This is my holiday day style blog…. Three things and a question for this holiday Monday in Canada.

The question first — why do we celebrate Queen Victoria Day in Canada?

Queen Victoria was known as the Queen of Confederation — though her birthday was celebrated in Canada long before Confederation. According to that source of all things needed to know to be in the know, Wikipedia, Victoria Day is celebrated on the last Monday of the month before May 25th to commemorate the current reigning monarch’s birthday and… unofficially, the first day of summer in Canada. (I’m still kinda waiting for spring!)

Or, as my beloved’s brother-in-law Steve Nease shared… (Steve is a syndicated political cartoonist – his website is here)

Cartoon by Steve Nease
http://neasecartoons.com/

The second thing…

Two weeks ago, I was the keynote speaker at a Women’s Conference in Claresholm, a small city an hour and a half drive south of Calgary. Last week, a friend sent me the article from the Claresholm newspaper. I made the front page!  🙂  You can read it by clicking here  (page 1) and here (page 2)  I have to spend some techy time figuring out how to get the link for page 2 into the first page!

And the third thing…

Well, it is a long weekend, and today is officially my day to get into the garden and beautify it for the summer. But, it’s not very nice or warm out and I have a project to complete and I know that many of my readers are not here in Canada, so…. whatever you are doing today, I’m sharing a song to help you enjoy your day!

Have a good one. I’ll be back to regular programming tomorrow! 🙂

A friend asked me awhile ago to join her and other women in creating a book of wisdom for a niece who is turning 13. Of course, I want to participate, I told her. And promptly got busy on the many other things on my plate.

But it has been sitting in a corner of my mind. The wondering of what would I tell my 13-year-old self about life, love, living? What wisdom do I most want to share to inform her journey?

I let my mind float. Let it empty itself of conscious thinking and sink into the reservoir of known but unseen wisdom within me.

Ten Things I would tell my 13-year-old self if I could change her life.

1. There is no such place as forever. Nothing is forever. This too shall pass. Whatever you are experiencing, the trauma, the angst, the joy, they are all illusory. Transitory. Ride whatever is happening hands free, barefooted, body wide open to the experiences of life. Now is not forever.
2. You’re okay. More than okay, you are amazing. Just the way you are. There is no fashion too out there, no style too wild if it is what you want to wear. You are not too fat, too skinny, to short, too tall, too under-developed, over-developed. You are who you are, how you are. And that’s amazing.
3. You are worthy. This is a tricky one. Your mind wants to steal this one away and hide it because to know your worth, you must risk — the unknown. the perceived impossible. You must risk the ups and downs, ins and outs, overs and unders of life. To know your worth, you must know there is nothing, noone, no way anyone can steal it from you. It is your birthright.
4. Believe in you. Really, really believe in you. Don’t question your right to be. Don’t question you’re right to go anywhere, do anything, anyway you choose. Be you. Everyone else is taken. Wear your hair up, down, wild, straight. Colour it pink, gold, orange or green. It’s your body. Your hair. Your skin. Your life. Your right to believe in you and be you just the way you are.
5. Be kind. People will say mean things. Do cruel things. Be kind. Like you, they struggle to know their worth, find their place, feel their feelings. Like you, they are taking this journey of life without a manual, unable to control and predict everything life will throw at them. Like you, they are sometimes scared, sometimes silly, sometimes confused, sometimes wise. And like you, they too are looking to fit in, to belong, to be part of something bigger than themselves. Be kind, no matter how they act. Be kind.
6. You don’t have to find your meaning. You are your meaning. Live it with your whole heart wide open to life. Your meaning is not in wearing the latest fashion or having the coolest stuff. Your meaning is found in how you approach every moment, engage every person from that place where you know, no matter what you think they think about you, you think and know you are amazing, just the way you are.
7. Seek magnificence. Don’t go looking for mediocrity. Seek to be known through your magnificence and seek always to know others through theirs. Don’t look for fault, seek the lessons, seek the knowing, seek the value in all things.
8. Risk often. Life isn’t a predictable series of events over which you have ultimate control. The only person you have control over is yourself – and even then you’ll sometimes doubt just how in control of yourself you are. Risk anyway because, if you’re involved with others, there will be lots of messy, sticky, unexpected and sometimes painful things happening on your journey. They’re just things. It’s all just stuff. You are amazing  – I know, I said it already – it’s true. Believe it. Risk living from the place of knowing you are okay, you are amazing, you are magnificent. Risk living as if it’s true — because it is.
9. Smile often. Laugh lots. Dance always. And when you cry, cry out loud. When you laugh, laugh out loud. And when you see injustice, ask what can I do to change it, and do that thing with your whole heart and know, that is enough. You are enough. You don’t have to have all the answers, you only need to learn the one’s that will allow you to make the difference in the world you want to see and be. And that’s enough.
10.  Get creative. Don’t go looking inside boxes for the recipe for life. Live it not knowing what’s next. Live it expecting the unexpected. Live it free of holding onto hurts and pains, sorrows and regrets. Live it up. Fill it with joy. and always, always SHINE! Because you are amazing. You are worthy. You are magnificent. And that’s the only truth you need to know to live your life fearlessly in Love with all of you.

