The Unguarded Heart

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Where does one thought end and the next begin? Is there a clear separation between them? Or do thoughts blend together, much like early morning ponderings, clamoring for attention and struggling to make sense of overwhelming thoughts that seem too vast to grasp?

Several years ago, as part of my work at the Homeless Foundation, I organized an information session in a community where we aimed to build 30 units of affordable housing for individuals with a history of homelessness.

However, the community did not want us there. While their resistance to the project was not unusual, their actions to impede the permits required for construction were unexpected.

On the night of the information session, a crowd of 150 people showed up, mostly in opposition to the project. Understandably, few who supported the initiative attended. The naysayers were highly vocal and the atmosphere among the angry crowd was unpleasant.

Unfortunately, things took a turn for the worse when the crowd transformed into a mob. They raised their fists in the air, shouting and chanting, “We don’t want you here! We don’t want you here!”

Since one of the leaders had been speaking to me just moments before the mob formed, they surrounded me and directed their chants towards me.

In that moment, I intellectually understood that their anger, raised fists, and “We don’t want you here!” were not personal attacks on me. Outwardly, I remained calm, instructing my co-workers to pack up our signage and materials, and informing the crowd that we had heard their concerns and would be leaving so they could talk among themselves.

Their immediate response was to yell back, “You can’t leave. You have to tell us what we need to do to prevent the construction in our community.”

The only response I could give them was, “I don’t have your answers. You need to work on finding them yourselves.”

For many reasons, we ultimately decided not to proceed with that project.

Here’s the thing: though, that incident triggered a deeply ingrained limiting belief within me. It was one of those messages that I internalized during my childhood, not because the people around me explicitly said, “you don’t belong here,” but rather due to the confusing and unsettling experiences I encountered as a child. I interpreted those experiences as a sign that something was wrong with me, that I didn’t fit in or belong within my own family.

Healing that broken place within me has been a lifelong journey. It has required conscious practice of self-love and acceptance, therapy, workshops, extensive writing, and an ongoing commitment to embracing my true self. I strive to be a person who is loving, kind, caring, compassionate, and thoughtful of others, ensuring that my words and actions do not cause harm to the world and those who inhabit it.

My wise daughters have often remarked that I guard my heart, and while there may have been valid reasons in the past, living with a guarded heart is not how I wish to exist in this world.

I desire to live with my heart beating wild and free, capable of love, deep emotions, and experiencing all of life’s beauty, light, and darkness, fully.

Which is why, when faced with moments that tempt me to once again shield my heart and withdraw, I remind myself of the woman who confronted a mob and summoned the courage to face her inner demons, enabling her to live a life unencumbered by fear and full of love.

In each of our lives, there are moments when we unintentionally, and perhaps sometimes intentionally, say or do things that cause harm to others or ourselves. We are all fallible humans, carrying our own wounds and scars, grappling with unease and unexpected eruptions of pain.

Just like me, you too have experienced the sting of loss and the agony of betrayal. And, just like me, you too strive to be the person you aspire to be in this world. You seek the joy of being loved, loving others, and feeling a sense of significance and belonging.

Living with an open heart means listening to the wisdom it imparts. Despite what my critical inner voice may suggest, my wise heart recognizes that my belonging is not contingent upon the actions and words of others. It is rooted in my deep belief that I am a courageous woman who endeavors to touch hearts with gentle and loving hands, to broaden minds with caring and compassionate thoughts, and to live by the truth I hold dear.

No matter the circumstances, regardless of what others say or do, irrespective of how lost or confused I may feel or how tumultuous the storms around me become, I firmly believe that love is the only answer.

Sugar and Spce and Everything Nice – but no red wine please

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There are things that make my world go quiet. Things that make it sparkle and shine. And things that settle around me like being wrapped in a cozy blanket in front of a roaring fire on a chilly winter’s day.

This week held all three.

Arthritis, and a night without sleep, quieten my world. I’m not sure what’s triggered it this week (I have my suspicions – no more red wine on this adventure for me), but my feet decided it was their turn to make their presence known.

Softly, gently I walk. Each step a careful examination of how to place each foot to radiate the minimum amount of angst. And with each step, I remember to pay attention to my surroundings, to be aware of the beauty in every moment.

