Category Archives: Art and creativity

Posted on by
2

Unearthing Creativity: A Journey Back to Morning Pages

Why do I write? Often, it’s a delightful blend of self-inspiration and cosmic detective work: nudging myself into new ventures, finding my footing in this wonderfully chaotic world, unearthing meaning in the mundane (or the magnificent), and generally figuring out why I am the way I am and what truly lights my fire today.

Lately, my quest has been to forge a morning routine template, a sort of daily superpower, to supercharge my creative process. As one does when seeking wisdom (or procrastination, depending on the day or moment…), I recently dove into the digital archives, specifically searching Facebook for “Morning Pages” groups. Lo and behold, a blog post I penned two and a half years ago popped up.

Reading it was… a punch to the gut. I’d written it during the harrowing time my eldest sister was in ICU, fighting for her life. A fight she ultimately lost. And with her, I lost my big sister, my confidante, my support system, my champion, my cheerleader, my friend.

As I reread those paragraphs, my mind went numb, tears pricked. Grief, it turns out, is a spectacularly messy business. It adheres to no timeline, no polite schedule. It’s less a well-behaved houseguest and more a rogue wave, crashing in when you least expect it. A name, a scent, or in my case, a few written words, can fling open the gates to a memory awash in all the feelings and emotions it contains.

I miss my big sister. I always will.

I’m learning to embrace that “always will,” so that when grief still washes over me, I can simply stop and feel the missing. It’s a quiet acknowledgment that the profound love we shared never truly died; it simply changed course when the river of life, carrying us both, split.

If you’d like to read the original post – which, despite the unexpected emotional detour, was all about reestablishing my habit of “Morning Pages” – you can access it here: https://dareboldly.com/2023/11/18/morning-pages-the-journey-of-self-recovery

Next week, I’ll be sharing a crash course in How to Set a Morning Routine – your personal blueprint for creative consistency. Watch for the announcement!

Grey on Grey: A Writer’s Walk

Posted on by
2

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.

Do you dare to dream?

Posted on by
4

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.

___________________________________

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.

The Evidence of Time

Posted on by
4

The muse has a delightful way of weaving her magic throughout my being, even when I’m not paying attention.

Whether I’m walking along the shore, immersed in the quiet of the forest, or kneading dough for bread, her whispers find me. Like tendrils of smoke, these fleeting thoughts curl into my mind, each one vanishing as quickly as the next.

Yet, when I finally return to the page, fingers poised over the keyboard, a torrent of inspiration flows forth, like a stream rushing down a mountainside, seeking the boundless freedom of the river that will lead it to the sea.

I cannot see its source. I cannot feel its pulse. I can only respond to its urgings to let the muse flow free. Surrendering, consonants and vowls, letters and words tumble out seeking form unhindered by my manipulations. As phrases form and coalesce, and I dive beneath the surface meaning like a pearl diver seeking treasure, my creative essence transforms from a thought into reality.

Immersed in the long exhale of creative expression, my thoughts find space and air to breathe on the page; naked, exposed, vulnerable.

And in that vulnerability, I find my heart soaring, my spirits lifting and my voice rising up to sing out loud, “This is Life and I am so grateful for every moment. No matter how I label them, good, bad or indifferent, every moment is full of life teeming with possibility, adventure, hope and Love.”

What a gift!

The Evidence of Time
by Louise Gallagher

To age and not fear, 
to grow older, unburdened by worry, 
free from the whispers of wrinkles and lines, 
the creaks and aches, 
the evidence of time passing. 

To live a life where age 
holds no sway over worth, 
where spirit soars 
beyond the measure of years.

This is the defiance of our days, 
as time's river flows ever forward, 
calendar pages turning
 with quickening pace.

These are the reminders 
of the inevitable truth: 
One day, the final page will turn, 
the heart's rhythm will cease its beat, 
the last breath will softly fade, 
and the echoes
 of "I love you" will fall silent.

No magic potion halts the passage of time,
no secret formula holds back the years.

Yet, the choice remains ours: 
To live each day fearlessly, boldly, bravely, 
passionately alive, 
with wonder and awe, 
celebrating every heartbeat, 
every breath, 
every whispered "I love you," 
as precious gifts 
weaving the grand tapestry of our days
into a life well loved.
A life well lived.

