Category Archives: Essential Journey

Let Us Remember The Mothers #IWD2024

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On this International Women’s Day let us not forget the mothers. The ones who are fleeing war torn lands, their children’s hands gripped firmly in theirs as they navigate the uncertain terrains they must cross to reach safety.

These women are not feeling the war. They are risking their lives to safeguard the future of all humankind by taking the children out of the line of fire.

They are future-makers, memory-keepers and peace-makers.

They carry with them the memories that make lives rich. Traditions handed down through generations. Recipes passed from one generation to the next. They carry the scars on their bodies of childbirth, of watching their sons go off to war, of burying their children before their time, of moving through exhaustion and fear to care for those who cannot care for themselves. And always, despite the hardships they’ve endured, the losses they’ve experienced, the fear their children would not make it to safety, they carry with them, Love.

It is the courage of these women to love in times of war and unspeakable losses and fear and turmoil as they struggle to get their children to safety that will carry us beyond the tragedy of these days so that one day we can all stand united in peace, together in Love.

Grief Flows With Gratitude

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Vancouver, spring 2023. The Gallagher Girls – The last time we were all together

Grief, ever-present lingered heavily in our midst this weekend. This morning, grey skies hang low, creating a world where air hangs heavy and still in sympathy with the river whose flow is stifled by ice covering its surface. The quality of the air we breathe holds ‘Moderate Risk’ the weather report states. Burdened with humanity’s careless offerings it clings close to the earth, reluctant to disperse.

In this world, we are like specters of loss, breathing shallowly as though each inhalation risks sweeping away the delicate memories of those departed. It’s as if letting go of these recollections would affirm the unbearable truth of their absence.

Frozen in grief’s clutches, our blood struggles to circulate, our hearts labour to beat under the weight of memories clutched too tightly.

This weekend past, my daughter and I, alongside one of my brother-in-law’s daughters, embarked on the poignant and heart-wrenching task of sifting through my sister Jackie’s belongings. Her wardrobe—a tapestry of her life—dresses, scarves, jewelry, all infused with her essence. Treasured keepsakes nestled in a jeweled box, a gift from our parents in her teens: cards, handwritten notes, photos, ticket stubs, even her Air Canada ‘wings’, and our brother’s high school ring. Among these, a pair of tiny gold scissors and a spool of thread.

Jackie, a seamstress whose passion for sewing wove joy into our lives, created snowsuits, Easter dresses, Halloween costumes, and doll clothes for my daughters. Her craft was meticulous, her stitches a testament to her precision.

But time and arthritis cruelly claimed the dexterity of her fingers. Her love for sewing gradually receded into memory, leaving behind fabrics, ribbons, and threads, which she generously donated to charity.

In her craft room, her sewing machine and serger stood silent, shrouded in protective covers, awaiting a new home.

We found solace in redistributing her clothes. The Pashmina one of our cousin’s from India gave her, now part of my wardrobe, feels like an embrace from Jackie. The bracelet my middle sister, Anne, and I gave her for her 75th birthday is on my wrist. Other pieces are packed away for me to take to Anne when I fly to Vancouver next month. Some, my daughters kept to remember her by and others we shared with friends who wanted tokens of remembrance.

Yet, the abundance of her possessions led us, my youngest daughter and I, to fill our SUVs and donate to an agency aiding women entering the workforce. “Jackie would be pleased,” my brother-in-law remarked. Indeed, she always extended a helping hand to those in need.

Her personal items have left the home, but the ache of their absence lingers. Waves of grief wash over me, each tide a reminder of what we’ve lost in Jackie’s passing. Each breath full of the pain of letting go.

I find myself hoping, irrationally, that shallow breaths might lessen the sharpness of loss. Yet, deep down, I know life and death don’t bend to such wishes. I sometimes fantasize it’s all a dream, only to be jolted back by the vivid memory of her final breath, my hand resting on her forehead, the chill of the November air as I left the hospital, the flight to Vancouver where I gazed through the plane’s window, seeking her essence in the clouds.