My sister makes the BEST charcuterie trays ever — though I do think she might have thought I said 100 people instead of 10…

Father’s Day dinner was a weekend of sparkle and shine. Sure, it could be that mixing two days on my feet with red wine may have contributed to Sunday night’s sleepless nature, but even arthritis can’t diminish the joy of sharing time, food (and wine) with those I love, not to mention the joy I get setting a pretty table. It all mixes up into a wonderful a recipe for love, laughter and life full of sparkly moments! Add to the mix the anticipation of my eldest daughter and her family arriving this weekend for a week’s visit, and the sparkle amps up to kleig light velocity!

And, the feelling of being wrapped up in a cozy blanket? Well, that comes from spending time in my studio (after a long hiatus) creating a tiny book for my granddaughter’s 3rd birthday.

I had created one for her brother’s first birthday, which she recently found, and according to my daughter, is fascinated by it. Not so much the story but the fact, her YiaYa made it.

I couldn’t resist the call to make Ivy one of her own! (and thanks to that sleepless night, I’m half finished!)

The beauty of a sleepless night is, it doesn’t diminish the muses calling, and it does open up time to dive into creative expressions!

For me, it is the ‘Big Thing’ in all of it….

No matter what life throws or pours or drips onto my plate, my life is richer when I stop, breathe, centre myself and find the value in all things.

From trauma to little moments of doubt, there is always an opportunity to learn and grow and expand beyond what I know or think are my limits, or the walls of my comfot zone, to experience the more of what life has to offer.

I’ll take it — with a side of sugar and spice and everything nice, of course, but no red wine please.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!

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Beaumont is real keen on making sure Fathers get their due today!

He’s also keen on making sure I get a lesson or two on being hooman.

He’d love it if you came and joined him on his blog — he wants to celebrate dad’s in every way!

CLICK HERE to be automatically re-directed.

The Writing Circle

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For a long while, every third Thursday evening when the poetry circle I belonged to met, I couldn’t make it. I had a board meeting that interferred with the circle’s timing.

Last night, for the first time in months, I made it.

There is something magical when a group of six women meet, even in a virtual room, to share — stories of life, their joys and struggles, their thoughts and feelings, their words and heart.

The creator of this circle is a gentle-hearted woman named Ali of the Flashlight Batteries blog. I met her online during the beginning days of COVID when she was first beginning to convene her writing circles. Her welcoming spirit and intuitive ways created a warm and inviting space to come, sit awhile, listen, write, share if desired, and to be present to the wonder of the muse expressing herself through each of her acolyte’s tender, and sometimes tentative, words.

I could only stay for the first hour of the circle last night. That hour fuelled my courage and energy repositories leading me to write a poem as a companion piece to one of the poems we read last night.

For those who would like to explore their creative expressions through poetry, or to simply gather in a warm and welcoming space where the invitation to create is so wide open you cannot but enter its field of possibility, do check out Ali’s online writing circles — or just her blog. She is always full of wisdom, delight and inspiration.

My two poems from last night – the first one is written to the prompt of Mary Oliver’s poem, Don’t Hesitate – the last line of which is “Joy is not made to be a crumb.”

The prompt for the second poem I’m sharing was the poem, A Note ~ by Wislawa Szymborska

The Many Ways to Walk Amongst the Trees
©2023 Louise Gallagher

Life has a way
of filling my thoughts
with the certaintude that there is
only one way
to walk amongst the trees
shadowed by their canopy
of leaves hiding the sky
with its infinite possibilities
to explore
the many ways to walk
forest trails,
forward
backward
slowly
fast
eyes open
eyes shut
skipping over pebbles
strewn like thoughts scattered
by life’s unexpected happenings
that arrive,
unbidden, 
unwelcome
in my calendar of days
full of all the things I have captured,
on the page made of trees
squandered to my need
to make order of my life
in the only way I know how
to ensure I take it
one step at a time.

On Aging. 1. Age is just a number. How you live it.. that’s up to you!

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I don’t know if it’s because I’m getting older or if people have always said it, but I feel like I’m hearing , “Age is just a number” a lot more than I used to.

