Skip to main content

Declaration of a soul becoming bulletproof

You've always told me that I wasn't enough.

I've always been on the defense.

What am I protecting?

The one thing I know is that you are wrong about me.

You've always been wrong about me.

I've let you police my soul.

I've let you lead me down paths that had no meaning.

I've let your words leave scars.

You almost had me. You almost watched me die.

But I declare in this moment, that if I do nothing in this life to bring myself any glory, there is one thing I will continue to do for the rest of my days.

I will wake myself up.

I will laugh at how you almost got me, yet again-- at how I was this close to punishing myself eternally, at how I was almost left ragged and full of holes-- the ones made by your judgement and criticism boring into me.

I will feel myself come back together then. I will feel it a close call.

And if we ever meet up again, and you are the prisoner and I am the jailer, I promise you from the depths of my being, that I will let you go free.

Comments

  1. Dear Brooke,

    I so deeply admire your commitment to waking yourself up again & again. You are a warrior (in the very best sense of the word). It's truly an honor to know you.

    With love,

    Julia

    ReplyDelete
  2. Powerful! I feel this post in my spine and in my soul.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Amazing!!!

    Elizabeth, thank you for expressing so well exactly how this too, spoke to me.

    WOW, WOW, WOW!!!

    ReplyDelete

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 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, magic for the neighborhood…

Beloved

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…