Category Archives: acts of grace

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“Joy transcends age; it’s not confined to youth. It’s a universal treasure that spans all ages, reminding us that to experience joy we must embrace the journey of life with love, laughter, gratitude and compassion every day.” Louise Gallagher

As I sit before my computer navigating various sites to launch thep of unveiling another chapter of the Radiant Bold Aging Masterclass, and transforming my two-month ReEnvision Your Journey program into a six-month quest to champion women in crafting the life of their dreams, age notwithstanding, my journal pages have blossomed with musings on JOY.

What essence it holds, whence it springs. What, if anything, fills its void when it gently slips away? In its absence, where do I seek refuge? And why, oh why, does joy hold such paramount importance?

These existential ponderings, to me, are not just intriguing—they are essential quests for understanding.

Today, merrily working in my studio, with the melody of birdsong heralding spring to the barren branches of the trees that line the riverbank, and sunlight dancing on the snow-blanketed earth of our backyard, I found myself cradled in the sheer joy of the present.

Joy—like an ocean wave—envelops me, washing away the remnants of turmoil. It saturates my being when I cease to engage with joy’s thieves: resentment, regret, anger, sorrow, and the mundane grievances against the world’s bad drivers and the monotony of customer service scripts. Ah, those familiar foes.

I’ve come to realize that irrespective of age, emotions crash upon the shores of my consciousness, uninvited. To truly know Joy, I must allow these feelings to be swallowed by the temporal tides, and in their stead, embrace love, self-compassion, mindfulness, and the endless possibilities each moment holds.

In such moments, my heart feels lighter, my thoughts as clear as the rainbow stretching across the sky after a storm, and I am embraced once more with Joy.

Such a profound, exquisite blessing.

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Saturday Morning Haiku – Homage to Omar Khayyam

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I still possess The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam I gifted my father in October, 1972. I know the date as I wrote it on the inside cover when I gave it to him. A voracious reader, my father had a remarkable knack for recalling passages from beloved texts, often prompting me with, “What does that mean to you, Little One?”

I loved it when he called me by my nickname, a name only he used. It brought me closer to the enigma I always saw him as.

A not very patient man himself, whenever I displayed hints of my own impatience, he loved to quote from The Rubaiyat. “The Bird of Time has but a little way To fly — and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.” I’d sigh and say, “Slow down. Enjoy the moment.”

He never just skimmed the surface of words; he delved deeper, seeking their core meaning. He also never gave me the deeper meaning, asking always to probe, to think about it, to consider the possibilities.

It is this legacy of questionning and probing I cherish most. His reverence for the written word gave me glimpses into worlds I never could have imagined. Books were sacred in our home, so sacred, he never marred their pages, except to inscribe a note inside the cover when gifting one.

In contrast, as the youngest of four, often feeling overshadowed by my only brother, the son upon whom the sun rose and set, or so I thought, my small acts of rebellion included annotating my books. This habit, perhaps a way to feel connected to my father, persists despite his admonitions I not do it.

This morning, as a flock of geese echoed over the river, my mind wandered to my father, his adoration for words, and the Rubaiyat. Inspired by Val Boyko’s inquiry on her blog, Find Your Middle Ground, “What brings a spring in your step these days?” I went in search of my father’s copy of The Rubaiyat and crafted this haiku.

Spring is on the wing,
Geese sing nature’s symphony—
In rest, time flows on.

Opening the book, I discovered my youthful dedication: signed, “The Brat.” This nickname, bestowed by my mother, was one she urged me to outgrow as I neared the end of my teenage years. “You’re not a child anymore,” she remarked once, with a wistful sigh, “though sometimes I wonder.”

That period marked a significant year—I had presented my father with The Rubaiyat and embarked on a bold attempt to attend university in Moscow. This move drew the attention of the Canadian security service, sparking a series of interrogations fueled by concerns over potential communist ties. Immersed in the world of my father’s spy novels, I found the situation amusing rather than alarming, cheekily inquiring, “Do you think I’m a spy? How thrilling!”

Thankfully, my father was acquainted with the interrogators and eased their concerns. “She’s merely pushing boundaries,” he assured them. “It’s just her way.”

Now at 70, it remains my way: to constantly challenge myself, to push boundaries, and to explore how high I can soar without wings.

This morning, geese rest upon the frozen river bank. And though I cannot ascertain the remaining flight left in their wings, I vow to extend my horizon until time rests.

Thanks dad.

Grief is Messy

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Four years ago today, my mother drew her last breath, stilled her heart and surrendered to the ever-after.

It has been four years of healing, growth, transforming pain into wisdom, opening to the spiritual nature of life and death and moving deeper into being embodied in this one life I am living now.

I wrote the poem below a year after mom’s death, still in thick of Covid’s thrall, and still aligning to this expected yet, still surprising role as, as a motherless child

At the time, I shared it on my Facebook page and this morning FB Memories brought it forward. I am grateful. In the wake of my sister’s death last November 24, it is a comforting and welcome reminder of grief’s erratic and capricious nature If you are walking within grief’s aura, I hope it brings you comfort too.

