One Of The Best Things

IMG_20141022_210025_267-4One Of The Best Things

One of the best things about growing old is that one has a store of memories to choose from to either entertain,  beguile or sometimes companion one in the body’s misery.   All one has to do is  conjure  the memory and whoa!    There we are.   Simple as that.  One just has to think.

 We were at an affair in Europe where there were very important people gathered from the country’s Tourist Board.   It was a black tie affair with the women adorned in lovely gowns.      I was wandering looking for a familiar face to latch onto.   I was walking up to a one when coming upon me was a handsome man with hands outstretched.   Why did you not tell me you were going to be at this affair! he asked.   I tried hard to remember if we had met and though I was still a youngish woman, my penchant for not remembering faces was legendary.  ( I even at dusk one day closed the door on my son telling him I gave at the office.  I never lived that down)  The man  continued talking and said last week when we were in Paris you did not mention you would be here.   I gave him my best smile and said I was not in Paris last week nor have I ever been there.

His handsome face turned dark and he said I was playing games because we had a lovely conversation.   But, I insisted,  I have never been to Paris and he kept insisting he was noted for his ability to remember faces and he would never have forgotten me.   My husband came upon us at that moment, needing to spirit me away for someone waiting for us.   I never have forgotten that incident because it has haunted me.   The man was a sober one, and chosen for his abilities to remember the various faces his position required of him.

I have been reading The Holographic Universe by Michael Talbot.  It is a book on quantum physics and new ways to explain the universe.  He says and I am paraphrasing, that it is disturbing to the majority of people who are so deeply convinced that our bodies are solid and objectively real, to find that perhaps we are will-o-the-wisps.   He says bi-location (often associated with saints)is the ability to be in two places at once.   Obviously, we all work on our sanctification all the time, for sure, for sure.  I have also read that when we blink we are in location elsewhere.  It all has to do with the space-time understanding.  We are more than we think we are and growing old I find at long last I am comfortable with my differences.  I know there will be a somewhere and a sometime when I will be at home.  There will  always be work to be done and worlds to create wherever I am.

But there will be a place sometime where I will not be on the outside looking in.

Comments { 1 }

Look Often Into the Mist

IMG_20150320_085121_062-3

When we look deeply into our selves, we are often surprised at the direction our thoughts have taken.   Sometimes it is a bit scary simply because it is foreign to our upbringing. It is not what we have been taught. Wondering where this will be leading us, we plow on.   For some of us there is a direction that begins when we first open our eyes on this beloved planet.   We wonder if by chance we  arrived by mistake.   But we find that once here,  by persevering we can open other eyes to what will help progress our own lives as well as others.   It is a hard road that we undertake, but in the final analysis, it is the hard road that gives us the greatest satisfaction.   So, come and we go a bit farther together.   It is another view that will keep our hearts beating and our breath humming. Come, we dance.   And it is that, a dance.

Look Often Into the Mist

Another time, another place
we sat for tea.

Come, share with me
some biscuits with our tea,
as we choose our memories
and compare our love
to what we cherish most.

How often we did just this,
holding tight to one another,
comforting our selves
with the thought
that nothing could separate us
from what we held dear.

Look often into the mist.
It holds the secrets
long denied
by the calculating mind.

Only we know for certain
we meet again and again
in that place where love
holds court.
Soon, soon, we meet. We meet.

And we begin again

Comments { 2 }

The Mist That Sustains Me

IMG_20150320_085121_062

On NBC Nightly News this past March 20 a segment concerning a young boy with memory of a prior life was interviewed and his memories have proven valid and correct.   I was not aware that Dr. Tucker of the University of Virginia was doing research on prior lives of children.   As he said in the brief segment,  he had over 2500 cases of lives of children with prior memories that cannot be dismissed.   We of the western world have been religious in our dismissal of anything that smacks of reincarnation other than the gods we choose to believe in.    When I wrote the short essay on Choice Goods I had no conscious knowledge of this upcoming interview.   What was my hope and is still is that we will listen to those who speak of prior lives and especially the children who are closer to their source than we who are readying for our departure.   We have much to learn and so little time.  

When I wrote this poem Rebus,  I was newly aware of my different perspective and also the difference in my inward focus.  It was almost six decades ago that I could no longer contain and pretend that what I saw and heard was what everyone else did.   I, like those like me,  have learned what society considers normal and rather than have circles made in mid air concerning our behavior,  we conform.   That we are able to survive is the miracle.   That we also have contributed to humanity and have not dismantled our immediate world is the greater one.

Rebus. . .a puzzle

Where are my images
of which you profess
came into being before I am?
Where are the faceless faces
and formless forms
of which I know not
but in my depth?

The past reveals
only what the present seals
within its depth.

We wander aimlessly searching,
faceless, formless,
only to be confronted
by what we are.

When my eyes behold my likeness,
will I rejoice?
Will the spirit be elevated
or cast into the pit?

The mist that sustains me,
sustains my images also.
But are they not made manifest
through me?

Perhaps . . .
I am the illusion.
Perhaps I will find my Self

greater than my images.

Comments { 2 }

White Forest

20150319_134309

White Forest

 Deep in the heart’s dream,
as deep as any forest,
lying amid the debris the ancients left
for others to peace,
lie dreams of today’s children
yielding only to their passions,
asking the chance to manifest.

Are we not today’s keepers,
charging a new reality
for the dreamer’s chance for glory?
Asking only to put to rest
today’s obstacles for impeding
the right for the dreams
to become real?

