But isn’t it entirely beautiful
to be you.
But isn’t it entirely beautiful
to be you.
I am a child of the wind.
My bare skin knows the beauty of this life, and yet, within these soft walls, I am bare.
How heavy it is to hold this uncertain hand of mine.
How my heart breaks when I think of it. The moment I was curled up on the hospital bed, weeping in my husbands arms, just absolutely sobbing with fear as the two doctors stood by, helpless to my tears.
Only moments earlier the male doctor had told me I was fine.
An hour or so earlier the female doctor had done the same thing.
And yet I wasn’t fine, my body was alive with movement. And in that moment, on that bed, all I could do was cry for the absolute terror of it. The absolute helplessness I felt in the face of what, to me, was one of the most frightening moments of my life.
I have experienced heart palpitations on and off for as long as I remember, they are not foreign to me. I know the blips. I know the sort of big, and a little scary ones.
But none of them have been like this. I called the ambulance. For myself. None of them had been like this.
They tell me: this is what anxiety does. Anxiety causes heart palpitations, and panic attacks. Apparently it was one of those.
But still, it frightened me.
It frightened me into an awareness that I wasn’t aware of before.
I am afraid of dying. If you’d asked me if I was afraid of dying three weeks ago I would have said, no, absolutely not.
But when my heart went to loopy land and energy shot straight from my heart up my throat, things changed. I have seen that fear, now, and there is nothing for me to do but honour it as best as I can.
I’ve cleaned up my diet, entirely.
I’ll need to look into ways of removing as much stress from my life as possible.
And also, I’m really quite open to believing that this episode has a great deal to do with where my energy healing journey is at. Trying to explain to Western doctors that energy moves within my body, though, is like trying to explain the housing market to a fish.
And so I’m on my own, largely, on this journey.
They tell me my heart is well. They tell me my health is perfect.
This is good.
Now, all that is left to do is live my best life, and hold my beautiful fear in the palm of my hand.
I have you, fear. It’s okay.
I have you. xx
And I will quietly be
as I am.
Yes, I will quietly be.
I close my eyes, my foot on a chair.
Pots clang. Time flashes,
bright and loud.
Could there be just me and the stars?
Me and my hands on dry earth?
My heart glows at the thought.
And I run, and I run from the noise.
And I run and hold tight to the sweet,
sweet moments of quiet on a hill.
Exhaustion is the arrow to peace.
Peace is the home that waits for me
The word sipping is very pretty, isn’t it? Delicate, like the action it shows. I can see a small pair of hands, a little tea cup beside a little light. And I know it is home.
I know it is me.
I’m sipping chamomile tea and wishing to be held like this more often. Wishing to be seen in the softness, wishing to share it and have others agree it is a beautiful softness we feel.
Tea is like that. Delicate, like the first breeze of spring, like the bunnies that graze by the river, in the evening. It sounds like a fairy tale, doesn’t it? An unreal imagining, only it’s true.
And so, so beautiful as the delicate rolls all around me.
I have been struggling more than usual over the past few months. Missing the beautiful flow I found a while back, and yet also feeling the embers of momentum begin to burn within me once more.
I wake each morning at 6 and I meditate, followed by yoga if I can fit it in. This is holding myself and my family as best as I can, with love.
I’m proud of myself for giving myself and my family these gifts.
If only a beautiful sun would light the rest of my world, so I could see clearly the path ahead. I forget myself so easily. What I love. Who I am. Each step is as sure as it should be. Why is it I continue to search for relief on the horizon?
I am home.
Let me stay here.
Let me fall into this beautiful sweet depth, forever.
How my soul asks to be held.
How she breathes
the cotton thoughts of yesterday
through the trees
as she remembers.
Oh, weary soul.
I barely see you behind those tired eyes.
Let us rest, deeply,
for all life has given, harshly.
It is a darling life.
A life to be cherished
with each breath of our aching day.
I sleep, now,
knowing morning matters
only when it greets me.
I sleep, now.
I sleep, now.
For when the rain comes,
I know I am safe in the home
They abused their horses; yelled at them, hit them, spat daggers of anger at them, daily.
I was the thirteen year old victim of school bullying at the time, so I smiled when the abusers smiled and I laughed when they laughed (thankfully they weren’t horrible enough to laugh about the abuse.) I suppose a part of me must have thought: well, if they do this to horses, what might they do to me. I’d best tread carefully.
And so I did.
I was a mess of crumbling empathy, inside. Those poor horses. They must have been so frightened and so, so confused.
The two women, a Mother and her teenage Daughter, seemed otherwise nice. They had genuine love for their horses, I could tell by the way they spoke their names and stroked their strong, wide shoulders at the gate, as we talked.
Still. They really were rather horrible, to my thirteen year old eyes. That would never be me.
The day my horse bucked me off in the paddock was an ordinary day. Nothing unusual had happened to upset me. No dark clouds threatened to ruin the perfect sky, or my day as a little sad girl, joyously bounding around on her beautiful, crystal pony.
I was up on the horse.
And then I was down.
And my beautiful grey girl felt the wrath of a Brooke I had never ever been.
I screamed at her. I used words I didn’t even think I knew. I purposely chose sentences I had heard the ‘horrible ones’ using. And although I would never have hit her, I may as well have, because when the dust had settled…I felt such remorse. How had that venom lived inside of me? Did I really think all those horrible words about my very best friend?
I instantly hit the self preservation button, blamed the ‘horrible ones’ for making me behave in this way. Without them, I would never have done this. I was a beautiful, kind person, and wise beyond my years I had been told. Until now. Kind people absolutely never did ‘bad’ things.
But, you see, they did, apparently.
Every chemical of panic flooded my nervous system.
‘Horrible me’ had to go under the carpet and she had to stay there, never to be seen again. Only beauty lives here. Only sweet kindness and love.
Today, 26 years later, as I stood in front of the mirror, a flash of feeling came to me, a sludge of shame. And a memory. Of the little girl who had betrayed her own goodness, and tore another beautiful soul down.
Today, I saw the truth of what I had done, and I cried.
My beautiful girl. She had deserved so much more, and I had been capable of giving her everything she had deserved…until the moment I hadn’t.
That was the day I became fully human, imperfect and perfect, all at the same time. I wouldn’t understand this idea until many, many years into the future. Sometimes, I don’t understand it, now.
Self compassion is a beautiful learned skill, and my own has held me well, today. I can hold that silly little girl who really didn’t know any better and I can promise the me I am now that I will better protect my energy in the future.
Too many times I’ve allowed myself to be influenced by others in a way that has been damaging to me, and sometimes to others. I like to think my beautiful pony gave me one of the greatest lessons I’ll ever learn in life, however late I’ve learned it.
It is up to me to protect my boundaries.
It is up to me to choose love, and not the opposite.
And when I slip up and inevitably fail, it’s up to me to love myself enough to find self forgiveness.