Grief is Messy.
by Louise Gallagher

Grief is messy.
It follows no well-known path
travelling to the beat
of its own drum
as it pummels your defences
pushing its way through the boundaries
you desperately put in place
to keep its presence at bay.

Grief is stealthy
It dresses up in familiar clothing
masquerading as your best friend
while it sneaks in through the side door
of memory, stealing into
the broken places
of your heart
you want desperately to avoid touching.

There is no taming grief.
There is only its heavy cloak
of companionship
wearing you down
until one day
you find yourself arriving at that place
where moments spent wrapped
in grief’s company
die away
as softly as the sweet melody
of the voice
of the one who is gone
fading into memory.

And for life on ther lighter side, I’ve posted one of Beau’s blogs on Sundays with Beaumont this morning. As always, he wins! 🙂

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?

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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.

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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

What if you could be someone else’s miracle?

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Have you ever pondered the essence of a miracle? Is it alchemy, divine intervention, or something else that manifests the wonder of dreams coming true, prayers being answered, and wishes fulfilled?

What if the real magic lies in simple acts? Following your intuition to do someone a favour, show kindness to a stranger, or support a friend in need could be all it takes.

What if you could be someone else’s miracle?

Several years ago, while working at an adult emergency homeless shelter, Terry, a client in his 50s, was diagnosed with terminal cancer. His humor, willingness to pitch in, and help out where needed made him well-liked and known by all.

During his final Christmas season, a charity came in to conduct their Christmas Wish List. Terry’s wish was to visit New Orleans during Mardi Gras, not for the party (though he loved to party). For Terry, it was the resilience of the city that called to him. “If New Orleans could come back from Katrina the way it did, maybe if I go there, I’ll be able to come back from this cancer,” he told the young woman who interviewed him for the Wish List.

Touched by his story, she organized with a group of co-workers and friends to raise money to send Terry to New Orleans.

Terry never made the trip, but in her efforts to galvanize community around him, local media became interested in Terry’s story. A few days after an article about Terry appeared in the local newspaper, I received a call from a woman informing me she was married to Terry’s brother, Larry. Terry had been put into care when he was 8. Larry had spent his adult life trying to find his baby brother.

And that’s where the real miracle of Christmas began.

I told Terry about the phone call from his brother’s wife, and five days later, after almost 34 years of searching, Larry and Terry were reunited.

But the miracle didn’t stop there.

Terry had a profound fear of dying alone. In his final moments, it was his long-lost brother Larry who held his hand, a testament to the power of connection and kindness.

And though he never made it to New Orleans, we did hold a Mardi Gras-themed party for him at a local Southern-style pub where over 50 people came to celebrate him and bid him farewell.

It was all a miracle. A miracle that was created by the actions of many people listening to their intuition, compelling them to take action to make a difference in a homeless man’s life.

And, in the end, this quiet, funny, affable man whose life story led him to spend his final years in a homeless shelter was celebrated nationwide. Shortly after his death, Maclean’s Magazine dedicated The Last Page, a monthly feature about notable Canadians who had recently passed away, to Terry’s story.

Truly a miracle.

So, I leave you with this thought: Are you ready to be a miracle in someone’s life? Will you choose to be a force of grace in the world today?

Choose Love. Walk with Grace.

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As my husband drops me off at the airport he comments on how early I am for my 11am flight to Vancouver – just over two hours. “It helps me stay calm when travelling,” I tell him.

And it’s true. Rushing only causes my blood to rush faster through my veins, speeding up my heartbeat and my thoughts. None of which helps keep me grounded in the moment, present to my surroundings, embodied within my whole being.

Seated at my Gate, I sit across from a woman in traditional African dress. She looks tired. Doesn’t speak English. I know as she showed me her boarding pass, pantomied, “Here? Yes?” to which I nodded my head in affirmation. I wonder how far she’s travelled. I wonder if her feet will get cold in her open-toed slip-ons. They match her dress and headdress beautifully. They may not match the weather in Vancouver.

I am off to visit my eldest daughter, grandchildren, son-in-love as well as my sister, Anne who lives on Gabriola Island. My youngest daughter flew in yesterday. Anne after breaking her knee-cap in May, developed a blood clot in her leg and cannot fly. Which means, she cannot come to our sister’s Celebration of Life on December 9. It is especially hard as she hasn’t been able to travel since the break, and couldn’t visit Jackie while she was in hospital.

As I travel west, I carry with me memories and thought of my sisters and my brother. My daughter and I were talking about how hard this loss is. And yes, it is. Yet, even though it’s hard, I have the choice to do the hard with grace and in Love. And that is what I do. Choose Love. Walk with grace.

My eldest daughter and I wrote Jackie’s obituary over the weekend. It is strange writing that word, ‘obituary’ in relation to my eldest sister. It is not a word I expected to write beside her name for many years to come.

And that is the crux of it. As it always is. We thought we had more time. More time to savour meals together, laughter, moments of joy, of shenanigans, of communion with the ones we love.

And then we don’t.

It is a lesson in Love. Cherish the ones who are close to us. Shower love all over your path, where ever you go and always, choose to do the hard with grace as your constant companion.