Dancing with Shadows: Finding Light in the Depths of Our Stories

Posted on by
6

Dive into your own story,” my novel-writing workplan instructs. I hesitate, a knot tightening in my stomach. I get it, truly, but the past has a way of clinging to shadows, doesn’t it?

It reminds me of writing The Dandelion Spirit, the story of my descent and eventual ascent out of the hell of an abusive relationship that almost killed me. Back then, I wanted to skip the messy bits and the downward spiral along with the heartbreak that led to my eventual blooming. But my publisher, wise soul that he is, insisted on context. “Show them the broken pieces,” he urged, “so they can marvel at how you put yourself back together.”

And so I did. Tears flowed, old wounds ached, but through the writing, a strange alchemy occurred. The past, once a monster lurking in the corners of my mind, became a tapestry woven with threads of resilience and hope.

“That was then,” I whispered to myself, my mantra for survival. “This is now. I am safe. I am loved. I am enough.”

Now, facing this new story, the echoes of that past resistance return. My novel, you see, dances with the shadows of my own relationship with my mother – a dance that continued long after she was gone.

To breathe life into my heroine’s journey, to illuminate her triumphs, I must first descend into the darkness of her past, a past mirrored in my own.

It’s a daunting task, this excavation of memory. But perhaps, like those ancient cave paintings, our stories – the light and the shadow – are meant to be shared, to illuminate not just our own paths, but the paths of others who yearn for healing and wholeness.

And so, I dive in. Not to dwell in the pain, but to find the glimmers of resilience, the whispers of hope that have always been there, waiting to be unearthed. Because maybe, just maybe, in the telling of our stories, we find not just healing, but a way to truly live beyond the grief and sorrow, and step into the radiant light of who we were always meant to be.

I’d love to hear from you. What stories are you working to bring to life? How are you navigating the delicate dance between past, present, and future? Share your thoughts and experiences in the comments below – let’s support each other on this journey of storytelling and self-discovery.

By sharing your story, you not only heal yourself but also offer a beacon of hope and inspiration to others. Every story matters. Like a pebble tossed into still water,
our stories of courage and triupmph create ripples that expand outwards, merging into waves of shared experience, washing over the world with love, healing, and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

Namaste

My Struggle with Self-Care (and How I’m Finding My Way Back)

Posted on by
9

Six days into the new year and it already feels like a rocky start. I’ve slipped on all levels of my commitment to self-care and fostering calm. It’s as if the moment the calendar flipped to January 1st, some invisible switch was thrown, and the pressure to be better, do better, achieve more, kicked the critter chatter in my mind into high gear as my inner wise woman slipped into reverse.

Yesterday, I succumbed to the siren song of junk food. The rain was coming down in sheets as I drove back from Victoria, the early morning ferry (6:20 am – ouch!) catching up with me. Each mile felt longer, each raindrop a tiny hammer against the windshield. By the time I reached Duncan, the golden arches of self-indulgence were glowing like a beacon of comfort, and the gremlin on my shoulder was whispering promises of salty, greasy satisfaction. Resistance crumbled.

And it’s not just the diet. 10,000 steps? More like 10,000 excuses. Between ferrying C.C. to Seattle and navigating the labyrinth of Canadian customs and residency paperwork, my Fitbit has been gathering dust. The book? Those 1000 words a day are mocking me from the blank page.

I find myself making excuses, defending my actions as if I’m in front of a judge. Why this need to justify? Is it the fear of being judged, of not living up to some impossible standard of “New Year, New Me”? Or is it something deeper, a fear of failing myself, of not being disciplined enough, strong enough to stick to my resolutions?

Perhaps the real struggle isn’t with the self-care itself, but with the expectations I’ve piled upon myself. Maybe calm isn’t something to be achieved, but a state of being, a way of approaching life that I need to rediscover. Maybe it’s time to take off these judgmental glasses and see the world, and myself, with a little more kindness.

Maybe, rather than loading myself up with expectations and then giving my inner critic free rein to criticize my perceived “lack” of progress, commitment, or achievement—obscuring my gratitude like a dark cloud hiding the sun—maybe I need to step fully into gratitude. Maybe I need to choose to celebrate the beauty, wonder, and awe that already exist in my world.

