Travelling Alone Holds Many Lessons

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I’m seated at a writer’s desk that once beloned to the grandfather of Pippa, the owner of the Half Door Writer’s Cottage, my temporary Irish abode.

Earlier today, I ventured into Nenagh, the largest town nearby that has a delightful town centre, a 1200 year old castle and a TESCO, Ireland’s supermarket chain. On the main street I spotted a store named with the same surname as Pippa. I wonder if it’s linked to her grandfather’s desk? I’ll need to ask her once we meet. Currently, she’s in Greece, navigating roads she described via WhatsApp as even more narrow and exciting than Ireland’s.

Switching driving sides is a mutual adventure for both Pippa and me. I commend myself for adapting rather quickly, save for a single blunder. One car had to flash its lights to alert me of my lane mistake! Now, I constantly remind myself, “My right shoulder is closest to the white line in the middle of the road.”

Yesterday evening, after settling into the cottage and the friendly feline Mr. Baggins, I headed to Gerrykennedy, a quaint lakeside village just a few minutes away. At Larkin’s Pub, I treated myself to delectable fish and chips on their patio and nursed a glass of Pinot Grigio as I wrote in my journal.

Things I’ve observed while travelling alone:

  • Talking aloud, especially when fatigue sets in. It’s a way to remain alert, especially after an exhausting transatlantic flight. And it’s a great way to give myself pep talks as I try to navigate the standard transmissions, driving on the opposite side of the road and a foreign landscape.
  • I’m more open to seeking assistance. Take the incident with my rental car’s non-existent ignition button for example. Accustomed to just pushing the button to start my car at home, I searched for the same facility on my rental car until I gave up searching and asked the lovely young attendant for help. He was very kind in showing me how the key just pops out of the fob and where to insert it on the steering whell. 😊
  • Balancing ego and self-awareness is vital. While ego nudges me to appear infallible, curiosity prompts questions about my presence and awareness.
  • The joy of unplanned detours, despite Siri’s insistence on sticking to the route.
  • The comforting presence of my inner voice, guiding me towards mindfulness.

Solo travels have been insightful:

  • It’s made me delve deeper into the essence of solitary journeys and heighten my self-awareness.
  • I’ve discovered the importance of relishing my own presence.
  • The conveniences of modern tech, like Google Maps and phone-to-car syncing, are deeply appreciated.
  • Staying connected with loved ones is just a call, text, or email away, reinforcing that we’re intrinsically linked irrespective of distances.

Traveling solo doesn’t equate to loneliness. It’s an enriching experience heightened by the omnipresent interconnectedness and the deep love that binds me inextricably where ever in the world I am.

A normal driving road when off the motorways. There are little lay-bys so that drivers can pull over to let approaching cars pass. Coming around curves is rather scary! That and the fact the posted speedlimit is usually 80 KMs per hour!

    Emerald Island – I’m on My Way!

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    Sitting at the airport in one of my favourite restaurants. Vin Room opened here at the International Terminal at the very beginning of Covid lockdowns.

    The worry was, it wouldn’t make it. Believe me. It’s thriving.

    I am too.

    Despite…. well why worry about the despites or in spite ofs or the if only this was that way or that way.

    The fact is, life is as it is and I am on my way to Ireland for 10 days of respite, restoration and respiration. Breath comes deep as I anticipate 10 days of aloneness, writing time, wandering time, and just pure delight time.

    This is my for me, by me, with me 70th birthday gift to me.

    It appeared as if it was spontaneous but the fact is, I’d been deliberating, wondering, contemplating this trip for quite some time.

    I wanted to go but concern for my beloved, wanting to do something with my daughters, just wanting to ensure the rest of the world was okay before I took off on some unknown destination kind of trip, caused me to falter and wait, and consider and wait some more.

    And then, one morning in September, I just did it. I booked a flight. didn’t really think about dates — do you know Canadian Thanksgiving is on the 9th and I don’t return until the 10th? Yeah. Like. Who’s going to do the big dinner and all that jazz?

    But I digress. There I was, sitting at my desk in my studio, writing a strategic plan for the not-for-profit I’m working for when a voice inside my head whispered… Just Do It!

