Category Archives: Create Boldly

The Lessons in the Loaf

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I am learning a new art. Sourdough bread baking.

It has many lessons to teach me.

Some days I am its willing disciple. Others, a stubborn pupil pushing back against what my critter mind has started calling, the Tyranny of the Dough.

My first attempt was pretty dismal. On the outside, it looked quite pretty. Golden brown. Nice domed shape. Crusty.

Inside. Well that was another story. Gooey. Thick. Heavy. I watched a Magpie try to pick up a chunk after my husband threw it out over the fence line into the dense bush that lines the riverbank. He thought the animals at least would eat it. Ha! After many attempts, the Magpie gave up.

Sigh. Even the animals find my Sourdough bread a bit too sour a loaf to swallow.  (I’m sorry. I just can’t help myself with the  not-so-funny play on words – though if you could have seen the Magpie’s reaction, you would have laughed too.)

So. Back to my lessons from the loaf.

Sourdough bread all begins with the mystical starter. I mean, seriously, flour and water? That’s it?

Yup. That’s it.

Measure. Mix. Let rise. Discard. Replenish. (Pray for magic)

Measure. Mix. Let rise. Discard. Replenish. (Pray for magic)

Repeat. Twice a day. For five days.

And then… let there be starter!

Now, if you read, or watch as many YouTube videos on how to create a sourdough starter as I do, you will know that what appears to be magic is just the alchemy of air mixing with the water and flour to create bacteria (healthy one’s) from the natural yeast that lives in the air and the off-gases the water and flour create. (That’s my “Hey! I’m not a scientist just a wanna-be sourdough baker” description of the process. If you’d like a more scientifically accurate explanation, click HERE.)

Once the magic has been allowed to fester for five days, you should have a nice, rich, bubbly mass in a jar that has a distinctly sour smell and bubbly surface. That’s your starter.

Currently, I have three jars of starter in my fridge. That’s because I have not got the heart (some may call it discipline or faith) to discard the excess starter every time I feed the jar.

And that’s where the first Lesson from the Loaf arrives in my bread basket.

  1. Science has a reason.

My kitchen scale is an old fashioned manual one. It requires a big plastic bowl into which you place your ingredients to be measured. Not that convenient when measuring 70g of flour and water. So… I skip the scientifically-sound advice to weigh the ingredients and measure them instead.

Thus far, the science is winning. My starters (more about why its plural in the next lesson) are a little too flaccid. One’s too thin. One too thick. I keep thinking the third one is ‘just right’ but it seems to be proving me wrong. Even though each starter seems to be achieving the requisite rise and fall, rise and fall, they seem to be lacking in their capacity to hold the rise in my dough.

Yup. Science has a reason — weighing the flour and water definitely outweighs my preferred (what I like to think of as artistic-expression) method of guess and measure.

Which brings me to lesson 2 and the reason why I have three jars of starter in my fridge.

2. Let go. (Why every lesson in my life is some for of the letting go one is a whole other story!)

The process of creating a sourdough starter is an exact science of weighing equal portions of flour and water, putting them into a jar, stirring and letting it sit for a certain number of hours and then repeating the process. Except, each time you repeat the process, you have to discard extra starter before adding to it.

Oh no, my facile mind cries at the thought of so much waste. I can’t let all that magic go down the drain.

So, I put the excess starter in another jar and continue on with the process (which if you remember Lesson 1 is somewhat faulty – yup there’s a Lesson 3 in that one).

Right now, there are 3 starters cooling off their maturation process in the fridge.

Thus far, the first two haven’t developed into spectacular bread results.  Third time lucky. Right? Maybe? Fingers crossed. (Unfortunately, there’s little magic in crossed fingers and third time lucky can also be a strikeout.)

Which brings me to Lesson 3.

3.  Accuracy matters.

Fact is, if the first steps are inaccurate, the results will also be inaccurate.

Somehow, my mind has trouble with this one. I mean, I almost followed the steps. Doesn’t ‘almost’ count for something?

Apparently, in sourdough starter making, that’s just not the case.

Sigh. I really did hope I’d be able to get away with pushing the boundaries just a bit.

