Time: Enemy or friend? What’s your POV?

Snow falls, settles to the ground. Time passes, settles into the past.

No matter the weather, or how many things I try to cram into any given moment, time keeps passing at its own pace.

I wonder some days where time has gone. Then I wake up to realize time hasn’t gone anywhere. I was just too busy getting done whatever needed getting done, running a race I hadn’t even noticed I was running, to see that time was always flowing at the same pace.

Time. Like the limit on my credit card, the closer I get to the deadline, the faster it appears to go.

Some days, it feels like lack of time is the prison-suit I wear to keep myself from being aware of what I’m really doing with my time.

I tell myself I’m too busy to work out. To go to the chiropractor or even the doctor.

Too busy.

And in my busyness, I quit being present to the moment right now as though my busyness will bring me to some unseen finish line where I will win the race I didn’t even realize I was running.

When I perceive that time is my enemy, my perception of time is out of whack! Big time.

In those moments, I have a choice. To breathe. To slow down. To cut back, pare back, realign my priorities so that my time is less chocker-block full of ‘must do’s‘ and more filled with ‘good to do’s’.

My choice how I spend my time.

Yesterday, I was feeling stressed. So much to do. So little time to do it in.

Is that true? Or am I lying to myself by telling myself my busyness is a measurement of my worth?

Today, I choose to sit back, breathe and relax. Today I take the pressure off and move into that time where the possibilities are limitless and I am inhibited only by my belief there is not enough time — I let it go. My point of view determines my outcome. If I take a negative perspective of time, I will never quit running that endless race of trying to beat time.

In breathing into this moment right now, I find a whole new point of view where I get to choose grace as my companion with time as my friend.

My time. My choice. My point of view.

The question is: What are you doing with your time? Are you rushing about running a race you didn’t know you were running? Or, are you choosing to flow with grace and its invitation to be present in this moment now?


Where are the men?

No. 30 #ShePersisted series

When I was in my late twenties, I worked as a stockbroker. Years before, I had worked for a summer at a brokerage firm in Toronto and was intrigued by the business. Perhaps not the business itself, but more the aura of power and wealth that imbues the industry with its sense of self-importance and attitude of ‘the whole world revolves around us’. It was seductive.

At the time, I was  one of a small group of females in the sector.

We did not band together. We did not form a group to support one another, even though sexual misconduct was rife within the industry, covertly and overtly. When we occassionally met over a glass of wine or at a party, we’d talk about the sexual advancements we’d received as if being propositioned every day was the norm — because unfortunately, it was.

Every woman I knew attested to the fact that from innuendo to explicit comments, there was little confusion as to where some of the men stood on the notion of women in the field — they might ‘accept’ that woman were brokers, but they sure did not respect nor accept that women had equal status and rights to being treated like anything other than sexual objects.

I say ‘some’ because the vast majority of men I worked with were respectful and considerate.

And then there were the few.

The one’s like one of my bosses, a VP in a large firm who offered to pave the way to my success if I had sex with him. “Tell anyone and they won’t believe you,” he said when I rejected his offer. “You’re just a rookie. I’m a VP.”

I believed him. I left the firm and went to a smaller company where I felt safer and accepted. Even though I was the only female broker amongst a cadre of men, not once was I subjected to sexual improprities. I believe it was because the Managing Partner was pretty clear on the level of professionalism he expected from his team. There was to be no sexual misconduct.

A father of three young daughters, he stood up for what he believed in – that when they became adults, his daughters deserved to step into a world where they were safe to make their dreams come true, without having to face sexual misconduct and harrassment.

Which brings me to my question this morning… Where are the men?

Women have been marching. Speaking out. Wearing pink pussy hats and t-shirts decrying sexism and sexual harassment. Calling out for equality. Fair pay. Fair treatment. Fairness.

Where are the men?

Not just the single voices speaking out against those who have recently come under scrutiny for sexual assault and misconduct, but the marchers. The placard bearing. The fist pumping the air demanding an end to sexual violence; in the home, in offices, in military quarters, in locker rooms and movie sets.

Where are the men?

