Monthly Archives: January 2024

The Day She Was Born

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Thirty-six years ago today, the world was a flurry of icy chills and Olympic anticipation. Calgary, caught in the grips of a Polar Vortex, was buzzing with excitement for the upcoming Winter Olympics. In the midst of this, Alberta nurses were striking, hospitals were navigating through tumult, performing only emergency procedures.

Liseanne, my vibrant youngest daughter, chose this intense backdrop for her grand entrance, arriving two weeks before her due date of February 13 – the very day the Olympics were set to begin. Unlike her sister, whose 3 week-late arrival made me wonder if she’d ever venture out, Liseanne was eager, ready to embrace the world with the fervour of the star athletes descending upon our city.

Her early arrival was my first lesson in the unpredictable joy of motherhood. With my eldest, I was unprepared for the tidal wave of protective love that overwhelmed me. With Liseanne, it was the fierce, unconditional love that made me wish to keep her safe inside me forever. Yet, amidst the nurses’ strike and my impending C-section, Liseanne’s determination won-out. It always does.

I remember that day vividly. My water broke, but I remained silent, helping her father put the final touches on her nursery. It was only after we finished that I called my doctor. “Can I wait until the strike is over?”, I asked him when he said he’d meet me at the hospital – right away. His response mirrored the impending life lesson Liseanne herself would repeatedly teach me: Life doesn’t wait for you to get ready to live. There’s no better time than now.

Liseanne’s entrance into this world was a testament to her indomitable spirit, a trait she has carried throughout her life. She’s always lived with an urgency, a ‘do it now’ philosophy, shining brightly and touching every life in her orbit with her radiance.

Liseanne possesses many superpowers, but her most remarkable is her warrior spirit. She has an innate ability to stand for justice, to uplift the downtrodden, and to infuse joy in every heart she touches. During her school years, it wasn’t unusual for me to hear from her teachers about how she ‘talked back’ – but it was always in defense of a classmate, a stand against injustice or unfair treatment.

Being Liseanne’s mother has been an extraordinary journey. Both she and her sister have taught me immeasurable lessons about love, courage, and resilience. They have been my greatest teachers, showing me the depths and heights of what it means to love and be loved.

As Liseanne celebrates her 36th birthday today, I am filled with immense pride and gratitude. Her life is a beautiful tapestry of strength, compassion, and unwavering commitment to making the world a better place – a world she’s travelled extensively due to her goal of visiting 30 countries by her 30th birthday. Since achieving it, she continues to find new places to go, new adventures to experience, and new goals to accomplish.

It is her way

Happy Birthday, my darling daughter. You continue to be a beacon of light in our lives, guiding us with your wisdom, warmth and humour. The privilege of being your mother is one of my life’s greatest blessings, and I look forward to the continued journey of learning and growing alongside you.

Photos by @ChristieeJames – Thank you CJ for ensuring we carry on Jackie’s tradition of always taking photos of family events and special gatherings!

Happy Birthday
Birthday Dinner

Love Letter to the Other Side (2) – Rivers of Grief: Reflections on Writing and Loss

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I hadn’t planned to weave words about love, loss, and the tender embrace of memory this morning. Or so I thought.

Yet, as I settle at my desk, a warm coffee cup in hand, its steam mingling with the cool morning air the furnace has not yet warmed, something shifts. Outside, the once-sluggish river, liberated from the icy clutches of the Polar Vortex, now courses swiftly. It dances between lingering islands of ice, eagerly racing towards a distant, unseen sea.

In that moment, I surrender to the muse’s gentle call.

And for that, I am eternally grateful.

Grief, I’ve found, mirrors the river’s journey. At times, it surges with relentless force, seeking an outlet for its profound depth of feeling. Then, unexpectedly, it halts – frozen in a moment where memories cling tightly to the sharp edges of loss.

Yet, it’s often the simplest of triggers – a familiar melody, a fleeting scent, the echo of a smile – that loosens its grasp.

Released, grief moves once more, flowing with renewed ease, leaving in its wake not just a void, but an abiding presence of Love.

