The Best You Can Do. by Louise Gallagher You ask me to believe you are doing your best even when your best is not true for another. And I do believe you are doing your best. And I do wonder, can you believe that in doing your best you are limited by your belief your best is true for others? What if your best could be better? What if you stopped believing you know what is best for others? Would you then choose to believe what is true for another is best for them even if it’s not true for you? Would you then choose to believe their truth is the best way to create something better than what you believe is the best you can do?
In the weeks before my mother’s death she didn’t speak of her adopted land, Canada. She hadn’t chosen to come here. Had never really acclimatized to the cold and the four seasons marking the passage of time. In her final days, as she drifted in and out of the present and the past, far from the cold and snow that covered the ground outside the frosted up window of her room where she lay quietly inhaling and exhaling her final breaths in the too hot air she preferred, as if in keeping the room so hot she was once again walking the beaches of her childhood, she smiled often, contentedly. And I wondered... was she seeing again the places of her childhood where once she’d told me she'd only ever known true happiness? When she spoke and waved her hands in the air around her face like a moth fluttering around a light on a dark night spent sitting on the veranda of her childhood home in Pondicherry, India as barefoot servants wrapped in cotton saris dyed the colours of bougainvillea, jasmine and marigold, serving food and lemonade to the family spread out on wicker divans and settees set beneath giant fans twirling and spinning in the air above, her eyes sparkled like the jewels her mother gave her when she left so long ago to travel south, then west, then north across a vast ocean separating her from the life she’d always known. Pondicherry was her Shrangri-la she once told me while reciting her life story into my tiny Dictaphone that I would later leave behind in a taxi in New York City along with the tape of her words. As she spoke, tears floated down her cheeks like a veil of woven jasmine flowers lining the walkways of her journey from young maiden to married woman, a journey only remembered now in the corridors of her mind seen through the veil of memory. There was family, and servants and her Amah, ah yes, her Amah who took care of her every need. There were journeys into the hills near Bangalore when the monsoons came and rickshaw rides through the colonial inspired streets of the city her father had helped design. There were picnics on the beach and visits to the cathedral where she knelt and prayed with the nuns every day. The nuns she prayed to join one day in their devotion as Brides of Christ. The war was far away in those long ago days. Sadness. Fear. Loneliness. Grief. They were yet to come just as leaving the land of her birth was a story waiting to unfold with the arrival of a soldier boy travelling on a train, looking for a place to spend two weeks furlough far from the guns and war that had trapped the world in its grasp until he landed here, in Pondicherry, she said, where there was only laughter, and singing and dancing and voices chanting in Hindi and Tamil and French. In Pondicherry there were only sunny days and sultry nights lit with fireflies and redolent with the smell of jasmine and romance. Ah yes. Romance. She was 22 when they married, 25 when she left India after the guns had stopped and peace was declared and he returned to claim his bride. For three quarters of a century she travelled the world with her soldier boy returning only once to Pondicherry when she was in her fifties and her mother lay dying. Three quarters of a century spent missing the Shangri-la of her childhood until she lay dying, remembering the streets of Pondicherry, her hands grasping the rosary her father had given her those many years ago when she left to follow the soldier boy who had captured her heart and returned at war’s end to take her away from everything she knew. Canada never felt like home, she’d told me that time she recited her life story through her tears, marriage and having children were never her dream, she said, they just happened. Life mostly does that, she often said. It just happens and we have to find a way to let God’s will be done. She’d touched the feet of Jesus on the crucifix that stood on the mantel after she said that. The crucifix that had been with her those almost 75 years since leaving India. And to be safe, she’d also touched the belly of the Buddha that sat on the windowsill. She never saw the irony of her hands fluttering from feet to belly. And as she lay on her bed in those final days reciting her prayers and gripping her rosary tight, her eyes opened briefly and she looked straight at the wall somewhere far beyond the end of the bed. “Je viens, mon cher”, she whispered into the dark night where outside her over-heated room snow fell silently to the ground. And she gave a little gasp of joy as she saw them all waiting for her. Her Louis and mother and father and all her ancestors gone before her. They were standing at the doorway of No. 7 Rue Suffren. Waiting to welcome her home. It was then that I knew, she had never really left India behind. Just as India had never really let her go. She had just been letting life happen until it was time for her to return home. Let God's will be done, she whispered into the night as she stepped lightly across the threshold into her home.