And Lesson 4…

4.  Do Not Give Up. (even if you think you’re failing.)

I am still working on mastering this art. Right now, as I type, I have a loaf in the oven. I just took the lid off the cast-iron pot it cooks in to allow the crust to bake all golden and crisp. It is not as beautiful as I would have liked, but it’s definitely an improvement on the last loaf.

Which brings me to Lesson 5 from the Loaf.

5.  Find the lesson and the pleasure in the act of creating.

Yeah. I know. It would be easy to get all frustrated and huffy and tell myself ‘what a colossal waste of time’ or one of the critter’s favs, ‘you are such a loser’, but seriously, where’s the fun, or the compassion, in that?

Nope. I’m going with savouring the experience, learning from each attempt and growing in my art, and discipline, as well as my sourdough baking skills.

It’s not about creating the perfect loaf (yet). It’s all about learning and growing through the journey and savouring each moment of creation.

Namaste.

 

Remember & Awaken

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I sit at my desk and look out at the trees lining the river, the sun shining on their trunks.

I watch dried up leaves of autumn that still cling to a few naked limbs sway in the morning breeze as their warmth starved branches soak up the sun’s rays.

The river flows freely. The ice that formed a bridge from one bank to the other has melted. Spring awakens slowly, its approach a long drawn out flirtatious dance of farewell, an ode to the loss of winter’s kisses.

I sit and watch the world flow past my window as I awaken to the beauty all around me.

This planet on which we walk, this planet we call our home, it is the home of everything. Trees. Bees. Birds. Reptiles. Mammals. Fish. Flowers. Wind. Air. Water. Earth.

It is our home. Home to all.

We do not own it. We cannot possess it. We are its caretakers.

We must keep it clean. Keep it healthy. Keep it safe.

Remember & Awaken

by Louise Gallagher

The memory of a tree
is buried deep
beneath our feet
walking on the soil
that is its home
its birthplace
its womb.

Tread lightly
the trees call out
swaying their branches
in the sky above
as if to catch
our attention down below
where we walk
oblivious
to their dance of love
with all of nature.

Tread lightly
they whisper
to the air
their voices a sweet caress
calling all the world
to remember and awaken
to the beauty above
below
and all around us.

Tread lightly
you are walking
on our past
our present
our future.

Tread lightly.

In Love, fear doesn’t stand a chance.

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Easter Sunday.

No brunch at the golf club today. A family tradition gone by the wayside under Covid’s watch.

No family gathering – at least not in person.

The world is silent. Streets remain empty. Few cars. Few pedestrians.

Shuttered behind closed doors, we wait.

Behind the front door of their home in Vancouver, my eldest daughter and her family wait. Not just the Easter Bunny to arrive but for the arrival of a precious, beautiful baby girl.

My eldest daughter is pregnant. Her baby’s due date, July 9. But, they’re pretty sure she’ll have to deliver 3 – 4 weeks early via C-section due to a liver condition that can appear during pregnancy.

The other day, I was telling her how I am consciously choosing to not think about the arrival of my granddaughter. “It hurts too much to think I won’t be able to be there,” I tell her. “Yet, not thinking about her means I’m missing out on the excitement, the anticipation, the joy her birth brings into my world.”

I must let myself feel. All of it.

I want to compartmentalize my feelings.

Good ones in this wide-open space of my heart beating wildly free. Hard to cope with ones over here, in this lockbox of steel and titanium.

This infant will be coming into a very different world than her brother entered just over two years ago. He too arrived early, but his world was filled with touch. Laughter. Grandparents, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews gathering to meet him, to hold him, kiss him, ooh and ahhh over him, cuddle him.

My granddaughter’s arrival will not be filled with extended family gathering to meet her. There will be no baby shower. No gathering of family to welcome her home. My daughter must cope with the losses amidst the beauty of giving birth.

There is so much missing. So much that will be missed.

But there is one thing that is not missing. There is one thing that will sustain and support my daughter, her family and their precious newborn as they adjust to bringing this new life into the family circle.

Love.

It is always there. Flowing. Embracing. Filling each moment, every heart.

