Tag Archives: writing

On The Move….

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Sundays Are Not For The Blues

Here, where I sit on the deck of our friends’ home in Todos Santos, beauty surrounds me like a warm velvety blanket. The soft, ocean air wraps around me like a gentle embrace; there is no where I need be, nothing I need do but be, here, now.

High above, white wisps of clouds, like angels’ wings, streak across the vast blue expanse. In the distance, the surf pounds against the shore, a rolling rumble beckoning me to come watch the sunset. The scent of salt air mingles with the sweet fragrance of the garden in full bloom. I stay here. For now. Sunset is an hour away.

Bird song fills the air with the cooing of doves and the rhythmic hammering of a woodpecker. In the distance, a rooster crows. But how can that be? It’s late afternoon.

Dr. Google has the answer. Yes. They can crow any time of the day, or night.

This morning, standing in line waiting to enter the best coffee shop in town, I chatted with a man whose dog was hit by a car yesterday. “The driver couldn’t avoid him,” he told me…

To read more click HERE.

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On The Move.

Dearest Dare Boldly readers, my heart is calling me to a new space, a quieter corner of the internet where we can connect more deeply. I’m moving my writing to Substack!

For years, I’ve wrestled with the very act of writing. Is it hubris to believe my words matter? Yet, if not to be read, why write at all? This move is about releasing those doubts, about embracing the simple joy of sharing stories and reflections that stir my soul.

Substack feels like coming home. Imagine a cozy room filled with sunlight, the scent of fresh coffee, and the gentle hum of conversation. That’s the feeling I hope to create in my new online home. It’s a place to escape the noise, to find inspiration, and to remember the beauty that surrounds us and our capacity to create joy, harmony, hope and Love in the world around us.

Substack is simple and inviting, like a handwritten note passed between friends. It allows me to share my writing freely, with no barriers between us. (Though, if you’d like to support my work and receive occasional gifts, there’s an option for that too – but truly, your presence is the greatest gift of all.)

Come, gather with me. Let’s share stories, explore dreams, and celebrate the everyday miracles that make life so extraordinary. I can’t wait to welcome you!

__________________

To read the completed Sundays Are Not For The Blues – click HERE.

Grey on Grey: A Writer’s Walk

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I walk along the shoreline with Beaumont, my Sheepadoodle. He sniffs every blade of grass, every seaweed-strewn rock, his tail wagging in delight. I, on the other hand, am on a different kind of hunt.

My eyes scan the vast expanse of grey – the sea flows like breath, in and out, a constant rhythm of life. The steel-grey clouds swallow the horizon, the charcoal-grey ocean stretches towards the invisible shore. Beneath my feet, the ground is a muted slate carpet punctuated by the occasional glint of ebony. It’s a grey on grey world, mirroring the swirling greyness within my own mind.

But amidst this monochrome landscape, there’s a strange beauty, a sense of quiet power. It both calms and unsettles me. I breathe in the crisp, salty air, tasting the tang of seaweed and the faintest hint of pine. The soft January breeze teases a strand of hair from behind my ear. It tickles my cheek. With each step, I feel the tension in my shoulders easing, my thoughts beginning to settle like sediment in still water.

I walk and consume each step like a chef testing a pot of risotto, seeking the perfect balance between taste and texture. I am a woman on the hunt for stillness; a path back to the computer screen I have left mid-sentence, black on white words trailing off into empty space. Their storyline is not yet formed, their purpose not yet clear.

I left my desk frustrated, confused, even angry. Where is this story going? Who is it truly about? I thought it was the heroine’s story, but as it unfolds, painful keystroke by keystroke, it’s becoming something else. It is the mother’s story, her struggles, her complexities. The heroine is but a foil to her mother’s emotional turmoil and angst.

But I don’t want to write the mother’s story. She is an enigma to me. I want to write the daughter’s. The one whose journey parallels mine in insignificant and sometimes significant ways, but who also holds charcteristics of her own. She is not given to self-sabotage. She is not driven by fear. How can I write of the mother whose constant whining for attention leaves me shaking with grief.

Is the mother more me than the heroine?

This is where the muse finds me. She slips in with wraithlike grace, beguiling, provocative, whispering enticing tidbits of inspiration into my swirling mind before floating away.

