Author Archives: Louise Gallagher

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About Louise Gallagher

I believe in wonder. I believe we are all magnificent beings of divine beauty. I believe we can make a difference in this world, through every act, word, thought. I believe we create ripples with everything we do and say and want to inspire everyone to use their ripple to create a better world for everyone. I'm grateful you're here.

The Tropic of Contrasts

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Nature’s beauty abounds here along the Tropic of Cancer. Lush, colorful, and dense green foliage is punctuated with splashes of vibrant reds, yellows, oranges, and pinks. High above our heads, palm trees rustle and sway in the gentle breeze that floats in from the ocean. Beside them, Bougainvillea climb like Jack’s Beanstalk, yearning to reach the azure sky.

Across the road, farmers work in the basil fields, bending and stretching as they plant seedlings. Each row is covered with long plastic sheets, carefully punctured with holes. “It’s a reverse greenhouse,” our host tells us. “The plastic traps the heat and prevents the moisture from escaping at night.”

Their arched backs, determined to cultivate this fragile crop under the harsh sun, bring to mind John Wycliff’s 13th-century idiom, ‘by hook or by crook’. To me, who has never succeeded in keeping a basil plant alive for more than a week or two, they are defying nature. Their determination and resolve to provide for their families are a startling reminder that even here in paradise, poverty and hardship coexist with affluence and plenty.

This is a land of stark juxtapositions – lush resorts with manicured lawns and sparkling pools line golden sand beaches, just a stone’s throw from communities where people struggle to make ends meet. Children play in dusty streets, their ball a wad of wound-up string, their clothes worn. Yet, they still laugh and smile and wave as we drive past.

Stopping at an outdoor coffee shop, I eavesdrop on a ‘gringo’ couple sitting next to me. They talk about families going hungry, of illnesses going untreated, of dreams being deferred. I am saddened by the reminder that while I sit sipping my specialty coffee, there are shadows lurking and inequalities that need to be addressed. And then, I hear them name the place of which they speak. It is not here in one of the most beautiful corners of the world. It is ‘back home’, in Chicago.

Unlike the flowers which grow up to spread their luscious deep pink petals in the pots surrounding the veranda where I sit, too many people in this world do not have access to the necessary resources to create futures for their children that do not include deprivation and hardship, no matter how rich the world around them. Nature has given these flowers a defense system to prevent insects, and humans, from plundering their fruit: a multitude of razor-sharp needles line their hefty stalks like porcupine quills on constant alert.

For too many people in this world, there is no such defense system. Reading today of the shutting off of essential aid provided by USAID, a wave of fear washes over me. How will millions of vulnerable people in our world find refuge from the chaos and destruction that surrounds them? How will they find peace and well-being? How will they hope?

And then, the sound of children’s laughter wafts through the air. They are playing amidst the rows of basil their parents so carefully tend.

Despite the challenges, life finds a way. Even in this paradise, where nature’s beauty abounds, the realities of poverty and inequality are a stark reminder of the challenges facing our world. I do not have the power to change the world. I do have the power to change my attitude, to create beauty, joy, and love in my own little world. And that is a good intention for me today on this beautiful day in Todos Santos.

All is not always as it seems

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Last night, sitting at a table beneath the stars, laughing and chatting with my dinner companions, I paused, glanced upwards, and was momentarily entranced. Stars glittered like diamonds scattered across the night’s vast, obsidian blanket.

In that moment, I felt utterly humbled. The sheer scale of the universe dwarfed me, a tiny speck within its infinite mystery and wonder. Distant Jupiter shimmered, a celestial pearl suspended in a sea of stars.

As the conversation swirled around me, I felt a deep yearning. I wanted to capture it all: the warmth of the laughter, the clinking glasses, the friendship, the beauty above—the ineffable silence, the profound luminescence.

Transported by the night sky, I pulled out my phone, leaned back, craned my neck, and stretched my arms above my head. Click!

And then, distraction. Someone spoke, the beauty above faded, and I returned to Earth.

