Start here, right where you stand, feet firmly planted on the threadbare rug of your living room, close in to this space you occupy, with weary familiarity surrounded by the clutter and quiet comfort, of your constant yearning for tomorrow to rescue you, from this place where you stand, surrounded by the books you haven't read, the stories you haven’t lived, the paints still drying on the palette, and you, still wishing for change.
Change doesn't arrive with the turning of a calendar page, it comes close in to your choosing to begin right here, in this space you occupy, where the sun struggles to peek through the blinds, where tomorrow's light is hidden, where rose-pink streamers of dawn remain unfurled because you haven't yet started here, where you stand, feet firmly planted on the threadbare rug of your living room, waiting for tomorrow.
One Seed. One Life. One Being. by Louise Gallagher
Awe -a one in a million seed planted one sacred womb nurturing life into becoming an infant’s first cry announcing their existence.
Humility -a heart broken open in love one life becoming the all of life evolving joy awakening with a child’s first laugh.
Trust -a tiny hand grasping a finger extended, holding on one lifeline extended across generations a tapestry woven with golden threads of Love.
Truth -a bridge of love spanning all humanity. one seed connecting life again and again divinely orchestrated.
What will you plant with your one seed?
Awakening before the sun, a tendril of a dream drifts through my mind. I lay in bed sensing the wonder and awe of life. It’s ineffable beauty. Luminiscent presence.
Images of my daughters. First cries. First laughs. First steps. So many first leading to lifetimes of joy, love, laughter and possibility.
I lay in bed and felt the poignancy and fleeting nature of life envelop me.
And gratitude awakened.
And Love consumed me.
And the muse whispered, “Write of awe.”
This poem began with 4:00am stirrings of awe and wonder.
I have learned it’s best not to ignore the early morning whispered flutterings of the muse. She is persistent in her flowing nature and does not condone well my resistance to her urgings.
Knowing well the ephemeral nature of her visits, I arise, pad barefoot to my desk and begin to scribble in my journal.
I started to write this piece in a 2 minute writing process during yesterday morning’s meditation. —. It drifted in and out of my day, through a lunch with three friends of my sister Jackie. She used to have a semi-annual lunch with them before the fall that lead to her death last November. It was a beautiful time together that felt even more potent with the pending eclipse almost upon us. And then, during lunch, the moon passed in front of the moon but from where we sat, its happening was barely physically noticeable despite its energetic force. And still, it’s power lingered in tendrils of thoughts of the energy of the eclipse that kept slipping in and out of my mind’s eye. A late afternoon zoom interview with a woman for my upcoming 6 month course, ReEnvision Your Journey, that lead into an evening sharing dinner with my beloved, sitting back at my desk overlooking the river flowing with energy towards a distant sea. Effortlessly I slipped back into the quiet and the words spilled out.
And then, after penning it and searching for a photo on Unsplash, a photo appeared on the wonderful Bandiphotography.com ‘s FB page and I sent the poem to him to ask if he would be willing to collaborate.
I am grateful he said yes. Thank you Bandi for being such a beautiful creative soul and friend.
An Ode to the Eclipse by Louise Gallagher
Tapping in to align energy flowing pregnant with potent wholeness calling Let go Welcome in darkness light Don’t be afraid Open up Become shadow turning dark to light Become the all you’ve dreamt into being possible The all that has been holding space for you to awaken to your own potency giving birth to your dreams.
I told a friend on the weekend that I believe the muse is always flowing. She does not discriminate. She does, however, pass on by if we do not turn towards her whisperings to let our creativity flow in whatever form we wish to express it.
I awoke this morning with an image of a pie and a memory of a description of how community is like a pie. The challenge is, often, there are some who want their piece of the pie who do not leave any pie for others.
Throughout the day, I kept coming back to the pie image, amidst a zoom and working on the marketing materials for my six month, ReEnvision Your Journey course I’m launching in May and a delightfully long and rich lunch with three women I haven’t spent a lot of time with but whose company I enjoyed immensely, I kept feeling the muse’s urgings that I write it out.
And so I did.
The Pie of All Humanity by Louise Gallagher
In a world bent on othering, we divide ourselves into slices, forgetting, humanity is formed of one whole pie born from a single human race.
We slice and dice, casting aside pieces of the sumptuous whole onto a refuse heap marked "unfit," discarded by those who claim the feast is reserved for the few deemed worthy to sit at their table.
Fighting to keep the many from their feast, they wield their knives with well-manicured hands, hoarding the best parts to preserve the richness of a banquet laid out for an exclusive few.
Yet, in their quest to savour only the choicest cuts, they miss the pie’s true flavours: its beauty lies in sharing, in mingling tastes, aromas, colours, and textures— a masterpiece far surpassing any single slice reserved for only those invited to the table.