Beneath The Mountain Ash
by Louise Gallagher

The space you held
remains, not empty,
filled with echoes of memory
once alive with your soft laughter,
rippling through time
like the rhythmic tick-tock
of the cuckoo clock you loved
on the wall beside the kitchen sink 
merrily chiming away the passing hours.

I see you there,
at the kitchen sink
hands veiled in soapy water,
gazing out to where the Mountain Ash
stands, bare
shrouded in snow,
its roots frozen,
awaiting the tender thaw
of spring’s warm breath.

I see you 
still, standing silent
beneath its naked branches.

I close my eyes
and breathe the air
scented with lingering tendrils
of the perfume you wore,
it clings to the soft blue shawl
I've wrapped around my shoulders.

It was yours, in the  before time.
I hold it close 
and wrap it around my shoulders,
tightly.

I breathe. In. Out.

Silently, you fade
into memory’s warm embrace.

Grief Flows With Gratitude

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Vancouver, spring 2023. The Gallagher Girls – The last time we were all together

Grief, ever-present lingered heavily in our midst this weekend. This morning, grey skies hang low, creating a world where air hangs heavy and still in sympathy with the river whose flow is stifled by ice covering its surface. The quality of the air we breathe holds ‘Moderate Risk’ the weather report states. Burdened with humanity’s careless offerings it clings close to the earth, reluctant to disperse.

In this world, we are like specters of loss, breathing shallowly as though each inhalation risks sweeping away the delicate memories of those departed. It’s as if letting go of these recollections would affirm the unbearable truth of their absence.

Frozen in grief’s clutches, our blood struggles to circulate, our hearts labour to beat under the weight of memories clutched too tightly.

This weekend past, my daughter and I, alongside one of my brother-in-law’s daughters, embarked on the poignant and heart-wrenching task of sifting through my sister Jackie’s belongings. Her wardrobe—a tapestry of her life—dresses, scarves, jewelry, all infused with her essence. Treasured keepsakes nestled in a jeweled box, a gift from our parents in her teens: cards, handwritten notes, photos, ticket stubs, even her Air Canada ‘wings’, and our brother’s high school ring. Among these, a pair of tiny gold scissors and a spool of thread.

Jackie, a seamstress whose passion for sewing wove joy into our lives, created snowsuits, Easter dresses, Halloween costumes, and doll clothes for my daughters. Her craft was meticulous, her stitches a testament to her precision.

But time and arthritis cruelly claimed the dexterity of her fingers. Her love for sewing gradually receded into memory, leaving behind fabrics, ribbons, and threads, which she generously donated to charity.

In her craft room, her sewing machine and serger stood silent, shrouded in protective covers, awaiting a new home.

We found solace in redistributing her clothes. The Pashmina one of our cousin’s from India gave her, now part of my wardrobe, feels like an embrace from Jackie. The bracelet my middle sister, Anne, and I gave her for her 75th birthday is on my wrist. Other pieces are packed away for me to take to Anne when I fly to Vancouver next month. Some, my daughters kept to remember her by and others we shared with friends who wanted tokens of remembrance.

Yet, the abundance of her possessions led us, my youngest daughter and I, to fill our SUVs and donate to an agency aiding women entering the workforce. “Jackie would be pleased,” my brother-in-law remarked. Indeed, she always extended a helping hand to those in need.

Her personal items have left the home, but the ache of their absence lingers. Waves of grief wash over me, each tide a reminder of what we’ve lost in Jackie’s passing. Each breath full of the pain of letting go.

I find myself hoping, irrationally, that shallow breaths might lessen the sharpness of loss. Yet, deep down, I know life and death don’t bend to such wishes. I sometimes fantasize it’s all a dream, only to be jolted back by the vivid memory of her final breath, my hand resting on her forehead, the chill of the November air as I left the hospital, the flight to Vancouver where I gazed through the plane’s window, seeking her essence in the clouds.

In these moments of remembrance, grief slips away as I soak in the gratitude of having had a sister such as Jackie. And as I breathe into the stillness of my memories, I wonder… was that Jackie’s voice reminding me to breathe?

Miracle. All of it.