This morning, scrolling through last night’s photos, I found what appeared to be an AI-generated image: golden streaks fading into an abyss of blue. Confusion. Where did this come from? Then, I remembered that brief moment of star-struck wonder.

This blurry, indefinite photo is it. Where are the stars? Where is Jupiter? The image doesn’t reflect what I saw. Or does it?

Initially, I almost deleted it. Then, I paused, struck by a sense of wonder. How divinely orchestrated is this disconnect? The image, though not what I intended, reflects a deeper truth: all is not always as it seems.

The universe holds countless worlds beyond our own—unexplored, unknown, unseen. We spin and orbit within our own small spheres, often believing we understand everything about being human, about existing on this planet, our Earth, as it journeys around the sun. We speak of the cosmos as if we possess some special insight, forgetting that our understanding is itself a tiny, flickering light in an immeasurable darkness.

And as we spin through time, we often act as masters of our destinies, controllers of our world. We meticulously plan our lives, building our towers of ambition, rarely considering the ineffable, inexplicable nature of existence beyond our limited perspectives. We strive, we conquer, we accumulate, all while suspended on a fragile blue marble, adrift in an ocean of cosmic immensity. Our grandest achievements seem almost comical when viewed against the backdrop of eternity.

We inhabit a vast planet, orbiting within a vast solar system, of which humanity has explored only a minuscule fraction. Beyond Neptune, the universe stretches into an unfathomable unknown.

Perhaps, if we paused to breathe in the immensity of the cosmos, if we truly acknowledged our infinitesimal place within it, we might find a deeper, more grounded peace, a peace that reflects the quiet majesty of the starlight above.

The Unseen Burdens of Strangers

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The teller motions for me to wait. ‘Please,’ she mouths, her eyes flickering towards the woman on the phone at the money exchange counter. I nod, and step back a bit to give the woman privacy. Our flight to Cabo San Lucas is delayed, and a sense of ease settles over me. I have nowhere else to be.

The woman finishes her call, a tremor in her voice as she thanks the teller. As she turns away, I catch a glimpse of her face, etched with despair. ‘Is she okay?’ I ask, a knot tightening in my stomach. The teller hesitates, then tells me a story…

This woman, who just moments ago stood so close to me, arrived in Canada from India two years ago. Leaving behind her husband and four children, she pursued her Master’s degree in Early Childhood Development. Now, a graduate with a promising career, she’s on her way back to India for a conference. But instead of the joyful reunion she envisioned, she carries the crushing weight of a denied immigration application. She can’t bring her family to Canada, the teller tells me, and she can’t bear to tell her husband, with whom she was speaking, over the phone. It’s a secret she will carry with her until she sees her family the teller tells me with a hushed sadness. I try to imagine the woman’s heartbreak and am sure I am nowhere close to the heaviness she carries.

The contrast is stark. Just yesterday, I was bundled up against the snow, catching ferries from our island home to this bustling airport. Now, the warmth of Mexico beckons, a place of sun-drenched beaches and carefree days. My husband and I are escaping the winter, our hearts light with anticipation. But this woman beside me, she carries a winter in her soul.

I think about her as I wait for our flight. I carry no secrets, no burdens like hers. The injustice of it stings. She worked hard, achieved her goals, and yet her dream of a future with her family in Canada is shattered.

How many others around me, I wonder, are traveling with heavy hearts? Behind the smiles and hurried footsteps, what stories lie hidden?

I return to where my husband waits in the lounge and as I settle into my seat, I can’t shake the image of that woman’s face. I close my eyes and practice a compassion exercise I learned years ago. I picture the man in the seat across from me, his brow furrowed as he reads a book.

Like me, you have known disappointment. Like me, you have experienced loss. Like me, your life has not been all clear skies and sailing. Like me, you are doing your best to live your life with dignity and grace. And like me, you are perfectly human, doing your best on the road of life.

I repeat the words silently, extending the sentiment to the flight attendant with the tired eyes, the young couple laughing iby the windows overlooking the tarmac, and the elderly woman gazing out the window.