Carrying tendrils of her words and images with me, I return home and heed her urgings to “write it out.”

And so it is.

And so a poem is born.

Do you dare to dream?

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Dreams. They have this way of both beckoning and terrifying me, a strange duality born from childhood. My brother, ever the ‘good’ big brother on the lookout for an opportunity to rattle his baby sister’s cage, had a knack for turning my stage aspirations (of which there were many!) into fodder for his teasing. “You should be on a stage,” he’d chant, “the first one out of town!”

While I know he didn’t intend to dim my light, his words echoed through the years, a persistent whisper of doubt. Even now, long after he’s gone, I sometimes find myself hesitating, second-guessing the dreams that dare to surface.

My brother, he dreamed of growing old, of walking his daughters down the aisle, of holding grandchildren. Dreams that vanished in an instant on a lonely prairie road, his car a crumpled wreck against a semi-trailer.

With him, went my dream of reconciliation, of smoothing the rough edges of a brother-sister bond frayed by addiction and grief over the loss of our father. We were out of time.

But my dreams, they still have time. Time to unfold, to take shape, to transform from misty wisps into vibrant realities. If only I dare to dream them, to nurture them, to give them the space to breathe and grow.

Yet, my mind, ever the trickster, loves to play its games. I create, I birth ideas into the world, and then, like a mother cow rejecting her newborn, I abandon them. Words and images orphaned, left to fend for themselves in the vast wilderness of my forgotten projects.

It’s a pattern I’ve wrestled with for years, this dance between creation and abandonment. The universe, in its infinite wisdom, often sends a gentle (or not-so-gentle) nudge to remind me of this recurring theme.

This morning, it arrived in the form of a forgotten dream journal I’d created, a relic from last year’s “She Dares: The ReWrite Journey” program. As I reread its pages, I was struck by the power of the prompts, the gentle guidance towards actualizing dreams.

Perhaps, it’s time I took my own advice.

And what about you? What dreams are whispering in your heart, waiting to be awakened? Do share in the comments below. And if you’re seeking a gentle guide on your journey, check out the “She Dares: 21 Day Journey – A Creative Guide to Living Your Dreams. .” It might be just the nudge you need to transform those misty visions into radiant realities.

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The She Dares: 21 Day Journey – A Creative Guide to Living Your Dreams booklet is divided into 3 sections, each designed to unfold layers of self-awareness and insight. Week 1: Heart Week invites you to connect deeply with your core values and emotions, laying the groundwork for authentic dreams. Week 2: Joy Week encourages you to rediscover and cultivate what brings you genuine happiness, a crucial element in the pursuit of any dream. Finally, Week 3: Dream Week propels you towards actionable steps, making those once-distant dreams tangible realities.

Dances in the Wind (a poem)

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This morning a beautiful friend from the poetry circle I wrote with for several years and then had to miss out on most of last year because of a competing Monday night commitment, sent a poem to our group, ‘Acceptance‘, by Kerry Hardie. (Thank you Lilli Ann)

One of the images caught my imagination. Still January.

The muse whispered, “Write it out.” So I did.

DANCES WITH THE WIND
by Louise Gallagher

Still January 
yesterday, 
I walked the shoreline 
morning calm stretched across grey water
lapping, gentle, muted sounds
caressing, rocks

slick and slippery
seaweed a blanket of vivid green
I step, 
slowly, carefully, 
remembering

there was a time 
I leapt 
rock to rock, 
arms flung wide 
head tilted back to catch 
the salt-laced breeze 
effortless

those were the days my friend 

we danced ‘til dawn 
and slept fast 
fell in and out of love faster

Who can tame the wind? 
A weathered branch creaks 
memory slips 
against the jagged 
edges of daybreak whispering 
only time can stifle age

Still January 
today, I walk along the road 
hugging the shoreline, close
mist hangs low 
steel grey waves frothy, rolling 
in and out, in and out 
trees sway, leaves rustle,
dances with the wind

On solid ground I walk, 
confident 
an eagle soars above 
time is on the wing.

The Evidence of Time

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The muse has a delightful way of weaving her magic throughout my being, even when I’m not paying attention.

