It was just… one of those…

Drives. Yup. Just one of those drives that took way longer than anticipated. Even the lady in my navigation system who talks me into going places I’ve never been before didn’t know where we were going. She was so lost she led me down a road and told me to turn right when I reached the main highway — except, the road she led me down no longer has access to the main highway.

The south west quadrant of our city is under major road construction as they complete the last leg of the ringroad — which means…. directions, road access, signage… it’s all iffy! When I finally got to the highway (after many unnecessary extra kilometers) she still didn’t like the direction I was going and insisted I pull a ‘legal U-turn. Except, I was on the right highway, going in the right direction to get to Vale’s Greenhouse in Black Diamond, the site of the art show where my art is on display for sale this weekend.

I write it as ‘my art on display for sale’ as one of the things I mis-read in the instructions letter Vale’s had sent was the fact that artists are not actually in attendance at the show.

Due to Covid — capacity limits on the number of people in attendance are too low if all the artists are onsite. So… the show is on display, without artists.

I didn’t realize/connect to that reality until I was leaving after spending the day setting up. When the manager of the Greenhouse asked if I was not selling the three paintings I was taking back to my car, I said, “I don’t have enough room for them so thought I’d just leave them in the car and bring them in when space permits over the weekend.”

That’s when I realized my misconception.

It’s the same way they ran the show last year – and it went well so I’m not worried. Just a tad disappointed as it really is fun to be onsite and chat with people as they wander through the art.

Lady in Red – mixed media on canvas board, 11 x 14″

There was a woman yesterday who insisted she was coming back on Friday to buy my Lady in Red painting. And, several people did take poems from my Poetry in a Basket display — so I’m pretty pumped!

And, I have to say this — the show is absolutely gorgeous! I was too tired at the end of the day to do a slow walk around the greenhouses and plan on doing so tomorrow when I go back as a ‘customer’ – I also wanted to pick up some plants so it’s quite legit!

There are some incredible artists in the show and seeing all the work amidst the greenery and flowers is stunning.

And none of it matters. The getting lost. The tiredness. The did I forget anything worries nor the oh dear… I misread the directions angst.

In the end, my little greenhouse corner looks great and I have done something I’ve wanted to do — be part of the Vale’s Greenhouse Cultivation of Art Show and Sale. Yipppeee!!!

And here is a little video of my corner of the greenhouse.

Poetry in a Basket

“Poetry … is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal which the reader recognizes as his own.” — Salvatore Quasimodo, from a speech in New York, quoted in The New York Times

— Salvatore Quasimodo, from a speech in New York, quoted in The New York Times

As I’ve been getting ready for the Vale’s Cultivation of Art Show and Sale this weekend, I was working on two things to have as an offering – one to give to patrons who buy my work. The other to have as a give away to anyone passing by.

The first was easy. I love making bookmarks so have created a stack of them to have on hand.

The second I struggled with. And then, yesterday afternoon, while I finished off getting a couple of pieces ready for sale, the idea came to me.

Poetry in a Basket

I have oodles of poems I’ve written over the years. They’re stored on my computer, in journals, on scraps of paper beside my bed or scribbled in the margins of a book.

Why not inspire acts of poetry by offering passers-by the opportunity to ‘pick a poem, any poem’ from my basket?

I am both artist and writer, creative imaginer and poet. Why not showcase my ‘other side’ along with my art?

And thus… Poetry in a Basket was born.

As I watched the final feature presentation of the THIRD ACTion Film Fest last night (it was AMAZING btw – the whole Film Fest. Kudos to founder and president of the festival Mitzi Murray and her team), I sat in the chaise beside my desk and rolled and tied-up poems to be put in the basket. I figure, if people can knit and crochet while watching a film, why not roll-up poetry? And the film, One Careful Owner, was the perfect inspiration for my random acts of poetry.

Poet Lucille Clifton wrote, “Poetry is a matter of life, not just language.”

Art is a matter of life becoming visible through the hands and eyes and words and bodies of the painter, sculptor, weaver, writer, architect, gardener, chef, dancer, actor, film-maker…

We are artists. All of us. It’s the mediums we employ and deploy to tell our stories that differs.

And for me, those mediums include both visual and written pieces.

Sooo…

Poetry in a BasketA Gift of Words to inspire, awaken, challenge, move and motivate you into becoming the poet and the poem in your own life.