I am sitting in a trendy restaurant having dinner with a friend who has asked me to help him work on a piece he has to read to a group. My wild mushroom soup arrives and I dig in. My friend has not ordered an appetizer, opting instead for a main course only.  I finish my soup (it was delicious right to the very last morsel). My salad and his lamb arrive and he asks, quietly. “Do you mind if I say a prayer of thanks for our meal?”

I am chagrined.

Not because of his request. It is important to give thanks.

I am chagrined because I never thought to invite him to give thanks before my soup.

I quickly agree and he says a prayer of gratitude. There is no hesitation in his words. No self-consciousness. There is only thankfulness and grace.

I am humbled.

And I want to speed him along. I see the waiter coming towards us. What if he hears my friend praying?

John Pentland, the facilitator of the course I took for the past two days and the reverend of Hillhurst United Church, shared the story of a young woman who confessed to him that it was easier to tell people she was gay than to tell them she went to church.

Danish philosopher and theologian, Sᴓren Kierkegaard wrote, “The function of prayer is not to influence God, but rather to change the nature of the one who prays.” 

When I was a little girl, prayer was big in our household. Friday evenings, we would kneel with our mother in front of the crucifix that stood on the mantel and say the rosary. As a little girl, I liked the pretty beads of my rosary. I liked how the tiny translucent pearls felt when they slipped through my fingers. How the metal links connecting them jingled slightly if I held it all together and shook it up. I liked being tucked in beside my mother, her head bowed in prayer, her lips moving as she quietly said the words of each Hail Mary followed by the Our Father at the end of each decade. And, I liked how from my spot in front of the crucifix I could see the many arms of Shiva doing his dance of  destruction beside the figure of a fat happy Buddha who also graced the mantel.

I liked rubbing the Buddha’s belly. My mother told me it would bring me good luck.

Sometimes, she would burn incense and I would breathe deeply of the pungent, sandalwood scent that wafted through the air. My grandmother, a severe and deeply religious woman, frequently sent us parcels from India filled with incense and popadoms and sugary sweet candies, along with little cloth pouches covered in a photo of a Saint and a prayer tucked inside. She also sent us statues of Shiva and other Hindu deities and I wondered if she was simply trying to cover her bases by ensuring no matter the belief, we were covered. Of course, I also wondered if the frequent fighting of my parents was simply the gods duking it out over who owned our souls.

One of the exercises John asked us to do yesterday at the workshop was to draw a picture of a river on a blank sheet of paper. Inside that river, he instructed, mark significant moments in your life. Perhaps the birth of a sibling, or the death. Perhaps a book you read, a movie you saw, a conversation you had. Mark in your river those things that in this moment feel like they have significance.

A river is always moving, he told us. Your river today may be filled with different things than your river tomorrow he cautioned before inviting us to move into small groups of three to share one of the things in our river along with its significance.

One of the things I shared was the day I married my first husband. I told of how I stood outside the church with my father and told him I didn’t want to go in. “I think we should go for a walk instead,” I told him. But he insisted it was just nerves. That I had a duty to all the people who were waiting inside. That I must enter and marry the man who waited at the altar.

I hadn’t wanted to change my name.

I hadn’t wanted to get married.