Whether I’m walking along the shore, immersed in the quiet of the forest, or kneading dough for bread, her whispers find me. Like tendrils of smoke, these fleeting thoughts curl into my mind, each one vanishing as quickly as the next.

Yet, when I finally return to the page, fingers poised over the keyboard, a torrent of inspiration flows forth, like a stream rushing down a mountainside, seeking the boundless freedom of the river that will lead it to the sea.

I cannot see its source. I cannot feel its pulse. I can only respond to its urgings to let the muse flow free. Surrendering, consonants and vowls, letters and words tumble out seeking form unhindered by my manipulations. As phrases form and coalesce, and I dive beneath the surface meaning like a pearl diver seeking treasure, my creative essence transforms from a thought into reality.

Immersed in the long exhale of creative expression, my thoughts find space and air to breathe on the page; naked, exposed, vulnerable.

And in that vulnerability, I find my heart soaring, my spirits lifting and my voice rising up to sing out loud, “This is Life and I am so grateful for every moment. No matter how I label them, good, bad or indifferent, every moment is full of life teeming with possibility, adventure, hope and Love.”

What a gift!

The Evidence of Time
by Louise Gallagher

To age and not fear, 
to grow older, unburdened by worry, 
free from the whispers of wrinkles and lines, 
the creaks and aches, 
the evidence of time passing. 

To live a life where age 
holds no sway over worth, 
where spirit soars 
beyond the measure of years.

This is the defiance of our days, 
as time's river flows ever forward, 
calendar pages turning
 with quickening pace.

These are the reminders 
of the inevitable truth: 
One day, the final page will turn, 
the heart's rhythm will cease its beat, 
the last breath will softly fade, 
and the echoes
 of "I love you" will fall silent.

No magic potion halts the passage of time,
no secret formula holds back the years.

Yet, the choice remains ours: 
To live each day fearlessly, boldly, bravely, 
passionately alive, 
with wonder and awe, 
celebrating every heartbeat, 
every breath, 
every whispered "I love you," 
as precious gifts 
weaving the grand tapestry of our days
into a life well loved.
A life well lived.

Dancing with Shadows: Finding Light in the Depths of Our Stories

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Dive into your own story,” my novel-writing workplan instructs. I hesitate, a knot tightening in my stomach. I get it, truly, but the past has a way of clinging to shadows, doesn’t it?

It reminds me of writing The Dandelion Spirit, the story of my descent and eventual ascent out of the hell of an abusive relationship that almost killed me. Back then, I wanted to skip the messy bits and the downward spiral along with the heartbreak that led to my eventual blooming. But my publisher, wise soul that he is, insisted on context. “Show them the broken pieces,” he urged, “so they can marvel at how you put yourself back together.”

And so I did. Tears flowed, old wounds ached, but through the writing, a strange alchemy occurred. The past, once a monster lurking in the corners of my mind, became a tapestry woven with threads of resilience and hope.

“That was then,” I whispered to myself, my mantra for survival. “This is now. I am safe. I am loved. I am enough.”

Now, facing this new story, the echoes of that past resistance return. My novel, you see, dances with the shadows of my own relationship with my mother – a dance that continued long after she was gone.

To breathe life into my heroine’s journey, to illuminate her triumphs, I must first descend into the darkness of her past, a past mirrored in my own.

It’s a daunting task, this excavation of memory. But perhaps, like those ancient cave paintings, our stories – the light and the shadow – are meant to be shared, to illuminate not just our own paths, but the paths of others who yearn for healing and wholeness.

And so, I dive in. Not to dwell in the pain, but to find the glimmers of resilience, the whispers of hope that have always been there, waiting to be unearthed. Because maybe, just maybe, in the telling of our stories, we find not just healing, but a way to truly live beyond the grief and sorrow, and step into the radiant light of who we were always meant to be.

I’d love to hear from you. What stories are you working to bring to life? How are you navigating the delicate dance between past, present, and future? Share your thoughts and experiences in the comments below – let’s support each other on this journey of storytelling and self-discovery.

