Tag Archives: poetry

The Awakening List

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Have you heard of “Gratitude Lists”? Research confirms that focusing on gratitude increases happiness and joy. I write mine before falling asleep, believing I’ll carry gratitude into my dreams.

Recently, I found a letter my mother wrote to my sisters and me. It was her “good-bye” letter, expressing gratitude and apologizing for any harm she’d caused. “These will be my last words of love you read,” she wrote. “It is time for me to go.” She took her last breath 14 years later.

Life was hard for my mother. As she told me in a visit from the afterlife, “The burdens I carried were too heavy. I never felt free to be myself.” As a child, and beyond, I believed my job was to ‘take the knife out of my mother’s hand.” To be, the good girl, she wanted me to be. Subsequenly, I subconsciously believied I had to conform to others’ will to be liked. Yet, deep within, I knew this was a recipe for a life unlived. Through therapy, courses, journalling, meditation and a host of other self-empowerment supports, I embraced my own agency to live my life on my terms. Yet still, that image of my mother holding a knife to her breast persisted, as did my ping-pong efforts to ‘fit in to be liked’ and to ‘stand out on my own terms’.

Shortly after finding that letter, a dream awoke me to the true power of my freedom. I have long understood that I was never strong enough to take the knife out of my mother’s hand. What my dream awakened was the truth — I am powerful enough to take the metaphorical knife out of mine.

And that brings me to my “Awakening List.” Each morning, I expand my Gratitude List into five Awakenings. For example, this morning i wrote:

  • I awaken to the melody of songbirds. Life is sweet.
  • I awaken to seven hours of uninterrupted sleep. Life is full of lovely surprises.
  • I awaken to my breath filling my lungs. Each breath is a gift of Life and Love.
  • I awaken knowing my dreams have the power to unfold as I step into my own power. I am powerful beyond my wildest imaginings.
  • I awaken to this day with anticipation, excitement, and gratitude. My heart is a joyful place.

This practice opens my mind, heart, and body to the morning’s wonder and beauty, beginning my day with positivity. And, it reminds me of my capacity to be the Shero in my own life.

Do you have a special practice to open each day with wonder and beauty? Please share in the comments below. Let’s ripple out our inspiration to touch the lives of others!

Embracing the Flow: Lessons from TEDxCalgary

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When you embrace the flow,

the energy of life

comes alive within you.

Last Friday, I had the joy of attending TEDxCalgary‘s event FLOW.

As an artist and writer, I am continually immersed in creative energy—whether I call it the muse, collective consciousness, my creative essence or simple, The Flow.

FLOW is dynamic energy. Quantum physics teaches us that energy exists as either particles or waves. In our daily lives, we mostly function as particles, but in our creative endeavors, we ride the waves.

Creativity is like a river, constantly flowing, shifting, and creating. Every day, I sit at my desk and gaze out at the Bow River, its ever-changing flow reminding me that all life is energy, and energy never stagnates, just as creativity is part of the energy of each and every human being on this planet.

So, where are you in the flow? Remember, you are not the river; you are part of the flow. Are you stuck in a belief that your current state, no matter how uncomfortable or sublime, is the only place you can be? Or can you embrace a belief that celebrates your creative nature which is an ever-moving, ever-changing state of being human in the flow of life?

Be like the river and flow free.

Attending TEDxCalgary’s event reminded me of a powerful moment I shared in my TEDxCalgary talk, Lessons in Love. In it, I retell the story of becoming so lost on the road of life that one day I stood at the side of a river and wished I could unhook gravity’s hold on my body, allowing myself to fall into the river and be washed out to sea. I was not that powerful, thankfully. But I was powerful enough to change my state of being and reclaim my love of life so that I could unhook myself from the trauma that brought me to that moment and flow with grace and ease through all life’s changing moments.

I invite you to watch my talk, where I delve deeper into this experience and the lessons it taught me about love, resilience, and the power of embracing life’s flow.