    And so I did. Just do it.

    I picked up my phone, opened my Westjet app and check on flights to Dublin. And booked one.

    I had no idea what I’d do once I got there. No plan. No idea of where to go, what to see, what to do. All I knew was I was flying to Dublin on Saturday, September 30. End of story.

    I’m a little more prepared now. I have a car booked at the airport for when I arrive tomorrow morning. I’ll drive two and a half hours west towards the ocean. When I reach my destination at the Half Door Writer’s Retreat, I’ll park my car, unload my luggage (one bag) and ensconse myself for a beautiful sojourn on the shore of Lough Derg, just beyond the town of Nenagh. There, I’ll write, and wander, drive and tour, write some more and ponder life, love, and the beauty of being immersed in the Irish countryside.

    My father is Irish. His father and brother immigrated to Canada in the 1920s but never left their homeland behind. It always lived in their hearts, his Uncle Pat’s Irish brough never softening.

    My grandfather returned to the Emerald Isle a lot, eventually, settling in London where my father was born.

    It’s a long convuluted journey. My paternal grandmother was Jewish. The union did not last and if I read the letters she wrote to a sister correctly, their differeing faith had lots to do with it. When my grandparents divorced when my father was 8, they shipped him off to boarding school from London to Gravelbourg Saskatchewan which on a certain level explains his enchantment with my French speaking mother. Gravelbourg is a small enclave of French culture deep in the wheatfields of prairie bound south eastern Saskatchewan.

    And still, I digress.

    It must be the wine. I’m hoping it will put me to sleep on my flight so that when I arrive in Dublin at 11am tomorrow morning Dublin time, I’ll be refreshed and rejuvenated. Ready to take on this adventure.

    Wish me luck.

    I’m off!

    Autumn Symphony: A Dance of Renewal

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    Autumn – that enchanting season where Mother Earth gently reminds us of life’s cyclical nature: the ebb and flow of endings and beginnings, of birth and decay and renewal.

    Sir Beaumont of Sheepadoodle and I are walking along a ridge above the river. With each step we take take, leaves crunch and whisper stories beneath our feet. Sunbeams dance on the river, making the water come alive with a joyous shimmer.

    The world moves, yet in this moment, it feels still.

    As Beaumont and I meander along the ridge above the river, the vast eastern sky stretches out, painted in hues of serene blue streaked with white clouds billowing up. To the west, an impending storm, threatening to draw into the vast blueness above us. The wind howls gathers strength. Golden leaves dance on the ground, the crisp autumn breeze urging them to let go and release their bodies to its beguiling nature..

    As we walk, we chance upon a woman, her camera ready to capture nature’s magic. Further along, a couple stand, their arms heavy with fishing gear. “Any luck?” I ask. “Too late in the season,” they respond. But their lack of fishing success didn’t deter Beau. Eager for affection, he dances and whines with his eternal request to, “Pet me. Pet me.” The man happily obliges, and for a brief moment, two strangers connect over a shared love for a dog.

    The journey continues. My hair dances to the rhythm of the wind, and the distinctive sounds of autumn serenad us. I take a deep, invigorating breath, basking in the sheer vitality of the moment.

    We venture east, then turn back towards the west, where the approach of ominous clouds cast a shadow over the mountains in the distance.

    And then, as if a painter has suddenly hurled white paint against a dark canvas, divine rays of light break through, painting the sky with celestial elegance. “Look at that,” I whisper to Beau, awed by the spectacle.

    I stand and watch and soak it in and that’s when I hear it. Above the familiar sounds of the ridge before a storm, a new melody emerges as if carried on a magic carpet out of the darkness of the western skies – the soulful cry of a violin.

    Curious, I hurry westward.

    And there, atop the ridge, stands a figure. Dressed in sleek black lycra with a vivid yellow jacket, he stands next to a resting bike, a violin nestled against his neck. An open backpack, a music stand with sheets pinned to its frame, the papers fluttering in the breeze, large headphones that seem out of place in this natural setting. Yet, lost in his music, the world around him ceases to exist.