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As sleep gently recedes and my mind begins to stir, I awaken. With a habitual roll, I reach for my phone on the bedside table, diving into my morning ritual: a half-hour of puzzle-solving courtesy of the New York Times. This quiet challenge is my gentle bridge between the realms of dreams and waking.

Finally leaving the warmth of my bed, I bundle up and step outside with Beaumont, my beloved Sheepadoodle. Our morning saunters have become a sacred time. Under the golden-hued sky, where morning’s first light dances, I stand enveloped in the chilly air. My breath forms delicate mists, merging seamlessly into the serene silence. Breathing deep, I hear my soul whisper, “Miracle. All of it.”

“Yes. It is,” I reply softly, my breath mingling with the winter’s chill.

Returning home, Beau paddles back to the bedroom, seeking the warmth of the bed and my still sleeping husband’s company. Meanwhile, I head to the kitchen, ready to bake breakfast scones. Today holds a different rhythm – I’m going to my brother-in-law’s to sort through my sister’s belongings. I’ve coordinated with a couple of not-for-profits for distribution. Today is about packing and remembering.

As I search for the scone recipe on my phone, I stumble upon a folder labeled “Jackie’s room.” I catch my breath at the poignant reminder. It’s a list of the hospital rooms she stayed in during her final months, a journey that started with a broken femur and wrist last July 24th. There are six entries.

Tears well up against my eyelids. I close my eyes and silently acknowledge this moment of grief, familiar yet always fresh. I allow myself to feel, to let the tears trace their path of memory as they slide down my cheeks.

I turn the oven on and turn into the familiar process of baking scones. The furnace hums a steady beat, I stand at the kitchen island and look out onto the wintery landscape beyond our windows and watch the light creep across the sky. It spills over the snow-clad trees and riverbank. Ice stretches out from the shoreline to the open water where giant, slow-moving chunks of ice drift gracefully along the river’s surface.

I breathe into the profound beauty and tranquility of my morning view.

The oven beeps. The scones are ready to be baked as the day awakens to its own rhythm.

And my soul whispers. “Miracle. All of it.”

We Are All Woven in Time

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Morning light dances
River flows endlessly by
Love’s presence endures

Light dances upon the water’s surface, where the river, bordered by ice, flows freely. When my gaze fixates on this dance of light, the river appears deceptively still, a mirage of tranquility amidst its constant motion.

This illusion mirrors life itself. Often, it feels as if time has stalled, yet subtle markers – a passing birthday, a fading memory – remind me that life is in perpetual motion. Nothing remains static. Life, like energy, is ever-moving, evolving, and transforming.

Around this time, four years ago, our family gravitated towards a tender reality – the dimming light in our mother’s life at 97 years old. She sensed her earthly journey nearing its close. She spoke of loved ones lost and a divine presence that had been her constant companion, waiting in the wings to reunite her with them.

In her last days, each breath she took seemed to suspend time. It was as though her breaths could continue indefinitely, even as her heart quieted. After 97 years of what she often described as a life of loss and worry, my wish wasn’t for her to stay but for her to see the legacy of love she wove through life’s tapestry of hardships, sorrows, and joys.

Throughout my life, my mother’s vision was often clouded by darkness, her joy overshadowed by a lifelong battle with depression. I recall, as a child, yearning to craft a bridge of words that could lead us from her tormented moments – like those standing in the kitchen, when she held a knife to her breast and cried threats of self-harm – into a realm of unceasing light.

It took years to understand that I would never be powerful enough to build that imaginary bridge for my mother. And longer still to realize that despite my resilience, darkness touched me too. It was a therapist’s simple question many years ago about my own quiet depression that cracked open my self-awareness, challenging my perceptions and inviting introspection.

Since then, much has shifted. The icy hold on my constant smile has thawed, giving way to authentic emotions. Embracing both joy and sorrow, light and darkness, I’ve grown to love all parts of myself – and my mother. Understanding that to appreciate the light fully, we must also honour the darkness by falling in love with all of it — darkness, light and the shadows between.

