A Blog a Day in May

It’s Not A Problem

If you’re a reader, you are about to read a blog post which will echo through the pits of your soul. It’s not a problem, we all know this. But whenever us readers are faced with this sort of conundrum, there is definite…friction would be the best way to put it, in my mind.

Those of you who’ve been reading my blog for a while will already know that I am blowing this issue (the one I’m about to tell you about) up to be something it absolutely is not, creating drama where none is needed, creating blockage when there probably is a clear path that I just can’t see yet.

But the thing is: this feels big. Like a pickle. And when something feels like a pickle to me, I will set my brain to work until it has come up with a logical solution that will bring me peace and clarity and a bin (you know, a bin to throw the pickle into.)

What is the pickle, you ask? Books, that’s what. I’ve started reading three books that are wonderful…and I’ve started them all at the same time. The pickle is this, and the pickle is also the fact that I’ll not finish any of them at this rate.

I won’t go into the details about each book but I will say that each is illuminating, genuine, inspiring, and each has a very clear reason to be read by a bookish dreamer named Brooke at this point in her life.

So.

How do I choose which one to plow on with? Surely it’s an essential question, like asking myself: should I brush my teeth, have a shower, sleep, eat? You’re laughing aren’t you. You’re laughing because you’ve been here before, but currently you’re not so it’s kind of like you’re looking back upon a distant nightmare set in a far-off land.

But for me, it’s here. It’s now. And I’ve got to DO something, I’ve got to get TOUGH.

I’ve got to put two of the books away. When it comes down to it, that’s just what I’ve got to do, isn’t it? One at a time. I will not find un-friction until I make a choice, and the time has come for me to make it—to choose the apple, the orange or the pear.

What a bookishly frantic conundrum. What a pickle of the totally me kind.

woman lying on bed holding book
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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 Soft Girl and The Book

The brownie is delicious. The coffee is fine.

And, for the first time in a good little while, I am at a cafe, sinking into a booth seat, quietly reflecting on the peace of it all.

I’m the soft girl today. She’s the part of me that I choose—quite fiercely so—because the soft girl is anything but soft. She’s gentle and kind, and yet she’s capable and strong. And she’s safe, the part of me that feels most like ‘home’.

She made me buy a book, today, the soft girl did. It’s beautiful. A paperback, with a silvery-white cover and the title: Women Who Run With The Wolves: Contacting the Power of The Wild Woman, by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. A quote from Maya Angelou decorates the bottom. It says: ‘Everyone who can read should read this book.’

The book had whispered to me from the shelf—or, perhaps the soft girl had whispered me to it, I can’t be entirely certain. And even though it was only visible via the spine, I plucked it quickly from its little cave and read the blurb.

I wasn’t going to buy a book. It wasn’t on my radar, not at all. But as soon as I read what this beautiful, silvery book was about…the soft girl touched me and began whispering me her careful words: ‘This book will change your life.’

So.

I bought it. It sits beside me, in my laptop bag, waiting for me to breathe it in— which I will do tonight, as soon as I have found a cup of steaming tea and a nice big blanket.

I suppose it might be a wonderful book.

And, if it is, if the whispers of the soft girl were true in all their wistfully tender encouragement…my life is about to change.

I’d imagine that might be a very nice thing.

potted succulent plants on the bookshelf
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A Blog a Day in May

Deep Diving: The Experiment

This is a little experiment where I will write. And I will not stop. Until I feel it’s time. Time, it’s an abstract concept, don’t you think? It’s not of the world, but also, it is. In an odd kind of way.

Life.

What is life, I often wonder. It’s the little things taken for granted. It’s the flowers we walk past every day, without looking. It’s me. It’s you. It’s us. It’s them. All of us living in a world where everyone else is so easily wrong. All of us looking for something more. Better. Free-er. Right-er.

A little bit lost, most of us. A little bit bamboozled. Unsure. Unsure and beautiful. Unsure and strange. Unsure and almost there, but never quite there because ‘there’ will never be a place we can find on a map. And if we do happen to find it, we don’t want it anymore because ‘there’ always looks better from ‘here’.

Nothing’s certain. Nothing’s true. Nothing’s right, nothing can be. Ever. Not when all our eyes are made from different shades of wonder. Different shades of serious. Different shades of true.

But one thing I do know is this. Life is beautiful. Precious. Mine. Yours. Ours. It’s safe and it’s unsafe and isn’t that the point? Isn’t that the beautiful part? The not knowing. The being here, the never really knowing where ‘here’ is?

This was a little experiment where I wrote.

A little experiment that will go on. And on. And on.

All the days of my deep-diving- human-life.

think outside of the box
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A Blog a Day in May

Beautiful

A face in the mirror; a gentle head tilt; a naked, swan neck.

Her fingers find the soft of her collar bone and drift upward: chin, cheek, forehead— every part of her, delicate. Like a bird, she thinks. The mirror shows her nothing new, and yet everything has changed.

Everything.

Because for the first time in her life, her beauty becomes her. This time, it hasn’t found her through the hungry eyes of a man, or through the careless words of a well-meaning shop assistant.

It’s found her from the softness of all that she is.

So this,

she thinks,

is what beautiful really feels like.

woman wearing black and white polka dot shirt
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A Blog a Day in May

The Best Thing I’ve Ever Written

I’ve just deleted it all.

On purpose.

Five whole paragraphs of the BEST thing I’ve EVER written.

We do that sometimes—us writers of words.

When ‘the force’ flies through us with alarming ease and grace, and we just know this is the one…until it’s not.

Because we’ve just read it all back.

And it’s not.

No.

Nopey, nopey…no.

Ah, yes. This creative life of mine.

What an absolute bloody shemozzle.

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A Blog a Day in May

A Friend Of Convenience

Her art is a friend of convenience.

It absorbs her.

It turns her delicate into raw and beautiful scenes of naked flesh on linen.

It turns her hard into lashings of angry black with no recognisable form.

The artist removes the brush from her mouth and strokes, one final touch of pink and she’ll be satisfied.

But she won’t. She’ll never be satisfied.

Because she is an artist.

And an artist, she knows, is always a work in progress.

An artist—a passionate, heart dwelling artist—will always be full of too much life, and never full of enough.

This is what living has taught her.

This is her reason for art.

woman sitting on brown stool
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A Blog a Day in May

Autumn

I’m lounging in the sun chair, peering into the Autumn.

The window’s grown cold, just like everything else around here that once was warm. It’s like we’re in a corridor. At one end: summer. At this end: winter. Maybe we’ll build a fire today.

The leaves are tumbling and it’s the most beautiful thing, to stand among the twisting and falling: orange, yellow, red. I’ve always marveled at the beauty of autumn, but this year seems different.

This year I feel the falling.

It’s a sense of relief, as though maybe this is a new start for my lovely tree friends, a shedding of old skin, the beginning of a new life. Beautiful trees. You begin again with such grace, such beauty. Such confidence.

It really is quite lovely of you.

photography of child pushing the wagon
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