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
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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.

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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
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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.

 

 

 

 

A Blog a Day in May

The Bright Side

I’m a bright side girl, most days.

It’s the essence of me, I suppose; joy, love and all the sunny days, enough of all three to make a bright side girl thrive.

The thing is—

I’m not thriving. These days, for me, being the highly sensitive muffin that I am can come at a cost, a chemically imbalanced sort of cost.

In other words: sometimes, I get a bit sad.

As much as I love to sprinkle joyous stardust over this little bloggy land of mine, I’ll always be authentic in this place. I’ll never pretend to be happy when I’m not. And at the moment, I’ve got to admit: I am having a little trouble finding my sunshine.

But don’t worry. I’ll find it again. That’s just what I do.

Hopefully, I’ll bring it here tomorrow. But today, I’ve been quite the soft girl. Today I’ve been inside my walls and noticed the rain on the windows, more than anything else.

I will still try to make it through the month, posting every day, as promised, although I really do need to preface that with some reality— I may need to take a few days off here and there, so please forgive me, If I do.

Of course, I wouldn’t be me If I didn’t add some sort of a joyous twist to this little funk party I’ve got going on here, so I’ll tell you a lovely story. Just a short one.

Yesterday, while dropping my little boy at kinder, one of the beautiful Mum’s— a lovely friend who I very quickly found a connection with-— stopped me, with a lovely smile, and said hi. When she asked, I had to admit: actually, I’d been a little sad, and actually, I was feeling a little worried about it.

Well.

When I walked away from her beautiful hug, the world seemed just so peaceful again.

And later in the evening, when I noticed a beautifully wrapped hamper on my doorstep, filled with all sorts of goodies, and a beautiful card to cheer me up— I mean, it was the sweetest thing.

It’s the sort of magic that’s hidden in our humanity, isn’t it— the tender loving care of a friend in need. What a beautiful soul she is, to have been touched by my story and gone out of her way to reach out with loving arms. It’s quite clear to me that some people are here to show the rest of the world how to be: and she is one of them, absolutely.

Okay, my lovely friends. I’ll be off then. Time to give me some love, and my hubby and kids some great big ‘get happy’ cuddles.

And I’ll probably eat some chocolate, too. I’m not sure if chocolate’s the best thing for a girl whose body is ever so slightly chemically challenged…

But bugger it. I’m gonna do it anyway. 🙂

And I’m going to read!

Much love. xx Brooke

blur candies chocolates close up
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Poetry

How To Be Good

It’s funny

isn’t it

that the secret to becoming

a good Mum

a good wife

a good friend

a good human,

is to realise that

actually

there is no good or bad

anything.

Because what’s good

to her

and her

and him

may be absolute

nonsense

to the one who truly

believes

they know.

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