Do they not see that while they stay silent they risk being tarnished by the same brush that paints the perpetrators of sexual aggression and violence? Do they not see that in their silence they become victims of another man’s bad behaviour?

Sure, there are laws against sexual violence but laws do nothing for a woman while she is being raped. Laws do not bring comfort to a child while he or she is being abused. And laws do not heal the wounds of sexual assault.

Woman have been marching and in their midst there are a few men courageous and strong enough to stand up for what they know to be true and right — women are not sexual objects, the weaker sex or a sex toy who’s main purpose is to pleasure a man so he can get off on his power.

We are human beings deserving of respect. We have the right to feel safe walking down any street a man walks down. We have the right to step into an elevator alone with any man. We have the right to be in a room with any man and not be harassed, demeaned or propositioned.

Where are the men demanding their brothers stop behaving like beasts? That they stop forcing themselves upon women. That they put an end to using their masculinity as a weapon?

Where are the men?




Get naked with life

As teenagers, my sister and I liked to play tricks on each other (the naked truth — I liked to play the tricks, she tolerated them. I’m the youngest… what can I say? :)).

One night, a girlfriend and I decided that as my sister tended to sleepwalk, we’d play a trick on her. Laughing at our ingenuity, while my sister was sleeping, we took a bite out of a chocolate covered cookie and placed it on the pillow beside her head.

The next morning, she awoke with chocolate smeared all over her face and the sheets. She couldn’t figure out how the cookie got there.

We told her she was sleep-walking. (Naked truth again — we hadn’t counted on her rolling over onto the cookie and the heat of her face making the chocolate melt. We were a bit scared to tell her the truth, so…)

She believed us. For years (and years). Until thirty years later when I fessed up.

The truth is, I thought the story of her sleep-walking was way more interesting than the reality where I was the culprit and she the innocent victim.

The moral of the story? We all sleep-walk through life. It takes a conscious decision to get up close and naked with life for us to awaken from our dreams, and our nightmares.

Naked with life means stripping away the masks, the games, the excuses we employ to protect ourselves from loving intimacy with ourselves, and the world around us. It means, letting go of the stories we tell about why we fear being vulnerable, being real, being hurt.

It means letting go of our fear that life will hurt us.

Life will serve up hurts and pains, joys and triumphs. It’s up to each of us to decide how we want to carry life’s happenings. In secret. As a burden. As a deadly weight. As an opportunity to learn and grow and become more intimate with ourselves. The choice is always ours.

We are not separate from life, we are one with life.

This life, the one we’re living right now, is all we’ve got to live. When we choose naked contact with it, we are choosing to grow, to learn, to become more intimate with ourselves and in that intimacy, to grow vulnerable and real with the world around us.

Sure, we can stay all decked out in our stories. We can hold onto our fears and life will continue on. Day by grinding day.

To get naked, to reveal our true selves, to fall fearlessly and consciously in love with ourselves, is a constant journey into the wonder and mystery that sparkles within the multi-faceted, ever fascinating aspects of truly knowing, being, living as Me. Myself. and I.

Why not try it on? Get naked. Get real. Get living awake!


One of the most fulfilling and rewarding ways I have ever found to get naked and real with my life has been through Choices Seminars.

And wouldn’t you know it — a brand new session begins today at noon. If you’re in Calgary and environs, you still have time to give yourself the gift of awakening to the wonder and mystery of you! I invite you to check it out!

Definitely feelin’ like the sun will come up (Daily intention)

Have you ever noticed how sometimes, you just can’t help but feel irritated by the actions of the people around you? How, no matter how hard you try, ‘they’ just can’t seem to get it right.

In those moments where I’m feeling like there’s something wrong with the rest of the world, I breathe. Deeply. Say quietly, “Forgive them. Bless them.  Forgive me. Bless me.”

Yesterday, our contractor who I thought was arriving in the morning to paint and do some minor repairs told me when I called to check on when they were coming that he thought they were supposed to come today.

Of course, I know I’m right. I know that we committed to yesterday.

Being right doesn’t make me feel happy, especially when he thinks he’s right in his dates too.