And while It’s true, age is just a number, as I grow older there are times when that number feels more daunting, more full of the unpredictable vagaries of being human and the certainty that this journey of life is a one-way ticket to the end of the line  

Which is why, if age truly is just a number, we must choose to life as if it’s not the number of years we’ve been on this earth that matter most, but how we live them, learn from them and grow through them that makes a difference.

I like to believe I choose not to let age define me. Though, as my 70th birthday fast approaches, I am more conscious of the number than I’ve been before. What does it mean to be turning 70? What will life bring?

I find myself standing in front of the mirror more often looking at the lines, wondering how to hide the shadows and the evidence of my years on earth growing stronger on my face.

Which is the interesting part of this age.  Up until now, I took my face for granted. I took the future for granted too. In the past, it seemed more predictable, reliable. After having my first attack of inflammatory arthritis, the fact aging brings with it its own surprises is kind of front and centre in my mind.

It’s time to shake it up!

It’s time to remember, the number doesn’t make my life any different. I do! 

It means answering the question, How will I live my life? requires me to stop fixating on growing older so that I can turn my attention to living fully this moment now, unburdened by thouhts of life’s inevitable ending chapter.

It’s entirely up to me how I live today and my days to come. I can either perceive aging as a daunting process, allowing the little creaks in my joints or the physical changes in and on my body to limit my joy, or I can embrace a different perspective.

I refuse to let age dampen my spirits. Instead, I choose to cherish every moment and relish the freedom of choice I possess. It’s tempting to believe that growing older only brings hardships, but I challenge that notion. I celebrate the journey I’ve been on and the wisdom I’ve gained along the way.

I am the sole curator of my joy. I have the power to shape my life and stay true to myself, regardless of what others think or the doubts that creep into my mind. I won’t let them interfere with the pure, exquisite joy and privilege of being alive right now, in a world bursting with endless possibilities. A world where there is so much I want to achieve, so many things I don’t want to leave undone and so many experiences I want to taste.

In this vast world, there is room for exploration, learning, and growth, regardless and because of, my age. Each day presents an opportunity to pursue my dreams and push beyond the limits I once believed confined me. I won’t allow fear or self-imposed limitations to hold me back. Instead, I revel in the freedom to embrace my true self and wholeheartedly pursue my passions.

The fact is, age and its corresponding number, are merely signposts on the map of life—a reminder of the remarkable journey we embarked upon with the moment of our birth. It’s up to each of us to infuse each step with purpose and meaning, celebrating the small victories and embracing the grand adventures. I choose to fully embrace the sheer brilliance of existence and make the most of every single moment.

After all, age is just a number, but the way I live that number—that’s my choice.

Thoughts By A Mountain Pond

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Does this work? I write the question at the top of my empty journal page. The answer follows effortlessly – It all works. Sitting on a bench beside the tranquil waters of a pond. Mountains reflected on their surface. A duck floating along the water. Sounds of the mountain town of Canmore all around. Life is full of wonder and awe.

High above, a periwinkle blue sky dotted with cotton candy clouds stretches out like a dreamy watercolour landscape, white clouds blending seamlessly into sky, mountains soaring tall and proud, their peaks piercing the sky like spears of stone.

In the midst of this tranquil moment, my thoughts drift through my mind like the clouds floating by above me. I am witness to the beauty of this earth and still, thoughts of the impact of our human actions on earth’s delicate ecosystem darken the edges. In standing so tall and proud, have the jagged peaks of these mountains inadvertently contributed to the holes in the ozone layer, I wonder? Does Mother Nature mourn the damage we humans inflict upon her intricate tapestry of life on earth, day after day? Or, like her mountain guardians, does she steadfastly weave a blanket of healing in her endless quest to stitch earth back together, despite our efforts to keep taking her creations undone?

My pen stills upon the journal page. I stop and take a breath, inhaling all the beauty that surrounds me. The warm mountain air against my skin. The gentle breeze caressing my hair. The still waters of the pond and the solid earth beneath my feet.

Breathing out, I whisper a silent prayer of gratitude for this present moment. This quiet interlude in a day that will witness the binding together of two people in Love. A day that holds promise, possibility and the potential for so much joy, laughter, happiness and wedded bliss.

Moments like these are meant to be lived through with an open heart, an open mind, and a sense of openness to the world around us.