In these moments of remembrance, grief slips away as I soak in the gratitude of having had a sister such as Jackie. And as I breathe into the stillness of my memories, I wonder… was that Jackie’s voice reminding me to breathe?

Dare Boldly: No Matter Your Age — Take 2

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This woman appeared as the November woman for last year’s She Dares Boldly calendar which I’m using to emphasize the quote the muse awoke this morning to go with this post: Woven into the tapestry of life’s highs and lows, a woman’s essence blooms, as vibrant as roses intertwined with wings of change.

It’s been quite some time—over a year, in fact—since I last contributed a video to my Dare Boldly: No Matter Your Age video series. The last episode was last year on October 22.

As my birthday looms on the horizon, however, and as I delve deeper into the complexities of aging within our youth-centric society, I find myself reflecting on the significance of raising our voices. There is immeasurable value in every woman’s story as we collectively embark on this crucial journey, learning to embrace bravery and boldness at any stage of life.

The reminder about the series however, came yesterday evening when I had the pleasure of meeting with a remarkable group of women, all members of Calgary’s longest-running women’s book club. Established in 1976, this group convenes ten times a year to engage in thoughtful discussions about the selected book of the month. Notably, one of the attendees has been a dedicated member since the club’s inception.

These women are not only avid readers, but also independent thinkers—progressive, reflective, and deeply curious about life’s myriad questions, contradictions, and possibilities.

I am honored to have been invited as the guest speaker for their annual Christmas gathering at the end of November. Last night’s meeting served a dual purpose: to discuss my upcoming presentation and their expectations, and to provide me an opportunity to familiarize myself with them prior to addressing the larger group. This larger assembly comprises seven book clubs, each with ten members, totaling seventy women representing a diverse range of ages.

The founding group, with whom I had the pleasure of meeting, consists of women who, like me, are gracefully navigating the complexities of being a woman of a ‘certain’ age. Together, we have created homes, forged careers, and nurtured our families. We have embraced the joys and challenges of becoming grandmothers and, for some of us, taken on the significant responsibilities of caring for partners and parents.

Like my own journey, their lives have been marked by love both found and lost, by the profound grief of losing loved ones, and by the courage to embark on new beginnings. We have navigated endings and weathered life’s fluctuating highs and lows, all while striving to deepen our understanding of our true selves. In the process, we have learned to live authentically, remaining steadfast to our core values and our shared humanity.

As I departed from our meeting, having shared a glimpse of what I plan to discuss later this month, I was profoundly moved by the richness and fullness of these women’s lives. Each individual is fascinating in her own right, and together, they form a captivating and vibrant collective. Many of these women have been part of this book club for several years, fostering a circle characterized by intimacy, companionship, and mutual support.

My friend, who kindly recommended me as this year’s Christmas bash speaker, took a moment to tell the group about my video series, “Dare Boldly: No Matter Your Age.”

This interaction served as both a reminder and an invitation, prompting me to set up my lights and camera this morning to record the 37th episode of the series.

The Journey Home: From Self-Awareness to Self-Reconciliation

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Centuries ago, Aristotle wrote, “The most important relationship we can all have is the one you have with yourself. The most important journey you can take is one of self-discovery. To know yourself, you must spend time with yourself, you must not be afraid to be alone. Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.”

I’d add, “Yet, without seeking to empower self-awareness through self-reconciliation, self-awareness hangs, like an unripened pear, in fruitless possibility.”

Recently, while on my solo trip to Ireland, someone mentioned that they hate travelling alone. “I think it’s because I don’t really like my own company,”

Their comment surprised and intrigued me. I wrote the question in my journal, “Do I like my own company?”

Yes, was my immediate response.

What is it about your own company you enjoy? was my next question.

That one didn’t evoke an immediate response. I decided to make a list of all the things I liked about being with me.

