I am here.
Can you feel me?
I am the wind.
I am the wind.
Tag: Writing
I mourn
the turning of time.
Shall I clutch at the moment,
or the passing days gone by?
Or shall I be free
to stroll the fields, with you?
Free to know the wind
as an ever changing friend.
There is a quiet, here.
My husband is away, so it’s just me and our sleeping children beneath this roof. In this room, it’s just me and my heart quietly whispering away. What is she saying? I’m not entirely sure.
She’s telling me I worry too much.
That I should remember the wind and her sweet softness. How peacefully she blows, without a thought, without a care or question.
She’s telling me she sees me. That even though, sometimes, life’s tenderness swells to the point of overflowing…I’ll always be okay. My tears could fill an ocean some days. After they fall, though, everything seems a little brighter than it did before, and a little softer, perhaps.
I do like the softness very much.
It feels like peace, it feels like calm, it feels like love.
Categories
A Little While
There is silence
where the gaps are.
Weeping holes
in a persons soul, for life,
or just,
perhaps,
for a little while.
Categories
In The Gentle Woods
It is the depths that call me here.
It is the silence
and the bells
of yesterdays wish.
Let there be now.
Let there be this walk alone
in the gentle woods.
Categories
Pure Bliss
It is a softness that becomes me, and I am gone.
Lately I am understanding more and more about this mysterious creative force that takes me, and yet, truly, I understand nothing. I know it uses me in ways I cannot comprehend. I know it takes my body and dances me.
Makes me write, makes me draw, makes me love.
It is Devine.
It moves within me, like the wind.
I saw the new Avatar movie, recently. It made me smile, because I recognised me. A girl who feels the world, who knows the earth, who breathes its song.
I suffer greatly for my sensitivity, at times, but it is also my greatest gift. My sweetest home.
To create is to live a life of pure bliss.
I cherish this soft, sweet wind.
I’m on holidays in the middle of nowhere.
I have books.
I have my computer.
I have a heart that wishes for silence and the soft smiles of love.
I will sip some tea and close my eyes.
Categories
Merry Christmas
None of it makes a difference to me.
Some of you I barely know.
Some of you I have known and loved to the depths of my soul.
None of it matters.
Because each of you has my heart.
And each of you deserves to hear this on Christmas day:
Life is a journey.
You are not always going to get it right, and it is not always going to make sense.
But you will live.
Isn’t
that
wonderful?
I so adore you, bloggy friends.
Thank you, again, for allowing me to be as I am.
Merry Christmas.
Love, Brooke.
As he spun his web of gold around the evening, Sun smiled on the river children, below. Oh, how they splashed and cackled and loved!
What would Moon think of this beauty, Sun wondered, knowing how his dear and sleepy friend ached for the pain of the humans. This sight would surely glimmer her into a new and cheerful day!
But where was Moon?
Not dangling upon the cherry trees, nor casting a shimmering trail along the rivers’ edge. Tonight, Moon was tidying the evening sky, waiting for the river children to fall tired, and find their sleepy ways.
‘But Moon!’ said Sun, ‘The humans are smiling, look at them! Each of them laughing all along the shore!’
Moon put her quiet finger to her lips. Gently, without changing the calm expression on her face, she pointed to a patch of earth, darkened with gloom.
‘Oh, Moon,’ said Sun, heart broken as he spotted a small child, among the darkness, sad, cold and alone.
‘The others don’t know about him, Sun. They can only see what shines upon their day. This little boy needs me, Sun. I see him. I am ready.’
And with her words of calm and compassion, Moon spun a ball of silvery blue and cast it upon the lone boy of the earth. The boy, who had previously been lost in a puddle of tears, caught sight of Moon’s shine in the pool at his feet.
‘Look, Moon! He’s not crying anymore!’ shouted Sun, like a ball bounding along the open horizon at daybreak.
‘No, Sun. I don’t suppose he is,’ Moon smiled, wiping the last of the cobwebs off the dusty fridge of the sky.
The German Shepherd changed things. She considered revenge, but then, he had always nurtured a sick fantasy of being mistreated by women. How inconvenient life could be at times.
Still. He had known she would only consider small dogs, and so, it was absolute that he must pay. The unfortunate event would be dressed as an accident. She would smile politely as a fall occurred.
Days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months without a glimpse of opportunity. No staircase to fumble him down, no veranda step to miss at the expense of his face. It was odd. And yet, she remained vigilant, eyes wide open to any subtle clue that the Gods of revenge were ready to offer a hand in support.
The dog, whose name was Bart or Simpson (or something vulgar) was really rather sweet, which became confusing. It was as if a thorn in her thumb had become a familiar, almost welcome, friend; the sting long gone. All that remained was the dog, and her aloof husband who, for some reason, was acting a jealous fool of the dog and her joyous embrace of his overly large paws.
She would think on his odd behaviour again, in the morning. Or now, perhaps, as the Nurse set her cast for the third time in three weeks and told the same old story.
How unfortunate that the nurse had also fallen down the stairs in that very same year.
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