You know those days where magic seems to permeate every drop of sunshine streaming through the air?
Those days where Orcas appear as you cross the Strait and sunbeams dance like fairies on the water?
Yup. Yesterday was one of those days. I do hope you come and revel in the beauty of it all! It was so exquisitely magical!
The video of my day is on my Substack HERE.
The wind is blowing fierce today dragging the temperature down in its wake.
Standing on the rocky shoreline, salt spray washing my face, I feel the presence of my sister’s absense.
She would have loved it here.
Drowning in a sudden remembering of all that was lost those many months ago, the muse whispers, “Write it out.”
And so I do.
How's life, or death, on the other side?
by Louise Gallagher
These moments slip
in silent,
stealthy,
unbidden nudges
awakening
memory
rushes into
the gaping gash
of my mind
grown numb
in the absence of
your soft voice.
It’s hard
learning to inhabit life
since you left
in the early hours
of a harsh November morning
closing in
on two years ago
when it was so easy
to believe
you wanted to stay
as much as we
didn’t want you to leave.
I want to tell you this.
And I want to ask
How are you?
How’s life
or is it death
over there
on the other side
of the here
and now
where I feel the loss
of each day
without your presence
reminding me
to send that birthday card
to our middle sister,
clear my fridge of unidentifiable blooms,
clean the oven of greasy grime
and dust the shelves
I cannot see because
I am the short one
who didn’t look up
to see how hard
this life had become
for you
to live
another day
beyond the last.
A Satyr's Ode to Spring
by Louise Gallagher
Spring
air dancing
redolent with cherry
blossoms bursting
scented dogwood
shedding
winter’s coat
disarming
my nostrils
inhaling
sweet, tender freshness
of earth
ripening
rich and lush
under rain and sun
becoming
fertile ground
for summer’s future bounty
satiating me senseless
amidst lavender
magnolia
hyacinth
overpowering
my scent-clogged senses
weeping
with Spring
blossoming
beauty
releasing
winter’s grip
spinning
a Satyr’s ode
to joy
amidst wildflowers
calling me
to dance
wild and free.
April is Poetry Month, and while my intention was to write a poem a day, life had other plans! Still, as they say, better late than never.
One poet who consistently captivates me is Mary Oliver. The depth and richness of her writing, her ability to conjure vivid images with such sparse, carefully chosen words, always leaves me in awe.
Her poem, “Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches?”, poses a question that resonates deeply: “Listen, are you breathing, just a little, and calling it a life?”
Thanks to Ali Grimshaw’s Writing Circle, I now use an exercise to deeply connect with poetry: read a poem aloud twice, then write. The initial reading is about experiencing the flow of the words. The second is a deliberate listen for resonating words and ideas that inspire your own writing. (To do this solo, I record my reading, allowing for a focused, eyes-closed second listen to identify calling words and images, which I then underline as my inspiration.)
“Yes Mary Oliver, I am Breathing” is my response, my riff, to the powerful inquiry from Mary’s poem and the question, “Listen, are you breathing, just a little, and calling it a life?”
Yes Mary Oliver, I am Breathing by Louise Gallagher Breathing deep, slow breaths, ripe with potential life overflowing, untroubled by chattering minds, warning bells of danger lurking. Breathing, there is no hunger. Moments ease fluid and smooth, one breath to the next, misty vapours rising into the morning, becoming the ghost of time voiceless drifting softly away. Breathing, there is no thirsting. Questions of ‘What’s next’ cannot dim the bright blossoming of life’s rich bounty, painting the sky full of wonder and awe splashed haphazardly against the sharp, sweet joy of this moment passing – right now. Breathing, there is no yearning. Each breath, a symphony of delight singing in unison wth every leaf and stone, with waves rolling in and birds flying high. Breathing, there is no time to be, but now. Arms flung wide, neck stretched back, wide-eyed receiving life’s bounty savouring each drop doused in anticipation of what’s next, soaking up sun-warmed flesh ripe with possibility spilling over effortlessly into the startling wonder of being here alive in this moment right now.