And now… I’m off to finish getting ready. I had noted my set-up time in my calendar as being Thursday afternoon. Yesterday morning, as I began to record my words for sale on the sheet to provide the organizers of the show, I realized I’d made a mistake — my set-up time is Wednesday afternoon.

I’ve got a lot to do between now and then….

I may or may not see you until I get to the other side next Monday.

But…. if you’re out and about in the Calgary area, this show is one of the most beautiful shows around. It’s spread throughout the greenhouses of Vale’s, along the Sheep River in Black Diamond. Seeing the art amongst all the flowers and plants is truly breath-taking. And there are weavers and jewelry-makers and potters and ceramics artists too, not just painters.

So… if you’re around Friday, Saturday or Sunday and looking for a lovely outing, do drop by!

Click HERE for details.

For the Love of Bebé (an SWB post)

Me: Beaumont. Would you please get that disgusting thing off the couch.

Beau: It’s not a ‘thing’. It’s my Bebé.

Me: I don’t care what it is. It’s disgusting. Please take it away. Now.

Beau: If you throw it, I will.

Me: I am not touching that thing!

Beau: Bebé.

Me: Beau….

Beau: (oh so sweetly) Yes Louise?

Me: Make it go away.

Beau: That’s your job Louise. I am the dawg. You throw and make things go away. I run and fetch them back.

And maybe…. just maybe… I win this argument!

Please come and join Beau on his blog this morning! He’ll be so grateful for your support!

All you gotta do is CLICK HERE

Before Words

Before Time – mixed media on canvas – 30 x 24″

Both on the canvas and on the page, immersed in colour and texture, tone and feelings, words and imagery, I find myself coming home to a place I didn’t know existed before I became immersed in it all.

And then…. I read the news and must find my way back to that place where I find myself grounded in the darkness and the light, the ugly and the beautiful, the intolerable and the harmony.

This morning, I read the news. Story after story of unease and confusion and injustice and racism and phobias too unbearable to name, deaths too heavy to endure, history to unbearable to uncover.

And the muse pushes me to write it out. To name it. Feel it. Know it. See it. Bear it. Even when the words are too dark to see or feel too heavy to bear in the dim light cast by the news. To write it out and bear witness to it all so that in all of it, the mystery, the awe, the ineffable beauty of life can shine through.

In keeping with the Before Time poem from yesterday, this morning’s poem is titled, “Before Words”. (and the painting is the finished version of yesterday’s share.)

Before Words
by Louise Gallagher

Before words
man had no name
for who he was
or who the others were
who shared this human 
state
without a name.

Without a name
he could not name
the things he saw
that were the same
yet different
and lived within the mystery
of the world
for which he had no name.

And then words came
and labelled all that man was
all that man created
all that man did
as wanted/unwanted
beautiful/ugly
funny/sad
curious/dreaded
intriguing/frightening
right/wrong
us/them.

And in the naming of it all
man became black or white
dark/light
rich/poor
believer/nonbeliever
love/hate.


And in the names
man called 'them'
there were no words
to label the things he did not
understand
or know
and so he named them all
The Other.

There was no room
for the others
who did not fit into man’s tidy
labels
designed to keep the others
out
until fear grew 
wild
hatred flourished 
fierce
and man became
the one 
to fear the most.

About the artwork: When I began this painting it was an overpainting of an old piece that did not please me. It was going to be flowers and then, the evolution of time began to unfold and this is what appeared.

Before time…

Before Time– Mixed Media on Canvas – 30 x 24″

Most of the pieces I’ve been working on for he art show next week are relative small — 12 x 12″, 11 x 14″ and smaller.

As I was looking through my stash of old canvases I found one I decided I wanted to paint over. It’s 30 x 24″ so a big ‘jump’ from what I’ve been working on.

I had a vision in my head of what I’d create. The original canvas was extremely textured and layers, lots of collaged in pieces along with ridges made with different papers. I layered on a bunch of white paint, letting areas show through and once dried, used alcohol and baby wipes to lighten up some of the thicker painted.

And that’s when the magic happened.

Originally, my vision was to create big splashes of colourful flowers. Somewhat impressionistic/abstract. And then, the muse whispered… before time, there was only limitless space.

