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I've moved to a new Web home! www.isleofbloom.wordpress.com

Hello friends! I've moved to: www.isleofbloom.wordpress.com ! If you would like to follow my writings, or see archived posts, please visit my new site . Be sure to subscribe there by clicking the menu! You can also follow me on:  isle_of_bloom  on instagram .    isleofbloom tumblr @isleofbloom twitter   isleofbloom pinterest Thank you for the many years here on blogger. Now looking forward to more regular writing at my new home! Thanks for joining me.   Best Wishes, Brooke
Recent posts

Remembering Freedom

'Into Wonder'  I painted this a few years ago. I was trying to capture how I saw my youngest daughter approach life. Fully available, wide open to color and wonder. Walking into the void, full throttle, with excitement and pure presence. She had a little bear backpack and would fill it with treasures and run around her world in joy of discovery in her too-big footie pajamas, not quite right on her feet, but not caring at all. She embodied freedom and openness to all. I would watch her follow her older sister around and be so fully available for play, even if relegated to assistant, she was always a full-bodied, yes! I show this painting to my new piano students. I show them because I want them to see that I can embrace my amateur painting skills and share them, and to convey the essence of a new adventure in learning piano, and touching the excitement we all knew when we were so innocent to the world. This past week I had a chance to stay by myself in a yurt out in nature on th

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on Pexels.com Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home. Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home. Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home. Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home. Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home. Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home. Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home. Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home. Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home. Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home. Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, mag

Word Graveyard

Photo by Valeria Boltneva on Pexels.com So many words of the English language I've dumped here. Writing, fast and furious, careless and arrogant about my ownership of the birthing process of sentences and paragraphs--so many word children, causing global warming, oceans rising, as those children drown, or spill over, screaming as they are launched over cliffs, and fall stuck into dark ravenous cracks, or perhaps some fall endlessly for eternity, into a lonely, bottomless and sinister abyss. Who knows what kind of monster I am? I've spent precious time in the fool's errand of going after these children, only to do the same with those I find. But I am an ignorant child, in a sandbox of letters, gathering up, filling and dropping them over the edge, digging up more for my consumption, then filling, emptying, digging some more; my dump trucks overrun with the same words many times over, filling drafts and drafts and drafts, poured back into the sand again, falling back in

Partaking of the Fruit

Photo by Anya Vasilieva on Pexels.com What I most struggle with in creative writing is that there are some ideas that just feel like they belong in the ether, in the natural born clouds. They aren’t meant to be pinned down, and every time I try to pin them down into a practical form on a page, I wound them a little bit, and must throw them back up into the ether for repair, to restore their more nebulous characteristics. This content isn’t supposed to have legs and weight, and to make noise when it walks, or to have such things as a name and defining characteristics. Rather, just whiffs of possibility that hint at an undercurrent of parallel worlds so vast and amazing as to put any Tolkien or Rowling to shame. Its just supposed to hang there, ripe for plucking, but the plucker beware. The fruit bruises easily. And yet, there are those books that seem to pin down something that doesn’t maim the central cast of characters, and in fact broadens the material into something that change

Storyholder

Photo by Ben Herbert on Pexels.com I’m standing on a cliff overlooking the water’s edge. The sky is present, hanging there in its vastness, holding this moment with symphonic strains of gray and electric buzz. Watching, suspended, sensing. I see to both sides of me vast white cliffs carved out by relentless grasping of the ocean extending down the coastline. The earth where I am standing up above gives just the right yield and welcome, with its soft grass and dainty yellow flowers, falsely giving the impression of delicacy, when anyone can see that they are hardy to withstand the harshness of forces here. There is an undeniable tightness of gravity here, pinning me down, tugging at me, slowing down my step. I feel as if this force could just sweep me away with the littlest of a flick, like an ant off the table. It screams danger while it beckons. My life had been recently taking on new grander design dimensions when this place and I met. Dating a new man, after being a singl

Inhospitable Beauty

Photo by Kerry Pexels.com It was at the Norris Geyser Basin in Yellowstone national park that I heard the siren call. My husband and I were walking on boardwalks constructed to lead us around thermal geological sites. We were chatting amicably about our trip, and how well our trip had all been falling into place. I felt an inward tug get stronger and gravity pulling down right through my center. As we walked it became weightier and caused me to toggle between two worlds: the one where I was doing the Yellowstone tourist thing, and the other, where the landscape was reaching out, beckoning for me, pulling me down into its underworld. It was a strange call, spectral, because it seemed to come from a Hellish place. Perhaps from Persephone, herself, held prisoner under the earth’s crust for so long, she’d become it. I could imagine her skin, the pale, fragile crust ready to give way beneath my feet, the magma of her torment less that 15 miles deep from where we were standing, pus