Nor does being right give me peace of mind. It only leaves me feeling frustrated. And while we are on a tight timeline — the house gets photographed and listed on Friday — there isn’t much sense in letting my frustration froth over to create an air of discord between myself and the people I am relying on to help us get the house in shape.

It is possible — he was confused about timing. That’s what he told me happened.

I have a choice.

To accept his ‘truth’ as fact. Or not.

Either way, he won’t be here to start the work until today.

When I hold onto ‘he’s wrong’ thinking, I hold myself in that space between where my side of the conversation is the only one that counts. Accepting we both have our positions, without judging who’s right or wrong, frees me of anger, frustration, angst.

In accepting what is, I create room for both of us to be present with what is real right now — he and his partner will be here today to do the work.

I am manifesting what I want to create in the world — a smooth transition from one home to the next. A successful sale of this home that is effortless and filled with ease, and a grace-filled move into our new home.

The universe is with me.

There is no wrong nor right way to do this part. There is only the way that is happening now.


It’s working.

I’m feelin’ like the sun will come up and the day will be bright and all will be well in my world!

Now, if I could just wiggle my nose, click the heels of my ruby red shoes together and say Abracadabra! the move will be over, the house will be sold and we’ll be living on easy street!

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Yup. definitely feelin’ it! 🙂

How’s your world looking today?


Finding joy in the now

I am getting close.

Close to done.

Close to being able to stop clearing, decluttering, cleaning.

It’s about time!

Our house is listed. The photographer comes Thursday to capture it for the MLS listing that goes up Friday.

And then…. it’s all about keeping it looking like no one lives in it!

I am searching for the joy in that! 🙂

There is something joyful about cleaning out closets and countertops. About gifting to a homeless shelter dishes and towels and other assorted items that are in good repair, but superfluous to us.

Today, the contractor arrives to do some finishing touches — including a bit of painting.

And through it all, I have consciously chosen to not think about ‘the work’, but to focus on choosing to do this work for the benefits.

“I choose to for the benefit of…”

It is one of the simple tools I learned at Choices Seminars 11 and a half years when I first went through the program.

Rather than think about how hard it is, how tiring, how everything… I focus on the benefits.

And the benefits of cleaning out the house are many!

There are moments though when I wonder, why on earth do we have so much stuff?

In those moments, I make a commitment to myself to live my Be. Do. Have.

It’s an old Dale Carnegie teaching and one that is also taught at Choices.

BE committed to DO what it takes to HAVE what you want.

I am committed to getting this house ready to be photographed Friday.

I will do whatever I have to so that it is ready and so that prospective buyers can’t resist owning this lovely place.

And that includes doing the things I”m not all that fond of doing — like throwing out old magazines (do you know how many possibilities I can think of to use old magazine photos in collage and art pieces? Yup — countless!). Giving away once treasured items I no longer use. Packing up the things I want to keep but don’t use every day so that as my girlfriend Tamz said yesterday when she dropped over for a visit, “people can imagine themselves and their things in your house without being distracted by your stuff.”

Minimize. Minimize. Minimize.

Part of my Be. DO. HAVE. is to not Criticize. Condemn. or Complain. (Another Choices tool)

Complaining about having to do the work does not get the work done faster, nor slower — but it does increase my pain threshold while doing it.

Criticizing C.C. for being on a boy’s weekend to watch football in Atlanta also doesn’t help — it is an annual trek he takes with a buddy. They pick a city in the U.S and go for four days college and pro games. They began planning it in July, long before we decided to sell the house. 🙂

Which is why consciously choosing to find the joy in the now, in whatever I’m doing, is vital to getting through this part of the journey calm, centered and collected — and still married to my beloved! 🙂

One thing that has surprised and pleased me through doing all this work — is discovering my body is a whole lot stronger than I think. And that’s another Choices tool:

Find the value in all things.

There is so much value to be found in doing this work and one of the most treasured — the anticipation and excitement of moving into our new home!

Minus a bunch of stuff!

Have a wonderful, joyful day.