Saturday Morning Haiku – Homage to Omar Khayyam

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I still possess The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam I gifted my father in October, 1972. I know the date as I wrote it on the inside cover when I gave it to him. A voracious reader, my father had a remarkable knack for recalling passages from beloved texts, often prompting me with, “What does that mean to you, Little One?”

I loved it when he called me by my nickname, a name only he used. It brought me closer to the enigma I always saw him as.

A not very patient man himself, whenever I displayed hints of my own impatience, he loved to quote from The Rubaiyat. “The Bird of Time has but a little way To fly — and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.” I’d sigh and say, “Slow down. Enjoy the moment.”

He never just skimmed the surface of words; he delved deeper, seeking their core meaning. He also never gave me the deeper meaning, asking always to probe, to think about it, to consider the possibilities.

It is this legacy of questionning and probing I cherish most. His reverence for the written word gave me glimpses into worlds I never could have imagined. Books were sacred in our home, so sacred, he never marred their pages, except to inscribe a note inside the cover when gifting one.

In contrast, as the youngest of four, often feeling overshadowed by my only brother, the son upon whom the sun rose and set, or so I thought, my small acts of rebellion included annotating my books. This habit, perhaps a way to feel connected to my father, persists despite his admonitions I not do it.

This morning, as a flock of geese echoed over the river, my mind wandered to my father, his adoration for words, and the Rubaiyat. Inspired by Val Boyko’s inquiry on her blog, Find Your Middle Ground, “What brings a spring in your step these days?” I went in search of my father’s copy of The Rubaiyat and crafted this haiku.

Spring is on the wing,
Geese sing nature’s symphony—
In rest, time flows on.

Opening the book, I discovered my youthful dedication: signed, “The Brat.” This nickname, bestowed by my mother, was one she urged me to outgrow as I neared the end of my teenage years. “You’re not a child anymore,” she remarked once, with a wistful sigh, “though sometimes I wonder.”

That period marked a significant year—I had presented my father with The Rubaiyat and embarked on a bold attempt to attend university in Moscow. This move drew the attention of the Canadian security service, sparking a series of interrogations fueled by concerns over potential communist ties. Immersed in the world of my father’s spy novels, I found the situation amusing rather than alarming, cheekily inquiring, “Do you think I’m a spy? How thrilling!”

Thankfully, my father was acquainted with the interrogators and eased their concerns. “She’s merely pushing boundaries,” he assured them. “It’s just her way.”

Now at 70, it remains my way: to constantly challenge myself, to push boundaries, and to explore how high I can soar without wings.

This morning, geese rest upon the frozen river bank. And though I cannot ascertain the remaining flight left in their wings, I vow to extend my horizon until time rests.

Thanks dad.

All’s Quiet on a Midday Flight: A journey through Memory and Legacy

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I’ve always found a unique serenity in choosing midday flights. Unlike the bustling mornings or the weary evenings, airports during these hours whisper tales of transient calm. This time, the terminal, usually a stage for the hurried footsteps of countless travelers, offered a rare pause in its daily rhythm. Such moments of tranquility amidst the chaos of departures and arrivals are fleeting, yet profoundly appreciated.

However, adhering to the conventional wisdom of arriving two hours early for a domestic flight often seems excessive. Today, just ten minutes sufficed to navigate through check-in and security, even with a suitcase that needed checking-in. The efficiency was a welcome surprise, especially considering my departure from the newly renovated B gates. This change significantly shortened my walk, a small yet significant mercy for someone who, out of convenience or necessity, checks their luggage.

The renovation, aside from logistical benefits, hinted at a broader theme of travel: the blend of wonder and ordeal. For many, including myself, the journey to the gate is the least appealing part of travel. Yet, it’s an integral step in the dance of departure and arrival, a necessary prelude to the adventures that await.

On this occasion, my luggage carried more than just essentials. It bore fragments of my sister Jackie’s life—items destined for my daughter, granddaughter, and sister Anne. In sifting through Jackie’s belongings, we distributed much to charity, but some pieces were too imbued with memories, too rich in sentimental value, to part with. They represented not just personal history, but a tangible connection to Jackie, a way to keep her spirit alive in our daily lives.