Namaste.

Obituary: Jacquline (Jackie) Marie Louise Trafford

What’s Your Story? Understanding the Power of Our Personal Narratives

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My sister remains in ICU though she is slowly gaining consciousness. But, here’s the challenge. I was telling myself a story about how helpless I am, how scared and worried I feel.

That story isn’t creating ‘the more’ I want in my life or in my sister’s healing journey. Which is why this morning, I asked myself, Is this story I’m telling myself creating better in my world today or is it acting as a barrier to my being fully present with and for her journey through recovery? ‘Cause, though I am not powerful enough to change my sister’s health, the story I tell myself about it all can either strengthen or weaken me. And if the story I’m telling myself is leaving me feeling discombobulated (and it was), helpless,or as happens in other situations, like a victim or loser, there is only person who can change it. Me.

Have you ever stopped to ask yourself, particularly in those moments where you’re feeling like the victim of someone else’se bad behaviour or like life is ganging up on you or those you love, “What story am I telling myself about what’s going on?”

Each of us narrates our life’s journey, often casting ourselves in specific roles – the hero, the victim, or even the villain. These stories are more than mere reflections; they actively shape our reality, influencing our emotions, decisions, and interactions with others, as well as how we feel about ourselves..

Our personal narratives are a tapestry woven from our experiences, beliefs, and emotions. They are intricate and deeply personal, often rooted in our earliest memories. These stories provide a sense of identity and continuity, offering a framework through which we view the world and our place in it.

While these narratives can be empowering, they can also be limiting. When we cast ourselves as perpetual victims or unacknowledged heroes, we might find ourselves trapped in patterns of behavior that prevent personal growth. Our stories might justify feelings of resentment, anger, or sadness, holding us back from forgiveness, empathy, or change.

The first step to reshaping our story is recognizing its existence and influence. This requires introspection and honesty. What roles do we often assign ourselves? How do these roles affect our relationships and choices? Are we stuck in a narrative that no longer serves us?

Once we recognize our narrative patterns, we have the power to rewrite them. This doesn’t mean denying our past or our feelings. Instead, it’ involves reframing’s an invitation to reframe our experiences in a way that empowers us. What if, instead of the victim, we see ourselves as survivors or even victors? Or, instead of the overlooked hero, we view ourselves as quietly influential?

The most empowering narratives are those where we acknowledge our agency and potential. They are stories where challenges are opportunities for growth, and where our past doesn’t dictate our future. In these narratives, we are neither solely victims nor heroes but complex individuals capable of change and growth.

When we shift our stories, the world around us shifts too. We start responding differently to situations, engaging more positively with others, and opening ourselves to new experiences. A new narrative can lead to a more fulfilling, connected, and joyful life.

What story do you want to tell about yourself? It’s an important question that can lead to transformational growth as long as you remember that you are the author of your narrative. Someone else isn’t writing your life story for you. You are. And, because you are the author of your story, you have the power to edit, to rewrite, and to change the course of your story.

To change your story, checkout what story you’re telling about yourself and the circumstances in your life today, and then, choose a narrative that empowers, inspires, and propels you toward your best life yet. Because, no matter your age, your story won’t change until you decide to change it.

Episode 40: Dare Boldly – Age is More Than Just a Number

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Is age truly just a numerical label? As we accumulate years, it’s impossible not to notice how society’s definition of what it means to be ‘young’ or ‘old’ affects us. The number of years we’ve orbited the sun does more than just increase; it also alters our own perceptions and the perceptions of those around us about age-related expectations. But how valid are these age-related judgments?

As I approach my 70th decade and am writing and talking more about age and aging, I am constantly confronted with societal attitudes towards aging. The adage “age is just a number” is frequently tossed around, yet paradoxically, society at large seems to dismiss this concept in practice. The lack of celebration for the wisdom, milestones and achievements of older adults stands in stark contrast to the fanfare associated with youth. This discrepancy creates needless hurdles that impede the success and contributions of an entire age group.

The truth is, aging should be a cause for celebration, not a source of dread. There’s an inherent beauty in the accumulation of years, a tapestry of wisdom and experience that can only be woven over time. Instead of evading the topic of age, we must confront it head-on, acknowledging that age, in the grand scheme, holds no weight in assessing an individual’s potential or abilities.

Consider the untapped opportunities that lie within the older generation. If we can strip away our entrenched biases and altered expectations, we can unlock a reservoir of potential. Let’s be be bold and audacious! Let’s embrace the myriad possibilities that do not fade with time. Age is a mere chronology; it should never be a barrier to aspirations or accomplishments.

To sculpt a society that celebrates every stage of life, not just those deemed to be in their ‘prime’ we must be willing to carve out space for each of us to live the truth of ‘age is just a number’. If we are to celebrate the spectrum of age in all its glory, then we must encourage everyone to dare boldly, irrespective of the year on their birth certificate. Let’s inspire change where age is not a limiting factor but another facet of our shared human experience. Let’s all, Dare Boldly, no matter our age, in a world where age does not define us.