Hmmm…. and suddenly, the flowers became the sun and moon and earth and all the planets…

I’m not done yet. Lying in the bath this morning after returning from my early morning walk with Beaumont the Sheepadoodle, I closed my eyes and felt the warm sunshine on my face. I listened to the river flowing and the trees standing silent with no breath of breeze brushing through their limbs. In the sacred nature of the silence, the rest of the ‘quote’ wrote itself out.

And now… I’m off to work on the painting…

Have a beautiful, glorious day. May it be full of warmth, joy and above all, Love.

Namaste

Can Writing It Out Clear It Out?

Love Fest – 10 x 10 – Mixed media on wrapped canvas

Yesterday, after writing out my fears of imperfection and my frustrations with where I was at in my creative journey, I headed into my studio, clear of mind, fresh of spirit, grounded in my body’s wisdom and knowing.

I had fun.

All day.

Sure, there were those moments where I wondered… hmmm….. where is this going? But each of those moments appeared as curiosity-filled elements of the bigger moments of pure joy in the art of being present and embodied in this moment, right now.

Did I mention… I had fun? ‘Cause I did!

And here’s the thing… I realized, as I was layering and wiping off, layering and wiping off, (I use a lot of baby-wipes in my art-making — you’re welcome Pampers) the ‘imperfections’ are integral to my art-making. They are part of who I am. A part I want to celebrate, embrace and allow to shine.

And that’s what my creative practice, both writing and visual art-making, teaches me every day.

To allow the artist within free and fearless expression, I must:

  • Be curious
  • Witness and embrace my fears
  • Dive in and open up to vulnerability
  • Seek imperfection
  • Be present and revel in the moment
  • Cherish, nurture and honour my process
  • Let go of my ‘judgements’
  • Celebrate all I am, beauty and the beast, yin and yang, light and dark

Thank you everyone for your wonderful and loving feedback to my angst yesterday.

What I heard you say rings true and deep within me: We gotta love the imperfections because there’s no such thing as perfect.

___________________

True story….

Years ago, when I was thinking of signing up for a painting course at a studio I often go to, the owner approached me and suggested I might think twice about attending that particular course. “It’s realism,” she said. “You’re going to end up frustrated as is the instructor. You’ll drive her so crazy with your need to redefine reality to your sensibilities, she’ll ask you to leave.”

I had to laugh.

She was so right.

I don’t ‘do’ realism. At least, not in my art-making.

I love the unexpected. The rough. The blurry. The ‘impression’ and imprecision of suggesting there’s a hammer without having to hit someone on the head with it. How they use that hammer, how they hold it, see it – that’s up to them. Not me.

Me. I’ll be the one in front of her easel, apron over her linen dress because she couldn’t be bothered to change, and because, isn’t it wonderful to wear your ‘Sunday best’ when doing something you love?

Ultimately, that’s what my art is all about. Self-expression for the pure joy of it. Arting-it-out for the love of being present in the moment of creation, that moment when my heart sings and dances in concert with the world in and all around me.

Namaste

_______________

Oh…. and… this painting was inspired by Mother Nature. Yesterday, when I stepped into my studio I noticed that one of the robin chicks had stepped out of the nest and was standing on its edge.

It sat there all day, not quite ready to fly, but definitely testing the temperature of the air, the strength of its wings as it savoured the possibility of flight.

(It’s a bit blurry as I don’t want to get to close and scare her.)

.

Fear of Looking Imperfect

One of the things that inevitably comes to the forefront for me in art-making, is my fear of looking imperfect. Of looking like an imposter, or that I haven’t got it all together.

Over the past few weeks, as I’ve gotten ready for the Vale’s Greenhouse Cultivation of Art Show and Sale, I have come up against my fear again and again.

Yesterday, after what I deemed another miserable attempt to create something worthy of being part of my offerings at the show, I told my beloved, “I figured something out in the studio today.”

“What’s that?” he asked from where he sat on the sofa watching a hockey game on his laptop.

“The thing I hate about art shows is that I get all caught up in the outcome and lose my joy of creating simply for the sake of creating.”

“Oh.” he replied. “Is that why you’ve been on edge these past few days?”

I was on edge? Hmmm…

“Probably. I love being immersed in the creative nature of art-making, but what I’ve noticed, as I’ve gotten ready for the art show, is I’m not allowing the creative process to just happen. I’m making art instead of making space for art to happen.”