  • I enjoy sitting watching people,.
  • Being alone gives me space to savour silence
  • I like how I’m comfortable just ‘being’ without having to be doing.
  • I enjoy making up stories about other people’s lives, and when I’m alone, I have all the time I need to do that.
  • I meet strangers where they’re at when I’m travelling on my own and get to hear their stories
  • I don’t feel like I have to be ‘on’ when I’m travelling alone. I can choose to talk to someone or not, choose to go out, or not, choose what pleases me at any given time.

After reflecting on my own appreciation for solitude, I began to realize that this contentment I find in my own company is intimately tied to a deeper journey—one that involves self-knowledge and the transformative power of self-reconciliation.

Having spent much of my adult life peeling back the layers of my psyche, the insights I’ve acquired into my inner workings, have helped me gain a profound understanding of who I am, beauty and the beast, yin and yang, dark and light, good, bad and indifferent.

However, on its own, self-knowledge doesn’t guarantee personal transformation. It’s just the beginning of a more profound journey. Imagine it as the map that shows you where you are, but it doesn’t tell you how to navigate the challenging terrain ahead.

Without seeking to empower self-awareness through self-reconciliation, it’s as if we stand at the edge of a vast challenging terrain, separated from where we are by a vast field of possibility. We want to know those possibilities but, fear of the unknown holds us back from taking the first step into the uncharter territory laid out before us. In many ways, this uncharted wilderness represents the aspects of ourselves that we’ve shied away from, the emotions we’ve suppressed, and the contradictions we’ve ignored. It’s a territory filled with uncertainty, and the journey within can seem daunting.

To bridge the gap between where we stand and the heart of our internal divide, we must cultivate courage and self-compassion. Courage to face our inner demons, and self-compassion to understand that it’s okay to have flaws, imperfections, and contradictions. Much like a seasoned explorer who equips themselves with the right tools and knowledge, we too can prepare for this journey.

First, we must arm ourselves with self-awareness, which acts as our compass. It helps us navigate the intricate pathways of our psyche. Self-awareness allows us to identify the areas where we feel divided within ourselves, pinpointing the sources of inner conflict.

Next, we need the flashlight of mindfulness. Mindfulness enables us to shine a light on the dark corners of our thoughts and emotions. It helps us observe our inner landscape without judgment, fostering a sense of curiosity and acceptance.

But perhaps the most crucial tool in our kit is self-compassion. It’s the warm embrace we offer ourselves when we encounter the challenges of self-reconciliation. Self-compassion reminds us that we are human, and like all humans, we are a complex tapestry of experiences, desires, and contradictions.

____________________________

The ReWrite Journey

As I develope the courseware for The ReWrite Joureny which I’ll be launching in January, I’l be exploring specific strategies and practices that will guide us deeper into the internal divide. We’ll learn how to reconcile the conflicting parts of our identity, heal past wounds, and emerge from this wilderness as more integrated, authentic, and self-aware individuals empowered to write a life-story that gives us the courage to shine bright, no matter how dark the times..

So, fasten your metaphorical hiking boots, gather your tools, and get set to embark on the journey of your lifetime as we tread, light of foot and heart, into the heart of the internal divide, where true self-reconciliation awaits.

Embracing My Next Decade: Setting the World Ablaze in My 70s

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She dares to live as if age is not a limitation, but an invitation to live it up with passion, purpose and profound significance.

I never thought I’d be charting a course for my next decade while stranded on the narrow roads of Ireland with a flat tire, but sometimes life’s unexpected twists force us to pause, reflect, and reevaluate our journey. It was in that moment of inconvenience, standing at the edge of a lake shimmering in the breathtaking beauty of the Irish landscape, that I realized the need to drive less, rest more, and dive deep into the boundless possibilities of my future.

As I approach my 70s, I’ve been pondering how to live life to the fullest. How can I unleash the creativity that simmers within me, yearning to break free? How do I wake up every morning with unwavering belief in the promise of a better tomorrow, immersing myself in passion and purpose, prose and artisitic expression?

The question that echoes in my heart is this: How do I craft the best chapter of my life yet?

Come December 9, the turning of the calendar will usher in a new decade, laden with the wisdom of years gone by and the thrilling anticipation of what lies ahead. The choice to seize this opportunity, to truly live it up, is solely mine to make—or to disregard.