We never know the burdens someone is carrying. Let us step lightly through each moment of our day, offering kindness and understanding wherever we go. Perhaps, in doing so, we can help lighten the load, even if just a little, for those whose journeys are a little less carefree than our own.

Grey on Grey: A Writer’s Walk

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I walk along the shoreline with Beaumont, my Sheepadoodle. He sniffs every blade of grass, every seaweed-strewn rock, his tail wagging in delight. I, on the other hand, am on a different kind of hunt.

My eyes scan the vast expanse of grey – the sea flows like breath, in and out, a constant rhythm of life. The steel-grey clouds swallow the horizon, the charcoal-grey ocean stretches towards the invisible shore. Beneath my feet, the ground is a muted slate carpet punctuated by the occasional glint of ebony. It’s a grey on grey world, mirroring the swirling greyness within my own mind.

But amidst this monochrome landscape, there’s a strange beauty, a sense of quiet power. It both calms and unsettles me. I breathe in the crisp, salty air, tasting the tang of seaweed and the faintest hint of pine. The soft January breeze teases a strand of hair from behind my ear. It tickles my cheek. With each step, I feel the tension in my shoulders easing, my thoughts beginning to settle like sediment in still water.

I walk and consume each step like a chef testing a pot of risotto, seeking the perfect balance between taste and texture. I am a woman on the hunt for stillness; a path back to the computer screen I have left mid-sentence, black on white words trailing off into empty space. Their storyline is not yet formed, their purpose not yet clear.

I left my desk frustrated, confused, even angry. Where is this story going? Who is it truly about? I thought it was the heroine’s story, but as it unfolds, painful keystroke by keystroke, it’s becoming something else. It is the mother’s story, her struggles, her complexities. The heroine is but a foil to her mother’s emotional turmoil and angst.

But I don’t want to write the mother’s story. She is an enigma to me. I want to write the daughter’s. The one whose journey parallels mine in insignificant and sometimes significant ways, but who also holds charcteristics of her own. She is not given to self-sabotage. She is not driven by fear. How can I write of the mother whose constant whining for attention leaves me shaking with grief.

Is the mother more me than the heroine?

This is where the muse finds me. She slips in with wraithlike grace, beguiling, provocative, whispering enticing tidbits of inspiration into my swirling mind before floating away.

Carrying tendrils of her words and images with me, I return home and heed her urgings to “write it out.”

And so it is.

And so a poem is born.

Where Does Your Voice Find Refuge?

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The news remains bleak. World peace feels elusive. History echoes with the clang of wars waged by those who crave land, power, control, dominance. Consensus crumbles beneath the weight of age-old conflicts, each side fighting to shape the world in its own image. I’ve wrestled with these heavy thoughts, searching for a flicker of hope in what often feels like overwhelming darkness. The struggle feels relentless.

Where Does Your Voice Find Refuge?
by Louise Gallagher

It is easy to stand for freedom 
when there’s no cost to stand 
blowin’ in the wind 
with the prevailing view.   

It’s easy to voice your disagreement 
with someone else’s opinion 
when there’s no consequence to your safety
for holding a different view.

But where does your voice find refuge 
when dissent is weaponized?   

What do you do when your words become 
the tool others employ 
to vilify and demonize you as ‘other’?   

Can free speech find its truth
in a world where only those opinions
acceptable to some 
are deemed worthy?

Can anyone be free
in a world where some voices are tolerated
and others are obliterated?

Can freedom survive 
when only the few use their power
to grant it to the voices who stand
singing their tune?

Perhaps there is no clear-cut answer, 
no easy path to save freedom from demise. 
But dreamers dream of freedom
leading us to hope 
that our voices rising up, 
our hands reaching across 
the words that divide us, 
will reclaim the truth: 
We are one humanity, 
no matter where we stand
or what song we sing.