Watching the light dance on the river this morning, I saw life’s constant flow – the passage of time, the interplay of light and darkness. And through it all, Love, in all its manifestations, moving unbounded, weaving through every moment, cradling me in the eternal circle of Life woven in time through my mother’s loving hands.

How to rewrite your stars.

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In the quiet of each morning, I am greeted by the unwritten story of the day ahead—a narrative waiting to be crafted with intention and purpose. In these moments, I am reminded of the ReWrite Journey course I have the honour of guiding—a course designed to delve into the art of storytelling, our storytelling.

Every Monday evening, in the sanctuary of our virtual circle, seven women, a collective of seekers and storytellers, explore the contours of our Origin Stories. It is here that we acknowledge our agency, summon our strength, celebrate our courage, and distill the wisdom from life’s intricate journey. This is the groundwork of the course, The ReWrite Journey I’ve created, a journey of reflection and empowerment.

Every choice we make—every word, every action—becomes a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter in the ongoing story of our lives. As we begin to chart our paths forward, we set markers—goals and dreams that beckon us with the promise of fulfillment and transformation.

In the ReWrite Journey course, we don’t just look back; we also cast our gaze forward, rewriting our trajectory with markers that serve as beacons towards a future we dare to design. What kind of story do we aspire to live out? What are the empowered choices we will make to propel us towards our envisioned horizon?

As we write and create, we ask… What if, instead of drifting on the currents of habit, we took the helm with hyper-conscious awareness, navigating our existence with the recognition that we are here, now, fully capable of scripting the grand narrative of our lives? What if today, we chose to live out the greatest story ever told, our own, with every choice a stroke of the author’s pen?

What if?

________________

Gratitude is the foundation of so much joy in my life. I am deeply grateful for the seven women who have joined me in this, the inaugral session of The ReWrite Journey: Your Past, Reimagined. Your Future, Reclaimed. The ReWrite Journey is a transformative eight-week odyssey that weaves the wisdom of the past into the tapestry of a future rich with possibility.

The ReWrite Journey offers a sanctuary for women of all walks of life who seek to embrace the vibrant threads of their experience and weave them into a future tapestry, vibrant with the hues of their wildest dreams and richest aspirations.

Mystic Misty Morning

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Veiled dawn whispers soft,
Winter’s breath stills the chorus,
Silent wings await.

The world outside is veiled in a mist, a natural shroud rendering the familiar unfamiliar. Beyond my window, trees stand still, their dark branches etched like delicate filigree against the dawn’s pale blue canvas.

Wrapped in the warmth of my shawl, I am seated at my desk, the hum of the furnace mingling with the ethereal voices of Stile Antico’s “Sanctus: Benedictus”—holy and blessed, they sing.

As the morning unfolds, a silent mist glides over the river, rising and swirling like whispered prayers sent to watching angels.

In this quietude, my heart sends out its own prayers:

  • For the safety of all on this chilled day.
  • For the homeless to find sanctuary against the bone-biting cold.
  • For the caregivers, whose tireless efforts are lifelines in the dark waters of despair.
  • For the disheartened, whose dreams and hopes seem to dissipate like morning fog.
  • For wars to cease, and peace to settle softly upon the earth, quelling the violence and awakening awe in every heart.

I pray, too, for a path to peace to unveil itself before war extinguishes our collective breath.

_________________

I am in the midst of a 21-day journey—a course on prayer—chosen as spontaneously as the mist chooses its path each morning.

Prayer was my mother’s refuge, a legacy she passed to my sister, Jackie, who embraced it as naturally as breathing. As for me, prayer felt like an admission of weakness, a legacy of a rigid Catholic upbringing where an omnipresent God watched but seldom seemed compassionate. Vulnerability, I believed, was an invitation for wounds rather than healing.

Yet, as this new decade of my life unfolds, I am driven to challenge such relics of belief. Prayer, I am discovering, is not a weakness but a communion; vulnerability, not an exposure to harm, but an opening to grace.

It’s in the act of surrender that I’m finding unexpected strength. In the willingness to let go of my resistance to question the unexamined tenets I’ve held—not because they serve me, but because their familiarity is a deceptive comfort.

