
And the wind, swaying green beyond the window: it stops me as I wander.
It brings me home.
Peace is the language that brings me home.
Peace.
It is such a beautiful thing.
And it’s funny. How long it has taken me to see its worth.
That I’ve been looking for it. That, always, it’s been mine.
If only I’d known that I needed it.
I needed it.
Peace. I need it, still.
I’ve always looked beyond.
Always searched for the more.
Sometimes I wait for the more,
craving the sweet beauty of tomorrow.
Other times, I wait in fear.
For horrors that may, or may not come.
None of it is real.
None of it is now.
None of it is me…
until it is.
And even when it is,
it is not me.
It is always only life.
Life that has come.
And life that has gone.
This messy home,
an incorrectness:
something broken
needing to be fixed.
The wars we rage inside ourselves
just to keep control,
to maintain clean,
to maintain ‘right.’
It is a mistake of the eyes
and the heart
not to see the true beauty
of a home:
messy, chaotic,
beautifully lived in.
These crumbs on the floor.
They are not bad or wrong.
They are a reminder of my children.
How lucky I am to have them at all.
This beautiful mess a child does bring.
Mess is life.
And though a pristine home
is a gift to be treasured,
so is this mess.
This mess of sweet
imperfect
life.
If she could hold the world with all her heart.
If she could soften the growls of the wildest of them,
she would.
Oh, she would.
Oh, she would.
The soft girl whispers in my ear.
I drift each cushion to the foot of the bed and carefully place it off to the side, as if it were made of precious, gold leaf.
I peel back the doona; the sight of a crisp sheet peeking out beyond its triangular puff will never cease to satisfy.
The world runs fast.
I run slow. Smooth. Deep.
Just the way I was made to run.
I see the pace of the world, I do not choose it.
I see me, now.
I choose me, now.
If sleep could touch my cheek,
I would ask for her slender hand
a thousand times.
If sleep did fall upon me now,
I dare not wake.
No.
I dare…not…