By sharing your story, you not only heal yourself but also offer a beacon of hope and inspiration to others. Every story matters. Like a pebble tossed into still water,
our stories of courage and triupmph create ripples that expand outwards, merging into waves of shared experience, washing over the world with love, healing, and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

Namaste

Rain or Shine, The Watchers Watch

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One of Beau’s favourite places to sit is at the door to the deck watching the world outside. Walkers. Bikers. Cars. Dogs. Waves lapping. Trees swaying. He sits and watches. Immobile. Until the man with a walker appears.

He arrives every mid-afternoon when the skies are clear or cloudy. He walks with purpose. Slow. Steady. His progress is measured and thoughtful. His walker the helm of his personal ship, providing guidance and stability as he navigates the road along the sea.

He stops in front of our house, turns his walker to provide him a seat upon which to sit and watch the waves. Passers-by stop and chat as the man holds court at the edge of the bay.

And Beaumont watches. Sometimes, if a passer-by is walking a fellow canine, Beau barks in welcome. Sometimes, the other dog barks back. Mostly, they ignore him.

Beau is impervious to their response. He keeps watching, bearing silent witness to the endless ballet of the waves and the story of life unfolding outside.

I have not had much time for watching. Unpacking. Organzing. And re-organizing have consumed me. And still, I feel the draw of the ocean calling me to Be still. Breathe. Become.

Unpacking has become a meditation here at the edge of the sea. The salty air, the cries of the gulls, the hypnotic rhythm of the waves – it all conspires to steal my attention. Each wave is a story: some whisper secrets against the sand, while others roar their defiance against the unyielding rocks. Some roll in with the gentle caress of a lover’s kiss, while others crash against the land, a tempestuous lover determined to have the last word.

Never are the waves still.

Never do they stop rolling in and out. In and out.

Mesmerized, I forget the boxes needing my attention. I ignore the pile of books on the floor waiting for a bookcase to appear. The trinkets looking for a place to call home.

In those moments, dinner can wait. The need to organize fades as I slip effortlessly into watecher’s mode. Like the man with the walker, I must slow my pace, savour each moment and simply watch.

The sea does not hold answers. It is alive with the questions, inviting me to let go of the need to know. To surrender to the exquisite mystery of now. To fall breathlessly alive into living, like a bird taking flight into a vast and boundless sky soaring above the vast and boundless sea.

Thank you Lady M (a poem for April Poetry Month)

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For the last few years, the gifted and soulful Brian Pearson has been the guide of an online community, The Mystic Cave, which offers sanctuary to those searching for spiritual depth beyond conventional religions.

Brian describes The Mystic Cave podcast as “a haven for seekers—narratives, dialogues, and musings on the spiritual quest beyond the boundaries of church land.”

Our paths crossed when I was organizing an annual Christmas benefit concert, to support formerly homeless veterans, at St. Stephen’s Anglican Church in Calgary. As the head pastor, Brian not only opened the church’s doors for the “Christmas at The Madison” benefit concert but also graced the event with his soothing voice and masterful guitar play, captivating everyone, including my daughters.

With time, Brian ventured beyond the church to establish The Mystic Cave and, in doing so, has become a cherished friend and mentor.

Today, as I listened to Brian’s conversation with the luminous Meredith Heller—poet, educator, musician, songwriter, and a woman of incandescent spirit—on his podcast, the muse stirred and whispered her melodious urgings into my heart.

In the stillness of the morning, with my beloved asleep beside me and Beaumont the Sheepadoodle stretched at our feet, I lay immersed in the quiet, attuned to the breathing that filled the room, a lullaby of presence.

I listened. I felt. I heard.

The words beckoned.

With the exquisite silence of dawn wrapped around me, following the tender gratitude in Brian’s sign-off and the lingering echo of Meredith’s poetry dedicated to Lady J, the words surged within me, spilling forth with fervent ease.

Thank you Lady M
by Louise Gallagher

Love found me
    broken
pieces scattered without
rhyme or reason
    lost
in the darkness  
of knowing
the way home
    was through  
the pain
    of having been
      broken
        open
           to Love.

May we all find the courage to surrender to the call of the creative flame within us. May it compel us to rise and fully experience this transient, stunning life in all its fleeting beauty and ephemeral joy flowing in the enduring nature of Love.

And may this April Poetry Month awaken you to the poetry of your life.