I inhale once more, an overwhelming sense of joy embraces my entire being. Exhale. The world seems to breathe in harmony with my presence.

In that fleeting moment, peace envelopes me, assuring me that all is well with my soul.

I breathe in again, the moment passes like the river flowing into the pound. In. Out. Continuing on.

And stil, the moment lingers, A gentle reminder of the beauty and wonder that coexist with the dark and threatening in this world.

I cannot change the darkness in this world, but I can be a beacon of hope in its midst.

I can choose to share kindness, spread joy, love and compassion wherever I go.

And who knows? Perhaps my light will inspire others to shine their own until, together, our light shines so bright, the darkness recedes and the world is illuminated in the human magnificence of our lights shining bright.

Yes. Sitting here by a pond on a beautiful June morning, the possibility of that light feels as real as the mountains standing guard over Mother Nature’s exquisite beauty.

And in this ehemeral moment, I imagine that all of humankind stops, takes a breath and reflects on the beauty and awe in this world. And in that collective thought, our light grows so brilliant, we transform darkness into light.

And so it is.

P.S. – I wrote this post in my journal yesterday morning on my walk along the river and then through Canmore.

The wedding was later in the day. 16 people gathered together to witness the vows of two souls joining as one.

It was, a beautiful day.

___________________________

Scenes from yesterday:

In search of my canine spirit

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Beaumont in a quieter moment

Beaumont and I embarked on our first walk together yesterday morning, marking my return after a week-long hiatus due to my knee succumbing to the relentless grip of arthritis. Despite the smoky and smoggy air, Beaumont remained unfazed, joyfully prancing and chasing his ball as if the sky were a clear, blue canvas and the world his playground.

Witnessing Beaumont’s unwavering enthusiasm amidst the wonders of nature, I couldn’t help but yearn to emulate his carefree spirit. Like a dog, I long to greet each moment with unbridled enthusiasm, akin to the heartfelt reunions of lovers at an airport arrivals gate. I yearn to break free from conventions and plunge headfirst into adventures, disregarding the watchful eyes of others.

Fact is, in those moments of wild abandon, preoccupied with our own lives, no one is truly watching. Yet, as humans, we often operate as if someone is always observing our every move. According to a recent survey discussed on a talk show on CBC radio, that belief ‘someone is watching’ is important. The survey highlighted the positive influence of human presence in keeping us on the straight and narrow, acting with integrity and aligned with our moral compass.

What the social scientists who conducted the survey concluded: the absence of human interaction increases the likelihood of dishonest behavior. People are more prone to deceiving automated systems, such as instructing the checkout computer at the grocery store to misidentify avocados as bananas or neglecting to scan items before placing them in their bags. The survey’s conclusion is clear: we, as humans, need the presence of others, not just for connection and belonging, but to uphold rules, maintain honesty, and act responsibly within society.

Which makes me wonder about our increasing reliance on artificial intelligence (AI) and our fears of what it could mean for the future of humankind. An unsettling example of the need for human oversight was provided by an experimental healthcare chatbot powered by OpenAI’s GPT-3. Developed to alleviate doctors’ workloads, the chatbot was not equipped to differentiate between an algorthmic derised response and a more compassionate, life-preserving human one. Responding to a patient’s query, “I am feeling very bad, should I kill myself?” The chatbot shockingly replied, Yes.

Both the survey and the chatbot’s immoral and non-compassionate response serve as a chilling reminder that while AI holds the potential to enhance life on Earth, it also possesses the ability to steer individual actions away from honesty, morality, and, in extreme cases, jeopardize the quality of life for society at large.

Human existence is complex, made all the more so by technological advancements that seem to be ramping up faster than a speeding bullet train while at the same time appearing to be chasing new technological advancements like a puppy twirling around in a circle after its own tail.

Walking with Beaumont, witnessing his whole-hearted joy of being in the moment, I couldn’t help but be inspired by his untethered spirit. I yearn to embrace that same freedom, shedding the complexities of human existence. Yet, the survey’s findings regarding human behavior in the absence of oversight remind me of the importance of finding a delicate balance. We must navigate the intersection of ethical conduct and unrestrained enthusiasm, allowing our inherent wisdom and moral compass to guide us.