I feel heavy with the news. Heavy with the learning of more bodies found buried. Heavy with thoughts anticipating more discoveries.
I don’t want to be writing of this again. I don’t want to be revisiting a past I know cannot be changed, a past that has not treated Indigenous peoples kindly, fairly, humanely. It cannot be changed but it must be spoken of, acknowledged and addressed.
To honour the lives of those buried beneath the ground. To honour those who stand today above unmarked graves. To honour Indigenous peoples everywhere. To make reparations. For reconciliation.
I feel heavy with loss. Heavy with the truth.
And if I feel heavy sitting here at my desk reading the news, standing on the periphery, learning of these things through media outlets and social media feeds, imagine how heavy this history must sit upon those whose lives have been directly impacted. Impacted, not just by these recent discoveries but by generations of abuse. The knowing their people, their way of life, their skin colour, their presence here on this land where they have lived and walked and hunted and roamed for centuries before we, the settlers, arrived, has never been considered acceptable, never been tolerated, never been viewed as ‘worthy’.
Yesterday, when the news broke, I read a news story on the CBC website, It began with a warning in bold black letters:
WARNING: This story contains distressing details.
And then, the article went on to reveal that 751 bodies had been found in unmarked graves on the site of a former residential school in Saskatchewan.
It should be distressing. To all of us. To everyone. To the world.
It should be distressing and act as a warning. Not against the details being potentially distressing, but that we are all of us, First World. Emerging World. Third World. – we are all of us capable of such atrocities and, capable of attempting to hide the facts, to cover them up, to disavow them. To cast blame. To point fingers. To look the other way.
To not look the other way, we must read and learn and acknowledge and speak up and vow — to make amends. To do whatever it takes to ensure that our history does not remain twisted in a story riddled with lies where we are positioned as lily white settlers with maybe a bit of dirt along the edges of our past while the truth remains buried beneath the earth and the victims remain silenced by our deafness to their cries for truth and reconciliation.
We must ensure the names of those who are buried do not remain buried beneath our apathy, and fear of the truth.
We cannot bury the past. We can no longer remain silent. We must act now to change the future. We must ensure our children and their children do not carry the burden of the truth we have denied too long.
The tragedy is not just the horrendous circumstances that have lead to the truth being unearthed. It is that through our inability to acknowledge the truth and our desire to hide behind the cloak of a church and the power of a government that has refused to be held accountable for a century and a half, we are forcing Indigenous Peoples into having to unearth their ancestors.
We are forcing them to lift the bodies of their children, their people out of the ground and to mourn them while we stand by waiting for change to happen – to them.
We are forcing them to face the trauma of what we did to their loved one’s, their friends, their neighbours, their people while we stand on the sidelines and do not change.
Just as Indigenous Peoples have always had to own the trauma and the truth because we refused to acknowledge it, if we do not own what we as a nation did, our children and their children and their children for generations to come, will have to live with it until some future generation finds the courage to acknowledge and heal what must be changed so that a better future can be created for everyone.
Healing cannot happen when we stand on the edges of our own darkness defending against the truth.
We have a choice Canada. Let go of our prejudices. Our assumptions about who ‘they’ are and what happened to ‘them’ and about who is responsible and acknowledge — We are responsible. Our prejudices. Our privileges. Our belief in the superiority of our race and ways, our lack of compassion, understanding, and tolerance has led to today’s tragedies.
And then, do the heavy lifting to create better without forcing the victims to carry the load as we stand by and watch and ask… How could this have happened?
The ‘how’ is no longer the issue. What we do now is.
Sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, she would sprinkle fairy dust on the flowers in her garden and watch the colours flow, wild and free, cascading like a stream pouring over a waterfall, onto the ground, turning the world into all the colours of the rainbow. Delighted by her creation, she'd splash with joyful abandon amidst the running colours until exhausted, she fell into a pool of cherry red and periwinkle blue and sunshine yellow and viridian green swirling all around her. Content to be amongst the living colours dancing in harmony, she'd fall asleep and drift into dreamland. It was there, floating upon a cloud of shimmering violet, she dreamt of flying high in the sky, sprinkling fairy dust all over the world. And as the colours ran free, pouring their beauty into the hearts and minds of everyone, notes of harmony and joy rang out amongst the hills and valleys, from mountain tops and deep from beneath the ocean beds. And all around the world, the animals danced and the people leapt for joy, and the trees swayed in the beauty, harmony and peace of the world around them. Satisfied with her creation, she fell deeper and deeper into sleep, wishing and hoping she never had to wake up to a world without colours running free and mountains singing for joy and harmony ringing out in all the voices of humankind. And so it was. And so it is. And so she sleeps on and on and on.
I have started a new morning practice. I read it on a thread in an art website to which I belong and felt so inspired by the idea, I immediately jumped in.
The process is simple — Close your eyes. Pick a book from your collection. Open your eyes. Open the book to Page 40. Go to Line 8 — read it — now let whatever is on Line 8 be your writing prompt. Set your timer for 6 minutes and begin to write.
The book that picked me this morning (my first morning of entering into this morning practice) was, CREATRIX: She Who Makes by Lucy H. Pearce.
Line 8 on Page 40 reads: “Because, while my own creativity scared me, I knew subconsciously that I still had to be around the magic somehow.”
I set my timer for 6 minutes and began to write.
…There was a time when my creativity scared me, when I let what others think (or at least what I thought others were thinking) dictate how I expressed my creativity. Not that I expressed it much. Mostly I tried to hide it, shield it from outside eyes, keep it buried within me. For some reason, being ‘creative’, or acknowledging that I was creative felt foolish, uncomfortable. I was embarrassed by my own nature. It was as if the very word, ‘creative’ was a dirty word, never to be spoken out loud...
Released by my 6 minute writing flow, the ‘story’ above appeared and flowed out of my fingertips as I began to write this post.
I wasn’t thinking them.
I wasn’t wishing them into being.
They simply flowed.
I hope you try it — pick a book, any book and turn to a page (I like the symmetry of page 40 but you can use any number – your age, house number, day of the week…) go to a specific line number – and use that as a prompt.
Important caveat — have your number scheme organized before you begin. It helps stave off confusion, worry and the possibility of changing your mind to find ‘something better’ to use as your prompt. Part of the magic and beauty of the prompt is its randomness and its consistency.
I hope you do give it a go and let me know how it worked/works for you!
Oh… and do remember to stay out of self-judgement and criticism. Magic only works when we let go of telling ourselves it’s just not possible, or no good or… all that jazz.
Have a colourful, joyful and peace-filled day.
This poem came to me this morning as I sat at my desk watching the river flow past.
Earlier, my daughter and I and our pups had walked at a park near their house and while walking along a trail through the woods came upon a large encampment.
It wasn’t there just a few days ago when we walked the same path, but now, it is well ensconced and easily visible. A bright blue tarp is draped across trees providing both shelter and privacy to the occupants. The smell of food cooking on an open fire permeates the air.
I understand the desire to build such an encampment, particularly if someone has no place to call home.
But there are challenges and dangers.
Community residents might not look favourably upon such an encampment and might decide to take matters into their own hands. Or, might call upon the City and insist something be done. In the past, this has sometimes resulted in City Parks staff dismantling and removing the encampment without showing much concern for the belongings or needs of the campers.
And, an open fire in the dense woods where this encampment is situated is problematic.
We are fortunate in Calgary to have the Downtown Outreach Addictions Partnership (DOAP) and the Encampment Team through Alpha House Society, an agency serving vulnerable, at risk Calgarians. Their focus is to interact with individuals where they’re at, and to support them in addressing their needs. The Encampment Team, in partnership with City-ByLaw, supports ‘rough sleepers’ to help them address their safety, well-being and housing needs.