Walking along the shoreline, water calm, air crisp with spring’s promise. Beau sniffs and snuffles the grass and bushes at the edge of the road, seagulls swoop and screech overhead,
I meet a woman and her dog. She shares her joy of see a pod of eight Orcas surface close in to where she stood on the rocks yesterday as dusk began to settle in.
“They appeared, and then they were gone,” she said after telling me that three seals scampered onto the rocks as the Orcas passed. Her dog barely noticed them.
Her dog and Beaumont sniff. Lose interest and continue to smell the greenery all around where we stand at the edge of the ocean.
I haven’t seen the Orcas yet. Lots of Humpback but no Orcas.
I know I will. One day. Soon. I hope.
I continue walking along and something she said about her heart feeling like it was blossoming out when she spied the whales resonates. The muse picks up the thread and when I return home, these words wove their way into substance.
Hidden Voices
by Louise Gallagher
Sing out loud, he urged,
but she held back,
ignoring the melody
stirring within her
hidden behind the secrets of childhood.
Everyone can sing, he said gently.
I don't dare, she demurred,
then hummed a little tune to herself,
a sweet, melodious note so pure,
the air stilled around her,
rustled through the leaves
swaying gently to her song.
That was beautiful, he whispered.
She shook her head, side to side
a nervous laugh escaping her lips
as soft as a moonbeam kissing the night.
It was nothing, she said.
Nothing we do is ever nothing
if we do it from the heart, he replied.
Her heart bloomed open,
a flower releasing its fragrant song.
His words rang true, a siren call,
urging her voice to rise up
loud and strong
no matter who was listening.
This morning a beautiful friend from the poetry circle I wrote with for several years and then had to miss out on most of last year because of a competing Monday night commitment, sent a poem to our group, ‘Acceptance‘, by Kerry Hardie. (Thank you Lilli Ann)
One of the images caught my imagination. Still January.
The muse whispered, “Write it out.” So I did.
DANCES WITH THE WIND
by Louise Gallagher
Still January
yesterday,
I walked the shoreline
morning calm stretched across grey water
lapping, gentle, muted sounds
caressing, rocks
slick and slippery
seaweed a blanket of vivid green
I step,
slowly, carefully,
remembering
there was a time
I leapt
rock to rock,
arms flung wide
head tilted back to catch
the salt-laced breeze
effortless
those were the days my friend
we danced ‘til dawn
and slept fast
fell in and out of love faster
Who can tame the wind?
A weathered branch creaks
memory slips
against the jagged
edges of daybreak whispering
only time can stifle age
Still January
today, I walk along the road
hugging the shoreline, close
mist hangs low
steel grey waves frothy, rolling
in and out, in and out
trees sway, leaves rustle,
dances with the wind
On solid ground I walk,
confident
an eagle soars above
time is on the wing.
Painted Sky
by Louise Gallagher
Stretched across a cerulean canvas
crimson streaks dance
upon Mother Nature's fiery palette
burnishing the sky in gold and rosy hues
of painted light playing
hide-and-seek amongst the clouds.
Breathe,
the golden hour whispers.
Shadows lengthen
calming wind-tossed seas
as day prepares to welcome
night's embrace.
With each exhale,
the day's woes ease
tensions bleed away
carrying off the bitter taste of past regrets
like smoke drifting
upon the wind
fading
into twilight's hush.
Breathing,
I step beyond
the fading light
welcoming in the mystery of darkness
falling
into the vast stillness of the stars
whispering
ancient secrets of eternity.
In the River of Time
by Louise Gallagher
Time flows in one direction
slow and steady
it moves forward
carrying us always
closer and closer
to the heart’s last beat
where the earth waits patiently
to claim us as its own.