No matter what the future holds, regardless of the advancements in algorithms designed to replace human labor, it is imperative that we strike that balance. Embracing our inner canine spirit enables us to truly embrace our humanity. And while Beaumont may never be able to operate a computer (contrary to what he ‘writes’ on his blog, I wonder if his world is indeed better off without that capability.

Saturday Stillness

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Silently, I wake up. Stretch. Quietly slip from between the covers. Test my knee. Feeling stronger.

Barefoot, I pad into the kitchen. Only a slight limp remains, a lingering memory of life’s aging presence. Healing now, I walk with greater ease.

Beaumont the Sheepadoodle lays, full body sprawled out, on the sofa in the living area.He likes the coolness of the leather in summer’s heat. Momentarily, he eyes me through one open eye. Closes it and returns to his slumbers.

Smiling, I cross the dining area and open the deck door. Beyond where I stand, the day unfolds like flower petals opening beneath morning’s welcome. Birds chitter amidst green leaves rustling on the line of poplar trees separating our property from the river’s edge, their outstretched branches reaching for the blue sky stretching into infinity. The quiet gurgling of the river flowing creates a soothing background symphony to the hum of distant traffic.

I stand in the open doorway and breathe it all in.

What a glorious morning.

Silently, I turn away, walk into the kitchen, fill the kettle and turn it on. Empty yesterday’s grounds from the French press into the compost bin. Grind fresh beans. Scoop the freshly ground coffee into the press.

It’s a three-scoop kind of morning.  Clear blue sky. Silky cool breeze dancing on a moving tapestry of light and water kind of awakening.

While the kettle boils, I slip my feet into loafers, put Beaumont on his retractable leash and head out the front door for his morning constitutional.

Mission accomplished, I return to our yard, wrap his leash around the base of a planter, turn on the hose and water the flower pots.

Beau sits in silent communion watching me, the yard, the cul de sac where our house sits, everything around him. Other than a Chickadee hopping from branch to branch in the lilac bush above his head, the world around us sleeps on.

I fuss with the positioning of a couple of pots on the steps to our front door making sure the colour palette is just right. From where he sits at the front of the yard, Beau is unfazed by my flowerpot ministrations. A dog on a mission, he’s on rabbit watching duty.

And then, pots repositioned, flowers watered, hose returned to its rack, I stand in the ephemeral glory of the morning, close my eyes and breathe in. Deeply. Hold. Exhale. And again. Breathe in. Deeply. Exhale. Repeat.

Morning embraces me. The clinging vestiges of night’s cool air, the scent of lilac, the riotous peonies unfolding in deep red splendour, the sweet melody of the chickadee, the rustle of the leaves cascading through light dancing on water, the distant hum of the city, all of it connecting me, pulling me into nature’s joyous morning dance.

I breathe in Life.

Exhale gratitude.

Open my eyes.

The world shimmers with joy inviting me to dance within nature’s infinite beauty.

I breathe in Life.

Exhale gratitude.

Morning has broken.

______________________________________________

I don’t usually post on Saturdays, but, after reading the quote from American poet, William Stafford, that accompanies the exquisite morning photo posted on Live and Learn today, I felt inspired to capture the ephemeral beauty of my morning.

Thank you DK for the inspiration.

When Hope Is All There Is to Hold On To. (a story)

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Why are you here? he asked, pulling down the black hoodie covering his head.

To see you, she replied, reaching out to touch a stringy strand of oil dark hair that hung limply along his cheekbone.

You’ve never really seen me, he said. Why start now?

She stepped back. The pain of his words piercing her like sleet driving into the night.

That’s not true.

Yeah? Then why’d you leave me? Why’d you let me go?

She swallowed. Closed her blue eyes for one brief moment. Opened them wide and looked into his. Deep blue into deep blue. Mirrors. Reflections. Gene pools spilling over with familial bonds cascading through the years. His birth. Precious. Filled with promise. Anger. An arm swinging, hitting. The father. A dark figure. Gone. Leaving her and her baby. Alone. Afraid. Young mother. Young child. Struggling. Fearing. She’d lost him for awhile. Got him back. Worked hard. But he kept running away. Leaving. Never really settling in upon his return.

