Taking care of all of me.

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To create, to make a difference, I must turn up.

In my daughter Alexis’ blog post on the weekend, Yield, she talks about giving way to create space to keep turning up. 

A do or die thinker, I don’t yield well.

My brain tells me, you either are, or you are not, there is no in-between.

It also likes to tell me I’m a fraud, a failure, a no-show, when I yield.

I’m learning.

After two weeks of my neck not moving easily, it is finally beginning to give way, to yield its stiffness to allow me to turn my head without pain.

It is a relief.

And it is a learning opportunity. A chance to assess how well my ‘there are only two positions – Go or Stop’ thinking to see how well it has been working for me.

The answer is… you guessed it. Not that well.

The challenge with only two positions on the dial is, it leads to all or nothing thinking. In the land of black or white, pick one but you can’t have it all, I don’t give myself time or opportunity to be present without the pressure of having to do it all, give it all, make it all happen.

And so, I come back to the page, to the white screen, to this space of writing it out to find my way through to what is true and what is sometimes masquerading as truth to realize — how I do one thing is how I do all things.

My neck has been bothering me for quite awhile. And, in my normal fashion, I have ignored it in the hopes it will simply right itself.

It is. Righting itself. With a lot of help from those who know about righting stiff necks — and how to keep necks from getting stiff in the first place.

It is a learning eperience.

It’s about not ignoring the parts that hurt. About not forging on in spite of the pain. About not keeping going at it without stopping to ask it, what do I need to hear? What do I need to adjust so I can move on without pain? 

It’s about asking, How do I take care of you so that you will continue to be part of my body, my being present in this world, without being a pain in the neck?

The answer is: Take care of all of me.

It’s not just about the parts that hurt. They are simply manifestations of something deeper, something more profound.

Take care of all of me.

And so, I begin again. 

To take care. Of all of me.

The story in our hands.

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Hands. To hold. To carry. To touch. To feel.

Hands. They tell a story, our story, our past. They bridge the space between us, they reach within, they stretch beyond.

Hands.

Yesterday, I met a woman whose hands told the story of her life on the streets. Hard. Calloused. Strong. Her hands held mine in their vice-like grip as she poured out her grief, her sorrow, her frustration, her anger.

Her hands pushed the hair back from her face, they sliced the air as she told the story of fighting for every breath she takes. Of fighting for a space to call her own, of reaching for one small piece of comfort, ease, truth, acceptance.

And in her story-telling, she held out her hands towards me and showed me her cracked palms and insisted, You couldn’t imagine what it’s like. You just couldn’t imagine.

What I hear is your life is hard, very hard, I said to her.

And she bowed her head as tears flowed from her eyes. And then, with a shrug, she straightened up, angrily wiped away her tears with one hand and replied, It’s the life I’ve got. I gotta deal with it.

A few years ago, I sat at the bedside of a man from the shelter where I worked as he transitioned from this life to whatever lay beyond. I held his calloused hand in mine and felt the story of his life unravel in my palms.

I knew him well. He was one of the first people to come to the art program I’d started at the shelter. James had a love of photography and used whatever money he earned shovelling snow, working temp or picking bottles to purchase a camera, computer, software and other photography related tools that would help him improve his art.

It’s my retirement program, he’d laugh.

Retirement never came.

He’d been homeless for years and though alcohol had been a driving force in the tearing apart of his former life, he no longer drank. He mostly just kept to himself, did his work, took his photos and offered them for sale at our various art shows.

He was gifted. And passionate. His hands held his camera steady, guiding his eyes to the story beyond the picture he was taking.

And they never failed. They always found the beauty in the mundane, the unique angle in the light, the poignant story in a window.

His were steady hands. Hard-working. Strong.

As the cancer that gripped his body began to eat away at his life, his hands grew softer. Quiet. Until the final night when I sat with him in a room at a hospice just outside the city and heard his final indrawn breath and felt the last touch of warmth leave his body. For a moment, his hands lay still in mine until I had no choice but to let go. His hands were cold and I could not warm them.

