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.

Finding Sanctuary in the Storm: Jazz, Reflections, and Resilience

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When you walk
strong of back,
soft of heart,
there is no storm
you cannot weather,
no darkness
you cannot overcome,
and no wound
you cannot heal.

The wind howled like a banshee, rain lashed against the windows, and darkness clung to the edges of the world. It was a night to hunker down, to surrender to the storm’s symphony. “Do you still want to go?” I asked C.C., almost hoping for a reprieve from the tempest. But his eyes, alight with anticipation, held a spark that even the wildness of the night couldn’t extinguish.

His enthusiasm was a beacon, reminding me of the long journey he’s traveled. Not just to this island but with his health. The sea air, thick with the scent of salt and seaweed, have been a balm for his COPD compromised lungs. His breathing has eased and his strength is returning. I knew the music would be a tonic for his soul, and mine. And so, we ventured out into the night, seeking refuge in the warm glow of The Surf Pub and the promise of Sunday Night Jazz.

As the first notes filled the air, I was transported back to Jazz Vespers at St. Andrew-Wesley United Church in Vancouver. I recalled the hushed reverence of the sanctuary, the soaring voices of the jazz singer and her quartet, and the profound words of Reverend Gary Patterson, a scholar of Leonard Cohen and a master of weaving music and poetry into his sermons.

It was in the aftermath of the 2016 American election, a time when I felt profound uncertainty and fear, that his words first resonated deep within me: “We must stand strong of back and soft of front.” He spoke of the dangers of judgement, of the need to listen and learn, to embrace empathy over animosity.

That phrase, “strong of back, soft of front,” has become a guiding principle in my life. It’s a reminder to stand tall in the face of adversity and walk true to my values. It is an invitation to meet challenges with courage and resilience, while keeping my heart open to compassion and understanding. It’s a call to transcend the victim narrative, to recognize that even in the face of darkness, we have the power to choose love over fear. Always.

Last night, as the music washed over me, I was reminded of the interconnectedness of life, of how a stormy night, a jazz concert, and the words of a wise minister can converge to illuminate the path towards healing and wholeness. And in the depths of my being, I knew that with a strong back and a soft heart, there is no storm we cannot weather, no darkness we cannot overcome and no wound that cannot be healed.

In the language of trees (a poem)

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I walked with the trees yesterday. Listened to their leaves rustling in the breeze that blew in off the water. Felt their roots buried deep within the earth stirring the mysteries only my heart can hear.

And as I walked, I imagined I could hear the wind whispering its stories of far away places into the open branches stretched out across the sky – tales of wonder and awe, love and war, joy and sorrow. Stories it’s witnessed on its journey through time and space.

The trees have much to teach us. 

In The Language of Trees
by Louise Gallagher

In the language of trees, 
there is no me or you, 
  only us, 
    intertwined 
with roots that grip the earth
that binds us deep to one another.

In the language of trees, 
there is no beginning, 
 no ending, 
  no in between,
  only winds of time 
   that sculpt our limbs,
  whispering through leaves 
 forever reaching out
to capture sacred stories 
of far away places.

Each dawn unfolds a tapestry of leaves, 
a fleeting masterpiece of green. 
  Every leafy tendril counts, 
   from roots that divine the mysteries
  of the dark soil below
 to the tips of branches 
that sing songs of joy
to the sky above.

We are a symphony of wood and leaf,
 earth and water
   wind and storm
    a chorus rising from the soil,
   each voice distinct, 
  each song an opus 
 a tapestry of voices, rich and deep,
woven into the story of our humanity
grounded in the language of trees.

The Seagull, the Whale, the Rainbow, and the Rain

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Yesterday, Beau and I embarked on our morning walk in the rain with the hopeful anticipation of once again encountering the majestic whales. And briefly, we did. Even in that fleeting moment, I felt the awe-inspiring grandeur of life beneath the waves.

Just before their emergence, Beaumont had fortuitously exited the water. I’m uncertain what his reaction would have been had he encountered a humpback gracefully gliding by. As it were, his swim was prompted by two seagulls that had the audacity to perch upon a rock at the water’s edge.