I must remember the Love. Feel it. Be it. Carry it. Hold it with outstretched hands across the Rockies, the interior valleys up and over the Coastal Range to their home by the sea.

I must hold out Love. Hold onto Love. Be Love.

When I think of my granddaughter’s arrival, I want to wish away Covid, wish away self-isolation, wearing masks, constant washing of hands, avoiding physical contact with others, avoiding groups and Zoom calls in lieu of person-to-person gatherings.

I want to wish it all away.

When I think of my granddaughter’s imminent arrival, I want the world to be different. To be less scary. Less one enormous danger zone.

I want what used to be.

I can’t. I can’t wish away Covid and I can’t have what used to be.

I must breathe into what is and remember the Love. The Love that is always present. Always here.

In Love, my heart beats freely. In Love, fear doesn’t stand a chance.

I may not be there to hold her in the first few days of her life on earth. I may not be able to be physically there to help my daughter and her family during their first days as a family of 4.

And my heart aches. I feel the sense of loss. Of sadness. Of wishing that times were different.

And I remember to breathe.

In. Out.

Deeply. Slowly.

In. Out.

The ache eases. It is less pressing, less frightening.

And that’s when it comes to me. The realization that not thinking about my granddaughter gives the virus more power than it deserves.

Yes. This tiny, invisible to the naked eye microbe has changed the entire world.

Yes. It has caused massive suffering, death, economic hardship, mental anguish and a host of other dire things.

But I will not let it steal my joy. I will not let it take away from me the gift of family. Of being present to the anticipation of new life. Of rejoicing in an infant’s arrival on this earth.

I will not give this virus that power.

______________________________________

I awoke this morning thinking about the arrival of my granddaughter and feeling somewhat sad about these circumstances that will inevitably still be in place when she is born.

And now, as always happens when I write it out. I feel more hopeful. More centered. More ready to start creating different pathways to experiencing the excitement and beauty of this time of waiting and her imminent birth.

If you have any ideas on how to adjust ‘what used to be’ to create a loving way in the here and now of being present within her imminent arrival, I would be so grateful for all ideas.

It’s time I let go of ‘not thinking’ and became engaged in actively thinking about ways to celebrate her arrival and her life.

Namaste.

__________________

And for our Zoom-in family dinner tonight, I decided to create family bunnies to be at the table with us.

Doing this gave/gives me great joy.

And I breathe.

My daughter and her family in Vancouver

The last photo is the alcohol ink on yupo paper that became the bunny for Alexis.

The Sequestered Baker

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Food was my parent’s love language.

Their love affair with all things culinary began with my father. As a teenager, he ran away from boarding school and worked in a bakery until he signed up with the RAF at the commencement of WW2.

He married my mother in India during the war and when they arrived in Canada after it ended, my mother didn’t know how to boil an egg. She’d had servants all her life. Cooking was not a necessary life skill.

Dad taught mum how to cook and over the years, they both shared not only the ‘how to’s’ of kitchen magic but also their love for the art of creating all things foody.

Depending upon what I’m creating, childhood memories flood my body when I am in the kitchen. If it’s bread, I am with my dad, hands immersed in flour, kneading and kneading dough. I can hear him telling me to be patient. That baking bread isn’t just about combining flour and yeast and water. It’s alchemy. An ancient art form evoking our ancestors hovered over earthen ovens buried in the sands of sweeping deserts and time’s passing. My father was a romantic by nature. Baking bread always brought out the poetry of his soul.

Appetizers and charcuterie, first courses and desserts… I hear my mother’s voice exhorting me to ensure everything not only tastes delicious but looks beautiful too. My mother was an artist at heart. The beauty of her food a song of love to all who sat down to share a meal at her table.

I thank my parents for the gift of being a romantic and an artist. Creating culinary delights is the counterbalance to my joy of creating beautiful tablescapes.

Vegan very berry coconut muffins

The gift of this time spent sequestered in solitude at home is the opportunity to spend time in the kitchen experimenting, playing, creating.