We have sat at separate tables long enough, heeding the few who decree the pie cannot be shared by all.
It is time— time to rise up from disparate tables, to set a larger One laid out with the beauty of all humanity coming together to enjoy the pie in its entirety, where every slice enriches the many, leaving none to feed on the crumbs left by the few.
For the last few years, the gifted and soulful Brian Pearson has been the guide of an online community, The Mystic Cave, which offers sanctuary to those searching for spiritual depth beyond conventional religions.
Brian describes The Mystic Cave podcast as “a haven for seekers—narratives, dialogues, and musings on the spiritual quest beyond the boundaries of church land.”
Our paths crossed when I was organizing an annual Christmas benefit concert, to support formerly homeless veterans, at St. Stephen’s Anglican Church in Calgary. As the head pastor, Brian not only opened the church’s doors for the “Christmas at The Madison” benefit concert but also graced the event with his soothing voice and masterful guitar play, captivating everyone, including my daughters.
With time, Brian ventured beyond the church to establish The Mystic Cave and, in doing so, has become a cherished friend and mentor.
Today, as I listened to Brian’s conversation with the luminous Meredith Heller—poet, educator, musician, songwriter, and a woman of incandescent spirit—on his podcast, the muse stirred and whispered her melodious urgings into my heart.
In the stillness of the morning, with my beloved asleep beside me and Beaumont the Sheepadoodle stretched at our feet, I lay immersed in the quiet, attuned to the breathing that filled the room, a lullaby of presence.
I listened. I felt. I heard.
The words beckoned.
With the exquisite silence of dawn wrapped around me, following the tender gratitude in Brian’s sign-off and the lingering echo of Meredith’s poetry dedicated to Lady J, the words surged within me, spilling forth with fervent ease.
Thank you Lady M by Louise Gallagher
Love found me broken pieces scattered without rhyme or reason lost in the darkness of knowing the way home was through the pain of having been broken open to Love.
May we all find the courage to surrender to the call of the creative flame within us. May it compel us to rise and fully experience this transient, stunning life in all its fleeting beauty and ephemeral joy flowing in the enduring nature of Love.
And may this April Poetry Month awaken you to the poetry of your life.
April is Poetry Month. A month to create and celebrate words that rhyme, words that flow on gentle wisps of promise, words that stir hearts to dance and cry and spin about.
This is the third poem I’ve written this poetry month. It arose unbidden, like a memory awakened by the sound of a laugh, a retreating figure, a voice on the phone, as I sat down to journal this morning.
It seems to pair well with this image I created as part of my She Dares series.
I hope you feel the call this month to read a poem, share one, perhaps even cast one to a page in the hope the words will flow into images that make your heart want to dance as you come alive to the poetry of life.
In my studio, I’m immersed in the writer’s circle I discovered during the initial COVID lockdown. This group emerged as a beacon in the solitude, connecting me to a world beyond the confines where my husband, C.C., along with Beaumont the Sheepadoodle, and I huddled for safety against an unseen virus stalking the globe.
Three years on, the lockdowns have faded, but our circle endures. Despite occasional absences, like one poet last night, our bond remains unbroken. This circle is a treasure, a sacred time for writing. Sparked by the poems our circle priestess, Ali Grimshaw, of Flashlight Batteries shares, I welcome its invitation to simply let the words flow, effortlessly, without judgement or caveats or hesitation.
Last night, Ali introduced a poem by Kim Stafford, former Oregon state Poet Laureate. I’ve long admired Stafford’s profound and mystic style, reminiscent of the mystery of the cypress forests and exquisite beauty of his native Pacific Northwest. His words, both lyrical and relatable, woven with natural imagery and rich with personal and communal narratives, offer solace and a reminder of our interconnectedness.
The poem, “Advice from a Raindrop,” struck a chord. In it, Stafford writes:
Think you’re doomed to disappear, just one small voice among millions? That’s no weakness, trust me. That’s your wild card, your trick, your implement. They won’t see you coming
These lines fueled my free-fall writing, igniting thoughts about being more than just a drop in the ocean.
Every Drop Countsby Louise Gallagher
Do you think
there are so many drops
in the ocean
swelling
into a wave
pummelling against the shore
that your drop will not be missed?
Think again my friend.
Your drop is felt
in the difference your bring to life
when you stop falling
into the belief
your drop doesn’t count.
No one can count the drops
of water in the ocean,
but every drop counts
to make the tide
Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow.
My friend.
You are the drop. You
are the wave
of the ocean
swelling
and pummelling
against the shore.
Ebb and flow, Ebb and flow
My friend.
Every drop matters
your drop no more
no less.