I sit and watch passengers walk past the cafe bar where I type and wonder about my own possessions: the artifacts of travels and life events that compose the mosaic of my existence. From the shawl I picked up in Ireland to the earrings from Barbados, each item carries a story, a piece of a place, or a moment shared with loved ones. These are not mere objects but the threads from which the tapestry of my life is woven, each adding colour, texture, and depth to my personal narrative.

I ponder the future of these threads, the fate of these tangible memories when I am no longer here to hold them. Will they serve as cherished reminders for my loved ones, or will they become burdensome relics of a past no longer connected to the present?

In my carry-on, two bags of jewellery—one for Anne and one for my daughter in Vancouver—serve as a testament to these reflections. They are heavy, laden not just with their physical weight but with the emotional gravity of the memories they represent.

As I navigate through the quietude of the airport, I am reminded that our journeys, both literal and metaphorical, are interwoven with the lives of those we touch. What we carry, what we leave behind, and the memories we cherish are part of a larger narrative. It’s a narrative that transcends the individual, connecting us through the shared experience of love, loss, and the enduring question of legacy.

Who will treasure the memory of us? It’s a poignant question that echoes in the silent corridors of my midday flight, a reminder of the indelible marks we leave on the hearts and lives of those we love.

We Are All Woven in Time

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Morning light dances
River flows endlessly by
Love’s presence endures

Light dances upon the water’s surface, where the river, bordered by ice, flows freely. When my gaze fixates on this dance of light, the river appears deceptively still, a mirage of tranquility amidst its constant motion.

This illusion mirrors life itself. Often, it feels as if time has stalled, yet subtle markers – a passing birthday, a fading memory – remind me that life is in perpetual motion. Nothing remains static. Life, like energy, is ever-moving, evolving, and transforming.

Around this time, four years ago, our family gravitated towards a tender reality – the dimming light in our mother’s life at 97 years old. She sensed her earthly journey nearing its close. She spoke of loved ones lost and a divine presence that had been her constant companion, waiting in the wings to reunite her with them.

In her last days, each breath she took seemed to suspend time. It was as though her breaths could continue indefinitely, even as her heart quieted. After 97 years of what she often described as a life of loss and worry, my wish wasn’t for her to stay but for her to see the legacy of love she wove through life’s tapestry of hardships, sorrows, and joys.

Throughout my life, my mother’s vision was often clouded by darkness, her joy overshadowed by a lifelong battle with depression. I recall, as a child, yearning to craft a bridge of words that could lead us from her tormented moments – like those standing in the kitchen, when she held a knife to her breast and cried threats of self-harm – into a realm of unceasing light.

It took years to understand that I would never be powerful enough to build that imaginary bridge for my mother. And longer still to realize that despite my resilience, darkness touched me too. It was a therapist’s simple question many years ago about my own quiet depression that cracked open my self-awareness, challenging my perceptions and inviting introspection.

Since then, much has shifted. The icy hold on my constant smile has thawed, giving way to authentic emotions. Embracing both joy and sorrow, light and darkness, I’ve grown to love all parts of myself – and my mother. Understanding that to appreciate the light fully, we must also honour the darkness by falling in love with all of it — darkness, light and the shadows between.

Watching the light dance on the river this morning, I saw life’s constant flow – the passage of time, the interplay of light and darkness. And through it all, Love, in all its manifestations, moving unbounded, weaving through every moment, cradling me in the eternal circle of Life woven in time through my mother’s loving hands.

From The Poetry Circle

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We gathered, four of the six women who form the nucleus of this circle, a sacred bond birthed in the tentative days of lockdown. Ali Grimshaw, the poetic voice behind the blog, Flashlight Batteries, has been our unwavering compass, mentor, muse, and cherished confidante throughout these three transformative years of gathering, listening, writing, and sharing.

We hail from across North America. Me, the lone Canadian, in Alberta, the others scattered between Washington State and Alabama. In the quiet moments when one or two are absent, their absence echoes within the circle, a subtle but palpable void. Yet, even in our incompleteness, the muse unfailingly graces us with her nimble wordplay.

