I never traveled alone with my mother. I couldn’t have imagined it. A river of judgment, fed by my belief that her world was too distant to ever bridge, flowed through my mind, a current too strong to let her cross the Rubicon guarding my heart, fearing it would tear my world apart. 

Yet here I am, years later, savouring Paris, Malta, and Portugal with my youngest daughter—the sights, the people, the special moments, the delicious food and wine. An amazing time.

Perhaps my mother saw the world through a veil of omnipresent dangers. Or maybe, sensing my perceived recklessness, she feared my stumbles and falls, feeling helpless to stop them. It could also be that, feeling my aversion to her way of being in the world, she kept her distance, believing it the only way to shield her own vulnerable heart.

Like my mother, I built walls to separate us. Over the years, they grew as formidable as the old gates of Valetta, designed to withstand any onslaught, to shelter those behind them. Fortified, proud, defiant of invaders, they stood the test of dangerous arms and passing time.

In the old city of Valetta, the Knights of St. John erected a monumental gate to deny Suleiman’s Ottoman Empire access to their fortress. In the 15th century, that gate, its wide ditch, and high walls were vital to the city’s defense. Today, the walls stand as a testament to the past, but the gates are gone. Only two tall, slender metal poles, their parallel arms echoing archery bows, mark the beautiful sandstone entrance to the walled city.

I never dismantled my walls with my mother. But somewhere in my fifties, I did learn to stop shooting words meant to pierce her heart like an arrow.

Time changes everything—the past, the future, even people. Traveling with my daughter, there are no arrow-sharp words, no need to close the gate to my heart.

It is a beautiful thing. A gift, this time on foreign soil with the woman I once held in my arms, dreading the day I’d release her into the world for fear she would fall. Over the years, she and her sister taught me to keep my heart undefended. That I have nothing to fear when I keep it open to the love that holds us, secure and safe, in our family circle—a circle connecting us through the ages to my mother, her mother, and all the mothers before her, and all the mothers to come, whose arms circle the ones they love to keep them safe from harm

Do you sometimes resist the muse’s urgings to create, telling yourself, later, next time, I don’t feel like it?

I do. Sometimes. Sometimes more often than not.

Sometimes, morning calls me to dive into the deep well of poetry flowing within like an endless silent river. Sometimes, still sleeping, I resist. And then there are those days when, the muse’s irresistible urgings to awaken, open my heart to the words not yet written. On those days, I follow, blind faith my only guide to unleash the poetry pouring up from deep within me, calling out for freedom. It is in that surrender that I discover the paradoxical beauty of the present: lost in the flow, yet ultimately found within its graceful unfolding.

In The Moment
by Louise Gallagher

I awaken
dawn breaks 
     open 
         the rest of my life 
whispering
               deep 
the muted backdrop
of tomorrows
     hide       
beyond the horizon 
         invisible              
they drift 
                holding still
passing days 
    shrouded 
by the unknown 
moments ahead.

In this present 
moment-by-moment
spent
    breathing
        loosening 
yesterday's hold 
              clinging 
like a barnacle to a whale 
                      dreading 
their release 
into life's swirling currents
I find myself
    lost
        and found.

Awake 
    asleep 
time slips by 
     indifferent 
to my eyes
  open 
     shut
eyes that see 
           the past
   more clearly 
than the blur 
    of all my unlived days
         clamouring
to hold me 
     present
in this moment
of awakening.

Yesterday, I set out to create a culinary masterpiece for our community food support program where I volunteer weekly. What emerged was…well, let’s call it ‘interpretive dessert.’ An upside-down apple caramel cake, to be precise, that was more flop than upside-down. Sweet, bordering on ‘sugar rush,’ and visually, more ‘deconstructed’ than ‘delicate.’ It certainly wouldn’t have passed muster at the National Gallery of Canada. Unlike Jana Sterbak’s Flesh Dress, however, it was edible, despite its avant-garde appearance.

Honest! It tasted good, I swear! Just… visually, it looked like a toddler had a passionate fling with a baking tray. A chaotic, delicious, wall-paper making kind of fling.
To read the rest, pop on over to my Substack and take a bit of my baking mojo… gone wrong. 🙂 I did learn a great lesson though! 🙂

To discover the lesson and devour the rest of this post, popover to my Substack Here.

Have you ever had a culinary failure? What did you do? What did you learn?

Please do share!

https://open.substack.com/pub/louisegallagher/p/the-upside-down-aka-flopped-inside?r=eo6c&utm_medium=ios

As I continue to navigate this terrain called ‘being a care-giver to someone with a chronic disease’ I am learning to “Love What Is”.

Care-giving can be a challenging journey filled with grief and loss. But even amidst the difficulties, there is still love, joy, and connection to be found. On my Substack today I share what it means to Love What Is and seven simple steps can help you embrace all of it and find moments of peace and gratitude along the way.

I hope you come join me — The Unexpected Journey.

Stress is a sneaky beast. It creeps in like a heat-seeking missile, silently searching for its target.

It wasn’t until CC and I were sitting at the gate, waiting for our flight from YYC to YVR, that I felt its presence. Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heavy feeling settled in my heart. Getting to the airport, returning the rental car, checking in, and navigating security takes twice as long when your travel companion is struggling to breathe, unable to carry anything, and needs to stop for a puff on his inhaler, even in a wheelchair.

But none of that was as stress-inducing as realizing I’d left my backpack at my daughter’s house. Inside were my laptop, phone charger, earbuds, and carry-on cosmetics.

The thought of it at my daughter’s house was the real stressor. Had I taken it inside, or had I left it by the back door, visible and easily accessible from the street? If I hadn’t been pushing CC’s wheelchair, I might have grabbed a cab back to retrieve it. And then I realized I didn’t even have a house key. The uncertainty was agonizing.

Fortunately, my daughter’s neighbor graciously offered to check. The photo he sent of it lying safely inside by the back door was a wave of relief. The urge to cry subsided.

As CC and I navigate this trip, focusing on his comfort, I realize I need to work on staying present, alert, focused, and compassionate. When the neighbor helped, I felt such gratitude. I replied with a big smiley face and a heartfelt “Thank you so much.”

Same as with the Air Canada attendants. I don’t know if they sensed my stress, but their kindness and accommodation were amazing. Im allowing gratitude as my North star.

I also know I need to consciously ground myself in grace. I need to focus on being present and exploring new ways to manage the stress of travel, to navigate it without losing my mind or my sense of direction.

Just like my backpack, forgotten by the back door of my daughter’s house, I need to hold onto my peace of mind. I can’t let stress steal it or make me forget to pack all the things I need for a smooth, stress-free trip, especially when traveling with my beloved who needs me to be there with him in love and grace.

First step is to get uber organized with a list of all the bags we’re bringing with us.

Step two. Pause and breathe. Take a mental inventory of what we’re carrying and checking. do it more than once.

Step three. slow down. I can take a lesson from my husband who has been forced to learn the art of slowing down due to COPD.

Step four. Give myself lots of room for grace. I’m doing my best and my best is good enough.