Choices Seminars begins this Wednesday and while I won’t be there, the value I’ve found in using the tools everyday is indescribable.  It’s changed my life. There’s still time to sign up if you’re interested in taking, ‘An Adventure of Your Lifetime!”

The Poet Boy Remembered

Remembrance Day. Lest we forget. Let us  not forget.

Their sacrifice. Their honour. Their duty to country. Their names.

Let us not forget.

My father went off to war when he was a boy. He went off and fought and came home and seldom spoke of those years again.

The following is the unedited version of a shorter Op-Ed I wrote that was published in the Calgary Herald several years ago. I share it here in memory of my father, and all the sons and daughters, boys and girls, men and women, who have gone off to war to never return. I share it here to remind me to never forget my father who was once a poet boy.

The Poet Boy

When the poet boy was sixteen, he lied about his age and ran off to war. It was a war he was too young to understand. Or know why he was fighting. When the guns were silenced and the victors and the vanquished carried off their dead and wounded, the poet boy was gone. In his stead, there stood a man. An angry man. A wounded man. The man who would become my father.

By the time of my arrival, the final note in a quartet of baby-boomer children, the poet boy was deeply buried beneath the burden of an unforgettable war and the dark moods that permeated my father’s being with the density of storm clouds blocking the sun. Occasionally, on a holiday or a walk in the woods, the sun would burst through and signs of the poet boy would seep out from beneath the burden of the past. Sometimes, like letters scrambled in a bowl of alphabet soup that momentarily made sense of a word drifting across the surface, images of the poet boy appeared in a note or a letter my father wrote me. For that one brief moment a light would be cast on what was lost and then suddenly, with the deftness of a croupier sweeping away the dice, the words would disappear as the angry man came sweeping back with the ferocity of winter rushing in from the north.

I spent my lifetime looking for the words that would make the poet boy appear, but time ran out when my father’s heart gave up its fierce beat to the silence of eternity. It was a massive coronary. My mother said he was angry when the pain hit him. Angry, but unafraid. She wasn’t allowed to call an ambulance. She wasn’t allowed to call a neighbor. He drove himself to the hospital and she sat helplessly beside him. As he crossed the threshold of the emergency room, he collapsed, never to awaken again. In his death, he was lost forever, leaving behind my anger for which I had no words.

On Remembrance Day, ten years after his death, I went in search of my father at the foot of the memorial to an unnamed soldier that stands in the middle of a city park. A trumpet played “Taps”. I stood at the edge of the crowd and fingered the felt of the bright red poppy I held between my thumb and fingers. It was a blustery day. A weak November sunshine peaked out from behind sullen grey clouds.  Bundled up against the cold, the crowd, young and old, silently approached the monument and placed their poppies on a ledge beneath the soldier’s feet.

I stood and watched and held back.

I wanted to understand the war. I wanted to find the father who might have been had the poet boy not run off to fight “the good war” as a commentator had called it earlier that morning on the radio. Where is the good in war, I wondered? I thought of soldiers falling, mother’s crying and anger never dying. I thought of the past, never resting, always remembered and I thought of my father, never forgotten. The poet boy who went to war and came home an angry man. In his anger, life became the battlefield upon which he fought to retain some sense of balance amidst the memories of a world gone mad.

Perhaps it is as George Orwell wrote in his novel, Nineteen Eighty-four:

“The very word ‘war’, therefore, has become misleading.  It would probably be accurate to say that by becoming continuous war has ceased to exist… War is Peace.”

For my father, anger became the peacetime of his world until his heart ran out of time and he lost all hope of finding the poetry within him.

There is still time for me.

On that cold November morning, I approach the monument. I stand at the bottom step and look at the bright red poppies lining the gun metal grey of the concrete base of the statue. Slowly, I take the first step up and then the second. I hesitate then reach forward and place my poppy amongst the blood red row lined up along the ledge.

I wait. I don’t want to leave. I want a sign. I want to know my father sees me.

I turn and watch a white-haired grandfather approach, his gloved right hand encasing the mitten covered hand of his granddaughter. Her bright curly locks tumble from around the edges of her white furry cap. Her pink overcoat is adorned with little white bunnies leaping along the bottom edge. She skips beside him, her smile wide, blue eyes bright.