Last night, I reveled in the company of my fellow poetry voyagers, letting the words flow like a river unburdened by dams. Together, we wove the tapestry of our verses, sharing the stories that had been etched onto our pages.

Hand in motion, ink streaming, the pen glided across the page as if orchestrated by an invisible poetic symphony, a melody only discernible to my subconscious.

It was an experience, divinely restorative, freeing the spirit from its earthly confines, and fulfilling the soul’s deepest longing.

To those who feel the call of these poetic moments, if your heart yearns to connect its lyrical embrace with other poetic souls dancing, the invitation is open, it’s as delicate as the whisper of a muse’s sigh inviting you to release the words and let the words flow: If the call of poetry beckons to your soul, send me an email, and together, we shall weave verse into the tapestry of our lives.

The List That Will Never Be Written
by Louise Gallagher

There will never be a complete list
of all the moments and places
that have consumed my breath
with awe
just as there will never be
an ending
to love
or the illusion of the moon 
rising 
at dusk
or the life-giving cry
a newborn makes
upon leaving
the safety of the womb.

Why should there be?

In the capturing of every tiny moment
Awe escapes
leaving behind only the cold hard facts
of a life lived
without witness to 
the beauty
of a sunrise stealing
its breath away.

There will never be a complete list
of all the moments and places
that have consumed my breath
as long as I take notice
of the awe
that steals my breath away.

A Friday Haiku

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The Surrender
by Louise Gallagher

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

And I Wonder…

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I know where I am standing when I take the photo.

The corner of Thurlow and Robson Streets waiting for my daughter who has dashed into the Starbucks to use their washroom.

I know they won’t object. She’s pretty. Polite. Looks clean. Healthy. Not of the street.

I know the person lying in the alcove of a boarded up store front, their body huddled under blankets while a big gentle looking dog keeps watch lies beside them, rump tucked into the curve of their belly, eyes watching the passers-by, I know they wouldn’t receive the same treatment.

Our tolerance of our shared humanity who have lost their way increases as more and more people fall beneath the weight of this world.

And my heart aches.

I stand looking at the telephone pole littered with stapes, their emptiness evidence of the posters removed long ago. Amidst the staples, one torn corner of a page that was ripped too quickly from its perch remains, a bookmark to the past.

Devoid of messages of all the goings on in the community I wonder if this pole is a symbol of a new city ordinance forbidding posters stapled to telephone poles.

And I wonder where will the body under the blankets find a place that welcomes them in with consideration and compassion, so they too can relieve themselves far from prying eyes full of pity or condemnation.

And I wonder if my eyes showed compassion as I walked by. Did I hide my grief at witnessing the state of their life journey that has led them here, to a cold, hard pavement, while the world carries on, indifferent.

And I wonder, when will we stop building skyscrapers to symbolize our prosperity and progressive ways and start building better more compassionate pathways on the ground that will bring home those who are lost to the streets and keep others at home before they become lost?

__________________________

About the poem.

This morning, I was captivated by a line from poet and novelist Adrienne Rich: “I dreamed you were a poem, / I say, a poem I wanted to show someone.” The way her words weaved left an indelible mark on me. I felt the muse pushing me to pen a poem of my own. I thought it would be a love poem.

Instead, the muse lead me onto memory lane. Back to a street corner in Vancouver, where I’d stood waiting for my daughter and been fascinated by the telephone pole covered in staples. Hidden in that memory was a haunting tableau of countless individuals, their lives reduced to huddling on the sidewalks, as the world bustled by.

Penning this poem was my attempt to grapple with the profound sadness these scenes stir in me. Through words, I hope to lend a voice to those silent moments that speak so loudly of our shared human experience and the disparities we often choose not to see.

STAPLED 
by Louise Gallagher

I dreamed I wrote a poem
without words
and stapled it to a pole
wanting desperately to
fill the spaces
between the sounds of silence
of the song that dies with every note
left unsung
as we walk on by
the bodies 
lying huddled 
along the sidewalks
of the cities we built 
with ladders to the top 
only the privileged few
can climb.