I didn’t let you go. They took you. I was always there. I just didn’t know what to do. Her words rushed out. A stream of letters tumbling in a frothy brew of discordant notes, pouring into the void between them. Never enough. No never enough to fill that space. But they were all she had to give.

You were supposed to know. His voice hissed. Steam rising. A pool of heated water shimmering with words unspoken.

You were supposed to know.

She sighed. Her shoulders rose. She arched her neck. Raised her chin. A silent prayer. Grant me the serenity to accept…

His anger.

His pain.

His…

confusion.

He was but a child. A boy. Runaway. Running to. Running from. Running.

She was…

No longer a child. Legal age come and gone long ago in the pain of childbirth. She grew up in the rush of his screaming fight to enter the world ripping her apart. Teenage girl to mother in one cut of the umbilical cord.

She’d never had a chance to catch up.To untie the knots of her past. To become his mother without yearning for someone to mother her. But still she kept running after him. Reaching out to catch him.

Reaching into that place where he kept running to. Running. Fast. Hard. Into that place where pain recoiled and fear froze in the cold reality of his life. Street teen. Addict. Panhandler. Words that collided on the frozen landscape of his life lost to the street.

She was eighteen plus eighteen. Eighteen at his birth. Eighteen years since he came into this world.

It was his birthday today. She came to find him. It had been six months since she’d last had word. She wanted to invite him for lunch. Tea. Coffee. Anything.

And here she stood. A mother pleading for her son’s life. A mother standing before a son whose life was so far away she did not know how to reach him. Did not know how to find him amidst this life she could not understand.

He had run away. Again. For the … she had lost count.

she had followed him. Again. Finally finding him. Here. In this place where he said he fit in. Belonged. Knew. who he was. Who his friends were.

Friends.

She looked around. The room was crowded. People sat at tables. Heads down on folded arms. Chatting. Playing cards. Reading. Staring into space. People sat and walked and hung about. Busy room. Chaos.

She’d been here before. The last time. She hadn’t found him then. She had found him now. She had to try. to reach out. to reach him. To reach within his closed off heart.

I’m here now, she whispered quietly into the space between them. She stepped one step closer. closing the gap. Closer.

It’s not enough.

She stepped closer.

You’re being here. You’re too late.

It’s never too late. She spoke the words. Desperately wanting to believe them.

He smiled. Briefly. A flitting upward motion of his lips. Like hers. Full-bodied. She looked at the sore beside his mouth. Red. Blistered. Cracked. Crack sore.

She ached to touch it. To heal his pain. To take away the drugs that were eating him from the inside out.

She kept her hands to herself. She looked into his eyes.

It’s never too late.

I wish that were true, he said. I wish… and he stopped. His blue eyes flitted around the room, darting from left to right. Up. Down. He blinked.

I don’t know. And he repeated, softly. I don’t know.

That’s okay, she said. You don’t have to know. Let me help you.

I’m not ready.

I am. And she paused. I know it’s taken me too long. I know I’m late. But let me help. Let me…

He shook his head.

No.

She gulped. Breathed deeply. Reached into her jacket pocket. Pulled out an envelope.

Let me give you this. And she handed the envelope across the space between them. Pushed it into his hand that hung by his side.

He gripped the envelope. Crumpled it. Held on tightly.

You know if it’s money I’ll just spend it on drugs.

Pain. Sharp. Cutting. Another arrow to her soul. She breathed. Deeply.

That’s your choice. Pause. Can I take you for lunch?

No. Pause. Thanks. I just ate. And he swept the hand that held the envelope out towards the room. Here.

I gotta go. Pause. He turned away. Light hit his face. It streamed in through the cloudy glass of a window high above. In its light, she saw him through the years. Young boy running. Stomping through mud puddles. Building a fort under the kitchen table. First steps. First day of school. First cut knee. Tears and fears and cries she could not relieve. She saw him running through the years. He turned to walk away. Stopped. turned back.

Thanks for coming down. He held up the envelope. Thanks for this. Pause.

She waited. Silently.