I just wish the scales weren’t tipping so awkwardly to one side with all my baking. Because, while C.C., my beloved, is delighted with fresh baking every day, my waistline is beginning to wish it had a built-in elastic band! It’s easy for my beloved to eat his full share without moaning. His waistline doesn’t seem to budge an inch no matter his consumption of savouries, sweets, treats and cookies.

But it doesn’t stop me. This solitude keeps drawing me back to the place where I find the most comfort. Where I feel most connected to my family circle. The kitchen.

Tune into one of our weekly family zoom calls, and you’ll find much of the conversation between my two sisters and daughters is all about food.

Creep my youngest daughter’s Instagram account and you’ll see video after video of meals being prepared in their newly renovated kitchen.

And check any of our email Inbox’s and you’ll discover a swathe of recipes shared and well-chewed on.

We love to talk about food. We love to create food.  We love to share what we create.

Thank you mum and dad. These memories and the love of being in the kitchen you ignited in my life, shore me up no matter the times, no matter what’s happening in the world.

That’s why, when C.C. (my beloved) and I renovated our home, our kitchen became the focal point of our design. It’s a win/win. He likes it when I spend time in the kitchen. I love spending time in our kitchen.

I am grateful for its beauty. Its utilitarian nature. It’s many appliances (and gadgets) and the flavourful memories that awaken every time I step onto the kitchen mat.

Namaste.

________________________________________

Earlier this week, on my FB page, I shared the photo above and a friend asked me to share the recipe!

My daughters have always loved my Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Cookies.

The original recipe is in the the Silver Palate Cookbook which became my cooking bible when it came out in 1982.

I’ve adapted it over the years and share my adaptation here:

Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Cookies

1/2 cup butter

½ cup margarine

1 egg

2 tbsp. milk (I use Oat Milk)

1 tsp. vanilla

1 cup unsifted white flour

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1/4 tsp. salt

2 cup Rolled Oats

1/2 cup firmly packed Demerara Sugar  (original recipe calls for light brown)

1/2 cup Coconut Sugar   (original recipe calls for white sugar)

10 ozs dark chocolate chips

You can also add in 1/2 c of walnut chunks.
You can also replace the chocolate chips with raisins.

Directions:

Preheat over to 375F

Using the large bowl of a stand mixer and the whisk device (a hand blender works too) – blend together butter and both sugars until creamy and smooth. Whisk egg in a small bowl, add milk and vanilla. Add to butter sugar mixture and whisk until well blended.

In a separate bowl, stir together flour, baking powder and salt. Add to mixing bowl (the electric mixer will not work well for this part as the dough gets very heavy and thick.)

With a large wooden spoon, slowly add in the flour mixture to the butter/sugar mixture a little a time. Combine all.

Add in the oatmeal, one cup at a time. Then the chocolate chips.

Bonus! Because this batter gets thick and hard to stir you get a good arm workout! You can also add in a couple more tablespoons of milk to manage it better.

Refrigerate for ½ an hour (or more)  I make a batch a day from the same batter.

Drop by tablespoon onto cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. Flatten slightly.  You should get almost 50 cookies (medium sized) from one batter.

Bake for 12 – 14 minutes or until edges begin to brown.

Let cool on wire rack.

Enjoy!

 

___________

The muffin recipe can be found here:

 

 

 

Fear beckons. I choose Love.

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I scour the newsfeeds, as if my search will lead me to the thing I seek the most. Hope.

It isn’t there. At least, I can’t feel it beneath the fear that rises up to grip me.

I do not want to feel the fear and instead, turn to my studio, as if in immersing myself there, I will discover hope rising.

I still feel lost in my fear of the fear that stalks me.

I lose myself in a book, as if the words lining the page will somehow make sense of what is happening in the world around me.

I lose my place in the words I read again and again. My eyes blurring with fatigue and worry of fear’s tight grip.

I numb my senses in a Netflix series, as if the ongoing drama of fictitious characters will somehow help me find my place in all that is going on in the world around me.

I cannot stop what is going on in the world around me. I struggle to free myself from this place where fear threatens to drown me.

Holding my breath as if underwater, I fear I have nowhere to go.