For Calgarians, the benefit of these teams is that it gives everyone an opportunity to reach out and support someone in distress or in need of housing supports, knowing the response will be compassionate and humane.
I have phoned the Encampment team to alert them of the situation. I know that their response will honour the individuals involved and provide them support in a way that reflects their humanity and their needs and their rights.
If you have concern for someone on the street in Calgary who is intoxicated or in distress, please call the DOAP Team first. The number is: 403.998.7388
If you have a concern about an Encampment – call the Encampment Team. Their number is: 403.805.7388
It can be hard sometimes to know what the most humane response is. The DOAP and Encampment Teams are the right response.
And… if like me you need to give voice to what you experience, witness, hear and see, write a poem, speak up, volunteer…
And support the agencies doing the work on the front lines. They need our help to do the important work they do supporting vulnerable people in our communities.
When Life Hit Hard by Louise Gallagher When life hit hard she stumbled and fell hard She got back up and when life tripped her up again she fell not so hard this time but getting up was harder. Life kept happening and she kept falling until the falling down was easier than the getting up until the staying down was safer than trying to find a way to stop falling . She no longer cries out for help when she falls She no longer reaches out for help to get back up Trapped between the fall and getting up she lies silent dreaming of a hand reaching out to help her get back up.
The Stories They Wrote by Louise Gallagher He wasn’t born a criminal though his mother said on the day he was born that he would grow up to be a bad one it was written in his stars. She wasn’t born drug addicted though her father said on the day she took her first step that she would go nowhere but bad it was written in her blood. And when he grew up he lived true to his mother’s predictions until he found himself in that place where time was all you got and he had no choice but to dig for a way out from beneath the layers of a story his mother wrote for him on the day he was born. And when she entered treatment for the first time she had to go back again and again to erase the scars she’d etched into her skin searching for the beginning of the story her father had written when she’d taken her first step. And they both kept digging and they both kept searching and re-writing and re-wiring the stories they told themselves they had no choice but to live until to live the story of their own creation they had no choice but to walk away from the stories they’d always known but never wanted the stories no one should have written on the day they were born.
We all have stories. Stories we tell on ourselves, stories our family tell about us, stories we’d rather forget but can’t seem to keep ourselves from living again and again.
We all have stories.
And here’s the thing about our stories. They are personal to us. They are our experience. Two people can have a similar experience; one is traumatized and the other doesn’t give it any more thought.
Our responses are personal. They are a combination of our emotional make-up, history, experiences, environment, childhood…
In my family, there was a story of my birth that left me feeling unwanted and a disappointment. As I got older, my family quit telling that story. I didn’t. Until one day I decided, enough is enough. And I changed the story to something that celebrates my life and my being here on this earth.
The fact remains though, that until I made that choice, everything about me was shadowed by my internalized belief that I was unwanted and a disappointment.
Unravelling the feelings that story evoked and its limiting beliefs was critical to my freeing myself to live my life, my way, in joy, gratitude and Love.
Working at a homeless shelter, everyday I encountered people whose lives were a daily repetition of stories they didn’t want to live but didn’t have the knowledge nor resources to change.
This morning, as I was reading the news, the story of a young man I’d encountered at the shelter popped into my mind. When he was born, his mother had said he would be good for nothing.
At 26, he had been in and out of jail numerous times. This time, he was determined to stay out.
To do that, he had to learn tools that would help him in walking away from the story he’d been living out of his mother’s predictions.
He wasn’t born criminal. He was made that way by his environment, lack of nurturing, lack of good role models and a limiting belief that he would be good for nothing.
We all have stories. We all have limiting beliefs.
To live our own stories, we must set ourselves free of our limiting beliefs so we can write a story that celebrates the magnificent nature of our human condition.
Do you have a limiting belief that is holding you back from living life as the star you are meant to be? Are you willing to set yourself free to shine?