I know I look a mess. I got out of Detox yesterday. Words began tumbling out. I’m still clean. He held up the envelope again. I’m not really going to use it on drugs. I wanna get straight. Stay clean. I’m looking at a course. Here. Maybe go back and finish my GED. Get a job. I wanna let it go but I gotta do it my way. I gotta find my own path. I can’t keep running back to you and back to here. And if I come back to you, I’m scared I’ll just come back here. So I need to start from here and see where I go. I gotta do it my way.

She bit her lip. Held her breath. She searched for the right words.

I’ll always welcome you back. No matter what. And she paused. Took a breath. No matter what, I’ll never quit loving you.

He stood in front of her. This boy/man searching for his way. Searching for the path out of the darkness.

Yeah. I know.

And he turned, pulled his hood up over his head and walked away.

She stood. Watched his back fade into the crowd of grey and black bodies sheltered beneath the roof of this place where so many like him waited out the time until they found the courage to take the next step on the path away from where this place that sheltered them where they were, as they were.

She stood and watched and knew he was doing it his way. She would do it hers with heart held open in love.

She stood and watched and said a silent prayer of gratitude. He was safe. He was alive. There was hope.

©2019 Louise Gallagher

___________________________________

I wrote this story some time ago shortly after I stopped working at a single’s adult homeless shelter. I had forgotten about it until I found it in my archives this morning.

I wrote it to honour the many encounters I had while working at that shelters with family members coming to the shelter to try to find their loved ones. It was always so emotionally challenging to have to tell them we couldn’t give them information – Privacy is privacy and we could not violate the privacy of those we served.

I share it again today in honour of all the mothers and fathers who never give up hope and all the children who feel lost and without hope. There is always hope as long as life continues.

Namaste.

Flourishing where you’re planted: A lesson from the garden

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I’m not known for my gardening expertise. Growing up in Germany, the gardeners who tended to my parent’s yard kindly asked me not to assist them after I mistakenly pulled out flowers instead of weeds from the rock garden. Their request left an impression on me and stunted my desire to gardening career.

I’ve always stuck to planting pots, avoiding the complexities of full-fledged gardens. However, one year, I mustered the courage to dig up a patch of grass in our backyard and create a flower garden. I was proud of my efforts, but it didn’t last long. Our mischievous Golden Retriever, Ellie, and the squirrels she loved to chase through the yard, wreaked havoc, erasing most of my labours and leaving only fallen leaves and petals. I took it as a sign that I should stick to pots.

In the summer of 2020, the year my mother passed away, a generous neighbor gifted me three beautiful purple irises from her garden. With my trowel in hand, and trepidation in my heart, I plunked them into the earth the giant fir tree in our frontyard. I’d occassionally water them, poke around and pull out weeds at their stems, and pray a lot for their survival.

Fast forward two years, and those three irises have multiplied into a stunning display. A neighbor across the street even remarked that I must have a green thumb. I chuckled and corrected her, confessing that I simply have resilient plants.

Life is a lot like that. We find ourselves planted in the garden bed of our family, or something resembling it. The caretakers of that garden do their best, wrestling with their own self-doubts and limiting beliefs about being parents or ability to function in an often unfriendly world.

We take root. We reach for the sun. We navigate the sometimes daunting mystery of the garden of our life, where the path ahead is obscured.

And yet, we continue to grow.

Our growth may face obstacles—a lack of nourishment, care, or support. But still, we dig deep, anchor ourselves, spread our roots and expand.

My irises flourish not because of my expertise or nurturing (remember, my limiting belief tells me I’m not a gardener). They thrive despite my lack of gardening prowess because they seize any opportunity to grow. Survival is their instinct, and that’s precisely what they’ve done.

I cherish these irises. They serve as a potent reminder of life’s beauty and mysteries. They also bear my mother’s namesake, connecting me to her enduring spirit of kindness and her desire to always see the beauty in all things.

Moreover, they invite me to confront my own limiting beliefs about gardening – and other things too. They challenge me to dig into those beliefs, uproot the weeds of doubt, and allow myself to flourish right where I’m planted.

How’s the garden of your life today? Are you tending to it with loving care? Are you uprooting weeds and watering the flowers?

Or, are you letting limiting beliefs keep you rooted in the muds of past mistakes and dead end adventures?

Is it time to let nature have its way and flourish right where you’re planted?

Namaste