But I acquiesced. I gave in to what others said, rather than hold onto what I knew was right and true for me.

The marriage didn’t last long. It wasn’t that I didn’t love the man. It was that I did not love myself. I did not know me.

The significance of that day for me, I told the other two in my circle, was that I had a voice, and I didn’t use it. I knew my heart, and I didn’t listen.

A friend said a prayer over dinner last night. I heard him and I wondered, where am I in my prayers?

A question is a great place to begin seeking answers.

I am sitting in a circle, the soft cushion of my chair a welcome separation between my body and the hard metal frame upon which I sit. I am listening intently as our facilitator, Dr. John Pentland, weaves the art of story-telling into his presentation.

When C.C. learned I was going to a course on story-telling, his first comment was, “Don’t you usually teach that?”

There’s always more to learn and discover I told him and the only way I know to do that is to keep deepening what I know through the wisdom of others.

I am a life long learner. Learning feeds my whole body, mind, spirit. It fills me up with joy. It keeps me humble. I keeps me passionately engaged in living wide-open to possibility.

The morning session of this two-day course began with John inviting each of us to wander about the room, examining the photographs that were laid out on the floor. “Pick one that speaks to you about what gives your work meaning,” he instructed. “Do it in whatever way you feel called. Pick up the first one you see. Examine them all. Pick up several and then decide. It is your choice, but find one photo that speaks to you about the work you do and/or your organization does in the world.”

I was amazed at how quiet an exercise it was. No one spoke as they wandered amongst the photographs, carefully moving around each other. We were all intent on finding the right photo.

I moved into the mess of photos strewn all about and immediately one of them called to me. I bent down to examine it, wondering what it’s meaning was, why it resonated. I picked it up. Looked at it carefully, let my mind go blank so that I could see it from the inside out. It was a photo of an old master’s painting. An artist at his easel, a woman in a severe black dress standing at the wall. The painter’s assistant mixing paints to the far right, a large window casting long rays of light across the floor from the left. It spoke to my artist’s heart. To my desire to understand, to know, to see through all perspectives.

I waited. Felt its call and put it back down. It might be the one but I wanted to look at all the others to ensure I wasn’t picking to get the game over with versus choosing it for the meaning it represented. (Yup. The critter was active as he likes to be in exercises where I fear ‘not getting it right’. LOL. He truly is a pesky fellow).

I kept wandering amidst the photos.

A picture of stars.

A photo of a man praying.

A photo of a mosque door, its intricate blue tiles calling my senses.

A photo of a child smiling.

A river.

A skyline.

An astronaut floating in space.

And then I found it. A coloured in painting of a woodcut (unnamed) by the 19th Century astronomer, Flammarion (1842-1945).

Image source: http://saint-lucy.com/essays/55-angels/

It calls to me. Excites my senses. Pushes my thinking beyond the edges of my knowing. Lean into it, I hear my inner guide calling. Lean in and discover its meaning.

I pick it up. Stand quietly peering into the photo.

Slowly I walk back through the photos to the one I originally picked. It is still there. It still has meaning. But it is not the one.

This one is.

I take my seat and when asked to talk about the relevance of the photo I talk about how I live in the known of what I know. How everything I do is based on my perceptions of what appears as real and actual before me. This photo calls to me to look beyond. To breathe into my fears. To lean into the unknown. To explore and in my explorations, to share what I see and learn and discover — not because I know it all, but rather, because there is always something new to learn, always something new to discover. Because, there is always possibility of better. Of more.

I am excited by my finding. Excited by how one photo has taken my mind beyond what I know about what I do, into seeing more deeply into what brings meaning to what I do, for me, for the world around me.

“We are all in search of meaning,” John tells us.

And then, he gives us a statement to complete. “At my workplace, [in my life] meaning happens when….? Finish the sentence,” he says.

And I do.

In my workplace, meaning happens when people say YES! to doing whatever it takes to ending homelessness.

In my life, meaning happens when people say YES! to living life beyond the edges of their comfort zones.

I am excited. Day 2 is about to begin. Here’s to saying YES! to stepping into the unknown of what is possible when I let go of believing  all I know is all there is to know.

