Life

In The Black Of Night

I’m sitting by the fire in the black of the night.

The sun shines on the other side of the world and yet here my mind is, alive without it, wondering when sleep will call for me again. My nose is cold. I’m wondering how I might fix that, too.

When the night wakes me, I lay in bed for the longest time, quite clear about the world inside of me. It’s a mystery, isn’t it, that the answers we seek in the light of the day seem somehow more visible in the dark (the actual dark).

Perhaps this awake time is good for me. A gift of energetic privacy: a land of alone, where there is no one but me to answer to, no societal rules to burden me, no expectations to snuggle in with them.

All there is in the dark of night is me, and the fire, and the moon.

I am soothed by the quiet of that.

brown beside fireplace near brown wicker basket
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Poetry

Twinkle, Twinkle

Twinkle, twinkle little light

shine on me your beauty bright.

Hold me gently, love me dear

show me I have naught to fear.

Twinkle, twinkle little light

sing me through the darkest night.

yellow lantern near body of water during night
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A Blog a Day in May

Darling May

Darling May.

How I have adored you.

How you will linger

always

like the scent of cherry-chocolate

and minty tea

on me.

Delicious May.

How you have moved me.

Opened my bright,

and soothed my aching

day.

Oh, May.

Ever my darling,

May.

*

To my dearest blog friends,

I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed spending these days of May with you all, spilling my heart out, my joy, my sadness— my everything. Thank you for reading my words. Thank you for absorbing my hidden extras. Thank you for your friendship, your compassion, your insight.

Thank you for your inspiration.

It’s been fun. 🙂

Lots of love, Brooke.

Ps. See you tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. And probably the next. Because how could I leave you now? Let’s see how this blog post a day works out for a bit longer shall we? xx

girl and puppy sitting on green grass surrounded with shrubs during daytime
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A Blog a Day in May

Sad Hands

My hands are not happy with me. If there were little faces in the middle of my palms, both faces would feature a raised eyebrow and an angry forehead, absolutely. They’ve had a big day, the poor muffins. But because they’ve had a big day…I’ve had a good one. A satisfying one.

It all started when a GIGANTIC load of firewood landed in the driveway. I’d just finished putting my little girl into bed when I noticed the truck and the man and the wood, ALL the wood, goodness gracious me.

I called my husband and tried to explain to him the faces my hands had begun to make in preparation for the mammoth effort that lay in front of me. In other words. Oh, bother. Wood. In driveway. Who is going to move it? Oh, yes, that’s right: me.

My husband (who was at work, probably grinning) suggested that I tidy the firewood storage area and, If I could do that by the time he got home, he would happily do the lifting, the wheelbarrowing, the stacking. The stacking. The stacking.

Well, could I just leave it, and wait for a man?

I would not just leave it there, NO, Sam I Am!

Instead, me and my little people bundled into our ‘cold day’ clothes, and with the Super Mario Brothers theme song blipping away in the background, Mummy moved the wood. All of it. All-of-it.

What a legend.

What an amazing, awesome, mega wonderful—and unbelievably modest—super champion I am.

Now.

How to convince my aching hands that this whole wooden adventure has all been worth it?

This may take a while.

bicycle bike brakes classic
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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.

 

 

 

 

Life

The Sun Chair

It’s Saturday morning and I’m lazing in the sun chair.

I always make my way back to this place, this little corner of my world that feeds me so beautifully to the sun. It’s a place for just ‘being’, this sun chair of mine, and these days— more than ever before—I need a place to just ‘be’.

For a great deal of yesterday, the sun chair and I sat and listened to the sounds of life as they broke through the window beside us. The calming wind, the gum trees with their squawking cockatoos and paper leaves; there was also the beautiful music that flowed in through my ears and out through my soul. The sun chair and I listened to those sounds, and they became us for a while.

It was awfully nice.

I don’t know why I’ve chosen the sun chair as my new ‘happy place’, and I don’t think I really have to know. It just feels nice to be here, so I keep coming back.

I do love this sun chair of mine.

For all the reasons, really.

All of them.

brown couch beside clear glass panel door
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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

Riding In Trains With Girls

Australia is out the window and I’m feeling every bit of it.

The wobble of a train-shaken gut, the blur of gum trees and their naked cousins—every element of this three-hour train ride seems to be working together, whipping me into the icky sick of it all.

What a surprise this country of mine is, as we rumble along the tracks. It’s the middle of winter, and yet rural Victoria is a little bit confused about it all. What dress would I like to wear this winter, she wonders. And oh, how easily she changes her mind.

One moment she wears grass, like straw—paddocks of it, tall and waving in the sun. The next: sheep nibbled fields of emerald-green. Such indecisiveness makes me wonder if perhaps Mother Nature is a Pisces, like me.

The train is relentless in its quest to make good time, so much so that it seems to be wishing the beauty of the country away. I can’t say I’m sorry about that. Because although this vast stretch of land is all the bits of beautiful, and ever so charming in her lop-sided-windmill ways…this train has somewhere to go.

Home.

I’ve been visiting family in country New South Wales—just me, no one else—and do you know what? It’s been reading, and writing, and wonderful. How these few days have filled my belly and breathed life back into my dreamy (and maybe a little bit exhausted) soul.

But do you know what else? The very best thing to have arisen from this refreshing time away? Home. Knowing it would still be there. Knowing that after I’d finished letting my soul do all the deep breathing…home would be waiting.

Gosh, how I’ve missed home.

And gosh—how I’ve missed the people I share it with.

bridge clouds forest guidance
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