Yesterday, a woman gripped my hands and I was reminded of James’ hands in mine on that cold December night when life let go of a man who had fought so long to hold his grip on it.

Her hands were warm and fierce and strong as she gripped mine. She did not need me to warm them. She just needed me to hold on, for a moment, while she told her story.

Sometimes, that is all we can do. Hold one another in communion, sharing our stories, guiding our hearts to listen deeply to what the other says. And when the time is right, to let go so we can each continue on our journey, strengthened by our brief encounter, knowing we are not alone.

AlexisMarieInk

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img_0253

Image by: Britney-Gill-Photography

 As many know, my eldest daughter is an exceptional writer and a fearless soul.  For a year plus she wrote daily at How I Survived Myself and recently (Jan 1) launched her new website Alexis Marie Ink.

While I am healing my neck I will only be posting once a week. I hope you join Alexis on her journey as she casts light on our human journey and condition.

Alexismarieink

Good Intentions and all that jazz

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  I had it all laid out. Begin the New Year with the commitment to spend 2 hours a day working on my book and to create one art journal page everyday.

I had booked the first week of January off work to lay the foundation of meeting my intention. My plan was to spend the week between Christmas and New Years re-organizing the chapters of my book and then this week creating the bridges between the three core areas. Most of the writing is completed. It’s the structure I’ve been struggling with, but, a coaching session over the phone with the amazing Elizabeth in Australia, and I had finally found clarity.

And then, January 1 happened.

Well actually, it began with the flu between Christmas and New Years and then January 1 happened.

Every year, I find a word that will be my guidepost for the year’s meditations, reflections and actions. In truth, it’s more a case of the word finding me. It rises up out of the mists of meditation and through contemplative journalling. In the past, the word has had more to do with me and my relationship with the world around me — Flow. AtOnement. Redemption. Rejoice. Surrender. They have all been words that found me and guided me over the years.

This year’s word was different. It is self-directed. An inner way of being that I don’t do very well.

Self-care.

When it first rose up, it appeared as Take Care. I knew it had the essence of what I needed to focus on this year, but it wasn’t quite sitting right. I created a journal page, did some contemplative writing on it but it still didn’t resonate as clearly as I knew it needed to become my word for the year. Until my neck went out of alignment on New Year’s Day that is, and the word got really, really clear. 

Self-care. 

I need to practice good self-care to create the life, and the world, I want to experience.

Not my forte. I tend to disregard the signs my body sends me that it is feeling under duress. I tend to push away intonations that my body is feeling tired, worn down or simply in need of a break.

Even though my brain likes to tell me I am invincible, or I can ‘get over it’, my body knows what I need. My body holds more wisdom than my thinking.

C.C. and I spent Saturday in the Emergency. I’d awoken in tears. Well, actually I didn’t really wake up as I hadn’t fallen asleep, my neck hurt so much.

He drove me to my chiropractor’s who is open on Saturday mornings only to discover that this year, his offices were closed over the holiday break for renovations.

I knew I couldn’t go back home without doing something about the pain, so C.C. drove me to the Sheldon Chumir Emergency Care Centre where I got amazing treatment. The staff were really supportive and couldn’t have been more responsive.

Then again, for someone who doesn’t cry in public, I sure did a lot of crying that morning and I think they may have taken pity on me!

C.C. had to phone and cancel our dinner guests that evening as I was not capable of entertaining anyone (Chalk one up to good self-care — I might have tried to power through it in the past.) When my beautiful friend Michelle heard of my plight, she offered up her services (she’s a massage therapist and acupuncturist). Yesterday, I found some relief and will continue on with treatment to ensure my neck has what it needs to heal.

As for my plans, well, they’re going to have to find a way to be content with waiting while I learn to practice good self-care.

turning the page the new year

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welcome 2016 copy

 

 

As the old year rings its last bell to herald in the new,
a page turner of a story unfolds on the calendar of days flowing, one into the next
where all that matters is for each of us to
create love, share love, be love with every breath.

May your new year be filled with all that matters to you flowing in Love.

