A Blog a Day in May

The Soft Girl Again

The soft girl spoke to me again.

She was quick, as usual, so quick I almost didn’t notice she’d come. But I caught her. Yes! And when I did, she spoke to me in moving pictures and silhouettes: a projected future scene, playing like a movie on the blank screen of my mind.

When her ‘flash’ of advice came I was on the couch, hugging my pink blankie and gobbling up leftover pizza. What songs might I play on my walk when it came time to brave the cold, I wondered. 80’s pop? Musical theatre? List by eclectic list rolled over in my musical mind’s eye, but a solid decision was yet to announce itself.

That’s when I heard her. Saw her.

Felt her.

And what did the soft girl whisper to me, you ask? She whispered a change of plans. Not an outright change, nothing drastic. Just a tweak. A slight nudge to move me into better alignment with the makings of a greater day. A greater me.

The soft girl showed me a vision of my walking track— the one I’d be springing along in the not too distant future, whistling up fat-armed gum trees, crunching along a pathway of pebbles grey, red, and brown.

But things were different in the soft girl’s version of events. In the soft girl’s version…I wasn’t alone. My little baby elephant— my adorably delightful five-year-old boy—had come along for the pebble crunch of it all, and it-felt-good. It felt…right.

It was that feeling, the feeling of rightness I experienced upon mentally viewing my little mister striding along beside me that confirmed it. The soft girl. Her subtle, intuitive language had whispered it’s quiet hello so that I might use it and make this life of mine better.

An hour later I walked out the front door, trailed by an ever so excited little boy. An hour after that…the two of us bounded back into the house, huffing, puffing and smiling from our Super Mario ‘star run’ down the street to home.

The soft girl got it right again today, the lovely duffer

And my goodness, I’m grateful.

person wearing shirt standing near tree
Photo by Alex Smith on Pexels.com
Advertisements
A Blog a Day in May

The Adventures Of A Hungry Girl

My glasses are shining back at me from the library window.

In hindsight, I should have eaten. Actual lunch I mean, not just the Honey and Date Loaf that quite accidentally fell into my belly at around lunchtime today. I know I should have chosen a more appropriate lunch because I’ve been wandering around the library for an hour, in a daze, and only now have I begun to write: a blog post, might I add, that will likely make little to no sense at all, whatsoever, in the slightest, or even a little bit. (See what I mean? I have no one to blame but myself.)

Apart from a total lack of regard for my perfectly innocent human body, it’s been a wonderful day. The ‘wonderful’ began with a song about a garden. I was on my way to meet my husband and little people at the pool, wrestling with the gear stick of my husband’s zippy little beetle bug (I’ve never been a multitasker) when the lady on the radio announced the next song.  Inspired by a home garden, apparently.

A song about a garden: I was intrigued.

By the end of the song— a dainty classical number, whirling with piano and violin the butterflies in my heart had moved me out of my body and into a lavender-scented cottage garden.

Beautiful. Magical. Lovely.

Really it was.

When life returned to normal, I swam with my ‘watch this Mummy!’ little girl. I ate cake and I drank coffee. I wandered the shops, and I wandered the library, and here I am now. Writing a completely random blog post like only a hungry cooky girl can.

So, yes.

It’s been a happy kind of day (however random) thanks for asking. ☺️I’m sorry about the ‘not really about anything’ blog post.

Tomorrow will be better. Maybe. Probably.

Hopefully. (Wink)

xx

woman wearing black jacket holding pink flowers
Photo by Anastasiya Lobanovskaya on Pexels.com
A Blog a Day in May

Fairies

Life is too short to dismiss the possibility of fairies.

I’ve never seen one.

And the imposter within me doesn’t even believe.

But I’ll never stop looking.

I’ll never stop pestering my children to look.

And when we find such magical lands as this…

I’ll look harder.

Ps: This is a public garden about twenty minutes from my home. Isn’t it the most beautiful place?

xx Brooke

A Blog a Day in May

The Cupboard of Unfinished Things

It happens every year.

The wool balls enter the stores in preparation for winter, and my brain enters a frenzy of the most bizarre kind. You see, I’m not really a knitter. And yet, every year, as soon as the first wool balls hit the supermarket shelves…an orchestra made up of little tiny people begins to play inside my head. That’s how I know. I absolutely must start knitting something. Again.

And so I do. I sit down with a new pile of wool and my pretty pink hot water bottle, and I begin to knit the one. A precious new creation. Another chip off my creative spirit, that, ultimately, I always know, will be banished to the rickety cupboard of ‘unfinished things.’

It’s quite the comedy, really. Because I can’t actually knit, my choices of what to knit are always limited: a blanket made from a thousand hand-sized patches, or, yet another scarf. All the while, the little devil on my shoulder sits and quietly smiles. Because he knows. He knows it doesn’t really matter what I choose, and he also knows the reason why. (Ah, yes. There he is. Already preparing that nasty little cupboard. Sheesh.)

Well. There I was at the supermarket, once again with the wool, and I wouldn’t let any of that stop me. The decision was made. My little boy would quite like a scarf, and maybe knitting for him would give me that extra boost to save this one from the cupboard of impending doom.

But as I examined the stacked shelves—faced with a wall of fluffy, colourful possibilities— something came to me, something big. The reason. The truth that could have saved me the shame of every project that’s ever wagged it’s sweet, broken little tail into that big meanie of a cupboard over the years.

I’m not meant to finish.

I was never meant to finish, not any of it.

Maybe for some people, knitting is about creating something useful and beautiful. But, for me…it’s really not. Yes, it would be lovely to knit something of use. Lovely. But entirely unnecessary in the grand scheme of the life I’ve chosen.

For me, knitting is about the journey.

It’s about that blissful repetitive tune, the clickety-clack that somehow soothes me and brings me back into my body when I fly too far into the land of the perpetual dreamer. It’s a way for me to take one step (or one row). And then another. And then another. Rather than simply fly through life, looking for the greener grass that lives at the very top of a hill that I just may never get to.

Who cares if I don’t get to the top of that hill. The journey is lovely enough. It’s a journey that slows me down and reminds me to just…be here. In my body. On the couch. Knitting. Joyfully aware that this scarf— just like its many older siblings— will probably never be finished.

 

 

 

 

Twelve Days of Christmas

The Twelfth Day of Christmas

On the twelfth day of Christmas, her sleeping babes warmed her heart from their beds.

What joy might tomorrow bring for them, she wondered, remembering the magic of being a child on Christmas eve.

She remembered lying in bed, listening to the lullaby of her heart, hoping and wishing to meet the morning sooner.

She remembered such lovely things—

and she smiled.

Because on the twelfth day of Christmas, the girl became a woman in love with the dream all over again.

But this time the dream was for her sleeping babes.

Sleep tight, my little ones.

Sweet dreams, until the morning finds you.

celebration christmas cup dogs
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Ps. Thank you so much for coming on this heart-filled journey with me, these past twelve days. Merry days to you all, my lovely friends. Here’s hoping the magic of the season finds you and chases you well into the new year.

xx Brooke

 

 

Text placeholder (1)

Twelve Days of Christmas

Merry Birthday

On the tenth day of Christmas, there was a party.

Two years ago (nearly) she rocketed into my world and I fell irreversibly in love.

With her.

My mini me.

My little princess of the adorably nuts kind.

Happy birthday, darling girl.

Thank you for ruining Mummy’s forever Christmas;

no gift from here on in will ever be as sweet as you.