Namaste

A Masterpiece of Time

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Winter has returned for a visit this week. Temperatures that hovered several degrees over freezing for almost a week dove into Arctic temps over night. Back out came my long heavy down-filled coat, fur-lined boots and warmers for my mittens.

When you’re a human to a dog in northern climes, weather must be weathered, regardless of how cold the winds might blow.

This morning, as I walked along the river, immersed in a world of Mother Nature’s wintry artistry on display, my thoughts drifted back to a quote I included on the vision board I crafted at last night’s ReWrite Journey workshop. “I am going to make everything around me beautiful– and that shall be my life.”

The universe, it seems, is my silent accomplice, generously dusting the landscape with splendour and awe.

This morning, as Beaumont the Sheepadoodle and I meandered through the woods, I paused to marvel at the splendour of a world cloaked in winter’s magic, reminding me of another quote that appeared on my vision board last night. “Seek to see the magic in the moment.”  

Even with the mercury clinging with chilly determination to -18°C, with windchill, – 26C, magic shimmered all around me. Each breath I exhaled danced like white mist before me. And, even though the mistiness of my breath forced me to shed my sunglasses, which had steamed up above the scarf safeguarding my face against the biting cold, I couldn’t deny, the world looked even more beautiful when I saw it through clear-eyed wonder.

Beaumont bounded through the snow, sniffing and snuffling at the base of trees and fallen logs and with every step I took, my thoughts cascaded back to this morning’s meditation and its gentle reminder: “Acknowledge the beauty present in every moment.”

It was all there before me.

A symphony of light playing upon snow-draped branches, two Canada geese skimming the surface of the ice-covered river their wings swooshing in harmonious flight, a squirrel, embodying the spirit of the woods, bounding energetically across the earth before leaping up into a tree with one enthusiastic stretch of his body. And on the strip of river still joyfully flowing free of winter’s icy embrace, sunlight sparkling like the dancing fairies I used to spin stories about when my daughter’s were younger.

Enchanted magic, all of it

Eleanor Roosevelt once remarked, “Beautiful young people are merely accidents of nature, but beautiful old people are works of art.”

In the exquisite and enduring splendour of nature, which has witnessed aeons more than any of us, I breathe deeply into the truth of her words.

Our human nature is to grow older. Mother Nature, in her perpetual cycle, is a masterpiece of time. As am I. As are you.

How to rewrite your stars.

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In the quiet of each morning, I am greeted by the unwritten story of the day ahead—a narrative waiting to be crafted with intention and purpose. In these moments, I am reminded of the ReWrite Journey course I have the honour of guiding—a course designed to delve into the art of storytelling, our storytelling.

Every Monday evening, in the sanctuary of our virtual circle, seven women, a collective of seekers and storytellers, explore the contours of our Origin Stories. It is here that we acknowledge our agency, summon our strength, celebrate our courage, and distill the wisdom from life’s intricate journey. This is the groundwork of the course, The ReWrite Journey I’ve created, a journey of reflection and empowerment.

Every choice we make—every word, every action—becomes a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter in the ongoing story of our lives. As we begin to chart our paths forward, we set markers—goals and dreams that beckon us with the promise of fulfillment and transformation.

In the ReWrite Journey course, we don’t just look back; we also cast our gaze forward, rewriting our trajectory with markers that serve as beacons towards a future we dare to design. What kind of story do we aspire to live out? What are the empowered choices we will make to propel us towards our envisioned horizon?

As we write and create, we ask… What if, instead of drifting on the currents of habit, we took the helm with hyper-conscious awareness, navigating our existence with the recognition that we are here, now, fully capable of scripting the grand narrative of our lives? What if today, we chose to live out the greatest story ever told, our own, with every choice a stroke of the author’s pen?

What if?

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Gratitude is the foundation of so much joy in my life. I am deeply grateful for the seven women who have joined me in this, the inaugral session of The ReWrite Journey: Your Past, Reimagined. Your Future, Reclaimed. The ReWrite Journey is a transformative eight-week odyssey that weaves the wisdom of the past into the tapestry of a future rich with possibility.

The ReWrite Journey offers a sanctuary for women of all walks of life who seek to embrace the vibrant threads of their experience and weave them into a future tapestry, vibrant with the hues of their wildest dreams and richest aspirations.