Author: Brooke F.

I’m a college student who has unrealistic dreams of being a famous authoress who writes mystery novels. Either that or a goblin... haven't decided which. I live on a farm up on a hilltop where the wind likes to mess up my hair and the trees sway poetically in the wind.

How to feel Magical

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

How to feel magical for all my fellow princesses and fairies out there…

Take baths with rose petals and moonlight

Use enchanted lotion

Aquire books

Gather flowers

Treasure keys and trinkets

Light candles

Paint

Write your favorite things in your journal and on your arms 

Collect cool looking glass bottles 

Learn languages of all kinds, especially Latin. 

Eat different things and try new foods on a regular. 

Go on walks often 

Admire nature

Stargaze 

Do your hair with sparkling things 

Stretch 

Give yourself time to think

Explore music

Draw in dark ink

Record the stars and how they move

Read stories and collect them like treasure only to share them with others. 

Makes wishes. Whether it be blowing the fluff off of a dandelion, throwing a penny into a well, or spotting a shooting star, don’t be afraid to make one. 

Graduation Thoughts

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“We ARE rich,” said Anne staunchly. “Why, we have sixteen years to our credit, and we’re happy as queens, and we’ve all got imaginations, more or less. Look at that sea, girls—all silver and shadow and vision of things not seen.” 

Let me tell you something. This quote is everything. Never have I felt something that so perfectly mirrors what I feel about looking back on high school. 

High school has been hard but it’s like any time period of your life. You take it: for the good and the bad. 

If I had any regrets in my high school experience, it would probably be the very thing that this quote seems to express. 

I wish I had spent less Monday’s wishing it were Friday. I wish it didn’t take me this long to figure out that I’m happy as a queen. 

But better now then never.  But I guess that’s just how life works. Especially when you have eighteen years to your credit. You finally realize how rich you are. And knowing this makes facing the uncertain future all the easier. 

Books to read in the Woods

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Books to read in the woods by a creek or in a tree:

Poems by Robert Frost

A fairytale collection

The goose girl

The lion, the witch, and the wardrobe by cs Lewis

Caddie Woodlawn

Beowulf

The dark hills divide 

Any book by Beatrix potter really 

James Herriot collections 

An Agatha Christie mystery 

The hobbit by jrr Tolkien 

Peter Pan 

Norse Mythology 

The secret garden

Anne of green gables 

The princess bride

The adventures of Tom Sawyer 

The legend of King Arthur 

Aesop’s fables 

The cricket in time square 

The last dragon

The adventures of Sherlock Holmes 

Redwall 

Forest Adventures

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Adventures to be had in the woods because getting out in nature in important, especially in an age such as this:

A simple walk in the woods

A walk in the woods at midnight. 

Find a tall tree and climb it.  Now read a book in it.

Capture the flag.

Bring a notebook and draw everything you see from flowers to birds. 

Birdwatch

Have a picnic amongst the trees. 

Tell a story or even sing a song or two whether you’re with people or alone. 

Learn to play the flute or harp. In the woods. For no apparent reason. 

Tie a ribbon to a tree branch and retrieve it when it’s dark and creepy. 

Hide a treasure. 

Play hide and seek. 

Make a flag and plant it in your woods, marking your territory. 

Search for fairies. 

Play “Animal Echo”. Basically the wood’s version of marco polo. Wait until it’s dark, and the person who’s “it” goes out to search for the others. They make a designated animal call and everyone must respond while trying to avoid capture.

Collect cool rocks. 

Collect flowers and leaves.  Put them in a journal.

Scavenger Hunt!

Make a map of your local woods. Give everything a name.

Take your friends camping. But first tell them you’ve hidden the gear for your camping trip in the woods along with your tent gear. Tell them it’s a race to see who kind find the gear and assemble their tent first. Winner gets s’mores.

Books to Read in front of a Roaring Fire while it Snows Outside:

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The nutcracker

Anastasia 

Sir gwain and the green knight 

The adventure of Christmas pudding by Agatha Christie 

A Christmas carol (duh)

The snow queen fairytale 

Genesis 

The polar express

The little match girl

Murder in the orient express

The gift of the magi

The adventure of the blue carbuncle by sir Conan Doyle

How the grinch stole Christmas (I don’t care how old you are)

The lion the witch and the wardrobe  (I don’t think there’s a list where this would ever not fit)

It’s that Time of Year…

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I came to a realization the other day. The phrase, “it’s that time of year” is suitable to proceed any sentence and make sense. 100% of the time you follow up what someone says with, “it’s that time of year”, they’ll nod in agreement and know exactly what you mean. Because apparently it’s ALWAYS that time of year. For example:

Person a: my banana went bad on the counter in just two days.
Person b: it’s that time of year.

