Tag Archives: grief

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Unearthing Creativity: A Journey Back to Morning Pages

Why do I write? Often, it’s a delightful blend of self-inspiration and cosmic detective work: nudging myself into new ventures, finding my footing in this wonderfully chaotic world, unearthing meaning in the mundane (or the magnificent), and generally figuring out why I am the way I am and what truly lights my fire today.

Lately, my quest has been to forge a morning routine template, a sort of daily superpower, to supercharge my creative process. As one does when seeking wisdom (or procrastination, depending on the day or moment…), I recently dove into the digital archives, specifically searching Facebook for “Morning Pages” groups. Lo and behold, a blog post I penned two and a half years ago popped up.

Reading it was… a punch to the gut. I’d written it during the harrowing time my eldest sister was in ICU, fighting for her life. A fight she ultimately lost. And with her, I lost my big sister, my confidante, my support system, my champion, my cheerleader, my friend.

As I reread those paragraphs, my mind went numb, tears pricked. Grief, it turns out, is a spectacularly messy business. It adheres to no timeline, no polite schedule. It’s less a well-behaved houseguest and more a rogue wave, crashing in when you least expect it. A name, a scent, or in my case, a few written words, can fling open the gates to a memory awash in all the feelings and emotions it contains.

I miss my big sister. I always will.

I’m learning to embrace that “always will,” so that when grief still washes over me, I can simply stop and feel the missing. It’s a quiet acknowledgment that the profound love we shared never truly died; it simply changed course when the river of life, carrying us both, split.

If you’d like to read the original post – which, despite the unexpected emotional detour, was all about reestablishing my habit of “Morning Pages” – you can access it here: https://dareboldly.com/2023/11/18/morning-pages-the-journey-of-self-recovery

Next week, I’ll be sharing a crash course in How to Set a Morning Routine – your personal blueprint for creative consistency. Watch for the announcement!

Grief is Messy

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Four years ago today, my mother drew her last breath, stilled her heart and surrendered to the ever-after.

It has been four years of healing, growth, transforming pain into wisdom, opening to the spiritual nature of life and death and moving deeper into being embodied in this one life I am living now.

I wrote the poem below a year after mom’s death, still in thick of Covid’s thrall, and still aligning to this expected yet, still surprising role as, as a motherless child

At the time, I shared it on my Facebook page and this morning FB Memories brought it forward. I am grateful. In the wake of my sister’s death last November 24, it is a comforting and welcome reminder of grief’s erratic and capricious nature If you are walking within grief’s aura, I hope it brings you comfort too.

Grief is Messy.
by Louise Gallagher

Grief is messy.
It follows no well-known path
travelling to the beat
of its own drum
as it pummels your defences
pushing its way through the boundaries
you desperately put in place
to keep its presence at bay.

Grief is stealthy
It dresses up in familiar clothing
masquerading as your best friend
while it sneaks in through the side door
of memory, stealing into
the broken places
of your heart
you want desperately to avoid touching.

There is no taming grief.
There is only its heavy cloak
of companionship
wearing you down
until one day
you find yourself arriving at that place
where moments spent wrapped
in grief’s company
die away
as softly as the sweet melody
of the voice
of the one who is gone
fading into memory.

And for life on ther lighter side, I’ve posted one of Beau’s blogs on Sundays with Beaumont this morning. As always, he wins! 🙂

Blessed Solstice to All

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In this deep midwinter, with Winter Solstice upon us, my heart carries a complex blend of emotions. As it is for so many, this season is overshadowed by the weight of loss, especially poignant when it intertwines with the traditions and memories of Christmas. This year, as the Solstice brings its promise of returning light, I find myself reflecting on the eternal nature of love and loss, and how they shape our journey through life.

Grieving is a deeply personal journey, one that can feel more intense during significant times like the holidays. For those of us who have lost loved ones, the joy and festivity of Christmas can be a stark reminder of their absence. This festive season, the memories of my dear sister, Jackie, my beloved friend Wendy, and my cherished friend Andrew, and my Aunt Eveline, all of whom left this earthly plane in recent time, are especially vivid. Their departures from this world have left a void that seems as eternal as their memory.

The Winter Solstice, marking the longest night and the return of longer days, offers a powerful symbol during this time of reflection. It’s a natural event that mirrors the gradual easing of grief, reminding us that love, like light, endures beyond the darkest of times.

This Solstice, I am honouring these treasured souls, as well as others, in a special way. At 8:37 a.m., I lit a candle on my desk, and will leave burn throughout the day until 8:27 p.m., when the Earth begins its tilt back towards the sun in the Northern Hemisphere. This act is not just a tribute to their enduring spirits but also a celebration of the returning sun – a symbol of hope and renewal.

This candle, flickering gently on my writing desk, overlooks the ever-flowing river outside my window. Its light is more than a symbol of remembrance; it embodies the enduring presence of love and the resilience of the human spirit. As I lit it, I invited the healing light of love into the now, acknowledging that our capacity for love remains steadfast, even amidst pain. The river outside, tirelessly flowing towards a distant, unseen sea, serves as a poignant metaphor for this. Just as the river’s waters are in constant motion, so too is love – an unceasing force that carries with it our hopes, dreams, and aspirations. In its perpetual flow, the river reminds us that life and love, much like the waters, move ever onward, weaving a path of healing and renewal through the landscapes of our lives.