Perhaps counting moments that take my breath away, instead of milestones that constantly raise the bar higher, will help me focus on taking one step at a time towards my goals. And maybe, just maybe, all I need to keep my steps moving gently and calmly forward is to carry gratitude in my heart—gratitude for the journey, for the present moment, and for the abundance that surrounds me.

What about you? What would it look like to silence your inner critic and embrace the gift of this moment?

My Grandmother Rachel

Posted on by
Reply
Our past is not just history; it’s a living part of who we are. Until we unearth the secrets of our family history, we can never fully understand the roots of our own identity.

Nervous and excited, I entered the virtual circle poet, singer/songwriter and teacher, Meredith Heller, created for our first online gathering of Kindred – Women’s Poetry Workshop. I first encountered Meredith through my friend Brian Pearson and his Mystic Cave Podcast.

Enchanted by her voice, words and presence, I searched for a course I could join and was drawn to Kindred with its enticing invitation to “Join us this holiday season as we write ourselves into deeper & vital belonging with the great family of life.”

The timing couldn’t have been more fortuitous. Still feeling the aftereffects of the results of the US election two days prior, still trying to find my sense of place and balance in the great wheel of life, joining the Kindred called me in like a welcoming fire inviting me into the womb of my creative nature.

I wasn’t disappointed, but I was surprised.

In Meredith’s opening visualization, she invited each of us to listen for and allow an ancestor to come forward. That’s when my Grandmother Rachel, my father’s mother, appeared.

I know little about her. My father never spoke of her, having been estranged from her since he was 8 when his parents divorced. All I really knew about Grandmother Rachel was what my mother told me, which boiled down to, “She was mean to me.” But in the visualization, Rachel radiated a quiet joy, unlike my mother, whose smile always seemed etched with a hint of sorrow.

As I stood before her, I felt confused and curious. I had never really tried to get to know this woman who was a part of me, whose DNA was intertwined with mine. Her joy, a stark contrast to the sadness I often associate with my family history, made me wonder what other hidden strengths and emotions I carry within me, inherited from generations past.

When my mother died almost five years ago, I became the keeper of her “Box of Secrets”, a large tin Lebkuchen box that had travelled from Germany back to Canada with my parents many years before. Amongst photos and various papers, it held letters from my father to my mother during WW2, their marriage certificate from Pondicherry, India in 1942 and, letters my grandmother wrote to her daughter, Phyllis, a woman I’d never met and had not known even existed until I was in my 30s.

My father kept secrets well. My Grandmother Rachel was part of the mystery that enshrouded the secrets of his life.

Looking at my Grandmother Rachel yesterday, I felt a profound sense of the unknown. What stories did she hold within her? What trials had she faced? What joys had she celebrated? And what part of her story lives on in me, waiting to be discovered?

Perhaps we all carry within us these unseen threads, these echoes of lives lived long ago, shaping who we are in ways we may never fully understand.

As I embark on this journey of uncovering my father’s hidden history, I am filled with a sense of both trepidation and excitement, knowing that with each revelation, I come closer to understanding the complex tapestry of my own being.

Thank you Meredith for welcoming me so warmly into “this great family of life.”

What about you? Does your family history hold secrets you’ve yet to unfold?

Awakening (a poem)

Posted on by
6

Between getting the house ready for sale and the endless stream of viewings, as well as being away for almost two weeks, life’s been a whirlwind! 😅 Like a sailor waiting for the wind, or a surfer for that perfect wave, we’re patiently (and sometimes not-so-patiently!) waiting for the right buyer to walk through our door. The uncertainty is definitely challenging, but it’s the constant “viewing ready” mode that’s truly exhausting! 🤪

And here’s the thing. Amidst the packing and clearing out, the visiting family and walking on the beach and playing with my grandchildren and baking bread for my daughter and lazing on the patio sipping wine and talking late into the night, I’ve realized that stressing about every little detail just isn’t worth it.