I stand at a crossroads where I can defy societal expectations that often suggest older adults are merely biding their time. The world seems to imply that whatever we’re doing at ‘this age’ is mere inconsequential chatter, like flotsam on the surface of life. I wholeheartedly reject that notion. I choose to be noisy, to be loud, and dare I say it, to be obnoxious in my determination to declare: “It’s not over yet, baby! I’m ready to set the world on fire!”

This is my time, my moment, to embrace life with open arms and an open heart. It’s a time to cherish the unique perspective that comes with age, a perspective that is enriched by decades of experiences and lessons learned. My journey ahead is not a passive drift towards the sunset; it’s a blazing trail, illuminating the path for others to follow.

In this next chapter of my life, I am committed to leaving an indelible mark. I will pour my heart and soul into every endeavor, chase my dreams with fervour, and nurture my creativity like a precious flame. I won’t just exist; I will thrive. I will embody the belief that there’s still so much to contribute, create, and achieve, because age is not a limitation—it’s an opportunity.

So, here’s to the future, to embracing the uncharted territory that lies ahead with a fierce determination to make every day count. It’s a future filled with possibilities, and I intend to explore them all. Armed with a deeply seated love of self and humanity, a spirit embued with compassion, and a belief in the possibility of better, I declare that my 70s will be a decade of purpose, passion, and profound significance.

Watch out world! The 70s are calling and there’s no stopping me now!

Between Comfort and Chaos: Reflecting on War and Privilege

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I lie in the bath, my feet playfully peeking through the bubble-laden surface. Immediately, I’m reminded of my friend Lavern, who often shares photos of his feet relaxing against the backdrop of the sparkling Okanagan lake.

I snap a photo of my feet, but do not post it.

Two months ago, Lavern’s family summer home was consumed by the ravenous Adam’s Lake Fire in B.C. Years of dedication, sweat, and equity had turned their house into a cherished home. When the evacuation order came, they joined the convoy of desperate families fleeing the flames, their vehicles laden with memories, pets, and hope.

Lavern’s escape bore an extra layer of pathos. As part of the local volunteer fire brigade, he combatted the very inferno that razed his home.

This year, nature’s fury has felt unbridled—fires, floods, tornadoes, hurricanes—each disaster leaving scars on our landscapes and hearts. Yet, for many like Lavern, there’s solace in the knowledge that they can rebuild, even if the journey is long and tough.

There are so many million others in this hurting world whose journey is even tougher. The catastrophes they face are man-made—bombs, bullets, and wars that annihilate not just buildings but the spirit of communities. No fortress stands invincible to a missile, no hand can stop a bullet, just as no belief can truly justify the horror we inflict upon one another.

The world’s landscape is marred with unease. In our quest for territory and power, we seem to forget that peace cannot bloom from the soil of conflict. While some invoke divinity to defend violence, our shared humanity is overshadowed.

As I reclined in my bath this morning, insulated from the world’s chaos, I was hit with a profound realization: moments of peace, like this, are a privilege. And they’re not universal.

I took a photo of my feet sticking out of the bubbles in my bath this morning. Wrapped in the warmth of my home, my thoughts were distant from the cacophony of war, far from the dread of a bomb’s descent.

It’s moments like these that starkly remind me of the divide between safety and chaos, between peace and turmoil. Such simple, unassuming moments are luxuries that many in our world are denied. As I wrap myself in the comfort of my sheltered sanctuary, I’m enveloped by a deep gratitude for my safety, but also a profound sorrow for those living in the horrific reality of the dangers surrounding them.

Lest we forget, while some of us bask in comfort, countless others are engaged in a relentless fight for mere survival. As we sit blithely, passing judgments, laying blame, taking sides, or lashing out at commentators for dissenting views, there are mothers mourning as they pull the lifeless bodies of their children from ruins. Lost children wander amidst the chaos, their tiny hearts pounding, their trembling  bodies overwhelmed by hunger, thirst, and fear.