    Beau, ever the curious canine, continues exploring, but I am spellbound. The violinist’s passionate performance feels like a mystical bubble of wonder, resonating with the very essence of the serene landscape around.

    Each note of his song brushes against my soul, speaking awe in every fibre of my being.

    Eyes closed, he plays oblivious to my presence. I stand and listen and close my eyes and soak it all in.

    Like light streaming through the clouds, gracing the world with beauty and wonder, his notes embrace me with the magic of a moment where man, nature and music became one symphonic dance of joy.

    I open my eyes and walk on, back towards my car. Back towards home.

    And still, no matter where I go, I carry the music with me.

    Namaste.

    COPD: Stealer of Breath and Peace of Mind

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    When my beloved was diagnosed with Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD), I was initially clueless—about the disease itself, and more importantly, about the profound impact it would have on our shared existence.

    Fast forward a few years, and the ripples of COPD are unmistakably felt in C.C.’s daily life. While the overt signs of COPD are clearly visible in the laboured steps and shortness of breaths, the repercussions on a caregiver, such as myself, are far more nuanced. These repercussions aren’t so much physical, but mental. They emerge subtly, like fog rolling in off the river, clouding my thoughts with layers of anxiety, trepidation, and dread. Left unchecked, I feel at times like an emotional mist is threatening to overwhelm me with resentment, sadness, and a mélange of feelings that blur my peace of mind and clarity of thought and action.

    I confess, I’m struggling—struggling with the omnipresence of this disease and its ramifications on our lives. In my confusion and fear, I am reminded of my Auntie Maggie, who left us last year shortly after her 92nd birthday. When faced with life’s dilemmas she would often ponder, “What to do? What to do?”

    The fact is, the paths to ‘What to do?’ are many, and I have investigated few of them. This digital age offers countless resources and communities extending support and guidance. Physical and virtual support groups, practical advice for managing COPD’s challenges—not just for the one gasping for breath but also for caregivers like me, who watch as the disease stealthily alters the one they love and the dynamics of their shared existence.

    I think it’s the haunting specter of the ‘used to be’ that keeps me trapped in inertia. I’ve long recognized the burden of undigested worries and fears. Yet, mirroring the ostrich, I’ve buried my apprehensions, yearning for them to dissipate.

    This tactic isn’t working for me anymore. Does it ever?.

    We both need proactive measures to restore balance in our lives—measures that will usher in joy and harmony amidst the ambient tumult, both external and from within C.C.’s laboring lungs.

    Reflecting upon the years, as COPD both subtly and overtly stripped away facets of C.C.’s identity—especially his image as an energetic athlete and man of action—I can’t help but wonder. Did he feel isolated in his silent battle? Did our single-minded concentration on the physical toll unwittingly reinforce his solitude, especially as we sidestepped the emotional cost the disease exacted on us?

    Were we both embodying the proverbial ostrich?

    But there’s hope, and there’s promise. For every question I’ve left unasked, for every emotion I’ve sidestepped, there’s an opportunity to bridge the gaps, to heal, and to grow stronger.

    Starting today, I’m done being the ostrich and am donning my lionness’ robe to recommit myself: to open dialogue, to seeking understanding, and to rediscovering joy amidst adversity. Starting today, I am choosing to pull my head out of the sand, face reality, and actively seek ways to better navigate our shared journey.

    Starting today, three things I can do are:

    • educate myself further
    • seek support when needed
    • initiate those challenging yet crucial conversations with my beloved.

    The disease may be in his body, but we are one body in this union.

    And on my path forward I will also remember to take care of myself. To continue to live my life fiercely, daring boldly to be loving, kind, compassionate and true to myself and our love.

    The road ahead might be challenging, but I’m determined to walk it with clarity, purpose, and love.

    Namaste

    Wendy: A Silent Hero Remembered

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    It’s been 10 days since I received the news that my dear friend Wendy had left us. A decade of days, each carrying the weight of grief, sadness, and a bewildering sense of loss.

    Guy de Maupassant once penned in his novel, Bel Ami, “The only certainty is death.”

    It is the inevitabilty of every tree, flower, animal and human journey — the arc of life bends towards its own end. But what fills the arc with brilliance is everything we do between our first breath and our last. It’s the friendships we forge, the laughter we share, the tears we wipe away, and the love we generously sprinkle over the lives of others.