 

Fruitcake and other crimes of the season

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FullSizeRender (63)As predictable as Santa riding the skies in a sleigh full of gifts and Baby Jesus’ appearance in the Crêche on Christmas Eve, six weeks before the big day, my father would retreat to the kitchen and commandeer the mixing bowls and measuring spoons and lock himself away to prepare for the onslaught of holiday entertaining he and my mother loved to share in.

With a snap of his wrist he would fling a tea towel over one shoulder, tie an apron around his waist and haul out the big stainless steel bowl, the cutting knives and board, the flour, candied fruit and nuts, and the Rum. It was essential to the mix he told me. It’s why you started making fruitcakes six weeks before Christmas. They needed time to soak up the Rum’s juices and become all besotted with their festive bliss.

Okay. So my father never said ‘besotted with festive bliss’, but it’s what I remember most about his Christmas fruitcake. I was besotted by the festive bliss its preparation heralded in.

My daughters will tell you making fruitcake is a crime of the season. I call it a tradition worthy of annual celebration.

And this year was no different. Once I decided I needed a good douse of connection to the comfort of Christmases past, that is.

It started with the realization that I was trying to avoid Christmas. My daughter and her fiance had told me they would not be coming home on Boxing Day as planned. They were coming in January and with the wedding next September, her graduation in May, 30th birthday in June and a spree of returns to Calgary for friends’ weddings throughout the summer, that was all they could fit in.

What? Christmas couldn’t happen without Alexis.

The knowing of her absence sent me into a slump. My heart murmured nostalgically for Christmases past when The Night Before Christmas was spent watching “Love Actually” and the three of us would sit beside the sparkling lights of the tree sharing laughter and stories of life and eating all kinds of delicious treats, but not the fruitcake I’d insist they try and they’d insist was really the grossest crime of the season. Then, just before midnight they’d open their one gift (PJs of course) and I would tuck them both into the same bed to drift off to sleep and dream of sugar plum fairies and nutcrackers marching in the night.

With the announcement our Christmas, early or not, would not include my eldest daughter, the clouds of Scrooge descended and I banned all celebration from my heart. Not to mention, work was so busy I had worked every Friday leading into December. I work four days a week. Friday is my day off but given the workload, I kept giving into the call to be there, because, I told myself, I had no other choice. I had to get the work done. Work needed me.

Don’t you hate it when you cross the very same boundaries you refuse to set?

And then, Black Friday arrived and the humbug clouds dispersed when C.C. and I decided to fly Alexis home for an early Christmas celebration.

I had to get into gear fast.

It may not have been the beginning of November, but the nuts and candied fruit were calling. I had to get the fruitcakes soaking.

My father was probably stirring in his grave, if he was buried in the soils of the earth that is. Thankfully, his ashes have become part of the sea of life so only his spirit of Christmases past might have given a tiny (perhaps not so tiny) grumble of dismay as I substituted wheat flour for gluten free and contemplated leaving out the nuts too.

Just too many gluten sensitivities and celiac relations to warrant flour in my cakes, know what I mean? I truly did mean to leave out the almonds (those nut allergies are pervasive) but realized in the end, substituting wheat flour with almond flour constitutes using nuts. I threw in the almonds and other achenes and caryopsides too! (Yup. I looked up synonyms for nuts and loved what I found even if they don’t quite fit the fruitcake.)

When I told Alexis about the mix-up with the flours and informed her she would not be getting a cake in her stocking she laughed in relief and my heart breathed easily. It isn’t the tradition of making the cake I love so much. It is their teasing I treasure.

To my daughters fruitcake may be a crime of the season but to me, it is a song of the heart. Of memory stirring in the comfort of my father’s kitchen where I would sit and watch him stir and mix and buzz around the kitchen concocting Christmas treats for all to enjoy. Of memories of the joy of hearing my daughters tease me over the years for succumbing to the call of throwing candied fruit and flour into a bowl and dousing it with rum then calling it cake.

Honestly girls. There is no crime in that. Only love.

 

 

 

Christmas Crackers and ills of the season

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When do the guests arrive?

When do the guests arrive?