I let go of fear. I take a breath. And then another. Life-giving oxygen fills my lungs. Fills my being. Fear diminishes. Courage rises.

I dive deep into myself, breathing into the beauty of this moment where the river flows endlessly towards a distant sea.

Above its steely grey surface, I watch a family of three walking with their dog across the bridge. The leash is held in their child’s hand, taut. The dog pulls. The child rushes to keep up. The dad rushes to help his child. There is fear in his quick steps. I cannot hear them but I can see the child’s laughter. The child’s joyful insistence that they keep hold of the leash. The dog pulls, urging the child to keep going. The child runs after the dog. Laughing. The parents join hands and follow.

I breathe in the joy of this tiny moment played out upon the bridge and feel the heaviness of my fear lighten up.

I watch two geese skim the surface of the river, honking loudly in their flight. Their wings expand and they fly up into the still chilly air of this April morning where spring hides high above in a clear blue sky. A cold front is passing slowly, ever so slowly, through. In the presence of the geese returning from southern lands, I am reminded, this too shall pass. Spring will blossom.

My heart lifts with the expansiveness of the geese taking flight and I feel life flow throughout my being present in their passing by. There is hope here. This too shall pass.

Held in still, soulful silence in the deepness of this present moment, I watch two squirrels chase each other up and down and all-around a tree trunk. They are fearless in their wild flight from tree limb to tree limb. My heart beats wildly. There is joy in their animal kingdom style game of tag.

I smile with them. My heart beats freely. Joy is here. Laughter. Fearlessness. Life.

I scoured the headlines searching for hope.

It wasn’t there.

It is here. Silently flowing all around me and deep within me. It flows like the river, carrying me always deeper into this present moment where the eternal beauty of life fills me up and I flow fearlessly in its embrace over the threshold of this moment, into the next.

And in each moment, I take a deep, life-giving breath and find myself lovingly held within the beauty of this moment right now.

This moment in which love flows freely.

I searched the headlines this morning looking for hope. I found only fear lurking between the black and white words and numbers blurred into incomprehensible statistics beneath my tears.

I wanted to give in to fear. I wanted to dive deep into hopelessness.

Instead, I chose to follow the thread of the river to where it leads me deep within to that sacred place where all I need to sustain my peace of mind in these days of turmoil and grief is that which is ever-constant, ever-flowing. Love.

I wanted to give in to fear this morning.

I choose Love.

 

_____________

I am sharing this with the Tuesday Photo Challenge as the word this week is Hope. Without hope of this pandemic’s end, the future would be grim.

 

 

 

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There ain’t no virtue in being a martyr

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No. 59 #ShePersisted Series

When I was a little girl, I thought it was my job to make my mom happy.

I sucked at it.

Not understanding why she cried so much and why she sometimes threatened to take her own life in front of us children, I did everything I could to make her laugh, to (literally) take the knife out of her hand. Mostly I made her cry. I didn’t realize I was not responsible to lift the cloud of dark depression (which as a child I had no name for) that permeated her essence.

I wasn’t that powerful.

I tell you this because in times of extreme stress, and you gotta admit, this pandemic qualifies as that, those childhood messages can rear up and undermine our well-being, our sense of self, our way of being in the world, if we don’t get conscious of our own ‘stuff’.

We’ve got to take care of ourselves.

And part of good self-care is being conscious of the things we are doing, including the unconscious/buried/hidden internal messages our psyche’s are acting out on from our ‘lizard brains’, that do not serve us well in the here and now.

Like believing I could save my mom.

Over the years and circumstances of my life, that child’s thinking turned into an adult belief that it is my job to save the world. That there is something I need to be doing to raise civilization up, to stop the tears, the pain, the suffering. But, (and here’s the kicker) because I couldn’t do it as a child for my mom, I also have a darker side of that belief; the self-defeating, self-annihilating belief that, no matter what I do, it won’t matter. Because, and this is the child’s thinking infiltrating my adult mind which knows it isn’t true but struggles in times of stress to soothe the child’s cries of, “I don’t matter”. “Why bother?” “Whatever I do won’t make a difference anyway.”