Like the mist that conceals yet reveals, I am learning to navigate through the opacity of my doubts and fears. To trust in the insights that come from not knowing, from being present in the discomfort of exploration.

Change, like the ever-shifting mist, is constant. And in its midst, I find that prayer, too, has found its steadfast place in my life.

Namaste

Are you a joy robber? – How to stop stealing your own joy.

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It’s bone-chillingly cold as Beaumont the Sheepadoodle and I embark on our early morning walk. An Arctic wind has ushered in a skiff of snow and ice-cold air overnight.

Bundled up against the cold, my face is hidden beneath a scarf, my body enveloped in my puffy winter coat. Reminiscent of my mother’s nightly prayer beads clicking together, the cleats on my boots crunch into the icy road, punctuating the still, dark morning.

Despite my silent pleas for warmer air, Mother Nature seems indifferent. Beaumont, ever joyful, is oblivious to the cold.

Our walk is a quiet journey through pre-dawn light, where street lamps pierce the enveloping darkness, guiding us forward.

Despite the frigid air, the beauty of the morning is undeniable.

My beloved and I are visiting friends in Canmore, a mountain town west of Calgary. They’ve recently settled into their stunning new home nestled on the mountainside, offering breathtaking views from every window.

Before leaving yesterday morning, I devoted a few hours to crafting the first post-session email for the “ReWrite Journey” course I’ve designed and am facilitating. This course, aimed at rewriting life stories, began its first session on Monday evening with a group of seven women. It was an inspiring, invigorating, and heartwarming experience, filled with shared stories, insights, and reflections.

This morning, as I sat in the tranquility of our friends’ home,journalling and watching daylight unveil the snowy landscape, a deep sense of contentment and joy filled my heart.

Reflecting on my journalling, I realized how proud I am of creating and leading this course. And at the same time, a seemingly automatic negative thought (some people call them ANTS) entered my mind with the severity of the Arctic winds that blew in last night. ‘What took you so long to do this?’ my critter mind asked in its querulous voice. Ouch.

Hearing its judgement, I asked myself the question, ‘What does this mean?’ – my habit of celebration of something I’ve achieved followed by an immediate questioning of myself and my accomplishment?

This introspection revealed a crucial insight: too often, self-judgment curtails joy. There is immense joy in creating something meaningful and witnessing its impact on others. Yet, the habitual self-critique, the feeling of not being enough, can so easily overshadow this joy.

Limiting joy in life is a self-defeating game.

It’s time to dismantle this game and replace it with thoughts and actions that celebrate and support my journey, acknowledging that I am exactly where I’m meant to be.

What about you? Do you find yourself diminishing your achievements with self-judgment, thus limiting your joy?

How do you confront and dismantle these self-defeating tendencies?

FREE DOWNLOAD: The PDF below suggests 5 ways you can stop stealing your own joy.

how-to-stop-stealing-your-joyDownload
Download

Claim Your Space: You’re Worth It.

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John Steinbeck once remarked, “And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good.” This quote might as well be describing my writing space. It’s not flawless, but for me, it’s excellent – actually, it’s fantastic.

I’ve always encountered obstacles in creating the perfect workspace. Full disclosure: I’m what you might call a ‘space consumer’. Much like how I utilize every inch of our 15-foot by 4.5-foot kitchen island while cooking, my studio sees every available flat surface in use during my creative endeavors.

For a while now, the idea of reorganizing my studio to dedicate a specific area for writing has been on my mind. Initially, the thought of restricting myself to a writing corner seemed too limiting. Plus, I worried that it was some kind of decadant to have two areas of our home ‘just for me and my writing’? – at least that’s what I kept convincing myself.

However, a persistent internal voice challenged this notion, suggesting that perhaps these thoughts were self-imposed limitations. Why not stretch my thinking beyond them?

Thus, on Friday morning, propelled by an inner urge to “Get out of bed and create a writing space in your studio,” I took action. No second-guessing.No hesitation. I got doing.

The task wasn’t minor, but it was gratifying. It also came with a reminder to myself: to cease the accumulation of art supplies and the hoarding of miscellaneous paper scraps ‘just in case’.