They approach the monument, climb the few steps and stop beside me. The grandfather lets go of his granddaughter’s hand and steps forward to place his poppy on the ledge.  He stands for a moment, head bowed. The little girl turns to me, the poppy clasped between her pink mittens outstretched in front of her.

“Can you lift me up?” she asks me.

“Of course,” I reply.

I pick her up, facing her towards the statue.

Carefully she places the poppy in the empty spot beside her grandfather’s.

I place her gently back on the ground.

She flashes me a toothy grin and skips away to join her grandfather where he waits at the foot of the monument. She grabs his hand.

“Do you think your daddy will know which one is mine?” she asks.

The grandfather laughs as he leads her back into the gathered throng.

“I’m sure he will,” he replies.

I watch the little girl skip away with her grandfather. The wind gently stirs the poppies lining the ledge. I feel them ripple through my memories of a poet boy who once stood his ground and fell beneath the weight of war.

My father is gone from this world. The dreams he had, the promises of his youth were forever lost on the bloody tide of war that swept the poet boy away.  In his passing, he left behind a love of words born upon the essays and letters he wrote me throughout the years. Words of encouragement. Of admonishment. Words that inspired me. Humored me. Guided me. Touched me. Words that will never fade away.

I stand at the base of the monument and look up at the soldier mounted on its pedestal.  Perhaps he was once a poet boy hurrying off to war to become a man. Perhaps he too came back from war an angry man fearful of letting the memories die lest the gift of his life be forgotten.

I turn away and leave my poppy lying at his feet. I don’t know if my father will know which is mine. I don’t know if poppies grow where he has gone. But standing at the feet of the Unknown Soldier, the wind whispering through the poppies circling him in a blood red river, I feel the roots of the poet boy stir within me. He planted the seed that became my life.

Long ago my father went off to war and became a man. His poetry was silenced but still the poppies blow, row on row. They mark the place where poet boys went off to war and never came home again.

The war is over. In loving memory of my father and those who fought beside him, I let go of anger. It is time for me to make peace.



Forgetting to remember.

Dad Aug 1943 copyWhen the war came, my father set out to find it. He was living across the ocean in what was to become my homeland, Canada. But the war was important, he told me once. Britain was his homeland and all the young men were going. He figured he’d be okay. So he lied about his age and off he went to fight, for justice and peace, he said.

It was a lie. Not just the one he told about his age, but the other, bigger one, about being okay with fighting for what he believed in.

The war did not sit well with my father. He carried it with him and when he came home, he left justice and peace behind, and brought with him anger and pain instead.

My father seldom mentioned the war. He never spoke of what he saw, the things that hurt him, the regrets and sorrows he carried, the things he learned and wished he hadn’t. It was as if in the silencing of the guns, memory had to be silenced too.

I wondered about his memories. I wondered if that was where his anger came from. He wasn’t a violent man, but he was mercurial. One moment the world would be sunny and bright, the next a dark and seething storm would erupt and all you could do to avoid it was run for cover. I wondered if it was his unspoken memories that pushed him over the edge into darkness. I wondered if in not speaking of what happened, of what he saw, of what he felt, the pain could find no release except through anger.

Over the years, my father’s anger waned. Over the years, the memories he never spoke of dimmed, but my memory of his anger, his outbursts, his unpredictability stayed with me, even after he died.  

I wonder if his anger would never have found its home in his heart if he had found peace with memory.

I wonder if he’d ever known that love is greater than anger because it is the only thing that can catch us when we fall.

It is time. Time to let go of memory and fall fearlessly into Love.

Falling Into Love

©2017 Louise Gallagher

She clung
like a leaf
never giving in
to the fall

She held on
like a barnacle
clinging to
a whale’s back diving
in and out
in and out

She hoped
every fall
every dive
into memory
she would forget
how to cling
and fall free
to dive in
to her life calling.

One day, she dove
too deep and forgot
to hold on

Letting go
she fell in
to the ONE thing
she had forgotten
would always be there
to catch her
when she fell