Now, I have spent my adult life working on healing those childhood wounds and fears. As Virginia Slims ads used to say, “You’ve come a long way baby”.  But, just like the virtues of the cigarettes those ads used to extoll, in times of distress, we are all at risk of falling back to default positions in order to cope. For me, one of those defaults is the good old depressing, martyr’s role. Unfortunately, there’s no virtue in playing the martyr unless you want to be a saint.

Ha!  Did I mention that the meaning of ‘Louise’ is ‘Saviouress of the world”?  Actually, Louise means, ‘protectress of the people’, so close, right?

I think I may have taken myself and the meaning of my name a tad too seriously. But hey! You can call me Saint Louise if you like.

Don’t get me wrong, I am laughing at myself this morning, looking at my hubris and throwing my hands up in the air as I exclaim, “Oh my look at me being so human! How fascinating!”

The fact is, I am sharing this because understanding where my shadow self is at play, keeps me grounded in the truth. I am not powerful enough to save the world. I am powerful enough to change my world. To create light and beauty in my world, to share my gifts with a generous heart and to create ripples of better all around me.

To do that, I must take care of myself so that I can then give back to others from a place of compassion, generosity and Love.

I know, deep within me, that I am not here to save the world. I am here to save myself from my thinking I am here to save the world. (That one made me smile so I’m leaving it as is).

So, here’s the deal. I tell you all this because I have been feeling the weight of this crisis, wanting to do more, feeling powerless, helpless, useless. I have been struggling to find my way through the dark, alone.

I am not alone. We are all in this together. We are all connected. This is all our one world, one planet, one humanity.

It’s just sometimes, when I’m not taking good care of myself by loving myself through the darkness, I can get trapped in believing I’m all alone. I don’t matter. I can never do enough.

I know that when I’m willing to embrace my truth with compassion and love, be it my light shining or a dark shadow looming, I am free of my childhood driven fear that I will never matter. I will never make a difference. I have no worth.

We all matter. We all make a difference. We all have worth.

And here’s the deal.  Remember at the beginning of this (long) post, I said in the context of saving my mother, “I wasn’t that powerful”?

Well, when we take care of ourselves, when we heed the voices rising up out of the dark past and lovingly embrace their fears, their angst, their belief there’s nothing we can do, we are taking really good care of ourselves. Because, in acknowledging their presence, they feel safe enough to return to the past and we become free to be here in the present, in all our light, beauty, and love.

And in that place, we are powerful enough to live from our magnificence, so that together we can create a better world for everyone.

Namaste.

(And yup. She’s a long one this morning. I thank you for reading through to the end. I thank you for shining your light on my path. I thank you for being you.)

 

 

Let Love Lead

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It is early morning. I cannot sleep.

I wander into the living room. Turn on my desk lamp. Light the candle  I light every morning.

Beaumont, the Sheepadoodle, raises his head from where he is asleep on the chaise beside my desk. I give him a pat. He lowers his head and closes his eyes.

I leave my desk where it sits in front of the window looking out over the river. I walk around the island, into the kitchen area. Turn on the cappuccino machine. Fill the receptacle with water.

I pull out the coffee grinder from the drawer beneath the window at the far end of the kitchen. It looks out onto our front doorstep. It is dark out there. No view of a streetlight shimmering on the river’s surface. No flash of a car’s lights crossing the bridge.

I pull out the jar of coffee beans. The grinder. I place them on the counter, measure out the beans and press down on the lid. The noise of the grinder startles Beau. He lifts his head. He watches me. Slowly rises off the chaise. Stretches and comes to stand beside me in the kitchen. I scratch behind one of his ears. He leans against my leg.

I ask if he wants to go out. He cocks his head to one side.

I move to the front door. Gather his leash which lays on top of the wicker basket that holds his towel, ball, and other doggy paraphernalia.

I throw a coat on over my pyjamas. Exchange my slippers for slip-on boots and head outside.

Beaumont hesitates for a moment on the top step. He stretches his head towards the river. Listening.

I listen with him.

In the quiet, I hear the river flowing, its gurgling sounds a welcome whisper in the dark.