As time, like the river, moves on and the Winter Solstice passes, bringing longer days, I know that with its passing, the weight of grief will also begin to lighten, leaving only love and memories in its wake. The cycle of the seasons reassures me that after darkness, there is always light. This Solstice, may it be a gentle reminder to all who are grieving that love, like the sun, is ever-present, guiding us towards brighter days filled with love and joy.

Beneath the watchful eyes of the longest night, as the candle flickers and the river flows, may the enduring spirit of love wrap around you like a warm, comforting embrace. On this Winter Solstice, let the returning light be a gentle reminder of the unceasing flow of love – healing, renewing, and guiding you through your journeys. May it carry the memories of those you hold dear, transforming your grief into a tapestry of hope and resilience. As the sun reclaims the sky, may your heart find peace in the knowledge that love, like the river, flows eternally, weaving through your life with grace and strength.

Grief is a reminder of the love we carry for those who are gone. As you navigate the complexities of grief and celebration, hold onto the promise of the Solstice. It tells each of us that life, in all its pain and beauty, is a cycle of endless renewal. In remembering those we have lost, the memory of their love and how much we loved them replenishes our hopes and dreams, and in welcoming the light, we open our hearts to the possibilities of a new day.

Blessed Solstice to All.

Grief wears thin with time’s passing. An ode to my brother.

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He loved music.

He loved to play a song and stop it after a few bars and ask, “Name that tune!” And, before you could even get the answer out, he’d be onto the next one. It was a game he always won because he controlled the music. He knew all the songs.

My brother passed away on St. Patrick’s Day, 19 years ago today.

It sounds like a long time when written that way. 19 years.

Grief wears thin with time’s passing. But the missing doesn’t fade. Especially on this day. The day of wearing of the green when my brother would celebrate all things Irish in honour of our dad whose Irish roots ran deep.

My brother didn’t look very Irish. He was dark and handsome. More Arabian prince than Irish duke. But he had the Irish way. One minute dark and brooding. The next smiles and laughter as if the blue sky was a gift that he could bestow upon everyone with just his smile. Like a bright sunny day, my brother could win over any heart. Young or old. Male or female.

I was reminded of my brother this morning as I watched a video of two men having an Irish dance off this morning. I laughed.

They made me think of my brother. He died long before Facebook became ‘a thing’. I can only imagine his feed. It would be filled with inspirational videos and quotes. Things to make every heart smile and every mind open.

My brother would have loved to watch the two men in their dance, but he would never have joined in. George could not dance. He had no rhythm. None at all.

We used to tease him about it. My sisters and I. We’d stand still and move one foot in semi-time to the beat of the music. We’d put our hands on our hips and randomly fling out one arm, not in time to the beat, bob our heads spasmodically and laugh and say, “Look George! I’m dancing like you!”

And my brother would laugh with us and parody himself dancing just like us making fun of him. Because despite his lack of rhythm, he loved a good joke and his laughter was always a song of joy.

Which was about the only song he could sing in tune. He had no rhythm and I swear, he was tone death too.

Midnight mass was always a killer. Especially as we got older and the Revillon my mother insisted we revel in before midnight mass also included my brother and dad imbibing in copious amounts of Irish whiskey. We’d go to the church and stand in the back (my brother was notoriously late for everything) and George would insist on singing at the top of his lungs. “God doesn’t care if I can’t carry a tune,” he’d tell me laughingly. “He just likes to hear the sound of my voice singing!” And he’d belt out another note as my sister Anne and I would attempt to drown out his singing with what we considered to be our more harmonious sounds.

As a kid he tried to play every instrument under the sun. But the lack of rhythm thing always got him. Especially when he was learning the drums. It was painful. We begged him to please stop. To make it end. But he persisted. I’m not sure if he actually liked playing the drums or just enjoyed the tormenting of his sisters more. I have a feeling it was the latter.

He was one boy amongst three girls. Second in birth-order. First in-line of sight. Or at least, that’s what I always jokingly told him. The sun rises and sets on the son, I’d say and he would smile knowingly and carry on with whatever mischievous misdeed he’d concocted that inevitably came back to roost on me. I knew better than to compete with his position in the sun. I knew better than to try to set the record straight. The only nickname he ever carried at home was ‘Music man.’ Mine was ‘The Brat’. No contest. It was always my fault when things went wrong.

And they often did with George’s escapades. He loved to play tricks but he wasn’t very adept at scheming. And he could not keep a straight face, no matter how hard he tried. Which always made it difficult when he tried to play a joke on someone. Inevitably, before the punchline was ever reached, he’d break into laughter and tell the recipient what was going on.

I think he knew that his jokes and tricks were never that funny.

But it didn’t matter. His enthusiasm for the execution of a joke, and his desire to bring everyone in on the joke long before the game was up, won over the hearts and minds of everyone who came within his sphere of influence.

And his sphere was great.

That’s the thing of being like the sun. You touch everyone with your warmth.

My brother and his wife Ros, passed away on this day 19 years ago.

Grief wears thin with time’s passing. And still, they are missed.

 

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This is the video that made me smile in memory of my brother this morning.