I paused for a moment as C.C. sat quietly watching me, waiting for me to find my way through my angst. “I hate art shows. Don’t even know why I go in. I don’t create to sell. I create to have fun. And I’m not having much fun right now.”

Ahhhh….. that little five year old loves to get into it when she feels like I’m fleeing the scene of my artistic potential.

It isn’t that she’s trying to create havoc or run amuck with my self-confidence. Rather, it’s that she feels my fear. Unfortunately, when I am running with fear as my companion, she gets scared. Scared means she can’t go play with abandon amongst the wildflowers. She can’t paint the moon all the colours of the rainbow because I am standing outside the sacred garden of my creative nature.

When I’m running with fear of my creative expression and talents, my peace of mind is a fast river of muddy waters swollen by spring run-off. .

This morning, I woke up, took Beaumont the Sheepadoodle for his early morning walk. At one point, I stood at the railing of the John Hextall pedestrian bridge which joins the western edges of the city to the downtown. I stood on the Hextall and watched the waters of the Bow River flowing deep and fast beneath it.

As I stand and watch the waters and Beau sniffs the grasses growing in the planters that line the center of the bridge, I am reminded of a poem by Apollinaire Guillaume. I was first introduced to Apollinaire in my teens. His work still resonates deeply. The poem, The Mirabeau, begins with the line, “Under the Mirabeau flows the Seine.”

And I am transported back to that child of five who danced and laughed and spun about when she was a little girl and we lived in France. Life was full of possibilities. She had such dreams, such flights of fancy and wonder and awe. There was nothing she couldn’t do and she planned on doing it all.

And I hear her whispering deep within me. “Let me go back to where I am free to run amidst the wildflowers and paint the moon all the colours of the rainbow. Let me go back so you can run free of fear standing here on the Hextall above the Bow.

And when I return home I take a flight of fancy and write an homage to Appollinaire.

An Homage to Appollinaire
by Louise Gallagher

Under the Hextall flows the Bow
muddy waters churning
the mountains are running 
free
of winter’s excess
the lakes are flowing 
clear
of mother nature’s blanket
frozen
against their beauty

I stand on the bridge
and cast my doubts
into the fast-flowing waters
free
of fear that the waters
will never run clear again
that the lakes
will never thaw
that I will never
be free
of fear

I cast my doubts
beyond the thrall
of my confusion
and breathe
the morning’s cool fresh
kisses
falling
upon my face
where I stand 
musing
on the Hextall
above the Bow.

And I return to my studio.

I need not fear my imperfections. I only need to embrace them so that I am free to celebrate my creative expressions in all their many colours, all their multi-dimensions and all their unique expressions.

In that frame of mind, I let go of expectations and outcome and throw myself with abandon into the deep running waters of my creative expressions flowing free.

Namaste

And No One Listens

I watch a flock of geese huddling around their children at the edge of the river. Four adults. Many goslings.

The river flows fast. Swollen with spring run-off from the mountains and the rains of the past few days.

It is not safe for the babies. The adults keep them on shore.

And I am reminded, as so many things do these days, of the remains of 215 children found beneath the lands of a former residential school sanctioned by the Canadian government and operated for decades by the Catholic Church on the Tk’emlúps te Secwépemc First Nation.

Those goslings do not need to be taken away from their parents, or even kept away from the river. The parents are seeing to their safety. It is their nature.

And as I walk slowly home along the swollen river, its roar drowning out the traffic travelling across the bridge above, as I listen to the birds chirping in the trees and the geese hissing as Beaumont the Sheepadoodle and I pass by, I think of the women who would come to the homeless shelter where I worked, their eyes swollen, their bodies battered as they struggled to find a way back to who they were… before.

Before… the settlers and his assertions their ways were better came…

Before…. their schools and assimilation and attempts to ‘kill the Indian in the child’…

Before… the church and its doctrine arrived…

Before… the government took away…

...their lands, their way of life, their history, their traditions, their culture, their language, their homes…. Their children.

In a tweet on May 27th, Prime Minister Trudeau called it, “a painful reminder of that dark and shameful chapter of our country’s history.”

In the House of Commons on June 3rd, Nunavut member of Parliament Mumilaaq Qaqqaq stated. “Colonization is not a dark chapter in Canadian history. It is a book that the federal institution continues to write,”

“Foster care,” she said, “is the new residential school system.”

Is is also a gateway to homelessness for far too many.