It was a Be. Do. Have. I wanted to quit on many times throughout the months leading up to the Artists Gone Wild Art Show & Sale.

So much to do. So many things to take care of. And I was busy. Busy with all my other work. Busy with my writing. My taking care of business. My life!

Who had time to devote to organizing an art show? I mean really? Why bother? I bet no one comes. I bet those who do will think it’s awful. I bet the other artists won’t like me. Or will be so much better than me I’ll look stupid.

Ah yes, the critter was in full blown panic attack — let’s undermine Louise’s sense of well-being because we all know she’s such a loser when it comes to commitment and living her dreams.

And then there was the guilt. Such a waste of energy but oh so familiar a space to writhe around in.

The lion’s share of the running around, making phone calls, organizing and figuring out fell onto the shoulders of Tamara, one of our Basement Bombshells Art Collective members. She was doing it all and my head kept telling me I was doing nothing.

Fortunately, neither critter nor guilt were powerful enough to stop the show from happening — we’d already paid for the space, postcards and other things necessary to promote and put on the show. We were committed whether my agents of self-sabotage had a say in it or not!

I am grateful.

Grateful for all I’ve learned over the years about who I am and what lengths my critter voice will go to undermine and pull me off my course.

I am grateful I have learned to recognize his hissy incantations calling me to give up, step away, let go of my dreams.

And I am grateful for the support of all those I know and love who remind me every day to stay the course, stand true and walk my path with love and joy.

The show was a success. Personally and in the bigger picture of the show.

Personally, I sold 10 paintings. Professionally, as an artist, I was given affirmation of my talent, my capacity to create art that speaks to others. What a gift!

We’ve sent out a survey to the other artists, and the feedback is positive — it was a success! The Possibilities Project artists felt welcomed and sold some works, and, we raised over $1400 at the Silent Auction for Alpha House!

It wasn’t that I doubted (okay, maybe I did a little bit). It was that I questioned whether or not my style, my unique expressions would please others enough that strangers would walk in and purchase my work. ( They did. In fact, one couple bought two of my paintings!)

Because, even though I say I don’t paint to sell my work, there is, just possibly, a tiny little whisper of a dream inside me that I could make a living from my writing and artwork….

I love to paint. I love to immerse myself in the process and get lost in exploring what happens when I simply let go of doing and become one with the piece I’m working on.

At the show, I took one of my art journals to have it there as an example of ‘possibility’.

There are no limits, no dont’ do that’s, no never put red beside orange rules in art journalling I told people who stopped to take a look at the journal. There is only the page. Only the expression of whatever is happening as you paint and collage and sticker up and glitter up and glaze over whatever you’re doing.

I wanted to test the waters to see if there was any interest in art journalling courses.

There is.

And now I have my next Be. Do. Have.

To hold a two-day Artifying your Soul workshop!

Yesterday, as I was walking back from a luncheon, I stopped in at a new little wine store I happened to pass by. I met the owners at a Community engagement Open House we’d held on one of the Foundation’s new buildings in the city. They’d shared the story of their new endeavour, about how their Be. Do. Have was coming to life. I promised to drop in and I did.

And in the process, found a space for another endeavour I want to undertake —  Nights of Wine and Creativity  — An evening to taste wines and explore simple art creations.

I recently read of a woman in California holding art making evenings in a winery — and thought what a brilliant idea. Wine. Nibblies. Canvases ready to go and an evening of painting away for fun — couples attend a lot of them and it looked like such a happy endeavour.

I spoke to one of the owners and…. we’re going to talk some more!

YES!

Staying focused on my Be. Do. Have. keeps the critter’s voice from rising above the fear I will fall if I step into my dreams, unfold my wings and let myself fly free.

One of the paintings that did not sell is one of the paintings I wanted to keep — the one on which I wrote…. She never imagined she could fly until one day she dared to believe…. in herself.

I am grateful it didn’t go. It is now hanging in my living room, reminding me always that we are born to fly free of our fears because we are born to succeed at living this one wild and passionate life in the rapture of now.

Namaste.

I am up to my elbows in a big black garbage bag, my hands sheathed in latex gloves as I sift through the coffee doused contents of the bag searching for the small strips of paper I need to save. Ellie, oblivious to my frenzy, is sleeping in the sun at the foot of the deck.