Beau, ever the guardian of order, raced towards them, and when they took flight, he plunged into the water, swimming in a valiant yet futile attempt to capture them. It was quite the spectacle to witness his determined pursuit of the seagulls and their smugness as they taunted him to venture further out. Thankfully, he heeded my call and returned to shore.

And that’s when the whales gracefully slipped past. It was a brief but enchanting encounter, made even more magical by the rainbow that arched above us as we strolled back home.

The seagull, the whale, the rainbow, and the rain – all elements of nature’s symphony, each playing their part in the tapestry of our morning walk. Each creating waves of joy and wonder within and all around me.

Sunsets. Whales and Magic.

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While the romance of ferry rides might fade, (though I doubt it) I know I’ll never tire of sunsets at the sea’s edge witnessing Mother Nature’s explosion of colours drawing the day closed.

Pure magic.

Nor will I ever lose my wonder at the sight of whales. Since moving to the island, I’ve yearned for this moment. Every day, there’s been a sighting, and every time, I’ve missed them.

This morning, my daughter in Vancouver called. “Whales at Orlebar Point!” she exclaimed. I grabbed my binoculars and rushed out onto the deck, but the sea was calm. “I’m going to the Point,” I told my grandchildren, who were watching excitedly on Facetime.

Ten minutes later, Beau and I stood on the rocks at Orlebar Point. A woman with a camera pointed towards the water. Suddenly, I saw them – immense bodies breaching the surface, water cascading like diamonds in sunlight. Their blows echoed across the water, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through me.

It is humbling to stand on the shore while mere meters away, giants slip gracefully through the water. The salty spray kissed my face as I listened to their breath escape with every undulating move. To witness such magnificence on a cloudy west coast day, just minutes from home, is beyond special.

It’s pure magic.

Coming Home.

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The road unfurls before me like a dove-grey ribbon, divided by dashes of yellow, winding through the trees. Sunlight filters through the canopy of pines, dappling the road ahead. Around each bend, the ocean glimmers against a periwinkle sky as the trees play peek-a-boo in green and blue. All of it a constant reminder of nature’s tender embrace. I inhale the scent of pine needles and feel the cool air on my skin as I drive with the window open.

I am falling in love with island life.

This island, just 14 kilometers long by 4.2 kilometers wide, holds me close. The sea is always near, a comforting presence amidst the lush green landscape. Behind me, as I drive, the road seems to narrow and disappear, like a thought drifting away on a cloud, carrying with it worries and woes, fears and trepidations.

And like the road disappearing into the trees, the daily routines of my former life fade into memory as I fall under the spell of this island in the sea.

There is a rhythm to island life unique to those who live here. I am slowly discovering mine. Even my morning routine – the familiar comfort of the NYTimes puzzles – feels infused with a new sense of peace. I feel my desire to create and contribute returning, my desire for calm rising like the tides, ebbing and flowing with the moon and stars.

I am of the wind. The waves. The trees swaying. The birds soaring along the water’s surface. I am the wild waves crashing. The calm seas rolling. I am the one I’ve always been searching for.

I am coming home to myself, to the me I’ve fought so hard to discover beneath the detritus of life’s tugs and pulls. In my homecoming, I find myself firmly planted in my being, all of me, no matter how fierce the winds around me blow.

In this place there is no need to rush about, to achieve and do more, be more, have more. There is only the sea’s constant urging I let go and be part of the ebb and flow of life unfolding like the road before me.

Where Memory Lies (a poem)

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Where Memory Lies

My mother’s mind was clear until her very last breath. She held onto reality with a fierce grip, even when her body faltered. Though she often massaged the past to make it a more palatable story, her tales of her youth in India, the city of her birth she loved so much, and the parents she regretted leaving behind when she travelled to the other side of the world to begin her new life as a wife and mother, needed no embellishment. She never forgot her past.

My mother’s last breath escaped her body four years ago, and still, I marvel at how her mind remained sharp even when arthritis crippled her limbs.

This morning, I awoke with thoughts of memory, life, and remembering swirling in my mind. An image of a dear friend, whose mind is slowly fading though her body remains strong, drifted in and out as the muse wove her way through my thoughts. It is her struggle, and the pain of her family and all those who are struggling in similar circumstances, that inspired this poem.