Or

Person a: my Christmas tree shed all over my floor.
Person b: it’s that time of year.

It works all the time.

Why I Like Rain

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It’s so calming

I will always treasure The memory of sitting on the porch, the cold air nipping at my nose and a warm drink in hand. Complete peace before the chaos of the day. 

And finally I can drown in something that isn’t my stupid thoughts of how things can go wrong and how I’m going to mess stuff up.  

And the smell. Good glory,  the smell is amazing. Fresh air, newly cleansed, crisp and so utterly perfect it almost stings to inhale. The smell of starting over. The smell the growth. The smell of everything becoming more alive amidst the storm. 

And The sound is music to my ears, more comforting than a thousand lullabies. The gentle, rhythmic thrum of rain on grass or on the roof, almost as if you are hearing the heartbeat of the sky. 

And it somehow comforts me as I watch the grey come and go. The heavy clouds come and leave. And no matter how chaotic and dark the storm, the sky still manages to pull itself together and becomes a vibrant shade of blue. It may take it an afternoon or even a few days but it will return to its original hue. 

Nostalgia Is Wrong

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The good old days are not a phase in life in which things magically are perfect. It’s something you’re actively doing and creating as you live each day.  Last week could have been the good old days if you lived them to the fullest. This last weekend even. Your life can be comprised of thousands upon thousands of “good ol’ days” but not if you continue to spend your life reminiscing of a time you thought things were perfect. The Good ol Days are now. The sooner you learn that nostalgia is a dirty rotten liar who insists things were better than they actually were, the better off you’ll be.

Recycling Emotionally

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Learn to recycle emotionally. 

Turn the energy that you use towards disliking yourself to building yourself up. 

The energy you use to envy others, use it to be thankful  

The energy you use to hate your enemies could turn into love towards those closest to you. 

Regret of the past can turn into the hope of the future. 

All emotions take energy. Make sure you’re putting yours into the right ones. 

Where to leave your perfectionism

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When I was younger, I wasn’t worried. Not In the least.

I would wake in the morning with a light feeling in my chest and a carefree air about me. I would set out armed with a stick and go play in the woods and in the mud in search for adventure. 

I would crawl through culvert pipes and pretend they were entrances to magical worlds, rabbit holes to far off places. 

I would climb up to the highest part of a tree, and where the branches would meet at the center was a throne that I imagined was made for me. I would sit there and overlook my kingdom and pretend I could talk to the birds as the flitted past, giving me news of the worlds beyond. 

Then I would return home and write of my adventures in a notebook and draw maps of the new kingdoms I had conquered and discovered. Page after page I would fill with drawings and notes, describing the magic that I had found that particular day. 

But that’s not the way things are anymore. Now I’m worried, scared even, bogged down by fear and perfectionism. The stories don’t come as easy as they used to and the feeling of lightness and the glow of curiosity no longer radiates in my chest. 

Many times I have rested my pen on a blank page only to be met with a emptiness of mind and spirit. And on the rare occasions that I would actually write something, I would return to it, and rip its pages away because it was not perfect. 

I still relished the feeling of pages beneath my finger tips and the smell of new notebooks but I could never bring myself to fill them with the same colorful stories that I used to create so many years ago. 

But there came A Day I was tired of it. Tired of being perfectionistic. For my fear of creating something substandard drove me to create nothing at all. 

So I took with me a journal, perfect and empty, on a walk. More times than I’d like to admit, I had wanted to fill this book with a great many number of ideas and drawings but I could never bring myself to mark up it’s crisp, empty pages. 

So I walked to a pond’s edge and looked out upon its reflective surface, unblemished and smooth like a mirror. At its shore, I tied a string around the book and left a long tail that I could hold onto. And then I cast it as far as I could into the water. 

I reeled it in, the journal now a soggy pulp of pages. So I took it home and dried it. 

It was not longer perfect. The pages were wrinkled and the cover was beginning to peel. But that was alright. 

So I set it on my desk and opened it and began to write.