The Fire Within: A Moon Snake Manifesto

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The Year of The Snake

I am Snake moonchild. Woman born of deep flowing wisdom, wrestled from the sun in the heat of night, erupting from the fiery essence of time. I come into this world, arms wide open, heart a vessel flowing with love, mind, an endless field of possibility, greeting the horizon. My creative energies stir up an alchemy of wonder, mystery, and magic, molten hot like lava tumbling down a mountainside—hot, fierce, untameable.

As a child, I dreamt of taming snakes. Child no more, I shed the skins of time passing to embody my snake-wise nature. Transformed, I stand undaunted against time’s pressing nature urging me to be suppressed, subdued, enslaved.

I will not be broken. I will not be silenced. I will not be dimmed.

I will shine bright through mist-strewn skies and star-studded night.

I will illuminate the path with glittery jewels of wisdom cast upon the celestial darkness that threatens to consume our humanity.

I will not be broken. I will not be silenced. I will not be dimmed.

I will navigate challenges and triumphs with the grace of a python shedding its skin under a moonlit sky.

I will walk naked in the dark. I will walk naked in the light. I will stand naked against your demands I tame my fire. And I will burn. Bright. Never lowering my eyes, never backing off, never losing sight of the moon’s light beckoning me to run wild and free.

You. Will. Not. Tame. Me.

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I was born in the year of the snake. Born to be wild and free. Born to listen to my creative essence urging me to expressive, untamed heights. Born to hear my intuition calling me to listen deep to the murmurings of my soul.

It has taken my lifetime to embrace the freedom to be. Me.

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Thank you Beth at I Didn’t Have My Glasses On for the inspiration this morning and to my computer screen saver whose random photo was the moon shot above.

The Beauty Of Small Things

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The ferry crossing was smooth, a gentle glide from Gabriola to Nanaimo. Now, I sit in Serious Coffee, bathed in the light of a beautiful morning. Alone.

There’s a soothing balm in this solitude, a restorative quietude. No need for conversation, no urge to connect beyond this moment.

Around me, the world unfolds in a symphony of sounds. The cappuccino machine hums its gentle rhythm, steam hissing, a counterpoint to the murmur of voices. Two men by the window, their deep voices rising and falling: a question mark in one, a nasal certainty in the other. To my right, a different scene. Two women, their conversation hushed and intimate, a conspiracy of whispers. One speaks with her hands, a flurry of movement, like a sparrow flitting between bare winter branches. Her voice is a rustle of leaves, while her companion listens, a picture of quiet empathy. A hand reaches out, a touch of comfort offered and withdrawn, and then back to the attentive stillness of listening.

Suddenly, I hear my mother’s voice, a familiar echo in the chambers of my memory. “It’s not polite to eavesdrop,” she chides, her words sharp, her disapproval clear. I can almost see her hands, those tiny, fluttering gestures, like a hummingbird hovering at a feeder.

“I’m not eavesdropping,” I whisper back, “just observing.” And in my mind’s ear, I hear the click of her tongue, that familiar tsk of disapproval, a sound that once held the power to wound.

My mother, a woman whose love was woven with threads of criticism, a tapestry of warmth and irritation. I carry her memory like an itchy wool sweater, comforting and chafing in equal measure.

I thought she was gone, that she had finally found the peace that eluded her in life, that she had moved beyond the confines of this earthly realm. But here she is, on this bright January morning, a presence in my solitude.

Perhaps she can hear me now, as clearly as I hear her. In life, I rarely granted her the grace of true listening, my responses clouded by judgment and the lingering shadows of childhood hurts.

But now, in this quiet coffee shop, I find myself comforted by her presence. Grateful for the grace that allows me to meet her memory with a gentler heart, a more understanding spirit. And I find hope in the thought that perhaps, even now, reconciliation is possible, in the vast and mysterious expanse that lies beyond this life.

The two women leave. More strangers enter, drawn by the warmth and the aroma of coffee. And I sit alone. Calm. Listening to the clinking of cups, the murmur of voices, the whisper of the cappuccino machine. My mother, I realize, has slipped away again, back into the quiet corners of my memory. But the grace she unknowingly offered remains.

Soon, I’ll be back on the ferry, the salt spray on my face, the island rising from the sea.