I rifle through the bag. Find one! Pull it out, carefully separate it, checking to see if it is still legible in spite of its coffee soaking. It is! I lay it on the table and dive into the bag again.

The air around is me filled with the aroma of day old donuts, coffee, and other unidentifiable foods, but I don’t notice. I am focused. Intent. committed to finding what I want and desperately trying to ignore the unidentifiable contents of the bag.

And I am laughing.

At me. My predicament. At life. At the wonder of it all.

Who knew that the day before, when I emptied the box of sign-in forms from the art show that less than 24 hours later, I would be dumpster diving as I desperately tried to save the sign-in forms that were the foundation of our building the art show database from the landfill?

Who knew?

Well, definitely not me. In fact, at the time of my mistake turned hilarious predicament, I was so focused on closing down the art show, getting all the silent auction items tagged, winners called and their prizes wrapped and readied for pick-up, I didn’t think twice when one of the artists asked, “Where is the box for the ledges on the easels?”

The sign-in forms were temporarily in the box. I’d put them there to give us more room to mix them up before making the draw.

One of the silent auction winners came in to pick up his painting. I asked him to make the draw. He did. I placed the winners information in my folder and…. threw out the rest of the sheets. The box was needed and I was on a mission — get the hall cleaned up so we could all go home!

It wasn’t until a couple of hours later when C.C., Tamara (my fellow Bombshell artist/organizer) and I were sitting in a pub sharing stories of the show with a friend that memory of what I had done hit me.

My stomach dropped. My eyes grew big and, according to Tamara my face turned white. “Oh no!” I exclaimed.

“What?” C.C. and Tamara asked in unison.

“I can’t believe what I did!”

They both were somewhat confused. I was sitting in front of them, eating a salad wrap and enjoying a glass of Pinot Grigio. What could I have done?

I looked at Tamara. “Oh dear. I don’t want to tell you.”

I took a breath and told her. “I threw out all the names from the draw. Our database is in a bag in the dumpster!”

The problem. The dumpster was locked when we left, the keys to it and the hall slipped through the mailbox slot for the caretaker to retrieve in the morning.

“I have her phone number in my cell!” Tamara exclaimed, handing me her phone.

The problem. It was the main number for the office at the hall where we had held the art show. I got the answering machine.

There’s a church group there in the morning, she said. They’ll have the key.

Which is why after a joyful Mother’s Day brunch with friends, we were standing by the dumpster at noon, sifting through its contents, looking for ‘the bag’.

Fortunately, the dumpster had been emptied on Friday morning. The church group had not yet dumped their garbage. Our five bags were the only ones there.

We found the bag we needed on our second try. Not bad for my first ever dumpster dive.

And that’s why I was laughing in the sunshine, wading through a bag of soggy garbage as the warm May sunshine beat down upon me on our deck.

What else could I do? I could cry. I could be angry. I could be resentful or, I could choose to find the humour in the situation.

You gotta admit. It was kind of funny.

There I was. Riding the wave of success from our show, suddenly remembering something I’d done that in the moment had seemed inconsequential, unimportant, irrelevant, (quite practical and tidy actually!) and then, suddenly, vitally important.

In the heat of the moment, I wasn’t thinking about ‘the what’ of those forms. I was reacting to the need to ‘get the job done’.

All things are connected. They were in the box because the glass container we used to collect them was too full. I had placed some of them there earlier in the day to preserve them for the draw. My mind hadn’t gone to the bigger picture of why we were collecting email addresses. It was focused only on the need to draw a name to ensure someone won the door prize. once drawn, the forms no longer had relevance to me, at the time.

Note to self. When in the thick of what’s going on and really, really tired. Take a moment. Breathe. Get present. And then, take action.

Who knows. Next time, if I breathe first, take action last, I might not have to go dumpster diving again! Bonus!

PS.  I saved most of the forms and they are now drying on my worktable in my studio. The gift — I had a good laugh and even greater memories of the show. It was amazing. More about it tomorrow.

Namaste.

Whew!  We’re ready.

Paintings are wrapped.

Easels ready to load.

The flotsam and jetsam we need to not only be in the show but run the show too is all packed up waiting to be loaded into our cars.