This is the harrowing face of war. After the deafening roars of guns have ceased and the final bombs have fallen, both victors and the vanquished are left with the somber task of laying their loved ones to rest. And long after the dust has settled, their hearts will continue to ache, bearing the weight of all that man’s conflicts have stolen.

If we are to make real peace with one another, let us not make it through war.

On faith and memory

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My Catholic roots are deeply intertwined with the tapestry of my childhood. Though I do not weave them through the warp and weft of my life today, they have always served as a solid foundation, enabling me to navigate life with a sense of peace, security, and boundless freedom.

I vividly recall the Friday evening Rosaries. The rhythmic clicking of the beads as they slipped through my mother’s fingers echoed the cadence of her whispered prayers. With each Hail Mary, I would impatiently await the end, yearning to run outside and play with my sister.

On Saturday afternoons, the serene ambiance of the church would embrace us as my sister and I assisted our mother with the flowers for the altar, ensuring their freshness for Sunday mass. While my sister had the honor of carrying the week-old vases, I was delegated the task of sorting. Perhaps my mother had her reasons to doubt my dexterity (or perhaps lack of attention) when carrying breakable objects.

These memories have left an indelible mark. Even today, discarding withered flower arrangements, as I had to do when I returned from my trip, feels almost sacrilegious. The wilted petals and stagnant water resonate with silent prayers, pleading to be left undisturbed.

In my child’s memory, Sunday morning masses were full of chaos and confusion. The whirlwind of preparing four children, adorned in their Sunday best with my mother always winning out on what I was to wear, contrasted sharply with the solemnity of the mass. But Easter Sunday was special. It wasn’t the prolonged service that captivated me but the excited of a new Sunday hat and dress, my shiny patent leather shoes, and delicate lace gloves.

The church’s aesthetics enthralled me. From the priest’s ornate gold rimmed robes to the grandeur of the statues, I would sit and stare until my mother poked me with a whispered, “Pay attention”. It is perhaps in the church where the seeds of my feminist nature were planted. Amidst all the allure, the gendered confines of the church stung. Why couldn’t girls, equally devout and capable, serve at the altar?” I would ask my mother, only to be hushed with a sharp retort to be quiet or stop asking questions.

My childhood was also marked by innocent transgressions and the subsequent confessions whispered into the darkness of a confessional booths screen behind which an unseen priest sat. I knew my litany of sins by hear and practiced them with my sister to ensure we didn’t sound exactly the same: bickering with my sister, disobeying my mother or father, and the unintentional swallowing of water before the mass in the days when eating or drinking anything before consuming the holy wafer was a big no-no.

Post-mass Sundays had their rituals too. Breakfast awaited, and my father’s culinary feats were nothing short of legendary. Invitations to join were frequent, and few could resist.

My recent journey to Ireland rekindled these poignant memories. The landscape is dotted with majestic cathedrals and humble churches, their spires reaching towards the heavens, silent witnesses to centuries of devout worship. It’s impossible not to feel the profound depth of Catholic faith imbued in the very heart of the Irish people. The ubiquity of crucifixes, gracing everything from homes to local stores, speaks volumes of a culture where the sacred and the secular seamlessly converge.

In this nation, where belief threads through every aspect of life, I found echoes of my past. The sanctity I witnessed in Ireland, in the daily lives of its people, reflected my own childhood filled with the mysticism of faith and the embrace of family.

These reminiscences emphasize the profound influence of my roots. Although I’ve distanced myself from the strict religious practices of my youth, the spiritual foundation laid during those years keeps me grounded. I firmly believe that life, with all its mysteries, wonders, and challenges, is divinely orchestrated. It’s a gift to be treasured, a journey to be celebrated with joy and love, no matter your spiritual beliefs or credo.

The Unknown Path

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Before I left Calgary, a wise friend posed a provocative question that nudged at my preconceived notion of a “successful” trip.

My Writing Corner – the stickies are the setting for each act of the play I’m writing

“All I really want is to at least draft the first act of the play I’m working on,” I shared with her, the phone line bridging the distance between her in Ottawa and me in Calgary.

