Skip to main content


I am stepping through a threshold-- just bits of me making their way into the light. I let it warm me in small doses. Seems all the hold back is me. But if you could see my journey through time lapse photography, you'd see I am making my way through. I let the light touch the less threatened parts of me first--like my limbs, that I can retract in an instant if it starts to burn.

So far the light is up to my right elbow and part of my left foot. My eyes are clenched tight, but there is the promise of warmth enough for all of me. My eyes may remain closed when I finally feel brave enough to put my face through, but for the moment it will be enough to see my eyelids lit up.

With the touch of warmth--there is no question at what is out there waiting for me to receive it.

Gently, I go.

Let me tell you what up to my elbow and part of one foot in the door has given me.

Another perspective, another angle with which to view my pain.

Since I could remember, I've looked for many ways to name my pain, but little did I know that naming the pain, was also naming God.

What do I mean by this?

Bear with me, here. This may or may not be the most important thing I've learned, but I am toddling in my understanding of it.

Here it goes:

A man entered my life in a flash, and exited just as quickly. He left in his wake a deep longing, such as I've never experienced.

I named my pain after this man.

But this story begins in those moments when I stopped running from the pain, and just let it overtake me.

I let myself feel the many facets of the searing of it into my being--the joy life could contain, but surely wouldn't, the burn of a scarlet letter across my chest, the silence that brushed up against an ancient pain, deep and raw and eternal. The bottom dropping out as Death dangled his only offering through and almost through.

But would you believe that this was a resuscitation of sorts?

Wouldn't you know that this pain has been singled out by this man, but I have found this same pattern to exist across every stretch of my highway. There is no outrunning it, as it is always right underfoot.

Only the pain didn't flatten me like I thought it would. Instead, it warmed me. It touched me. It waited patiently for me to stop writhing. It became the soil. It opened me.

It awoke sleeping angels within.

It was as if allowing myself to fully face the pain allowed me to hear the voice underneath it. And you know, it wasn't a demonic voice saying I told you so, you unholy abomination!

It was a gentle voice. It was a voice of clarity. It met me where I was, gently nudging me toward understanding that it has always been only a lie that has kept me sad and scared and dying.

And this is what I began to hear, only ever so faintly at first, but then a little louder and a little clearer, day by day, minute by minute, second by second:

This is your doorway. Make your way through it and you will see the perfection, how this experience of light and dark was for you, how it has heralded your expansion, your awakening, your leap of faith. And when you taste this knowledge, you will never be hungry again.

Only after you'd held the light in your hands and lost it, would you know that light even existed. Only then would you begin to lift your gaze upward--only then would you begin to wonder what the light would reveal.

If you could know that your Soul named this pain God,

because nothing in your experience could have so amply mimicked the vast chasm within you, a separation so deep and convincing as to keep you standing at the edge of a precipice, knowing that across a dark abyss was a kind of existence so unreachable that you'd long stopped looking for any way to cross.

Only a light this great would give you the desire to move, to follow a path of possibility, to want to take back the light, because to take back the light would be to merge with the oneness, to become a rightful heir.

And once you knew the light was there, you couldn't let go of searching for it again. And, in this: rebirth.

For something was big enough to bring you to your feet, to help you take the first precarious step over the edge. No more sitting for an eternity in darkness.

And hasn't the ripping and the tearing held within it all the fire, all the momentum, the momentousness?

And this is only up to your elbow.

So, now when his face feels alight in my awareness, sometimes in the wee hours of the night, teasingly tangible, and clearer than memory should warrant, it is a comfort, as the pain feels like a reminder, like a return, a reckoning, a homecoming. Still ground to cover, but with the mighty force of a heart, resurrected.

And all I want is to give this fire to anyone and everyone who sits in darkness, long having given up on the existence of light.


  1. Brooke, this is indescribably beautiful. Far too beautiful for my words to say anything about.

    Like a light that floods in, I can only bask in its warmth.

    Loving you deeply.

  2. Like Julia, this blog left me at a loss for words. Extraordinary in its premise, Pain as God, and beautiful in its creation! I am so proud of your unique path whereby, as in this case, those of us who love you may share your wonderful insights. You are my favorite daughter! The student has become the teacher. Love, Dad

  3. And hasn't the ripping and the tearing held within it all the fire, all the momentum, the momentousness?

    Oh, Brooke! You speak my heart, all our hearts. As always, right on time, right on time!

  4. I feel like Julia too- I am speechless. I want to say something brilliant but I am just soaking in your words and your beautiful understanding.

  5. "And all I want is to give this fire to anyone and everyone who sits in darkness, long having given up on the existence of light."

    You do give this, Brooke. Thank you for your transparency. I acknowledge your willingness to dive deep, your exquisite imagery and language, and your gentle, gentle heart. Your innocence shines through.

    I've missed you! Great to be back.

    Elloa xxx


Post a Comment

♥ Thank you for taking the time connect with me here. ♥

Popular posts from this blog

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on 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


Photo by Ben Herbert on 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

Partaking of the Fruit

Photo by Anya Vasilieva on 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