It hit fast and unexpectedly.

I awoke early on Boxing Day all set to begin the preparation for Christmas dinner, the day after edition. 15 people. 15 individually wrapped Christmas crackers all set to be pulled apart. 15 serviettes each with a thought-provoking question waiting to be answered once our guests sat down at the table which I had yet to set. My friend Wendy had given me the serviettes for Christmas. I was excited to put them to use.

I made coffee but the thought of my usual Christmas eggnog brew turned my stomach. ‘What’s up with that?’ I wondered as I walked into the office, opened up my computer and began to make my grocery list. The grocery store opened at 8. I wanted to be first in line.

I didn’t make it.

By 7 I was back in bed.

‘I think I’ve got the flu,’ I told C.C. as I crawled back under the covers. My body was shivering in spite of the fact I felt like I was burning up.

‘Oh Oh’, he replied cautiously moving as far away from me in the bed as he could get. ‘Whatever you’ve got, I don’t want.’

Ah, how quickly the blush of newly wed first-Christmas as a married couple bliss evaporates at even the hint of the flu.

‘It’s okay,’ he quickly rallied. ‘I’ll do the shopping. You rest.’

I was kind of hoping he’d say we’d cancel.

In between visits to the bathroom, I wallowed in self-pity and thought about all the things that needed doing before dinner was served. Would C.C. do the yams the way I wanted? Would he remember to serve the cream corn (He didn’t by the way, but not his fault. He’d put the tins on the countertop and I’d put them back into the cupboard to get them out of the way. He did suggest we were not lacking in food. I know he’s right).

C.C. set off to the grocery store and I got up to set the table.

I didn’t think I could trust him to make it look as inviting as I wanted it to be. Dressing the table is ‘my thing’, know what I mean?

I love to not just set, but decorate it. And Christmas is the best excuse for over-indulging my Martha Stewart aspirations. Sparkles, stars, shimmer and glitz, it’s all okay at Christmas.

Except, my annual gluttony of over the top decorating took back-seat to my desire to keep my stomach from hurling itself outside my body. I kept my gestures small and kept the decorating simple.

It looked lovely. Especially the hand-crafted Christmas crackers set at each place. I’d spent hours over the past month creating them. They were filled with all the usuals, plus a blessing I’d written for each person. On each, I’d affixed name tags so the crackers could do double duty. A festive touch and a place marker.

By the time C.C. got back from the grocery store, I was back in bed wishing I hadn’t gotten up in the first place.

Note to self: Being compulsive does not sit well with flu. Flu always wins.

As I lay in bed bemoaning my fate (why oh why did someone have to remind me at the Christmas Eve gathering we were at that 30 million people died from influenza at the end of the First World War?), I could hear C.C. humming along to Christmas tunes, rattling pans and chopping vegetables. I wasn’t worried about the dinner. C.C. is amazing in the kitchen. I just wanted to be there with him.

It was not to be.

I did rally a couple of times. I had to make the special casserole for the vegetarian/gluten free guests and I needed to make biscuits for the ham.

I know. I know. Compulsiveness is the last thing to go, even with the flu.

And I did manage to visit for a bit with our guests and even opened gifts. I did not, however, manage to eat even a tiny morsel of the amazing meal C.C. created and to which our guests all contributed.

But when it came time to answer the question on my serviette, I knew what I needed to say. “What is the best decision you’ve ever made?”

To find value in all things. To know that no matter what decision I’ve made, what step I’ve taken, what life-happenstance has appeared, to find value in the outcome of my decision and the things that appear on my road.

And the value of having the flu for Christmas dinner?

I got to appreciate my husband’s willingness to jump in and create a meal everyone enjoyed. And even though I didn’t feel up to sitting and chatting and being part of the festivities, it was sheer delight to lie in my bed and listen from behind my closed door to the voices and laughter of our family and friends gathered together under our roof. It felt comforting. Warm. Like I was immersed in a warm bath of love and friendship. And I was.

And bonus, I got to spend three days in bed reading and watching Netflix without one ounce of guilt spoiling my indulgence.