    Why then has Wendy’s abrupt departure from this world left me so disoriented?

    The word ‘unexpected’ echoes through my mind.

    I had plans with Wendy, plans that involved many more days of laughter, stories, a glass or two of wine, and a charcuterie board artfully assembled. I was expecting to see her again.

    Last Tuesday, HomeSpace, the not-for-profit organization she dedicated her considerable energy to, hosted a celebration to honour her life’s work. A crowd of colleagues, past co-workers, and her loving family gathered to celebrate a woman who was the silent engine behind so much good. Wendy was a woman who made the world a better place simply by doing—by organizing, by guiding, by supporting, and by empowering others to be their best selves.

    Wendy never sought applause or public acknowledgment. She thrived behind the scenes, diligently ensuring others could stand in the spotlight.

    If Wendy could hear the heartfelt stories and tributes shared in her honour that day, I imagine she’d dismiss the praise with her usual modesty. She would retreat to the kitchen, fussing over an extra cheese plate or refilling wine glasses, patiently waiting for the collective adultation to move on. Then, she would return to the crowd, quietly making her rounds to ensure that everyone was taken care of.

    Don’t get me wrong, Wendy wasn’t a saint adorned in rose-colored glasses. She had her flaws and complexities like each of us, but it was precisely those nuanced layers that made her so incredibly human, so deeply cherished.She was a woman of many opinions—on governments and leaders, healthcare, and even the inefficiency of city traffic. We’d often muse (and chuckle) about how the world would be a more compassionate place if we were in charge. Yet, she never uttered a word that could hurt a friend, tarnish a colleague, or dim the atmosphere of a gathering.

    And when we’d finished with complaining about the state of the world, we’d resume our conversations about the transformative power of art, the pressing issue of homelessness, and the secret to a perfect lemon pie as if these topics formed the very air we breathed.

    Wendy was a woman of action, and during the pandemic, she transformed into a ‘mask-making wizard.’ At the memorial, some of her countless masks adorned a wall, framed by photographs capturing her life. Every face in those photos had at some point been touched by Wendy’s kindness, likely having received a mask or some other gift from her.

    She gave until her heart could give no more.

    Now, her heart has given its last beat; her breath its final exhale. Wendy is gone, but she leaves behind footprints deeply embedded in our hearts—imprints we never expected would be set in such quicksand.

    What remains are the memories I will cradle in my heart, wrapped in a quilt of tender loving care.

    Wendy’s absence has reminded me of the fragility of life, urging me to cherish each shared laugh, every shared story, all the shared moments that dance in the space between birth and the inevitability that Maupassant wrote of.

    And so, while the world feels a bit dimmer without her, Wendy’s light continues to shimmer in the countless lives she has touched—mine most certainly included.

    The SnowGlobe of Your Mind

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    Picture your memories as snowflakes dancing gracefully inside a snow globe. Within this crystalline sphere of your mind, memories shift and evolve, reflecting the dance of time.

    When life delivers an unforgettable moment, new memories, like freshly formed snowflakes, gracefully descend. Some settle prominently, clear and within reach, while others are layered beneath the most recent moments.

    The newly formed memories shimmer at the surface, vibrant and easily relived. Yet, with the passage of time, some memories nestle deeper into the canvas of your past, becoming more elusive.

    Every so often, a gentle reminder—a fragrance, a melody, a cherished object—stirs the snow globe of your mind, reviving memories once buried, making them seem as fresh as yesterday.

    But the dance of memories is intricate. Not all remain pristine. Some blend, others fragment, mirroring how memories can morph, skew, or fade. The internal landscape of your snow globe continuously reshapes, embodying the fluidity and fragility of your recollections.

    Over the weekend, a dear friend of mine danced into the sunset. The moments we shared are vibrant in my mind’s eye. Years of camaraderie at work blossomed into a cherished friendship that weathered life’s seasons. Together, we savored laughter and tears, and shared a passion for life’s simple pleasures—good food, wine, and the joy of companionship.