On a strip of gravel that I cannot see but know lies in the river’s path, geese honk in the pre-dawn dark.

I wonder if they can find their way when there is no light.

We move off the stairs towards the road at the end of the walk. I stand in the crisp, cool air of morning not yet broken. Beau sniffs and snuffles in the frost-covered grass.

Morning has not yet awoken. Darkness rests easy in my corner of the world.

I have not read the news today. Have not yet scrolled through interminable accounts of the rising number of cases and deaths, of losses and grief. Of what’s happening where. Of measures taken. Steps missed. Decisions made. Changes unfolding.

I have not yet opened myself up to the tug of despair. The tears I am afraid to unleash for fear they will not stop. The wish I could do more, do anything to stop the infiltration of this virus infecting the world. To do something to ease the fear and panic. To soothe a troubled soul.

I breathe.

I am not ready to face the day filled with facts and stories of a virus taking the world hostage. There will be time enough for reality to rise up and stun me with the shrill cry of its presence.

For now, I breathe into the gentle awakening of dawn’s light pushing back against the dark.

In the stillness of the morning, I stretch my arms above my head and welcome in the light creeping into the night.

We are billions of little rowboats struggling to find our way, together, through these uncharted waters.

We are billions of voices and stories, eyes and hands, hearts and feet pounding a path to a better tomorrow. Together.

May we all find the courage to row as One.

And I dip my oar into the waters and begin to row.

And the waters part and I find myself moving with the water’s flow as the sun breaks across the distant horizon.

Light pushes back the dark and turns the sky rose and gold and blue.

I dip my oar into the river and am reminded that it is love that connects us. Love that supports us. Love that leads the way.

Let us row together. Let us Let Love Lead.

________________

Thank you Miriam of My Window for the inspiration for Let Love Lead.  (Sometimes, the words flow first. Sometimes, the painting.)

At all times, Love Flows.  Love leads.

Painting will follow. ❤

#CreateBoldly – An invitation

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In The Memory of a Tree
11 x 14″ on acrylic paper
Mixed Media

I know. I know.  Two posts in one morning!

This one is actually from my SM feeds yesterday. I wanted to post it here as an invitation to you to join in too!

Create Boldly. 
#CreateBoldly

Create Boldly is a creativity challenge I’m leading to keep myself, and anyone who cares to join me, grounded in gratitude, generosity and grace as we move through these unprecedented times. If life comes without a script, living through a coronavirus pandemic comes without a guidebook.
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Create Boldly is an invitation to stretch yourself and your creative muscles and write your own guidebook on what it means to be alive at this time, right now.

If you don’t have a creative practice, it’s an opportunity to stretch completely outside your comfort zone, or, if you already do have one, to stretch your practice in unexpected ways.

How It Works

Every 2 or 3 days (I’m going with unscripted here), I’ll offer up a prompt via a theme — and you get to do the rest.

Today’s theme is: The Memory of Trees.

 

The Invitation:

Create your own poem, prose, haiku, story (as long/as short as you wish) based on the prompt, and paint, draw, use your computer or use paints, pencils, crayons…, and create a visual reflection on your poem/prose/story. Or you can just write something or paint/draw/sew/embroider/quilt something — remember, it’s unscripted.

There’s no right nor wrong way to participate. There is only the invitation to step into this space with me and explore what can happen when you let yourself Create Boldly.

All you need to do to participate is decide to do it and share your offerings here, on your FB or Instagram page and tag me (mlouiseg88) and use the hashtag — #CreateBoldly

That’s it.

An invitation.
An empty space.
An opportunity.

I hope to see you here in days yet to pass.

My interpretation of the prompt is a poem and a painting. I’m not sure which inspired which or which came first, the prompt, the poem or the painting…

In The Memory of a Tree
©2020 Louise Gallagher

In the memory of a tree
its roots are deeply planted
in the soil, grounded
in earth’s eternal journey
spinning around the sun.

In the memory of a tree
the seasons change,
time passes
like a river.
Nothing stays the same.

In the memory of a tree
spring bids farewell
to winter
and summer turns
to fall.
Everything changes.