According to Without a Home: The National Youth Homelessness Survey, 20% of the homeless population in Canada is comprised of youth between the ages of 13-24. In a given year, there are at least 35,000-40,000 youth experiencing homelessness. Of that number, over 30% are Indigenous. Research also highlights that over 40 percent of youth experiencing homelessness in Canada have been involved with child welfare services, including foster care and group homes. Over 52% of children involved with child welfare services are Indigenous.

In her comments in the House of Commons, Qaqqaq also said, “We are tired of living in someone else’s story and refuse to continue to have it written for us.”

She’s right. This book we’ve been writing… It’s not a story I want to keep reading. Keep hearing. Keep living.

It’s time we stop writing it so that Indigenous peoples can write their own book.

____________________

I wrote the poem below for all the women who were never heard when they called out for their missing children and were never heard.

And No One Listens
by Louise Gallagher

She cries out for help
	Again and again
	Where are my children
	Where have they gone

No one listens
No one hears

She walks the trails where once they gathered berries. Together
She trudges through the fields where once they played. Together
	
She keeps searching. Searching. 
	Calling. Calling. 

Their names become a symphony of anguish 
Their memory an unending refrain of pain
Their missing a cut too deep to be washed away by her tears
she searches for a way to drown them beneath the burden of the grief
that flows as deep as the river upon which she once paddled with her children. Together.

She talks to the priest who has promised her soul salvation
She talks to the man the government has sent to help her and her people
assimilate into the ways of the settlers, ways that are foreign to her
ways that do not ease her suffering.

Their words do not bring her salvation
Their words do not ease her pain
	It is God’s will
	It is His way
	It is the law
	It is our way.

And she keeps calling out for her children
She keeps calling out for help
until one day she too is lost
Lost
To God’s will
and His Way 
to our way
the way that has taken her children
the way
that has catapulted her life
into an unending liturgy of sorrow, pain and suffering

She cannot escape
the missing of her children
of her way
her People’s way
the way of the land
and falls

She lies on the sidewalk now
of a city she does not know
in a way that has erased all memory
of who she was
before
before they took her children.

She is broken 
apart
separated
from her people
the ways of her ancestors
her children, missing
her voice, lost

She no longer calls out through the pain she cannot heal
the stories she cannot tell
the memories she can no longer remember.

She no longer cries out her children’s names
She no longer calls out for help

And no one listens.
No one hears.

It Is Their Ways That Will Heal Us.

They are getting ready, these tiny bodies of winged possibility that have only known the nest their mother built since first she laid them in its safety and sat for days and days on end upon their shells until they were born.

I have watched them over the past three weeks grow from tiny, featherless newborns into feathered beauty with wings unfolding with every breath they take.

I have watched the mother and father robin carefully tending to their young. Bringing food. Sustenance. Warmth.

The father doesn’t linger long. But he is never far away.

Over these first weeks of life, the mother has moved from sitting in the nest for hours on end, to sitting on its edge for brief spurts of time, trusting in nature to take its course and give her babies the gift of flight.

Her babies are growing stronger. Soon it will be time.

And I sit and watch and marvel at the power of nature. To create life. Sustain life. Set it free.

And I think of the mothers whose children were taken from them so young. Who never had the chance to nurture and sustain their offspring. Who never had the gift of seeing them take flight.

And I think of how, in their pain, they wandered through their days searching for their missing children until they could no longer stand the pain.

And how, like a bird with a broken wing, they had to tend to their own wounds. Heal, as best they could, the gaping holes that could never be filled. How, they yearned again for those days when their children ran and played and sang songs and told stories and gathered around the table and shared a meal and bickered amongst themselves knowing, that no matter what, their lives were woven together with strands of love threaded through a way of life that could never be erased.

Until it was.

Until a force greater than their mother’s arms could hold back and their father’s breath could push away, swept in and tore the ties that bind apart, ripping out the hearts of the weavers who had built the nest they called their home.

And how, over generations and generations of unravelling the ties that bind, there was nothing left of the threads of all their ancestors weaving the vibrant stories that had sustained them, nurtured them, carried them through their lives. Nothing left of the songs that sang them awake and the stories that lulled them to sleep. Nothing left of the way of life threaded through their history, for their history was gone. Rewritten. Erased. Assimilated.