Now that’s a holiday ill with benefits!

A Poem for Christmas

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A Poem For Christmas
©2015 Louise Gallagher

A canon
notes strung in perfect harmony
dancing on air
like pure white sheets
drying in the sun
a simple cavatina
joyfully proclaiming
the wonder that has begun
with this special time of year.

Piano keys felt
pads engaged
the key of life played
through a ligature
effortlessly joining
black and white/sharp and flat
a semitone on a half moving into full
heart-filled expression
cascading into
a cadenza of hope
playing together
a note
a tone
a song
of joy
of heaven on earth
where no key is measured
wanting
no note
left behind
without
a companion note
to play in harmony
to join in symphony.

Laughter pealing
each note a perfect intonation
of joy
exalting
a hymn without words
abandoning darkness
cascading from adagio to allegro
legato to staccato
making music
making magic
making love
happen
in flight
hearts joining in holy communion
around a note of pure, ecstatic joy.

This is Christmas.
This is Love.

What will your ripple be this Christmas Eve?

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I cried for the world this morning. Gut-wrenching sobs erupted unexpectedly when I went in search of a Christmas song to post with my annual Christmas wishes and landed on John Lennon’s “Merry Xmans (War is Over)”.

And I cried.

I cried as I watched the images and saw the pain and horror we, the humans who are the custodians of this planet earth, unleash upon the very planet we have been entrusted with to care for and serve and protect.

We are not doing a good job of protecting one another and this earth upon which we walk.

I cried.

I cried for the politicians who wage war to make peace, declaring that their war is the only way to bring harmony to the lands they say they own, they deserve, they want because what they want is more important that the wants or needs or desires of another.

I cried for the generals who command the sons and daughters who become the warriors toting guns and weapons of mass destruction designed to create the greatest harm, the greatest terror on earth.

I cried for the mothers whose sons and daughters go off in search of glory and come home torn apart by war, if they come home at all.

I cried for the children who lay silently in the night fearing the next bullet, the next blast of cannon, the next bomb to fall from the sky will tear apart their world, their home, their lives, forever.

I cried for the men and women who work in the factories that make the guns and bombs and bullets that rip through flesh and walls and tear apart limbs and lives.

I cried for each and everyone of us on this planet because we are doing this do ourselves. We are killing one another. We are destroying our humanity with our insistence that our way is better than their way, that our truth needs to be heard louder than their voice, that our faith is more righteous than another’s.

We must protect ourselves from terrorists we assert. But who created the ground upon which terrorism festers? Who contributed to the space where terrorism became the common ground upon which we all stand united in our belief we must fight against it?

 

Can we not see? We are one humanity. We share the same air on this one earth that is home to each and every one of us.

This air I breathe this morning came from somewhere else in the world. Someone else’s breath first took it in and sent it back out to travel the world. Just as each exhale of my breath travels beyond the four walls of this room where I sit typing and looking out at the pristine landscape blanketed in the fresh snow that fell during the night. My breath will travel the world seeking freedom. Where will my breath find peace within me and around me?

Come spring, the snow outside my window will melt and become part of the water that encompasses our planet and covers 71 percent of our earth. It will become part of a river, of the vapor in the air, of a sea, an ocean somewhere in the world. Where will it find calm waters to rest in?

We all share in the water. We all share in planet earth.

We share in its joys. We share in its sorrows.

We share in its trials and its triumphs.

We share in its violence and intolerance. We share in its compassion and its peace.

We share one world. One planet. One breath. One earth.

When will we find the courage to lay down our arms of mass destruction and embrace one another in arms of compassion, tolerance, Love?

I cried this morning.

My tears have flown free. I feel more peaceful now. Less despairing. I know that I can only do my best in our world to create the peace I seek and build a foundation of Love with every breath I take.

It is Christmas Eve. In the silent night of my soul’s yearning for Peace on Earth for All Humankind I must remember that with every breath I take, with every word I speak, with every act I make, I create peace within me and all around me. I must remember, my ripple counts.

Every ripple counts.

What will your ripple be this Christmas Eve?

Namaste.