Categories
Life

Relative Darkness

I’m sitting in the relative darkness and life is happening, all around.

In the bedrooms, my children are sleeping. In the branches, possums are creeping across the night. There are bugs out the window by the thousands, spiders spinning elaborate webs: the most stunning miracles of architecture.

And here, there is me.

Still wondering: what is it all for?

I still feel alone, in many ways, although I’m quite happy to be alone in my alone-ness. Everyone has their own version of alone. My version just so happens to be the way in which I view the world. Just a small difference. Just a tiny glitch of alone on the vast sea of everything.

I suppose I should learn to accept our society as it is. Everyone has vastly different belief systems, and I think that is entirely lovely, one of the shining pearls in the ocean of humanity. I just wish we could happily be ourselves, without the nonsense, though. To be truly authentically ourselves, without having to bend who we are to fit our art into trends. To fit our personalities into social groups. To fit our broken pieces into shining humanity: the great big flying flock of perfection.

I find myself currently wrestling with a box. A place I do not wish to be.

A box, largely self made, partially made by well meaning folk (much like myself) longing for connection and home. What is a box, in the context I speak, you might ask? A trend. A stereotype. A label.

I am (what they call) an Empath. It’s clear that my personality and many of my traits and sensitivities fit into this box they have called Empath, and it’s been so beautiful (and very handy) to have had so many resources and like minded souls to help me feel as though I’m not alone in the universe.

But as much as it thrills me to have found a beautiful little tribe of the sweetest, softest hearts to love: I am suffocating beneath this label. And I don’t want it. I just don’t. Because as like-minded as we who can identify with the label Empath are, we are also a whole world of different, in many ways. Not only that, but we are also very much the same as others who wouldn’t identify as highly sensitive. We are human. Just like everyone else. Not special, not broken. Human.

I want to be free. I am a wide-open, free as the wind that blows me, soul.

I do not want a box. I do not want a box.

I am ready and willing to help other sensitive muffins open to the fullness of who they are, but I just can’t move past this feeling of no, stop, reassess. Yes, it’s clear I am sensitive. But I don’t want this to be a focus in my world, I just want it to be something that is.

If I carry on with my new blog, Empath Days, this will tether me to a box I don’t wish to belong in, and that’s the part of this whole thing I can’t come to accept. Am I overthinking? Probably (I am me, after all). The frame ‘Empath’ has served me well. It has served as contrast and recognition, a mirror to help propel me forward. But I do think that’s all it was meant to be on my life journey. A rocket launcher. A breadcrumb. Not my life’s work. And certainly not my identity.

I started Empath Days (my new little venture, aimed at Empaths and sensitive folk) because I wanted to help others, like me, find their way and feel less alone. But I can do that here, I can do that at the supermarket, I can do that at school pick-up, ’round the dinner table. There are many wonderful Empaths (let me just use the term because it’s easy) out there whose purpose it is to guide other Empaths into wholeness through a specific channel.

I just don’t think I’m one of them. At least, not at this point in time.

Right now, if I am anything, I am a writer of my heart: a liver of my dreams.

If I do have a purpose it is to guide others to open and release from the boxes of this life. To find their dreams, to open their box. Not to encourage people to find a box and stay there. Are we not here to live? Are we not here to fly wherever, whenever, however?

I believe we are.

So I’m going to stop Empath Days in it’s tracks.

I don’t want to be an Empath. I want to be all of me.

I want to create what I create, and I want it to be beautiful, all of it, especially the journey to each sweet prize. The creative process: I want it to be free flying everything.

I want to teach what I’ve learned and drown in my passions.

I want to write my book, my poems, my soul.

I want to live, however I live.

Oh, and I want to love. (Always, always I want to love.)

So I’m going back to the drawing board.

I’ll be back, sweet bloggy friends, when I’ve had a chance to unscrambled my thoughts, a little.

xx Brooke

Photo by Burst on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Asking Questions

It is not the darkness

of others

I fear.

It is my own

crimson need

to mould the world

into a shape

that cannot possibly exist,

or remain.

Perfection is rigid,

solid,

stiff.

Life

is the ever flowing river

of everything,

everyone,

every way.

Broken?

Unbroken?

Right?

Wrong?

There is nothing

but life asking questions.

And answering them

as it will.

Categories
Poetry

Neat and Tidy

She came in a neat and tidy box.

Most of them did.

Until they opened the box

and life began.

Categories
Poetry

The Wolf

When the moon is full

they will remember:

the wolf howls

into the shining night.

And so do they.

Categories
Poetry

Chains

I see the chains of humanity,

do you?

It is okay to see the chains.

They are there.

We have built them.

We can pull them apart, too,

link by link

until there is only

one sweet day

and a strawberry pie

to share.

Categories
Poetry

The Path Of The Righteous

How hard we strive

to maintain the path of the righteous.

And yet

someone, somewhere

aches on the flip side

of right.

So, what is right?

There is only

bitter sweet

existence.

Categories
Poetry

Open Rose

These hours of twilight.

How soft they have been,

like rain on a dusty summer road.

Here I am.

A woman, at last.

Home in the truth

of this soft heart of mine.

A rose of musk in bloom

this day.

And every day beyond.

Categories
Life

All Of Me

This morning, I stood at the sink and cried.

Years ago, quite by accident, and quite without me knowing why…I stopped crying after a lifetime of being a human river. I didn’t notice it happening, it just happened and there was nothing for me to do but keep living, wondering if this was the me I was meant to be all along.

I now know the lack of tears meant that I had lost myself. That I had been suppressing my emotions, either for the comfortability of those around me (to fit in) or just because the difficulties of life had closed my heart in order to keep me safe.

This morning, as I slushed around in that pile of dishes, I felt my wholeness again. For those of you who are new to my beautiful bloggy family, this reawakening of my spirit/senses began about two years ago, I’d say, and every so often I find myself reaching new milestones of truth, you might call them.

This morning delivered one of them, and every beautiful current of the river that once moved me was back, if only for a few moments. I’d just been told a story. A very sad one. A story of a man who had lost his wife and child in a car crash many, many years ago.

I cried those tears as though I was that man. I felt those tears as though I was that man. I ached for his pain. I cried for him.

And I knew it was right.

And I knew that, once again, I was all of me.

Photo by Kat Jayne on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

Write With The Wind

I cannot create unless I soften.

I cannot write with the wind,

I must become it.

I am the beautiful breeze that flows these words into the sky of all things.

Human is but a small part of me.

The blissful wind

I am

is the rest.

Categories
Poetry

Cherry Sky

The cherry sky

was never meant to stay,

however beautiful.