Where Memory Lies
by Louise Gallagher

I smile and listen to your story
nod my head in all the right places.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard it
I know when to laugh and gasp
and act as if you’ve never told me this one before.

You ask where your husband is
and even though I know you will forget 
when I remind you he died years ago,
I tell you he’s gone fishing
and you clap your hands and giggle
in that little girl way you have
that made him smile and call you, “My girl!”
and you say, “He loves fishing!”
even though he never owned a reel.

To save myself from witnessing your grief
washing over you again and again
I do not tell the truth.
Truth hurts too much.

There is no happy ending in the grief 
of witnessing time’s relentless quest
to erase the past
from a mind that never forgot
birthdays, anniversaries, names and faces.

There is only this space where each day
becomes a new beginning
of a story unravelling
the tapestry of your life.

You tell me the story of how you met
the man you married
I listen and laugh
and when you forget his name
I quietly remind you
again and again
but do not tell you where he’s gone
and when you ask who I am,
I do not tell you, I am your daughter.

Truth hurts too much.

.

Rain or Shine, The Watchers Watch

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One of Beau’s favourite places to sit is at the door to the deck watching the world outside. Walkers. Bikers. Cars. Dogs. Waves lapping. Trees swaying. He sits and watches. Immobile. Until the man with a walker appears.

He arrives every mid-afternoon when the skies are clear or cloudy. He walks with purpose. Slow. Steady. His progress is measured and thoughtful. His walker the helm of his personal ship, providing guidance and stability as he navigates the road along the sea.

He stops in front of our house, turns his walker to provide him a seat upon which to sit and watch the waves. Passers-by stop and chat as the man holds court at the edge of the bay.

And Beaumont watches. Sometimes, if a passer-by is walking a fellow canine, Beau barks in welcome. Sometimes, the other dog barks back. Mostly, they ignore him.

Beau is impervious to their response. He keeps watching, bearing silent witness to the endless ballet of the waves and the story of life unfolding outside.

I have not had much time for watching. Unpacking. Organzing. And re-organizing have consumed me. And still, I feel the draw of the ocean calling me to Be still. Breathe. Become.

Unpacking has become a meditation here at the edge of the sea. The salty air, the cries of the gulls, the hypnotic rhythm of the waves – it all conspires to steal my attention. Each wave is a story: some whisper secrets against the sand, while others roar their defiance against the unyielding rocks. Some roll in with the gentle caress of a lover’s kiss, while others crash against the land, a tempestuous lover determined to have the last word.

Never are the waves still.

Never do they stop rolling in and out. In and out.

Mesmerized, I forget the boxes needing my attention. I ignore the pile of books on the floor waiting for a bookcase to appear. The trinkets looking for a place to call home.

In those moments, dinner can wait. The need to organize fades as I slip effortlessly into watecher’s mode. Like the man with the walker, I must slow my pace, savour each moment and simply watch.

The sea does not hold answers. It is alive with the questions, inviting me to let go of the need to know. To surrender to the exquisite mystery of now. To fall breathlessly alive into living, like a bird taking flight into a vast and boundless sky soaring above the vast and boundless sea.

Will the romance ever end?

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Will the romance of taking the ferry ever fade? Will island life ever grow old? These were the questions swirling in my mind as I returned from a day trip to Nanaimo with my sister. A fellow passenger, J., assured me with a knowing smile, “Never. I still feel the thrill after all these years.”

J., a long-time resident of Gabriola, perfectly embodies the warm and welcoming spirit of this island. Like C.C. and me, she moved west from Calgary, seeking a different pace of life. After island hopping amongst several Gulf Islands, she finally settled on Gabriola. “They are all beautiful,” she said, “but Gabe holds a certain charm.”

It’s a charm I’m quickly discovering myself. From the friendly conversations on the ferry to the shared knowledge about everything dog related including the 411 on Friday morning community dog walks on the beach and Friday night darts at the Golf Club. There’s a strong sense of community here, a feeling of community woven through every interaction. Even the intricacies of garbage day – a topic of surprising importance on the island – reveal a unique connection to place and a respect for the environment.