“But what if you don’t write a single word?” she mused. “What if all you do is follow your heart’s call in every moment? Isn’t that, in itself, success?”

It’s frustrating when someone highlights the glaringly obvious, particularly when it’s the exact thing I’ve been sidestepping.

So, what defines a successful trip? Or, extending that thought, a successful life? For me, it’s not merely about achievements but feeling truly fulfilled. It’s the profound joy of self-acceptance and an inner tranquility with who I am, right here, right now.

What if my ‘solo writer’s retreat’ yielded not a single penned word?

After the nerve-wracking drive yesterday that resulted in a flat tire, I decided to take a breather from the challenging narrow roads. A day for my frayed nerves and strained shoulders. And yes, a massage is top of the list when I’m back!

Instead, I wandered, read, napped, and yes, wrote. Surprisingly, I even wrapped up the first draft of Act 1. Yet, thanks to my friend’s piercing question, I wasn’t viewing this through a ‘success’ filter. This was about me showing up authentically, basking in every moment, every breath, as Greg McKeown explains in “Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less”, it’s about my “highest level of contribution”.

Venturing into the quaint hamlet of Garrykennedy on the shores of Lough Derg, I nestled into a cozy chair at Larkin’s Pub, a comforting fire warding off the crisp Augumn air.With a glass of wine in hand and an amazingly delectable bowl of Seafood Chowder, I scribbled and penned thoughts into my journal, the bar’s mid-afternoon quiet punctuated by the murmurs of two other patrons.

Later, I meandered along the shoreline, letting the rain-kissed air envelop me, the stillness of the moment a pure embrace.

It was quintessentially Irish—a day where success wasn’t quantified by accomplishments but by my immersion in every little thing.

That said, if someone could please explain to me why the Irish, known for their unhurried approach to life, speed at 80/km on these sinuous single lanes, I’d be eternally grateful!

The Unknown Path
by Louise Gallagher

Someday, you will step onto a path
not knowing
where it will lead
following its winding ways
into the unknown
that awaits
when you let go
of having to know
paths not taken
before you walk them.

Someday, you'll discover
the answers you seek
lay beyond
the paths you know.

(The poem was written while sitting in Larkin’s Pub, warming myself by the fire)

Travelling Alone Holds Many Lessons

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I’m seated at a writer’s desk that once beloned to the grandfather of Pippa, the owner of the Half Door Writer’s Cottage, my temporary Irish abode.

Earlier today, I ventured into Nenagh, the largest town nearby that has a delightful town centre, a 1200 year old castle and a TESCO, Ireland’s supermarket chain. On the main street I spotted a store named with the same surname as Pippa. I wonder if it’s linked to her grandfather’s desk? I’ll need to ask her once we meet. Currently, she’s in Greece, navigating roads she described via WhatsApp as even more narrow and exciting than Ireland’s.

Switching driving sides is a mutual adventure for both Pippa and me. I commend myself for adapting rather quickly, save for a single blunder. One car had to flash its lights to alert me of my lane mistake! Now, I constantly remind myself, “My right shoulder is closest to the white line in the middle of the road.”

Yesterday evening, after settling into the cottage and the friendly feline Mr. Baggins, I headed to Gerrykennedy, a quaint lakeside village just a few minutes away. At Larkin’s Pub, I treated myself to delectable fish and chips on their patio and nursed a glass of Pinot Grigio as I wrote in my journal.

Things I’ve observed while travelling alone:

  • Talking aloud, especially when fatigue sets in. It’s a way to remain alert, especially after an exhausting transatlantic flight. And it’s a great way to give myself pep talks as I try to navigate the standard transmissions, driving on the opposite side of the road and a foreign landscape.
  • I’m more open to seeking assistance. Take the incident with my rental car’s non-existent ignition button for example. Accustomed to just pushing the button to start my car at home, I searched for the same facility on my rental car until I gave up searching and asked the lovely young attendant for help. He was very kind in showing me how the key just pops out of the fob and where to insert it on the steering whell. 😊
  • Balancing ego and self-awareness is vital. While ego nudges me to appear infallible, curiosity prompts questions about my presence and awareness.
  • The joy of unplanned detours, despite Siri’s insistence on sticking to the route.
  • The comforting presence of my inner voice, guiding me towards mindfulness.

