Dare boldly

A blog by Louise Gallagher


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Dear Mother Nature. I’m sorry.

My eldest daughter, who lives in the temperate climes of Vancouver, sends me photos of flowers growing in their back lane. “Do you know what kind of flowers these are?” she asks.

I take her seriously. I think I know. Search online and I’m correct. They’re a type of Passion Fruit Flower.

I could have saved myself the time.

She wasn’t really interested in the kind of flower they were. She was trying to make a point. See mom. Our weather isn’t as freaky as Calgary’s!

It’s a favourite past time of those who do not live in this city. To comment on our weather when Mother Nature goes on a rant.

And rant she did last night. It is October 2 and we have several centimetres of snow on the ground.

It’s quite pretty.

Honest.

But even prettiness cannot disguise what it is. Snow on October 2nd.

Which is why I penned this missive to Mother Nature. (I was going to call her Ole’ Mother Nature but I didn’t want to risk her ire at my suggestion she was old). In its writing, I discovered Mother Nature ain’t that old, but she sure is wise and we humans are kind of deaf, blind and unconscious to her pleas.

Dear Mother Nature,

I see you’ve decided to turn the tables on fall and skip it all together. Summer to Winter is a brief season and after having endured your wrath burning us up and then freezing us out this past summer, I feel you have deprived us all of the much needed respite of Autumn.

Last night’s delightful, compared to this morning, frosting.

Please take it back. The snow that is. We truly don’t need it.

It kind of feels like the guest who turns up at the door unannounced. You invite them in because you don’t want to appear to be rude. But you fear the moment you open the door they will come in and stay and stay and stay and stay. They inevitably do that which you fear.

I know. I know.

What we fear we create.

But seriously Mother Nature. I did not create this snow.

You did and I am holding you accountable.

What’s that you say?

You are indifferent to my holding you accountable? You don’t really care?

Oh Mother Nature. How cruel. How harsh.

Oh. You think we all should have been kinder to the planet? Not create so much toxic off-gassing and pollution?

You’re right about that Mother Nature.

So can we just renegotiate. You know. Go back to square one and start over.

Not possible you say?

I’m so sorry you feel that way.

What am I going to do about it?

Well… nothing. You’re the one who dumped it on us. You need to be the one to clean up your mess.

Oh. Your mess is the outcome of our mess? You can take away the snow but you can’t take away the plastic in our oceans and the holes in our ozone.

Oh. You have been trying to warn us?

Honest. I’m listening now. Can we please begin again?

No?  Don’t you think you’re being a tad difficult? Everyone deserves a second chance.

Oh. You’ve given us a gazillion? 

Look. I’m sorry okay. We weren’t thinking about the future when we tore down your forests and paved over your sacred ground. And we definitely weren’t worried about tomorrow when we built our factories and our highrises and our economic advantages that disadvantaged so many.

Okay. Okay. I hear you. We need to clean up our act. We’re trying. Honest.

Oh. Not fast enough? You’re running out of air? I’m sorry. Be that way. We can’t change what’s done.

We’d better learn how?

Oh my. You are upset.

Yes. Yes. Of course I’d be upset too if someone poured toxic waste into my bloodstream and clogged my arteries with noxious gases.

And yes, I know it’s not nice to dump my garbage all over your surface.

Like I said. I’m sorry.

Now. Can we go back to talking about this snow you dumped last night? I really want it gone.

Right. I should have thought about that decades ago. I get it. Global warming isn’t fake news. And this dump is not a warning shot. It’s our new reality.

Fine. Leave it. But I’m telling you. If you don’t smarten up I’m going to… well, I don’t know what I”m going to do.

Ahhh. That’s the problem. You think I need to do something different?

Okay. Guess I’ll clean up my act.

Thanks for the weather. I guess we haven’t got a lot of choice but to take what you give us.

Sincerely,

 

Your environmentally unconscious, trying to wake up, human.

 

Last night’s delightful frosting.

.


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The Promise of Flowers Yet to Bloom (a poem)

The Promise of Flowers Yet to Bloom

©2018 Louise Gallagher

A flower lost itself to fall today.

Autumn fell upon its delicate petals
vanishing all memory of summer’s heat
as frost nipped its buds
and winter whispered with wicked glee,
I will see you soon.

A flower lost itself to fall today.

And with autumnal grace, golden leaves drifted down
into that place where winter’s cold embrace
lurks at the edge of lengthening shadows
creeping silently across leaf covered ground
lying fallow in anticipation of arctic winds yet to blow.

In autumn’s falling colours
the earth prepares
to awaken to black on white images
of frosty mornings
kissed with winter’s icy breath.

A flower lost itself to fall today.

Its petals fell effortlessly
as with one final sigh of relief
the flower dropped its seeds to cast
the promise of flowers yet to bloom
upon the wind.

And I wait in this liminal space
where autumn falls all around.

In the midst of golden leaves
and cast off petals
strewn haphazardly upon the ground
I stand hopeful in the shimmering possibilities
that awaken with every changing season.

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The creative process fascinates me. I awaken unsure of what will appear once I touch my fingers to the keyboard and give myself up to trusting in the process. In that letting go of expectation, space is created for the muse to flow through me, creating space for that which is yearning to be expressed.

This morning, I had no idea an autumn poem was birthing itself in morning’s slowly awakening light. I had no idea that a photo I’d taken of the bunch of Asters I’d placed by our front door would awaken thoughts of changing seasons and all the possibility that sweeps in with every falling leaf.

Fall is my favourite season.

It seems fitting a poem would write itself out of that place where I let go of expectation of what to write and allow trusting in the process to give birth to that which is yearning to be expressed.