I am off this morning to pack up my art from the art show, where because of COVID capacity numbers, no artists were in attendance, just their art. It was strange to receive texts and messages throughout the weekend asking, “Are you here? We are? Where are you?”
Back at home, I worked in my studio. Not creating art. Creating the space, or rather ‘re-imagining’ it.
Two years ago, when my daughter and her partner bought a bungalow and began to renovate it, I became the owner of two solid wood closet doors.
Last year, when we gave a leather couch to a friend for his lodge, one of the doors was used as a solid surface for transport. The lodge is closed in the winter so the door stayed tucked away in storage until our friend went to open up the lodge this past week.
Last week, when I got the door back, I decided it was time to do what I had always intended to do with the doors, transform them into tables for my studio. I’d been using two of those long plastic tables with the fold out metal legs — they worked well, but added no esthetic value to my studio.
It was time for beauty to supersede function.
Over the weekend, I attached the legs I’d bought and re-organized. I also hung the beauty art quilt tapestry that my friend Jane gave me. Bonus.
I LOVE it all. The process of re-imagining. The attaching the legs to the closet doors. The cleaning and organizing. The hanging my tapestry. The feeling of calm that my studio embodies.
This morning, as Beau and I went for our early morning walk, I was thinking about the process of getting ready for the art show and how the ‘knowing’ I had to create for it had sat at the back of my mind every single day for months. No matter what I was doing, there was always the thought “I need to be doing’ simmering away on a back burner.
This morning, that though was gone. Poof! Vanished.
I won’t know until later how I did at the show, though I know a couple of pieces sold, which is lovely.
What I do know is that not being there was strange. Kind of otherworldly almost.
And I know it’s just a case of it being ‘different’ than how I’ve done shows before. Not bad. Not good. Different.
In that ‘different’ is the opportunity to assess what I want.
Like the door that became a table when it returned, when my unsold art comes home, I can decide what next.
Do I re-imagine my online store? Do I hold an art show of my own? Do I….
Lots of options. Lots of opportunity.
All mine to explore.
And, like the sparrows who are transforming the robin’s now empty nest outside my studio doors into a nest of their own, I get to re-imagine what was into something new and wonderful and inspiring just for me… What a lovely opportunity. What a wonderful day!
I was there for her first cry. First word. First step. First fall. First day of school. First heartbreak.
So many firsts to have had the privilege to celebrate with this amazing woman, my eldest daughter Alexis, who turns 35 today.
I remember hearing her first cry as they cut into my womb to lift her out. I remember feeling an emotion wash over me for which there were no words to describe. Love. Joy. Peace. Grace. It was all there and I was swimming in it and have been swimming in it ever since she came into this world, not kicking and screaming but with a delicate, soft cry that said, “I’m here. Now, give me time to adjust to this new environment please so that I can feel every sensation, sense every emotion and experience every molecule.”
Alexis was born with words written in her heart. Words that need and must flow. Words brimming with beauty that pour out and into the world awakening, touching, moving hearts and minds and souls to see and feel and know how beautiful, ethereal, mystical and real this life is.
She is a word warrioress. A poetry priestress and a heart diviner.
She’s also an exceptionally heartfelt, loving and kind woman. A mother now of my two favourite littles in the whole wide world, Alexis teaches me everyday about living from the heart, being fearless in vulnerability and finding light in the darkness.
Happy Birthday my beautiful, fierce, loving, creative daughter. You are the sun and the moon and the stars that make my world shine bright and fierce with love.
For Alexis On the day you were born I heard you cry inside my womb and felt my body melt beyond words beyond feeling beyond emotion as I became consumed by wild fierce love that poured like a waterfall cascading into the deepest crevices of my soul filling my body with its sweet melody of love as I fell forever in Love with you. On the day you were born the sun shone bright and the trees whispered stories of your arrival and the river flowed steady as a heartbeat and the wind blew soft as a feather falling and my heart beat fierce with the wonder of the miracle of holding you cradled in my arms forever in my heart . On the day you were born I felt my heart burst into a dizzying, daring beat that has never stopped beating its song of gratitude for the gift of you and your fierce heart that sews words into pearls of beauty Your wild nature that spins magic out of moonbeams Your poetic soul that sings songs into rainbows of magic Your beautiful heart that loves like there’s nothing else to give for in your heart, there is only Love to have, to hold, to give, to share forever and always. On the day you were born I awoke to the beauty of life within the wonder of you forever and always.