Solo travels have been insightful:

  • It’s made me delve deeper into the essence of solitary journeys and heighten my self-awareness.
  • I’ve discovered the importance of relishing my own presence.
  • The conveniences of modern tech, like Google Maps and phone-to-car syncing, are deeply appreciated.
  • Staying connected with loved ones is just a call, text, or email away, reinforcing that we’re intrinsically linked irrespective of distances.

Traveling solo doesn’t equate to loneliness. It’s an enriching experience heightened by the omnipresent interconnectedness and the deep love that binds me inextricably where ever in the world I am.

A normal driving road when off the motorways. There are little lay-bys so that drivers can pull over to let approaching cars pass. Coming around curves is rather scary! That and the fact the posted speedlimit is usually 80 KMs per hour!

    Autumn Symphony: A Dance of Renewal

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    Autumn – that enchanting season where Mother Earth gently reminds us of life’s cyclical nature: the ebb and flow of endings and beginnings, of birth and decay and renewal.

    Sir Beaumont of Sheepadoodle and I are walking along a ridge above the river. With each step we take take, leaves crunch and whisper stories beneath our feet. Sunbeams dance on the river, making the water come alive with a joyous shimmer.

    The world moves, yet in this moment, it feels still.

    As Beaumont and I meander along the ridge above the river, the vast eastern sky stretches out, painted in hues of serene blue streaked with white clouds billowing up. To the west, an impending storm, threatening to draw into the vast blueness above us. The wind howls gathers strength. Golden leaves dance on the ground, the crisp autumn breeze urging them to let go and release their bodies to its beguiling nature..

    As we walk, we chance upon a woman, her camera ready to capture nature’s magic. Further along, a couple stand, their arms heavy with fishing gear. “Any luck?” I ask. “Too late in the season,” they respond. But their lack of fishing success didn’t deter Beau. Eager for affection, he dances and whines with his eternal request to, “Pet me. Pet me.” The man happily obliges, and for a brief moment, two strangers connect over a shared love for a dog.

    The journey continues. My hair dances to the rhythm of the wind, and the distinctive sounds of autumn serenad us. I take a deep, invigorating breath, basking in the sheer vitality of the moment.

    We venture east, then turn back towards the west, where the approach of ominous clouds cast a shadow over the mountains in the distance.

    And then, as if a painter has suddenly hurled white paint against a dark canvas, divine rays of light break through, painting the sky with celestial elegance. “Look at that,” I whisper to Beau, awed by the spectacle.

    I stand and watch and soak it in and that’s when I hear it. Above the familiar sounds of the ridge before a storm, a new melody emerges as if carried on a magic carpet out of the darkness of the western skies – the soulful cry of a violin.

    Curious, I hurry westward.

    And there, atop the ridge, stands a figure. Dressed in sleek black lycra with a vivid yellow jacket, he stands next to a resting bike, a violin nestled against his neck. An open backpack, a music stand with sheets pinned to its frame, the papers fluttering in the breeze, large headphones that seem out of place in this natural setting. Yet, lost in his music, the world around him ceases to exist.

    Beau, ever the curious canine, continues exploring, but I am spellbound. The violinist’s passionate performance feels like a mystical bubble of wonder, resonating with the very essence of the serene landscape around.

    Each note of his song brushes against my soul, speaking awe in every fibre of my being.

    Eyes closed, he plays oblivious to my presence. I stand and listen and close my eyes and soak it all in.

    Like light streaming through the clouds, gracing the world with beauty and wonder, his notes embrace me with the magic of a moment where man, nature and music became one symphonic dance of joy.

    I open my eyes and walk on, back towards my car. Back towards home.

    And still, no matter where I go, I carry the music with me.

    Namaste.