I am scrolling through news of the tragic aftermath of the atmospheric river that deluged much of BC, destroying lives, livelihoods, homes, and infrastructure.

I am sitting at my desk looking out at the autumn-naked branches of the trees that line the river.

And I think about the pain thy must feel at the loss of their brothers and sisters this past summer as wildfires swept through BC’s interior.

And I wonder if they are hurting now in the sadness of knowing many of their sisters and brothers were swept in the storm’s wake — and how, if they could only have stood their ground against the fires, some of what happened might not have been.

I am breathing into the trees this morning. Breathing and listening, deeply, to their pain and what they have to say.

In The Language Of Trees
by Louise Gallagher

The language of trees
lays buried
deep within their roots
digging into the earth
stretching their arms
in search
of whispers of life
within the cracks and crevices
of time lying still
beneath Mother Nature’s soiled covers.

The language of trees
is felt
rising up through crenellated bark
and rugged trunks
standing tall
against the wind 
hurling obscenities
at their unwillingness
to give up ground
to its demands.

The language of trees
is heard deep
within the sibilant whispers
of its leaves
telling stories
to the birds and bees
and scampering squirrels
who clamber along its branches
in search of place to hide
through winter’s storms.


The language of trees
is written
everywhere.

We must listen
before it’s too late
to hear
their roots calling us
to help them 
stay grounded.

Remembrance Day. Lest we forget. Let us not forget.

Their sacrifice. Their duty to country. Their names.

Let us not forget.

My father went off to war when he was a boy. He went off and fought and came home and seldom spoke of those years again.

The following is the unedited version of a shorter Op-Ed I wrote that was published in the Calgary Herald several years ago. I share it here in memory of my father, and all the sons and daughters, boys and girls, men and women, who have gone off to war to never return or to return broken and scarred. I share it here to remind me to never forget my father who was once a poet boy. 

Lest we forget.

The Poet Boy

by: Louise Gallagher

When the poet boy was sixteen, he lied about his age and ran off to war. It was a war he was too young to understand. Or know why he was fighting. When the guns were silenced and the victors and the vanquished carried off their dead and wounded, the poet boy was gone. In his stead, there stood a man. An angry man. A wounded man. The man who would become my father.

By the time of my arrival, the final note in a quartet of baby-boomer children, the poet boy was deeply buried beneath the burden of an unforgettable war and the dark moods that permeated his being with the density of storm clouds blocking the sun. Occasionally, on a holiday or a walk in the woods, the sun would burst through and signs of the poet boy would seep out from beneath the burden of the past. Sometimes, like letters scrambled in a bowl of alphabet soup that momentarily made sense of a word drifting across the surface, images of the poet boy appeared in a note or a letter my father wrote me. For that one brief moment, a light would be cast on what was lost. And then suddenly, with the deftness of a croupier sweeping away the dice, the words would disappear as the angry man came sweeping back with the ferocity of winter rushing in from the north.

I spent my lifetime looking for the words that would make the poet boy appear, but time ran out when my father’s heart gave up its fierce beat to the silence of eternity. It was a massive coronary. My mother said he was angry when the pain hit him. Angry, but unafraid. She wasn’t allowed to call an ambulance. She wasn’t allowed to call a neighbor. He drove himself to the hospital as she sat helplessly beside him in the passenger seat. As he crossed the threshold of the emergency room, he collapsed, never to awaken again. In his death, he was lost forever, leaving behind my anger for which I had no words.

On Remembrance Day, ten years after his death, I went in search of my father at the foot of the memorial to an unnamed soldier that stands in the middle of a city park. A trumpet played “Taps”. I stood at the edge of the crowd and fingered the felt of the bright red poppy I held between my thumb and fingers. It was a blustery day. A weak November sunshine peaked out from behind sullen grey clouds.  Bundled up against the cold, the crowd, young and old, silently approached the monument and placed their poppies on a ledge beneath the soldier’s feet.

I stood and watched and held back.

I wanted to understand the war. I wanted to find the father who might have been had the poet boy not run off to fight “the good war” as a commentator had called it earlier that morning on the radio.

Where is the good in war, I wondered?

I thought of soldiers falling, mothers crying, and anger never dying. I thought of the past, never resting, always remembered and I thought of my father, never forgotten. The poet boy who went to war and came home an angry man. In his anger, life became the battlefield upon which he fought to retain some sense of balance amidst the memories of a world gone mad.

Perhaps it is as George Orwell wrote in his novel, Nineteen Eighty-four:

“The very word ‘war’, therefore, has become misleading.  It would probably be accurate to say that by becoming continuous war has ceased to exist… War is Peace.”

For my father, anger became the peacetime of his world until his heart ran out of time and he lost all hope of finding the poetry within him.

There is still time for me.

On that cold November morning, I approach the monument. I stand at the bottom step and look at the bright red poppies lining the gunmetal grey of the concrete base of the statue. Slowly, I take the first step up and then the second. I hesitate, then reach forward and place my poppy amongst the blood-red row lined up along the ledge.