Like so many people I’ve met here, J.’s story, with its reflections on aging, resilience, and connection to nature, adds another layer to the island’s allure. Her invitation to join her on a walk with her horses speaks volumes about the openness and generosity I’ve encountered in everyone I meet.

It has been just over two weeks since C.C. and I rolled off the ferry to take up residence on the island. In those few short days, Gabriola has begun to weave its magic. The initial romance hasn’t faded; it’s deepened into a sense of belonging and a growing appreciation for the island way of life. And, like J, I am holding on to the romance of taking the ferry as my heart settles into finding myself at home here at the edge of the sea.

Where the Wild Heart Dances

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Finding my rhythm in the embrace of the sea.

Where the Wild Heart Dances, life’s mysteries unfold in waves of wonder and awe, inviting you to let go of searching for certainty in a world of constant change.

Morning light pushes back the darkness, promising a new day filled with unknown mysteries. As the ocean waves lap gently against the rocks and the salt air caresses my skin, I stand here at the edge of the sea, present in this moment, listening, smelling, sensing, feeling, watching. The shadowy trees stand sentinel, their silence a mirror of the world around me.

It’s been two weeks since we moved to our island home. Two weeks of unpacking, sorting, settling in. Two weeks of becoming. But becoming what? Like a rogue wave surging from the depths, unexpected and powerful, a wave of longing washes over me, a yearning to know what tomorrow will bring. Will I find a sense of belonging here? Will this wild, beautiful place ever truly feel like home?

Memories of gatherings with loved ones surface, their laughter echoing in my heart. But here, surrounded by the vastness of the sea and sky, a sense of isolation creeps in. It’s a strange paradox – to feel so connected to the natural world, yet so adrift from the familiar rhythms of my old life.

In the stillness of this moment I wonder, am I falling into old patterns and seeking answers when I need to be living the questions? Perhaps finding a new rhythm is not about searching, but about surrendering to the mystery of the unknown, allowing the island to shape me, to teach me its own ancient cadence. It’s about listening to the whispers of the wind and the crashing of the waves, and letting them guide me to a place of belonging.

Perhaps the question isn’t, “What happens next?” but rather, “How will I release my need for certainty in a world that is constantly changing?” How do I quiet the noise of the world and listen to the whispers of my own soul, carried on the island breeze?

I cannot know the answer to tomorrow’s mysteries. But I can choose to embrace the unknown, to plant seeds of connection and creativity, to nurture a sense of wonder in this new and awe-inspiring place.

Namaste

PS. And for a touch of whimsy, Beau posted his blog yesterday — okay. It wasn’t Sunday but it’s poste. 🙂

Where Tomorrow Hides (a poem from where I sit)

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The muse never tires. Always present, she flows like the sea outside my window. Enduring. Always present. Always changing.

This morning, Beaumont the Sheepadoodle and I sat in silent communion with the waves gliding across the ocean surface. Mesmerized, I heeded the muse’s urgings and let time slip away as morning crept across the sky and I found myself effortlessly breathing into the pure joy of being present, wholly embodied in the now.

It is fleeting, this being embodied in the now. Busyness. Things to do. To read. To see. Places to get to. People to connect with. Rooms to organize. And still boxes to unpack. Too many. I’m tempted to tell myself to leave them unpacked and if in six months I haven’t missed anything, to let whatever is in them be released without examining the contents of each unopened box.

We shall see…

For this moment, right now, I sit in silent communion with Beau, sipping my latte, listening to Hildegard von Bingen’s ecclesiastical sounds fill the morning air. And I breathe.

Where Tomorrow Hides
by Louise Gallagher

Light stalks the darkness, 
slithering across cloud laden sky
slipping effortlessly below the far horizon 
where tomorrow hides, 
safe beyond my sight.

Here and now, mesmerized,
I sit watching undulating waves 
wash up from a gunmetal sea,
whispering stories of far away places
hidden beyond the distant edge of the world.

Tomorrow stretches, 
pregnant with cloudy mystery,
waiting beyond this realm
where I sit
watching waves wash ashore.

Mesmerized
time slips away
and I become one with the world around me.