The show….. Must go on!

And this one will begin today!

Who knew mounting a show required so much?

Well, now we do.

And as Tamara and I wrapped and printed and checked off lists and organized last night, we both agreed…. Can’t wait until our fall show.

LOL — there we are, in the moment of now, looking ahead to the autumn.

Maybe it’s because summer is so short here, we’re always looking at the next season in preparation for the one we’re in — when it’s spring/summer — we might be wiser to stay in the moment for sure! Summer here is so short, and spring is often sprinkled with winter’s evidence falling down, looking to the fall means we might miss a moment of two of precious summer!

Okay, it must be I”m tired. We began framing and wrapping paintings at 1pm yesterday. C.C. pitched in and between the three of us, it took until the wee hours to get it done.

It was all fun. Tamara, one of my Bombshell buddies, and I turned the living room into a framing studio which is how it will remain until the show is over — if only because I don’t have the time and energy to change it back. Fortunately, my beloved is a man of great patience, humour and understanding. He goes with the flow. Or, as Tamara says, he locks himself away in his man cave when the pressure of two women artists in his home gets too much!

Fortunately, it’s Stanley Cup playoffs and his team is winning in the hockey pool he’s in.

In the midst of it all, Ellie the wonder pooch determined she had had enough and hightailed it to the backyard where she lolled about, drank champagne and ate pizza. Wait no! I cnnot lie. The drinking champagne and eating pizza was Tamara and me.  Ellie just lay around and enjoyed the sun while trying to avoid the giant roll of bubble wrap that sat on the deck — it was too big to get through the door — so Ellie had constant company as we moved in and out of the house cutting it up to make bags for our paintings.

And now I must run.

Lots to do to set-up for the show today. If you follow Twitter, we’ve been posting updates all the way through and will continue to do so over the weekend. My handle is mlouiseg88

Thank you everyone for your support, your well-wishes and your light. Thank you for following us on social media, for sharing and for caring. I carry you with me in  my heart.

Namaste.

Bird in Tree
20 x 24″ on canvas
Acryllic
2014 Louise Gallagher

OK. so, I am going to keep this short.

Lots to do, and only today as our last full day before the BIG SHOW tomorrow — and I’ve just spent the last 2 and a half hours sending out media advisories, clearing up some work related things and getting organized.

Not much time to write.

Feels like even less time to get ready for tomorrow’s opening of our art show.

I am…

and I stop and rephrase myself.

I feel…. excited. hopeful. eager. worried. anticipatory. tired. a little bit overwhelmed. grateful.

And the reason I rephrased.

Those are the things I feel.

What I am is ME!

I am practicing mindfulness. How I feel is not who I am. How I feel is simply about the emotions flowing at any given moment — often transitory. Illusory.

How I feel is a reflection of what is happening in my life, what is going on at any given time.

Who I am is always ME. All of me. In all my emotions. Feelings and ways of being.

I am me.

the reason for the rephrasing is that I am teaching myself to not own my emotions — and thus to not give room for my emotions to own me. And in not owning them, allowing myself to honour what is present — in all its darkness and its light. Permanence and impermanence.

At any given moment any of a swathe of emotions may be present — in fear there is hope. in joy there is confusion. in love…

Well that’s another matter. In Love there is only Love — In love there is nothing else to claim, be, desire, yearn for, want.

In Love, I am all of me.

I am Love and Love becomes me when I let go of being anything other than who I am, in Love.

Okay.

So now I must get running because at this moment in time I feel the pressure of time ticking each moment away. I feel the limitations of a day with only so many hours and many things to get done.

Did I mention I am excited — wait. No. Let me rephrase. Did I mention that I am feeling excited?

Well I am.

Tomorrow is the opening of Artists Gone Wild Art Show & Sale.

The first art show mounted by The Basement Bombshells Art Collective. We (that would be Lynn, Tamara, and me as well as all the artists) hope you can come and visit. We’ll have lots of beautiful art to explore — and lots of things people can buy to celebrate the mother in their life!

Do come and say hello.  Do visit our FB page where we’ve been showcasing the works of all the artists — https://www.facebook.com/basementbombshells

and do — visit our website where you can learn more about each of the artists and the Basement Bombshells — http://www.basementbombshells.com

I hope to see you there — I will be situated just to the left of the doors as you come in.