The river winds its way through valleys and plains,
carrying the scent of earth and rain,
its waters overflowing
with stories of the places it’s been
as it pours itself into the deep
vast waters of the ocean
waiting patiently
for its gift to become one
with the endless song
of its ebb and flow.
The heart, blood red
beats its own rhythm
as we live out our stories
along the banks we call our own
moving always with time’s
journey moving us along
until the beat is gone
and we return
to the earth waiting patiently
to claim us as its own.
Time, like the river,
refuses no heartbeat.
Why then do we believe
one heart's story,
lived out in time’s passing days
on the banks of a river
we've never known
is worth valuing more
than another?
I walked with the trees yesterday. Listened to their leaves rustling in the breeze that blew in off the water. Felt their roots buried deep within the earth stirring the mysteries only my heart can hear.
And as I walked, I imagined I could hear the wind whispering its stories of far away places into the open branches stretched out across the sky – tales of wonder and awe, love and war, joy and sorrow. Stories it’s witnessed on its journey through time and space.
The trees have much to teach us.
In The Language of Trees
by Louise Gallagher
In the language of trees,
there is no me or you,
only us,
intertwined
with roots that grip the earth
that binds us deep to one another.
In the language of trees,
there is no beginning,
no ending,
no in between,
only winds of time
that sculpt our limbs,
whispering through leaves
forever reaching out
to capture sacred stories
of far away places.
Each dawn unfolds a tapestry of leaves,
a fleeting masterpiece of green.
Every leafy tendril counts,
from roots that divine the mysteries
of the dark soil below
to the tips of branches
that sing songs of joy
to the sky above.
We are a symphony of wood and leaf,
earth and water
wind and storm
a chorus rising from the soil,
each voice distinct,
each song an opus
a tapestry of voices, rich and deep,
woven into the story of our humanity
grounded in the language of trees.
The muse never tires. Always present, she flows like the sea outside my window. Enduring. Always present. Always changing.
This morning, Beaumont the Sheepadoodle and I sat in silent communion with the waves gliding across the ocean surface. Mesmerized, I heeded the muse’s urgings and let time slip away as morning crept across the sky and I found myself effortlessly breathing into the pure joy of being present, wholly embodied in the now.
It is fleeting, this being embodied in the now. Busyness. Things to do. To read. To see. Places to get to. People to connect with. Rooms to organize. And still boxes to unpack. Too many. I’m tempted to tell myself to leave them unpacked and if in six months I haven’t missed anything, to let whatever is in them be released without examining the contents of each unopened box.
We shall see…
For this moment, right now, I sit in silent communion with Beau, sipping my latte, listening to Hildegard von Bingen’s ecclesiastical sounds fill the morning air. And I breathe.
Where Tomorrow Hides
by Louise Gallagher
Light stalks the darkness,
slithering across cloud laden sky
slipping effortlessly below the far horizon
where tomorrow hides,
safe beyond my sight.
Here and now, mesmerized,
I sit watching undulating waves
wash up from a gunmetal sea,
whispering stories of far away places
hidden beyond the distant edge of the world.
Tomorrow stretches,
pregnant with cloudy mystery,
waiting beyond this realm
where I sit
watching waves wash ashore.
Mesmerized
time slips away
and I become one with the world around me.
Your daily dose of insights on psychology, philosophy, health, and life clear, practical wisdom to help you grow, reflect, and live better every day.
my humanity in written form
HC Content
Dare to Age Boldly
A little BIT OF THE EVERY DAY............A good writer is basically a story teller, not a scholar or a redeemer of mankind. - Isaac Bashevis Singer
In search of spirituality
embrace the magic
Poetry, Opinion, Politics
"Once a pond a time..."
Scribbling to Mend/restore/spur on...
Random, bittersweet and humorous musings on the magic and mundane aspects of life.
Award-Winning Author of the Memoir "Raising Jess: A Story of Hope"
Following my heart, Daring to dream, Living without regrets
Still Trying To Make Sense Of It All
Dare Boldly 