Skip to main content

My Eden

I'm not quite solid at the moment, a weak transmission caught between worlds.

I find most of me materializing upon this great mountain, the warmth of the sun filling the spaces between created by my fluid state.

There is no pressure to materialize fully.

There is a slowness. There is a feeling of well-being.

Childhood memories waft through my consciousness, creating subtle texture to this moment, as if time just wraps its arms around itself in a tender and knowing embrace. As if this is the heart of creation.

The memory is of waking at my grandmother's, just before dawn. Cool mountain air caressing my cheeks, and my body relishing the warmth under the gentle pressure of layers of blankets. My ear tunes to the sounds of a river, just yards away from my grandmother's house, carving its watery highway down the lush valley of the swans.

There is a knowing that sunrise is imminent, and that very soon my grandmother will be stirring.

My eyes close themselves as I sink back into the magical kind of sleep that only morning can bring, a sweet smile across my lips. The next time I open my eyes, I will hear the bustling of my grandmother's footsteps. There will be the the rich scents and sounds of breakfast crackling on the stove.

I'll rest there snug in my bed, and take it all in, yielding to the tuggings from my body for a strech or two, as it endeavors to come slowly back to life.

And when I finally pull the covers away and climb out of bed and make my way into the kitchen, I will receive a giant good morning hug, squeezing out the sleepiness of my eyes and limbs.

No where to go. Nothing I must do. A world all my own. Loved just for being, just for showing up.

Somehow my grandmother embodies this deep unconditional allowing. Somehow this memory would like to transpose itself across my journey. A secure sense of sweet perfection, with no prerequisites.

My eyes are closed as the rich counterpoint comes to a close. I am humbled by the rich texture of harmonies created by such tender melodies juxtaposed in just the right places.

There is still the warmth of the sun in the spaces between, but with subtle buzzing movement, a kind of fire underneath--the kind that pops pocorn, sends a rocket into space, and births a universe.

The Soul is diving back in, seeking out where it would go, and what it would show me-- just in case I was curious.


  1. I'm winking, my friend. Feeling the no prerequisite, perfect warmth of it all. Deep, unconditional allowing...ahhh, feels so good.

  2. Just in case you were curious... thank you Brooke. I am most curious about this new exploration that you are undertaking.

    I LOVE your blog background, too! It's amazing!


  3. The adventure begins...such a beautiful memory, so beautifull described!!!

    I felt like I was right there with you and that is saying a lot, since I grew up there...I must say the energy was so different. Thank you for showing it from such a gentle and loving perspective.

    Can't wait for more!!!

  4. "There is no pressure to materialize fully."

    Suddenly, my morning took on a new light when I read that line.
    I'm grateful I'm here reading in this space. Thank you, Brooke!

    Here's to beautiful beginnings!

  5. How beautiful to begin in Eden. I can just feel the sweet weight of those quilts!

  6. ...a wink and a smile. Beautifully written, lovely thoughts. Makes one feel warm and fuzzy, kinda like what Heaven ought to be like. Love Dad

  7. Hey soul sista,

    Reading your writing is like being a part of something bigger than myself. Everything is unfolding perfectly.

    Love Nige


Post a Comment

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

Popular posts from this blog

RIP Poltergeist

After over ten years of an incredibly intense journey as a seeker, I find myself lying fallow. Taking a rest. When I first discovered this uncomfortable fact — threat to the hamster wheel that was my spiritual rat race, I surrendered for dead, but something wouldn’t let that fact sit as truth. I was lying fallow, but this implied that after a good rest, fruit could follow. This had nothing to do with death.

I am humbled at the courage it takes to write. For many years I kept a blog read by only a handful of very supportive people, and you’d think that after sharing writing for so long with perfect strangers, writing would have gotten easier. Actually, it got harder. In fact, at one point I was so paralyzed, I just stopped writing altogether. It was just too vulnerable. There was no trust there anymore, and I attributed any courage I had had to my youthful ignorance.

However, life continues, as it inevitably does, and there is still this pang to write, and it grows stronger and strong…

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, magic for the neighborhood…


The other night I had a vivid dream that my youngest daughter had died.

There is a time when I would have been unable to even bring this to consciousness, let alone write about it. It has always been my deepest, darkest fear, to lose a child, and this fear has always been there prominently with my youngest.

In the dream I could conceptualize her under her grave, which happened to be in a dark, jagged cavern of colorless rock and stone--no lush lawn, no flowers, just a gaudy gravestone, that glowed, like a tacky neon sign in Vegas. I found myself digging frantically in the earth under her grave marker to retrieve her little bear, so much loved by her in her five short years, that it is no less 'real' than the Velveteen Rabbit.

I found the bear mixed with rubble above where she was buried, brushed it off, and clasped it to my heart, as if it was the last part of her I could keep with me. I pressed the little bear hard to my nose, sniffing for remnant smells of my daughter. The smel…