My ‘Writer’s Corner’

The decluttering and rearrangement yielded a transformed space. Now, I have two surfaces dedicated to my art and a cozy corner desk for writing.

This change has brought a sense of satisfaction, contentment, and inspiration. It was so invigorating that I spent the entire day yesterday writing!

Of course, my art supplies still demand an extensive reorganization, but that’s a task for another day. Currently, I’m reveling in the clarity and peace of having a designated space that, when I sit at my desk, silently encourages, “Now we write.”

My morning writing desk

I still adore my morning writing spot in front of the large window on our main level, offering views of our yard and the river. The sight of the river flowing past, and the distant views of traffic on the bridges invoke a sense of calm and wonder. It’s delightful.

Yet, there’s an undeniable charm in a snug, personal space that beckons my curiosity and kick-starts my creativity. Here, I can spread out my papers and let my thoughts flow freely – a luxury not afforded by the great room’s writing area in our home, where sticking notes on walls or scattering pages on the floor isn’t feasible.

Now, I can do just that.

Claiming your creative space is not just a luxury; it’s a necessity for nurturing your creativity. Whether it’s a small corner, a whole room, or just a dedicated nook, creating your own sanctuary for creativity is a right we all deserve. It’s about making a space that resonates with you, where your ideas can flow freely and where your artistic soul feels at home.

What about you? Do you have a special spot – a corner, alcove, room, or attic – where your creativity thrives? What’s holding you back from creating it?

Women make the best friends.

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Since the early breaths of December frosts, when my birthday candles grew brighter leading the way into my next decade, my youngest daughter and I have planned on visiting the Zoo Lights at the Calgary Zoo. Yet, as sometimes happens, the tapestry of life unraveled our plans, and we found ourselves postponing the adventure.

However, one night, over a dinner where laughter danced between the clinks of cutlery, we extended an invitation to my cherished friend Jane and her daughter CJ – whom I fondly call TaDa (Tall Daughter) as she calls me ShoMo (Short Mother). And so, under a celestial dome of an obsidian ocean, the four of us finally reveled in the enchanting embrace of the Calgary Zoo’s ‘Zoo Lights’ Wednesday night.

It was a night embroidered with wonder, our hearts awash in all the colours of awe we could imagine. High above, the sky was a vast canvas of mystery, while around us, the earth transformed into a fairy-tale land. Tree trunks, bare yet proud, wore garlands of twinkling lights, painting the air with whimsical shapes and vibrant hues. Along the pathways, animal figures crafted from lights stood as silent sentinels, guiding our journey through a maze of sparkling bulbs – reds and greens, whites and blues, yellows and purple – all serenading us with the symphony of distant music and the bubbling laughter of children.

In this magical realm, I was reminded of the extraordinary tapestry of female relationships – a bond that transcends the ordinary, weaving through the realms of friendship and familial love. These connections are a mosaic of acceptance, understanding, tolerance, and, most profoundly, Love.

My journey as a mother has been a river of endless joy, a gift that continually enriches my life, filling voids left by past longings. Though my relationship with my own mother was a challenging voyage, where I strove to bridge a chasm with love and understanding, it was a journey of growth, nonetheless. A journey that enriched and informed my transformation as a mother.

The bonds I share with my daughters today and the beautiful threads we share with Jane and CJ are rooted in a garden of shared experiences, having weathered storms and basked in sunlit clearings together. In this sacred space, judgment and expectations dissolve into the ether; there’s only the warmth of unspoken understanding and unconditional Love.

Wandering through the luminescent wonderland of Zoo Lights, each step was buoyed by gratitude. Gratitude for the incredible women in my life who infuse my days with joy, laughter, and an abundance of Love – and who tease me lovingly as I tease them.

In that moment, under the celestial tapestry and amidst the kaleidoscope of lights, I felt the profound truth of my blessings.

I am one lucky woman.

__________________________________

Thank you CJ for sharing all the photos! 

If you’ve haven’t been to Zoolights yet and are in or around Calgary, do go! It’s magical. – and only on until Sunday evening, January 7.