I am here.
Can you feel me?
I am the wind.
I am the wind.
Tag: Writers
Perception is a vastly misunderstood word, I think, because, for the most part, we use it in very one dimensional terms. It looks like that man over there is grumpy. It sounds like he is, too, given he’s just yelled at the mail man.
But have we been underestimating the truth of what it is to be human? Are we forgetting to tap into the depth that lies beneath the known? Our five senses really only begin to explain to us the absolute vastness that is the universe within and around us.
And Charlotte’s Web helps me to know this truth, in my own life.
Because I feel it. Every word, every meaning, every heartbeat of its beautiful flow…I feel it within, like a gentle wave, like a Mother’s touch. The subtle energy of the book tells me everything I need to know about it, and me, and who I have become because of it.That, to me, is profound and beautiful. And really rather magical, when I think about it.
The energy of Charlotte’s web (or, perhaps you might like to think of it as the ‘voice’ or ‘essence’ of the writer) is soft, gentle and wise. It makes me feel safe in a very real sense. It holds me in an invisible world that I only know because of my relationship with what lies beneath the words.
Such is the power of a beautifully written book.
It comes when it is ready to come.
It chooses, I have no say.
I just feel and write what the feelings translate to.
A miraculous marvel.
A beauty of life I’m so, so thankful for.
Categories
The Orange Light. Micro Fiction.
Burnt orange light feels safe.
Pop’s old library is full of it; lamp dappled walls, beautiful to look at, even more beautiful to feel.
How do you describe a feeling? You can only feel, and open up so others can know what you’re trying to tell them. Some people never open up. Some open and close and open again, like a snail rolling in and out of its shell.
I look for the switch, every day. The switch for the orange light inside of me. I’m the snail, and it is dark in here.
I will keep searching until I feel the light. When I feel the light, I will open, and journey on.
Again.
The internet has stolen my words.
They were here, tied with a little bow, tagged: ‘Brooke’s heart’; now they’re gone, the internet stole them. Snuffed them out, like a candle, with ease.
The internet has been down all day, so I don’t suppose it cares for blogging. I don’t suppose it cares for drafts worth saving.
But then…
Maybe it wasn’t worth saving.
There are no accidents in the universe.
Maybe,
truly,
the stolen words were not at all
worth
saving.
Of all the labels I reject
‘a poet’
is the one golden cage
ringing true to my soul.
It holds my heart,
this stamp that tells me-
not who I am,
but what I do in the world
and how these depths consume me.
And though a label
is but a boundary with imaginary walls
in a universe unending,
a poet
I am
in words
and heart.
A poet I am,
I am.
I had to write. With my heart open wide and my energy flowing, I had to write because writing is what my soul does when it needs to breathe.
My soul needs to breathe.
I stood beneath a tree in my front yard the other day. I was gardening, but gardening has become so much more than just a word, to me. How about caring for, nurturing gently, cherishing life as it grows beneath my hands? That sounds about right.
I was always going to love like this. Always going to be the one to love that little bit more. And where it often hurts a great deal to live with my heart wide open, I can’t imagine any other way of being.
A bug caught my eye as it crept up a branch. It was my baby daughter. Of course, it wasn’t my actual baby daughter, that would be insane of me to consider. But I knew in that moment that I loved this little beetle. That I would protect it. That I cared so much more deeply for this little life than I ever thought I could.
I have only just allowed myself to feel this deeply again. It was often unsafe to be my fullest self in this world, and many have hardened beneath the hardness of generations before them. My culture was not built to tolerate a soft heart. It is a culture of jokes at people’s expense and arguments over petty things. I reject it entirely. And it rejects me.
But I stand under trees and I love them with all that I am.
And I write.
Because my soul asks me to write. So I do.
I write.
Categories
Sweet Muse of Mine
Where do you go, sweet bell?
Where do you hide
when I long to feel your voice
sing through my bones?
I only know you;
the place I call home.
I only know you, dear constant voice
of heart,
of soul,
of love.
Oh.
But here you are again, little bird.
Here you are with the words I have missed,
the song I have so wished to hear on the wind.
Stay a while.
Please stay a while, sweet muse of mine.
Categories
Call Me Shakespeare
Oh!
Has this truth been truly seen!
But a glimpse into a floating sea
of strange reality,
but a knowing truer than true can be!
Who is Shakespeare?
That terrible, desperate soul,
falling,
falling,
landing evermore in the stories
of aching romance and tragedy?
I am Shakespeare.
I am the writer.
I am the lover.
And so are you, love.
So are you,
lover of passionate life
and love.
My heart is open and bare,
laid out before the world again.
Their pain is mine: I give it loving arms.
I speak their truth.
I burn with mine.
They say these are words, but I know they are more.
I call them life, achingly true.
Here I am, the softest rose: bruised but sweet.
And waiting.
An open bud, thirsty for the dew.
It’s who I am, the rose, I know.
What is this dew to fall on me?
Is it love? This feeling, deep and strong.
For a world that doesn’t know itself,
a world too scared to open its heart and see?
Do not tell me I overthink.
I feel
for you.
I feel.
For humanity.
brooke-cutler.com 