Until one day, there was a murmuring. It wasn’t loud, but it was steady. Like a heartbeat. And in its steady thrum, thrum, it whispered a song of hope, rising up, Up across the land calling their ancestors and all their relations to rise with it.

And in its beat, a memory flickered through the darkness, and then another and another. Memories full of the way it was when the rivers ran deep teeming with fish and the buffalo roamed the prairies as far as the eye could see. Memories of the forest paths beckoning with healing ferns and moss and flora. Memories of when the drums beat loud and the fires burned bright. Memories of the stories the elders told that guided the young in the ways of their people as their mothers wove baskets in the light of the fire and their fathers hunted for the foods that would sustain them. Memories of their ancient ways. Ways that nurtured and sustained and honoured all of life.

It began as just a murmuring, a gentle breath of hope. It is growing. Louder.

And their wings are growing. Stronger.

And the way is growing. Clearer.

And their hearts are beating. Faster.

And the drums are pounding. Fiercer.

Soon. Soon. It will be time.

Time to erase the erasing of their ways that could never be erased because theirs are the way of nature and nature can never be erased. It flows always. In the rivers. In the seas. In the air we breathe. In the light of the sun and the cast of the moon. It flows deep within the earth that has always nurtured and sustained life on this planet we call our home. This planet that is growing weary of our ways that is killing off its creatures, poisoning its waters, clogging up its air.

This earth is calling them to awaken to their ways.

It is time. Time for the stories to be told. For the light to return. Time for the threads of yesterday to be woven back into the tapestry of life that was their way. And is their way.

It is their ways that will sustain and nurture us.

It is their ways that will heal the wounds.

It is their ways that will heal the truth.

It is their ways that will heal the earth and all of nature.

If is time for us to step aside and let their ways lead us all back into nature’s balance.

My Credo – a reshare

On June 11th, last year, I posted My Credo – It was created in the wake of George Floyd’s murder, of the thousands upon thousands who were marching and calling for change.

I am sharing it and what I wrote about it again as when I re-read it this morning, I had this deep sense of knowing — yes… this is true for me. This is what I want to create in this world.

For me, My Credo speaks to what I stand for, and against. It acts a guidepost against which I can measure every action, word and thought. And, it provides me with a safe and courageous container within which to grow and evolve so that I can give my all to creating better in this world.

Years ago, when I began my healing journey after being freed from an abusive relationship, I created a credo for how I wanted to live my life. It included statements like, “I shall turn up for me in all my wounded brokenness and love myself completely”.

It also included a statement on how I wanted to treat the past — as a bludgeon to beat myself up with or as the vehicle that brought me to this moment right now where I was free to heal and fall in love with myself and all my world and celebrate life for all I’m worth.

I chose to treat it as the vehicle that brought me to this moment right now. The past had served its purpose. It was time for me to let go of its pain and find a more loving, caring and roadworthy vehicle within which to continue my journey.

We cannot change the past. We can learn from it and grow deeper in our understanding of its impact on our lives today. And, we can use it as corroboration for what we need to do today to ensure tomorrow is not a repeat of a past we do not want to live again and again.

There is so much good in this world. So much beauty, possibility, hope, joy… And there is grief and sorrow, pain and suffering, violence and abuse.

It is all present. And always, no matter what is present, Love is always there.

To live by this credo, fearlessly letting all of my human condition be present, I must accept all is present. Light and dark. Fear and hope. Anger and sorrow. Suffering and joy. And I must love it all, fearlessly. Joyfully. Completely.

I am not powerful enough to change all the darkness in the world. I am powerful enough to determine how bright I want my light to shine. And I am powerful enough to shine as brightly as I can so that others can see in the dark and stand with me in the light.

Today, I am choosing to shine full on. Bright beams blasting.

I am stepping onto this road armed with My Credo. Yesterday, the decision to step onto the road to ask a man with a brick if he was ok, was what I had to do. The tenets of my credo were guiding me.

To be of service in creating change so that Indigenous people, all people, who live on this land now called Canada, are treated with dignity and respect, I must live by my credo. It is my map to creating a future where my grandchildren will know, the world into which they are born is not a place in which only they and others like them enjoy its’ privileges. It is a place where all the world enjoys the same privileges. Where all people have equal rights and are inspired to live freely and shine bright.

Namaste

____________________________________________

Do you have a personal Credo?

If you’d like to write one, here are some questions you can ask yourself to get started.