    She was a beacon during stormy nights and a steadfast supporter in countless endeavors. Her commitment to community causes was unparalleled, always standing tall when others faltered.

    Today, the snow globe of my mind swirls with memories of her. Tears, held back since the devastating news, pool in my eyes, not yet ready to spill over into reality.

    Absorbing the weight of her absence requires time—a pause to comprehend the void left by her departure and the realization that our shared moments are now finite.

    In sharing this somber news with former colleagues, we all agreed: in her memory, we must forge the one thing she crafted so effortlessly—community.

    We must take time to cherish shared moments, to truly connect beyond mere plans.

    Life is a journey where memories incessantly gather, shaping each of our distinct snow globes filled with experiences with individuals who grace our path. By crafting new memories, new snowflakes, we enrich our life’s tapestry. As we treasure past memories and savor each distinct snowflake, the entire globe becomes more luminous.

    Ultimately, it’s the strength of our community that defines us and makes our world richer. A world where, the love we leave behind becomes our lasting legacy.

    Namaste

    If You Dare Nothing

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    If You Dare Nothing
by Louise Gallagher

If life were a poem
would you dare
to dance on rainbows?

If life were a song
would you dare
to sing the morning awake?

If life were a canvas, 
would you dare 
to paint the sky vivid green?

And if life were a story
would you dare
to paint your dreams alive?

If in your life you dare
nothing,
ask yourself, Why Not?

    This past Sunday marked a milestone in my life; I mustered the courage to sing in front of a group of over 150 people.

    This wasn’t just a spontaneous act. It was the realization of a dream I had nurtured for nearly two decades. Seventeen years, to be precise. And while it may have taken me longer than I initially thought, I’m reminded that the timeline of dreams is less significant than the perseverance to pursue them.

    At the age of 16, I had a taste of the spotlight when I won second place in a talent contest. My big brother, ever the protective sibling, perhaps feared that success might go to my head. So, as we walked home after my performance, he sought to ground me with a reminder: that in his eyes, I couldn’t sing, and to him, I appeared as nothing more than a silly little girl. He even went so far as to suggest that the audience were on his side and thought so too..

    I tried to brush off his words with laughter and feigned indifference. “I’m going to sing regardless,” I defiantly claimed. But internally, I was shattered. His words held weight, and I retreated from singing in public.

    Four decades would pass before I would confront that memory again. Seated in a seminar room on a Sunday morning, I watched another trainee stand up and sing in front of an audience. I wasn’t listening to their skill or pitch. I was mesmerizedby their bravery.

    And in that moment, a dormant dream reawakened. I wanted to reclaim my voice, not for the sake of singing perfectly, but to heal that wounded young girl’s spirit and prove to her that she is worthy of her dreams.

    So, on this past Sunday, in the Discovery seminar room where I had encountered my shattered dream almost twenty years ago, I sang. I sang not for validation but as an act of personal liberation. It was a triumphant stand, my declaration of independence, against a belief that had held me back for so long: the mistaken notion that I didn’t deserve to see my dreams realized.

    My song that day? The very one I sang all those years ago – Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now.”

    It was a full-circle moment, symbolizing that while perspectives change over time, dreams – when pursued – can truly come full circle.

    A Friday Haiku

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    The Surrender
by Louise Gallagher

Summer hustle fades;
Leaves surrender to fall's pause—
Orbiting, earth turns..

    Bubbles and Reflections: My Mother’s Voice

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    I’m soaking in the bath when my mother’s voice drifts into my consciousness. “Wake up! Wake up!”

    It envelops my mind, as delicate and fragrant as smoke wafting from a pot of Jasmine tea.

    Hold on. That voice—it isn’t emanating from within me, is it? After all, she’s in spirit now. It feels as if her words have clung to every possible molecule, ferrying her message to my consciousness.

    Could I be… possessed?

    I don’t even have to articulate the thought. She’s already heard it.

    “The ones we love may depart this world,” she murmurs, “but their voices linger, etched into our subconscious. And for the record, you’re not possessed. You’ve merely inherited the gift of deep listening.”

    “Oh,” is all I manage. What else can I say? This is sooo beyond my thinking mind.

    “Wake up, Louise,” she urges.