I wait. I don’t want to leave. I want a sign. I want to know my father sees me.

I turn and watch a white-haired grandfather approach, his gloved right hand encasing the mitten-covered hand of his granddaughter. Her bright curly locks tumble from around the edges of her white furry cap. Her pink overcoat is adorned with little white bunnies leaping along the bottom edge. She skips beside him, her smile wide, blue eyes bright.

They approach the monument, climb the few steps and stop beside me. The grandfather lets go of his granddaughter’s hand and steps forward to place his poppy on the ledge.  He stands for a moment, head bowed. The little girl turns to me, the poppy clasped between her pink mittens outstretched in front of her.

“Can you lift me up?” she asks me.

“Of course,” I reply.

I pick her up, facing her towards the statue.

Carefully she places the poppy in the empty spot beside her grandfather’s.

I place her gently back on the ground.

She flashes me a toothy grin and skips away to join her grandfather where he waits at the foot of the monument. She grabs his hand.

“Do you think your daddy will know which one is mine?” she asks.

The grandfather laughs as he leads her back through the crowd.

“I’m sure he will,” he replies.

I watch the little girl skip away with her grandfather. The wind gently stirs the poppies lining the ledge. I feel them ripple through my memories of a poet boy who once stood his ground and fell beneath the weight of war.

My father is gone from this world. The dreams he had, the promises of his youth were forever lost on the bloody tide of war that swept the poet boy away.  In his passing, he left behind a love of words born upon the essays and letters he wrote me throughout the years. Words of encouragement. Of admonishment. Words that inspired me. Humored me. Guided me. Touched me. Words that will never fade away.

I stand at the base of the monument and look up at the soldier mounted on its pedestal.  Perhaps he was once a poet boy hurrying off to war to become a man. Perhaps he too came back from war an angry man fearful of letting the memories die lest the gift of his life be forgotten.

I turn away and leave my poppy lying at his feet.

I don’t know if my father will know which is mine. I don’t know if poppies grow where he has gone. But standing at the feet of the Unknown Soldier, the wind whispering through the poppies circling him in a blood-red river, I feel the roots of the poet boy stir within me. He planted the seed that became my life.

Long ago my father went off to war and became a man. His poetry was silenced but still the poppies blow, row on row. They mark the place where poet boys went off to war and never came home again.

The war is over. In loving memory of my father and those who fought beside him, I let go of anger. It is time for me to make peace.

On his blog on Monday, David Kanigan shared the following quote:

“It crossed his mind that maybe one of the most telling differences between the young and the old lay in this detail.

As you aged you cared less and less about what others thought of you, and only then could you be more free.”

— Elif Shafak, The Island of Missing Trees: A Novel (Bloomsbury Publishing; 1st edition (November 2, 2021)

Blogger and yoga/meditation guide, Val Boyko, commented that, “Perhaps it isn’t about the aging process, but more about getting to know and accepting yourself.”

I’m with Val.

Diving into self-knowing, clarifying my values, my beliefs, my ‘Principles to Live by” have all given me the freedom to be less concerned about what you think of me.

Not because I don’t care, I do care about you and how you perceive me — I just care more about how I see myself in the world — and when I see myself living by my principles, walking in my integrity, speaking my truth with heart, honesty and humility, I don’t have to concern myself about the opinion of others. I’m living true to me.

It is a constant checking in and looking outward. Being present and being real. Giving grace to others and honouring my own worth.

It is my journey of life.

And on this journey, I have learned – no matter our age, we are always capable of acting out, or acting for good.

The better I know myself, the more I forgive and step into gratitude, the more I have less to regret about what or how I’ve behaved.

And when I use my bad behaviour as an opportunity to grow in self-awareness and truth, I give myself the grace of not having to worry about the opinion of others…

And I smile.

Because the next part of that statement was going to be… because my opinion of myself is all that matters.

And while there is truth in that, it isn’t ALL that matters. It is what matters most.

When my opinion of myself is blinded by a belief I have no room to grow or change or evolve, I am stuck in self-denial. And self-denial will lead me to act out to defend my actions in ways I can’t imagine simply because I’m blind to my human condition.

Our human condition is a beautiful, unfathomable source of great beauty and magnificence. It can also be a source of great pain and destruction.

We can inspire others to imagine possibilities they never before thought possible through simple words of encouragement and support. Or, we can destroy another’s confidence and self-esteem by thoughtlessly cast-off comments that prevent them from seeing their magnificence and human potential.

No matter our age, when we are conscious of our capacity to ignite possibility or burn hearts and minds to oblivion, we must choose the path of possibility. It is on that path we free ourselves from being shackled and shamed by the opinions of others. It is on that path we give ourselves the freedom to ‘care less’ about ‘what have I done?!’ so that we can care more about what we do to create better….

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Thursday morning thoughts inspired by the people around me who help me see deeper into my human condition.

Thanks David and Val for the inspiration!