A Blog a Day in May

Music: The Most Beautiful Dimension

I’ve just been at the Piano.

I’d like to tell you a story about that, actually. How my piano came to be my ultimate happy place (and healing tool, you might say.)

It’s in my soul, I think. Music. It’s the place I go to escape the world when it gets too noisy, and it’s absolutely the place I go when I need to re-make sense of the world around me.

I suppose you might say I had quite an explosive childhood— and when I say explosive, of course I’m being a bit dramatic (lol). All I mean by ‘explosive’ is that I was a highly sensitive child, and although the world was all sorts of fun and wonderful, my sensitivity sometimes got to me. When the teacher shouted at the kid in the next seat: it wasn’t the kid that felt the brunt of that rage. It was me. I felt it all.

Although I didn’t know it at the time, I needed an outlet, a way to remove the yuck of a world that somehow seemed so much bigger than me. I needed a night light. A safety blanket to catch the waves of emotion, especially the ones that didn’t belong to me.

I still remember asking Mum: ‘Please. Can I have piano lessons?’ to which the reply always came, ‘Brooke. We don’t have a piano.’ Of course, I knew that. But my heart felt like it was being called to. It felt like I just needed to play. I don’t really have the words to explain the pull of such a deep need, but it was there and it never went away until that one special day. My fourteenth birthday, I think. The day I got my first keyboard.

Well. I was beside myself. Here I was, surrounded by lashings of colourful paper, staring at the one thing I intuitively knew I needed. I quickly taught myself to play, which was really just me tinkering away until what I was playing became something that resembled a tune. Soon I was writing songs. When I wrote, I said all the things my heart needed to say, I just let it all go. Whatever wanted to come out. I let it be.

And it felt good. It felt like a wooshing tunnel of wind rushing through me, taking with it all the angry, the sad, the tension. When I played— when I wrote— a new part of me came to life. The right part of me.

The true part of me.

It’s not surprising to me, when I look back, that most of my songs were written when I was in my teenage years, a time of hormones and boys and tears. (Oh, gosh. All the tears.) Those years were a time of absolute truth. A time of boundless dreams, but also a time where the world really could have ended if I happened to be ‘spoken’ to by a teacher that really didn’t know that I was a crier.

When those things made my world explode: I escaped. Into my music, into the wave of beautiful that sang into my bones. And that’s just all sorts of magic to me. That still is all sorts of magic.

My first love. My piano.

Okay. 🙂 Well, that’s enough sop for day two, I suppose. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.

I hope.

xx

selective focus photography of piano keys
Photo by Steve Johnson on Pexels.com

 

 

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Twelve Days of Christmas

Peace

On the fourth day of Christmas my soul took me back to the river.

Same river.

Different tree.

The feeling was the same, though.

The feeling of the river washing all the sharp bits out of me.

Making me soft again.

Just like when it’s me and only me in the world.

Today, the river became me.

And I became the river.

And I now know why I was drawn back to this calm and sleepy place.

It was because I had something to learn.

I had to learn to recognise the feeling that takes hold of me when the river bubbles and the wind blows warm on my skin.

I had to give it a name.

It’s name is ‘peace’.

And I’ve come back to the river so that I might share this peace with you.

xx Brooke

Ps. Go find a river. Listen to it. Feel it. Life is too short to let the rivers of this beautiful life pass us by.

Poetry

Coming Home

Let this heart I wear

on my sleeve

draw all of its letters in the sand…

not just the ones I think

you

will like me for.

person wearing red socks walking on sand

And in that sand, let there be

scribbles of the past, the present,

and the future;

a million perfect letters

tumbling all about my day

teaching me,

quite slowly,

just who it is I am meant to be.

beach coast island landscape

I am no longer searching

for anything, or anyone.

Somehow

I just know.

I’ve found the thing

I never knew I needed to find.

A tiny home at the edge of my sleeve.

photo of person holding multicolored heart decor

 

Life

The Little Blog Of Everything

This is an everything blog.

A little bit of sugar, a little bit of spice.

And, right now—like Forest and his many park-bench dwellers—you (the reader) and me (the writer) just never know what we’re going to get from this place, do we?

But Brooke, I hear you say. You are the writer. Hold the wheel. Steer.

Just take us to a place we know, a place we love.

A place we choose.

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You may have already met the many versions of writerly me—especially if you’ve followed along on my Sunny Mummy journey—and if so, you may be wondering which me will be the captain of this particular ship, at any given blog post.

Will it be the very serious me; the scholar and the thinker, the champion of all things books and arts and creativity?

Will it be the dreamer, the romantic, the philosopher? The Mum?

Or will it be me of the adorably nuts kind; me who wishes the world was made of chocolate, and cherry-red wine, me who thinks she’s way funnier than she actually is. (And yes. The latter is the captain of this particular blog post. Sorry about that.)

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So!

What will the next post be? A photo blog: short, sweet and poignant? Or will it be wordy and slow, important and true?

And deep?

This is my confession.

I don’t know.

All I can say about this little land of words is that it is, and always will be, a place for anyone who finds it, a place for anyone who needs it. A place that changes and moves, because life changes.

Life moves.

And that’s what I want for this space.

Life.

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With this confession lies an apology of the sincerest kind. Sometimes you will be lost here, wishing for direction, wishing for routine wrapped in a neatly labeled box.

This place will give you all of the things, sometimes. And none of them sometimes, too. What exactly it will give you, I can’t be sure.

BUT.

What I can be sure of is this.

My heart lives in this place.

And where my heart lives, I live.

All of me.

And hopefully…

All of you, too.

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