A sweet, succulent smile of gratitude warms my heart. Life is beautiful, a tapestry woven from these small, perfect moments.

Do you dare to dream?

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Dreams. They have this way of both beckoning and terrifying me, a strange duality born from childhood. My brother, ever the ‘good’ big brother on the lookout for an opportunity to rattle his baby sister’s cage, had a knack for turning my stage aspirations (of which there were many!) into fodder for his teasing. “You should be on a stage,” he’d chant, “the first one out of town!”

While I know he didn’t intend to dim my light, his words echoed through the years, a persistent whisper of doubt. Even now, long after he’s gone, I sometimes find myself hesitating, second-guessing the dreams that dare to surface.

My brother, he dreamed of growing old, of walking his daughters down the aisle, of holding grandchildren. Dreams that vanished in an instant on a lonely prairie road, his car a crumpled wreck against a semi-trailer.

With him, went my dream of reconciliation, of smoothing the rough edges of a brother-sister bond frayed by addiction and grief over the loss of our father. We were out of time.

But my dreams, they still have time. Time to unfold, to take shape, to transform from misty wisps into vibrant realities. If only I dare to dream them, to nurture them, to give them the space to breathe and grow.

Yet, my mind, ever the trickster, loves to play its games. I create, I birth ideas into the world, and then, like a mother cow rejecting her newborn, I abandon them. Words and images orphaned, left to fend for themselves in the vast wilderness of my forgotten projects.

It’s a pattern I’ve wrestled with for years, this dance between creation and abandonment. The universe, in its infinite wisdom, often sends a gentle (or not-so-gentle) nudge to remind me of this recurring theme.

This morning, it arrived in the form of a forgotten dream journal I’d created, a relic from last year’s “She Dares: The ReWrite Journey” program. As I reread its pages, I was struck by the power of the prompts, the gentle guidance towards actualizing dreams.

Perhaps, it’s time I took my own advice.

And what about you? What dreams are whispering in your heart, waiting to be awakened? Do share in the comments below. And if you’re seeking a gentle guide on your journey, check out the “She Dares: 21 Day Journey – A Creative Guide to Living Your Dreams. .” It might be just the nudge you need to transform those misty visions into radiant realities.

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The She Dares: 21 Day Journey – A Creative Guide to Living Your Dreams booklet is divided into 3 sections, each designed to unfold layers of self-awareness and insight. Week 1: Heart Week invites you to connect deeply with your core values and emotions, laying the groundwork for authentic dreams. Week 2: Joy Week encourages you to rediscover and cultivate what brings you genuine happiness, a crucial element in the pursuit of any dream. Finally, Week 3: Dream Week propels you towards actionable steps, making those once-distant dreams tangible realities.

Lessons from a Tiny Tugboat

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This morning, I watched a tiny tugboat wrestle with a giant of a barge loaded with what appeared to be the castoffs from the pulpmill. At first, I wondered if an island mountain had risen out of the ocean overnight. But then I realized the island was moving, pulled by the tiny tug.

Sometimes, that’s how life’s many challenges can appear. Mountainous. Overwhelming. Heavy. Illness. Loss. Divorce. Those life events that can knock the wind out of our sails.

Are you the tugboat, straining and striving yet always focused on its destination, or the barge, at the mercy of the currents?

For the past few years, I have struggled with adjusting to my husband’s health issues. Constantly repeating, “this isn’t the life I envisioned for us,” only invited my critter mind to hiss back. “It’s the life you’ve got. There’s nothing you can do about it.” The challenge was to tap into my inner wisdom, to hear its voice above the relentless negativity of my critter mind: ‘This is your life. What are you willing to do about it to create beauty, joy and love in it everyday?’

Most days, I heed its invitation to take control, be in charge of my own life and how I live it. And then there are those days where I just want to stay in bed, the weight of it all pressing down like an anchor. On those days, I lament that COPD has stolen away more than just his ease of breathing. Gone are Sunday morning bike rides, the wind in our hair, our laughter wafting out over the hills as we coast along the trail. Our new norm has required me to adjust my expectations of our ‘senior years,’ to include less physicality while still holding onto connection and intimacy.