And if you can’t make it (I know not everyone lives in Calgary and area!) thanks for stopping by here and saying hello. I appreciate your presence everyday.

Love and blessings,

Namaste

Louise

Breathe. Seek first to understand not to judge.

The words kept flowing through my mind. I held myself in their presence and let the conversation flow around me until I felt the truth of what my heart was telling me come alive in my thinking.

I was sitting around a boardroom table with members of a group of concerned people. They had invited a co-worker and me to come and present on a new development the Foundation I work for was proposing in their community.

Twenty-five – thirty units of affordable housing in an assisted living appartment building for formerly homeless Calgarians.

“You have to admit this is a special situation,” someone commented. “This isn’t like all your other buildings. None of them are so close to the homeless hilton.”

I do not like that term. The shelter the individual was referring to is not ‘the homeless hilton’. It is an emergency shelter. A place where people seek refuge, day and night, to find some warmth, comfort, safety from the harsh, cold winds of homelessness.

As I ruminated on the term, I could feel myself getting all steamy inside. The pesky critter wanted to leap into the fray. He wanted to give them a piece of my mind. It is not the homeless hilton. It is a homeless shelter that provides care and support for human beings who do not have a home….

Seek first to understand not to judge, my heart whispered. Share your heart. Not your judgements, it added for good measure. Sometimes, I can be hard of hearing where my heart is concerned.

I breathed. And opened my mind to what my heart knows best.

I cannot change someone else’s position. They have the same right to their position as I have to mine. What I do have is the power to make space for common ground to arise from our sharing of our points of view.

I listened to my heart. I sought to understand. To gain a view into their perceptions before I sought to be understood.

I asked for clarification. I asked to hear their concerns, their fears, their worries.

They shared. I listened and then I shared what I had heard about their concerns, their fears, their worries and what I knew to be true in this situation.

Heads around the table nodded as I spoke about the success of a similar project in an area equally as close to the shelter. About how moving people with lived experience of homelessness out of shelter into housing creates a sense of greater safety and well-being in their lives and our communities.

Lives change when we change how we see what is happening in the moment of discord, disagreement, unease arising.

Lives also change when we seek less to judge and search instead for understanding. Not just in the lives we judge to be less than, other than the way we think they should be, but also in the lives of those who hold a different position than ours.

When we do not understand how another thinks, to find common ground we must first change our viewpoint from a place of condemnation and move to a place of compassion. In that space, we have a greater chance to see eachother as human beings holding different points of view, where one is not wrong the other right. They are simply different. In that place of understanding, we have a greater opportunity to create bridges of understanding, not of separation.

I had a moment last night when I didn’t want to step back from the precipice of my condemnation. I had a moment when I wanted to leap into discord just because… I thought I knew best. I thought I had all the answers. I thought the other person was wrong.

I breathed and let my heart call me back from the edge. I breathed and let my heart guide me. In its loving care, I let go of my judgements and stopped dancing in the field of condemnation.

When someone sees a shelter, or the housing we are looking to build, as something we do not see it to be, it is not that they are wrong, it is that they can only see it from where they stand, from their experience.

When we speak in pejorative terms, it is not our hearts talking. It is our minds expressing what we fear. Our minds know fear well. To not let fear have control, our minds hold tightly to the reins of power, because who knows what hell will break loose if we let go of holding onto what we believe to be true?

I struggled to let go of my judgements last night. I struggled to let go of listening to my mind’s rant and let my heart speak first.

And then I surrendered and allowed myself to fall into Love. I surrendered and fell into that place where I saw each of us in this thing call our shared human condition. It is a place of compassion, understanding, Love.

It was a powerful lesson in humility.

It doesn’t change the fact that I do not like that term, the homeless hilton. I have heard it many times, and still find it pejorative. A homeless shelter is not a spa. It is not a holiday resort.

It is a refuge. Just like my heart. Your heart. Our hearts.

And in the refuge of my heart, I find the space to make room for all points of view so that together, we can find common ground where all of us hears our hearts calling us to turn up and care for one another through the grace of our human condition shining.