I dreamed I wrote a poem
without words
and no one listened.

Today I Choose Me.

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I have been away. Mentally and physically.

The mental absence came first. Summer. Heat. Smoky skies. Long days. Short nights. They all intersected as I slipped into summer doldrums, taking leave of fingers skimming keyboard amidst my morning ritual of writing.

In summer’s lingering days, I return. Slowly.

Last night, in the writing circle I share with Ali Grimashaw and four other women poets, I wrote a poem I’ve titled, I Am Not Lost.

I was not lost to this space. I was somewhere else, living, breathing, being present, in all my messy liveliness. Warts. Bruises. Beauty and all.

Fashion blogger and new age spiritualist, Audrey Kitching writes, “Take a break and give your soul what it needs.”

I wonder if my break was my soul’s need or my critter mind’s desire?

Only I have the answer.

I choose to beleive my break was necessary. A needed rest from putting fingertips to keyboard and letting the words fall out.

Last night, I wrapped my fingers around a pen and let the words flow onto the lined pages of my poetry journal.

It felt…. soul-refreshing. reviving. Like I was pouring cool spring water down my throat at the end of a long journey across the desert.

Perhaps my break was the desert? Perhaps, my critter mind did have control, willing me to step away from doing what I know feeds my soul every morning.

I smile.

The mind is a facile place when questioned on its intentions.

Good, bad, indifferent – I get to choose how I label everything in my life.

Today, I choose labels that nourish and sustain me. Today, I choose labels that fill me up with possibility, hope, and the gift of being present within all that I bring to this moment, right now.

Today, I choose Me. Right here. Where I am..

I Am Not Lost.
©2023 Louise Gallagher

It’s called Kintsugi, she says
holding the round bowl towards me.

I savour it on my tongue,
press my lips against its smooth
delicious consonants and vowels.

Kintsugi, I breathe.

I cup the bowl in my hands,
my fingers etch the golden strands 
linking the broken shards of pottery.

Kintsugi, I whisper, pressing my lips against the word
holding it tight within my body.

You are not broken, she says. 
You are mended fragments of light
surrounding the broken spaces
where once you believed
you were lost.

You are not lost.
You are here, holding this bowl
that once was broken.

My hands cup its smooth surface.
I trace the cracks and feel the light
returning.

I am not broken.
I am not lost.
I am here.

Still (an Advent poem)

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We are on the edge of a winter blast descending. Just in time for Christmas!

Except, the promise is that by Christmas day, it will turn less frigid but not balmy.

It is the winter season here at the foot of the Canadian Rockies. Temperatures climb and plummet. Climb and plummet. And we adapt. And even in our adaptations we accept, grumbling is acceptable. Grumbling can be the norm.

Skies hang grey and sullen, clouding the sun like a teenager sulking in their room after being grounded.

Ice is slowly inching out from the river’s banks and gravel bars closing the gaps between land and water.

And the world waits.

My Saturday mood is full of anticipation. We are putting up the tree and decorating tomorrow evening. My youngest daughter, hopefully C.C.’s son and girlfriend and maybe even my sister and her husband will join in the festivities.

For me, this is Christmas. It’s not about the gifts. It’s about. gathering with those near and dear to us, creating memories, sharing meals and laughter and being part of something magical that embraces us in its beauty and joy.

In this Saturday morning mood, the muse visited and I heeded her call…

Still
By Louise Gallagher ©2022

Almost still
water 
shivers
held captive between a season
of bounty 
losing its strength
against winter ice
lined up like an army 
ready to advance
across the river’s flow
captured by winter
advancing with its relentless
Arctic breath.

Behind front doors
strung with festive boughs
and twinkling lights
we wait
still
hopeful
the light will return to
winter burnished skies
held captive within
the longest night’s
journey 
turning back
towards the light.

In the depths
of long dark night of winter 
someone whispers 
a child is coming
and the world holds 
still
its collective breath
captive in the hope
this child
will bring love, peace and joy
for all the world
to know
winter passes,
spring thaws,
and summer blossoms
turn with the season’s passing
into autumn’s bounty.