I’m learning that joy can be found both in shared moments and in solitary pursuits. It’s about staying committed to a rich life together, even when it feels like I’m carrying the weight of the world. But the truth is, we’re in this together. And when we stop keeping score of who’s pulling more weight, harmony finds us, like gentle waves lapping at the shore.

Like the little tug, I’ve learned to adjust my course, find new ways to connect, and keep moving forward, one small wave at a time.

What about you? What ‘barge’ are you hauling around, and how can you become the tug?

How to Journey to Stillness

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Tuesday morning, Sun shine. Fluffy white clouds tinged with grey and blue shroud Vancouver Island in the distance. Sea a gently undulating blanket, always in motion. Trees stand tall, branches still, their filigree network of needles pricking the untouchable sky.

In meditation this morning, the invitation was to ‘let your mind dissolve into the clouds’. I struggled with it. Struggled to find the stillness and spaciousness of nothingness. To imagine my mind as dissolvable.

I am attached to my mind and its constant yammerings and yawings. It’s incessant litany of thoughts and ideas tumbling around inside my head telling me, ‘that’s a good idea’. ‘what on earth were you thinking?, ‘you need to do more’, ‘you’re not enough’… and all that jazz.

Stilling the chatter has been a lifelong journey for me. Meditation is my gateway to the stillness, and calm, of letting my mind dissolve into the clouds.

Some mornings, my mind feels busier than others. When I began meditating, I started small. Even 1 minute of sitting in the silence is better than none.

Whether you’re a beginner, or a seasoned meditator, here are four ideas on how you can begin to meditate or to enrich your existing practice:

1. Start Small:

  • Silencing the mind completely is a lofty goal, especially for beginners. If you’re just beginning, start with just a few minutes of dedicated stillness each day, gradually increasing the duration as you become more comfortable. If like me, you go in and out of your practice, sometimes leaving it for days on end, always begin again and do not judge yourself harshly!

2. Focus on the Breath:

  • The breath is an anchor to the present moment. Especially as you begin to practice, pay close attention to each breath. In. Out. In. Out. As you progress, focus the sensation of each inhale and exhale, noticing the rise and fall of your chest or belly. When the mind wanders, gently guide it back to the breath. In. Out. In. Out.
  • Remember not to judge your progress, or the stillness of your mind. Stay, ‘open minded’. Curious. Calm.
  • Tip: To support your practice, try this counting exercise: inhale for a count of 4, hold for 4, exhale for 4.

3. Engage the Senses:

  • Connect with your senses. Take a mindful walk in nature, noticing the sights, sounds, smells, and textures around you. Or, sit quietly and savour a cup of tea or coffee, paying attention to the warmth of the mug, the aroma, and the taste.
  • Exercise: When connecting with your senses, close your eyes and ask yourself: “What do I hear? What do Ifeel against your skin? What do I smell?” Don’t seek the words to describe what your experiencing. Feel it. Don’t name it.

4. Embrace a Creative Outlet:

  • Engaging in creative activities can quiet the mental chatter and induce a state of flow. There are countless individual ways of experiencing this – painting, writing, dancing, playing music, gardening, or anything that allows you to express yourself and get lost in the process.
  • As a mixed media artist and as a writer, getting lost in the process of creation has taught me to ‘trust in the process’ . Time disappears, the world around me fades as I become immersed in the pure joy and wonder of allowing my intuition and creative essence to express itself fearlessly.

5. Acceptance and Non-Judgment:

  • It’s crucial to approach stillness with a gentle, non-judgmental attitude. When thoughts arise (and they will!), acknowledge them without judgment and gently redirect your attention back to your chosen anchor (breath, senses, etc.).
  • Remember: Meditation is a practice, not a performance. There’s no “right” way to find stillness just as there is no wrong way to begin again.

What about you? What do you do to stop the chatter and open the portal to your heart?