Life is too short to worry about fingerprints on the counters or pillows not being perfectly fluffed. I’m choosing to trust the process, and focus on living each day with passion and purpose. Cooking, laughing, and enjoying my home are back on the menu! 🥳

Because, here’s the thing… In the midst of all the chaos, I realized I have not been doing the things I know nurture and sustain me. I’ve avoided being here, writing, painting and a host of other things I love to do, that de-pressurize my state of mind, and set my heart free and my spirits soaring.

it’s time to reignite the spark! 🔥 To dream and create and explore and expand.💖

It’s time to let magic happen! ✨ It’s time to begin again and let dreams unfold and spirits rise.

Awakening

Awakening
by Louise Gallagher

Moments of sudden clarity, 
like waking from a dreamless sleep
after days spent sleepwalking, 
blind and deaf to the beauty all around.

Dark thoughts cloud the mind, 
a heavy fog obscuring the light 
beneath inertia's suffocating blanket. 
Unannounced,
a crack appears, sunlight floods in.

Warmth chases away the shadows,
fear retreats, slithering back into the darkness.
Hope blossoms in the open space,
a fragile flower pushing through the concrete.

The prison of stagnation crumbles,
the chains of self-doubt fall away.
Dreams reawaken, vibrant and alive.
No longer afraid of falling,
I rise. 
Sails full of promise, 
I soar.

One Seed. One Life. One Being.

Posted on by
Reply 
One Seed. One Life. One Being.
by Louise Gallagher

Awe
-a one in a million seed planted
one sacred womb nurturing life into becoming
an infant’s first cry announcing their existence.

Humility
-a heart broken open in love
one life becoming the all of life evolving
joy awakening with a child’s first laugh.

Trust
-a tiny hand grasping a finger extended, holding on
one lifeline extended across generations
a tapestry woven with golden threads of Love.

Truth
-a bridge of love spanning all humanity. 
one seed connecting life again and again
divinely orchestrated.

What will you plant with your one seed?

Awakening before the sun, a tendril of a dream drifts through my mind. I lay in bed sensing the wonder and awe of life. It’s ineffable beauty. Luminiscent presence.

Images of my daughters. First cries. First laughs. First steps. So many first leading to lifetimes of joy, love, laughter and possibility.

I lay in bed and felt the poignancy and fleeting nature of life envelop me.

And gratitude awakened.

And Love consumed me.

And the muse whispered, “Write of awe.”

This poem began with 4:00am stirrings of awe and wonder.

I have learned it’s best not to ignore the early morning whispered flutterings of the muse. She is persistent in her flowing nature and does not condone well my resistance to her urgings.

Knowing well the ephemeral nature of her visits, I arise, pad barefoot to my desk and begin to scribble in my journal.

Morning has broken.

I may just go back to bed for a nap.

The Magic in our Roots: A Legacy of Love, Creativity, and Possibility

Posted on by
7

The women of my past – my grandmothers, Rachel and Ivy – are mysteries to me. I barely knew them. Yet, their echoes live on, whispering in the cadence of my words, the artistry of my hands, and the flutter of my granddaughter’s fingers as she spins tales of fairies and dragons.

It’s funny how life weaves its threads. My father, a man of few words, was a poet on paper, his love letters to my mother filled with yearning and a breezy charm I never witnessed firsthand. Yet, from him, I inherited the gift of words, the power to paint emotions and experiences onto the page. From my mother, I learned to create beauty, to transform spaces into dreamscapes, and to find joy in the artistic dance of life.

My mother wasn’t one for reality. “I don’t like reality,” she’d say, and I find myself echoing her sentiment when asked to paint on commission. Like mother, like daughter, we find our truth in the realms of imagination and possibility.

Watching my granddaughter celebrate her fourth birthday, I see her mother at that age – the same fluttering hands, the same secret smiles as if listening to the unspoken stories of the heart. And I realize, this is our legacy. It’s in the dreams we weave, the stories we tell, the beauty we create, and the boundless love we share.

As I immerse myself in the wonder of my grandchildren’s world, I feel the roots of my family tree deepening, nourished by the fertile soil of their imagination. In their laughter, their play, their boundless creativity, I see the promise of a future where anything is possible. Where stories unfold, dreams take flight, and the human spirit flourishes.

For in the heart of a child, and the stories we weave together, lies the true magic of life – a legacy that transcends time, connecting us to our past, enriching our present, and shaping our future.

Namaste