In the 1970s, as baby-boomer girls stepped across the threshold from teenage angst into fully blossoming into womanhood, the woman’s movement began marching in earnest towards equality. By then, in North America, woman had ‘enjoyed’ the right to vote for 50 years. Fifty years. That’s it.
Here we are 50 years after the Women’s Strike for Equality of 1970 and glass ceilings remain largely intact, equal pay for equal work remains an unequal reality and in the area of reproductive rights and birth control, we continue to fight for the right to make decisions about our bodies as birth control largely remains a ‘women’s issue’ – there are many iterations of birth control for women to explore but other than condemns and vasectomies, no birth control pill for men. Go figure.
Yet, despite the fact women continue to experience workplace discrimination all around the globe as well as horrors such as genital mutilation in some parts of the world along with a lack of access to education, health care and more, we have come a long way baby.
And there’s so much further to go.
‘Cause here’s the thing. Baby-boomer women have been leading the charge on creating radical change all over the world for generations. And we’re still doing it as we enter our Third Acts.
We may be getting older but we’re not hanging up our shingles and putting our feet up as we pass the baton to our younger sisters.
We are still making waves, rocking boats and rocking chairs and standing up for those whose voices have been silenced beneath the yoke of patriarchy and discrimination.
We’re still marching. Maybe not as fast, but we’re still marching and demanding change.
Like Ashton Applewhite, author of This Chair Rocks.
Yesterday, I re-watched her 2017 TEDTalk – Let’s End Ageism. I write ‘re-watch’ because I had seen it before and remember thinking, WOW! I must remember to not buy into the stereotypes of ageism.
And then I forgot. Not because my mind is slipping (rates of dementia are falling all over North America so it’s only a slim possibility I’ll succumb). But here’s the thing. It’s probably one of my biggest fears. That I’ll lose my cognitive abilities.
Go figure. If I hadn’t re-watched Applewhite’s TEDTalk, my fear might have overtaken my common sense.
I am getting older. It doesn’t mean I’m going to fall apart, lose my independence, memory, physical or cognitive capacity. It means all of that will keep changing, adapting, evolving — as life does. It also means… I have an opportunity to live agefully — and that’s what I plan on doing.
In her energizing TEDTalk Applewhite says, “It is not having a vagina that makes life harder for women. It’s sexism. It’s not loving a man that makes life harder for gay guys. It’s homophobia. And it is not the passage of time that makes getting older so much harder than it needs to be. It’s ageismm.”
So here’s to my wrinkles. My sagging skin and my lapses in memory. It’s not age that makes them hard to see or appreciate or even accept.
It’s ageism and the fact that my entire life, and yours, and all of society, we have been bombarded messaging that says, “Nobody wants to get old. Getting old is … ugly. Hard. Difficult. To be avoided at all costs (so buy our products so you can defer signs of ageing).”
Here’s to women like Ashton Applewhite who are shining a light on not just how deeply embedded in our psyche and society ageism is, but who are also putting out a call for all of us to rise up, however we can, and raise our voices and consciousness so that we no longer accept discriminatory practices, politics and policies that deem older people as ‘burdens’ on society. It’s time to reframe aging as a time in our lives to celebrate our growth, our wisdom, our beauty in all its many facets and to see it as the gift of life that makes our Third Act a time of Purpose. Passion. Promise.
I do hope you take the 11 minutes to watch the video. It might just change your life, or at least how you look at the wonders of your body as it carries you successfully into your Third Act.
This post is also in response to the weekly prompt at Eugi’s Causerie — Celebration!
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.
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.