May you know today, and everyday, the uniqueness of the difference you make in this world is needed, wanted and very precious. As are you. ❤
We gathered, four of the six women who form the nucleus of this circle, a sacred bond birthed in the tentative days of lockdown. Ali Grimshaw, the poetic voice behind the blog, Flashlight Batteries, has been our unwavering compass, mentor, muse, and cherished confidante throughout these three transformative years of gathering, listening, writing, and sharing.
We hail from across North America. Me, the lone Canadian, in Alberta, the others scattered between Washington State and Alabama. In the quiet moments when one or two are absent, their absence echoes within the circle, a subtle but palpable void. Yet, even in our incompleteness, the muse unfailingly graces us with her nimble wordplay.
Last night, I reveled in the company of my fellow poetry voyagers, letting the words flow like a river unburdened by dams. Together, we wove the tapestry of our verses, sharing the stories that had been etched onto our pages.
Hand in motion, ink streaming, the pen glided across the page as if orchestrated by an invisible poetic symphony, a melody only discernible to my subconscious.
It was an experience, divinely restorative, freeing the spirit from its earthly confines, and fulfilling the soul’s deepest longing.
To those who feel the call of these poetic moments, if your heart yearns to connect its lyrical embrace with other poetic souls dancing, the invitation is open, it’s as delicate as the whisper of a muse’s sigh inviting you to release the words and let the words flow: If the call of poetry beckons to your soul, send me an email, and together, we shall weave verse into the tapestry of our lives.
The List That Will Never Be Writtenby Louise Gallagher
There will never be a complete list
of all the moments and places
that have consumed my breath
with awe
just as there will never be
an ending
to love
or the illusion of the moon
rising
at dusk
or the life-giving cry
a newborn makes
upon leaving
the safety of the womb.
Why should there be?
In the capturing of every tiny moment
Awe escapes
leaving behind only the cold hard facts
of a life lived
without witness to
the beauty
of a sunrise stealing
its breath away.
There will never be a complete list
of all the moments and places
that have consumed my breath
as long as I take notice
of the awe
that steals my breath away.
The corner of Thurlow and Robson Streets waiting for my daughter who has dashed into the Starbucks to use their washroom.
I know they won’t object. She’s pretty. Polite. Looks clean. Healthy. Not of the street.
I know the person lying in the alcove of a boarded up store front, their body huddled under blankets while a big gentle looking dog keeps watch lies beside them, rump tucked into the curve of their belly, eyes watching the passers-by, I know they wouldn’t receive the same treatment.
Our tolerance of our shared humanity who have lost their way increases as more and more people fall beneath the weight of this world.
And my heart aches.
I stand looking at the telephone pole littered with stapes, their emptiness evidence of the posters removed long ago. Amidst the staples, one torn corner of a page that was ripped too quickly from its perch remains, a bookmark to the past.
Devoid of messages of all the goings on in the community I wonder if this pole is a symbol of a new city ordinance forbidding posters stapled to telephone poles.
And I wonder where will the body under the blankets find a place that welcomes them in with consideration and compassion, so they too can relieve themselves far from prying eyes full of pity or condemnation.
And I wonder if my eyes showed compassion as I walked by. Did I hide my grief at witnessing the state of their life journey that has led them here, to a cold, hard pavement, while the world carries on, indifferent.
And I wonder, when will we stop building skyscrapers to symbolize our prosperity and progressive ways and start building better more compassionate pathways on the ground that will bring home those who are lost to the streets and keep others at home before they become lost?
__________________________
About the poem.
This morning, I was captivated by a line from poet and novelist Adrienne Rich: “I dreamed you were a poem, / I say, a poem I wanted to show someone.” The way her words weaved left an indelible mark on me. I felt the muse pushing me to pen a poem of my own. I thought it would be a love poem.
Instead, the muse lead me onto memory lane. Back to a street corner in Vancouver, where I’d stood waiting for my daughter and been fascinated by the telephone pole covered in staples. Hidden in that memory was a haunting tableau of countless individuals, their lives reduced to huddling on the sidewalks, as the world bustled by.
Penning this poem was my attempt to grapple with the profound sadness these scenes stir in me. Through words, I hope to lend a voice to those silent moments that speak so loudly of our shared human experience and the disparities we often choose not to see.
STAPLED
by Louise Gallagher
I dreamed I wrote a poem
without words
and stapled it to a pole
wanting desperately to
fill the spaces
between the sounds of silence
of the song that dies with every note
left unsung
as we walk on by
the bodies
lying huddled
along the sidewalks
of the cities we built
with ladders to the top
only the privileged few
can climb.
I dreamed I wrote a poem
without words
and no one listened.
Thank you Bandi for being such a beautiful creative soul and friend.
Dare Boldly 