    “I’m awake,” I mutter, though it’s not convincing given it’s the ungodly hour of 6 a.m.

    “Not physically,” she corrects. “I’m referring to the sole of your soul’s core. Truly awaken.”

    Her clever play on words surprises me. In life, English wasn’t her first language, and witty remarks were not her style.

    But I’m digressing. A frequent occurrence when my mother decides to pop in during my baths. I always add extra bubbles for privacy, though she’s often reminded me she can see straight through them—and me.

    “I don’t need to see through you anymore, Louise.” Again, she’s ahead of me, anticipating every thought.

    Can’t I just have one peaceful soak?

    “I’m not merely dropping by, Louise. My spirit has journeyed into the Great Mystery, and now I’ve become the maternal voice deep within you. The nurturing presence you’ve always longed for. The mother I couldn’t be back then.”

    “Oh.”

    “But I’m not here to complicate things,” she reassures. “Yes, I caught that ‘about time’ thought. But I’ve returned for a different reason.”

    I play my part, inquiring, “Why?”

    “To prevent you from drifting aimlessly, mistaking mere existence for a fulfilled life.”

    Her depth overwhelms me, rendering me silent.

    “Your silence is of no consequence, Louise. I perceive even the words you withhold.”

    Ugh. As if a rogue thought critter wasn’t enough, now I have my mother tramping through my subconscious?

    I could really use a breather.

    “You don’t need a break, Louise.” I brace myself for a parental cliché, but she catches me off guard.

    “You need a psychic hug.”

    Intrigued, I venture, “What’s a psychic hug?”

    “It’s a surrendering. Letting go of the constant quest for answers and finding solace in the questions.”

    “You’ve been reading Rilke?” I joke, half-serious. Has she been stomping through my bookshelves?

    Her laughter is delicate, like chimes. “I haven’t. I just understand what you’ve yet to embrace. I sense your desires, dreams, even those you’ve yet to acknowledge. I’m here to guide you in navigating the unknown.”

    “But what if I’m not ready for that?”

    “I know you are.”

    And just like that, she fades. Leaving me amidst bubbles and reflections.

    The end?

    Or perhaps, just the beginning?

    Ain’t Life Just The Best!

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    Autumn days slip in with practiced ease. I am as practiced at resisting as Autumn is at falling.

    The tips of leaves turn burnished orange and gold. The tendrils of my mind push back thoughts of winter days to come.

    I want to linger in this shoulder season of summer turning into Autumn. I want to push back against the earth’s orbit to create a longer season for summer’s lingering breath.

    I am as powerless against pushing back against earth’s orbit as I am at willing The Seasons, The Weather and Mother Nature to do my bidding.

    And still, I imagine the possibilities.

    Such are the foibles of my human mind.

    I want to believe I am powerful beyond all measure while knowing I am only as powerful as I am willing to allow myself to be seen and known as who I truly am.

    I only have power over, within and of me.

    I remember as a child wishing I had the power to stop my parents arguing. To will my mother into happiness.

    I tried. I wanted to be the good girl she needed me to be. I failed a lot.

    I pushed. I wanted her to see me as I was, not as who she wanted me to be. I became who I am because to be who she wanted me to be forced me to figure out who I am. It was impossible to be someone else when I didn’t know where I was starting from.

    Ahhh. The silliness of being human.

    We want to be ‘somebody’ as easily as a leaf is itself yet resist Mother Nature’s urgings to simply BE. Here. Now. Present.

    Without resistance. Without pushing back. Hanging on. Clinging to or Holding out.

    Summer days give way to Autumn. I give way to ruminations of being myself, just as I am. Here. Now. Present..

    Ain’t life just the best?

    ____________________________________

    If the question, “Who am I?” intrigues you, if you’re interested in diving deeper into your essence to discover your incredible power to be truly yourself, check out DISCOVERY SEMINARS. The five-day program (plus two weekends) begins tomorrow here in Calgary.

    It’s an amazing journey of discovering your true beautiful, magnificent self.

    And no, I don’t get paid to say that. I just know what the seminar has created for me and want others to experience for themselves the absolutely joy of coming alive to their own magnificence!