Like the forest
of yesterday’s Hansel and Gretel,
today’s passion to be found
only in the depth
of any knee deep drift
of the heart’s dream.
White forest, clean forest,
white sand and white cloud,
nothing to mar the Earth’s magic.

Come take my hand and we walk. . . .
Splendor opens the new world
where dreams are not held in abeyance.
It is our time and our world.
We clean our debris.
We do not litter nor mortgage

tomorrow’s children.

 

 

 

(for my grandson Joshua, whose dream lies deep within his heart)

Comments { 1 }

Of The Pen That Writes

IMG_20140819_095722_385

 Over a half century ago when I plunked our younger of less than a year into his crib for the umpteenth time, (he learned to climb out at nine months old), frustrated beyond measure,  I shouted at him,  ‘why did you choose me as your mother?’   And as I heard the words of my mouth I knew they were of my heart and I knew that he chose me as I chose him.  It was the first time I said them aloud but they were true for him and for his brothers and from that moment on,  I said them with a hug  and in every letter and card,  I would write or say,  ‘thank you for choosing me as your mother because I chose you.’   They were special always and I lived my days with them with this thought.  In that frame of reference, I will be sharing what my journey has meant through my years.  And why I think what goes on within four walls determines what happens outside the front door.

Of The Pen That Writes

You, my son
of the pen that writes,
that puts my small effort to shame
but it is my best effort.

Have I not shown how my actions
were the cause
of a heart stripping exercise?
Have my actions been unkind?

Have not my words
spoken in your language
of my journey to the stars,
trying to gather evidence
to convince you,  my beloveds,
that the unseen is as large
an obstacle to deal with
in our innocent green earth?

As large as what is evident
in the visible needing magic and a God
of omniscient energies?

I may sit in my Light
to write these missives but to write them
is evidence that I have lived them.
And this pen dips in the ink
of what has been my life’s blood
and my heart the inkwell.

The cost has been exorbitant,
but for you whom I have loved
and nurtured beneath
the inkwell of my heart,
never a sacrifice.

Thoughtful dialogues in my head
readied my life for your arrivals.
The disappointment?
Only my inability

to convince you of your divinity.

 

 

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey

 

Comments { 5 }

Excerpt From The Last Bird Sings. . . . . . . .

Exhibition

 

 

Excerpt  from The Last Bird Sings. . . .

 The one who chooses to come with an open head is the miracle among men.   Are not all babies born this way and we masterfully close them up?

                                    The Teacher

It is not the happy child who upsets the apple cart of the adult content with his satisfying existence.   It is the contrary one, the one who cannot find a putting place for too many memories for a short life who discharges his anger on those who should have some of life’s answers.   To find one’s parents, one’s only gods in flesh not equal to the task is a hard morsel to swallow.  It is still another event without a putting place.

 It was a cold day when I was excused from school for religion class.  My walk to the church found me pushing open the heavy door to the basement with shouts telling me to keep the door closed!  There was an acrid odor to the room, part from the wood burning furnace and the clothes from the children hanging damp and smelly.  The smell of the candles drifted down from the sanctuary and the toilets never functioned properly.   It was a potpourri of habitation.

 I scrambled to my seat and sat.  My hands were cold and I sat on my hands with bitten finger nails so no one would see how weak willed I was.  My parents were more concerned about putting food on the table and not worried why I bit my nails.   The priest stood directly in front of the class and right next to my desk.   His hands were wrapped inside his sleeves in the chilly room.   His crucifix dangled a breath away from my face.   My bitten nails were evidence of my sins.   The priest smelled heavenly.  Neither my brothers nor my father smelled like him.   I thought he must have hot water all the time to smell like this.  He was clean shaven and his backward collar was like poster board around his neck.   He wore his shiny black biretta with a tassel.

 “Class, take out your books!”   An imperative.

 He did not move an inch.   I sat there on my hands and started to sweat in that cold room.  I finally reached for my book.  The catechism began:

 Question:         Who made the world?

 Answer:           (in unison)   God made the world.

 Question:         Who is God?

 Answer:           (in unison)   God is the Creator of heaven and earth and of all things.

 And we continued.  I sat there and answered with part of my mind and did not believe one word.   I knew better.   I knew because I knew.  Big people with big bodies did not know.   They told lies to cover up what they did not know.   This priest in his three cornered hat did not know.  He carried his swinging crucifix that frightened small people.  He was not saying what I knew because I was closer to that place of beginning than he was.  Already I could figure this out because I could count on my fingers.  I knew because I knew.   There was not one person who could convince me that I did not.

 “Veronica”, he asked  “do you not know the lesson?”

 “I know the lesson, Father, but I do not believe it.”

 The buzz around the room would not stop.   The priest rapped his crucifix on the table and shouted for quiet.   I had started something and the end was just beginning.  I felt heat rising in my body and my face getting red and my skin felt slippery.   I was going to burn up and fry to a crisp.

 “Why do you not believe this lesson?  It is the holy word and Christians believe.   What is it that offends you?”

 And the child that I was answered,   “because it is not true.   It is not what I remember.   And it is not true.   I don’t know for sure everything, but these words are not true.”

 And in the smallest whisper, the whisper that no child in the room heard,  I mouthed these words to the priest.

 “There is no one God.  There is All God.”

 His face grew white and his jaw shook.  I heard his teeth click.  And I became sick.   I ran to the lavatory and I vomited all my distress with the world that only added to the smell already there.   I finally wiped my face with toilet tissue and made my way out.  Everyone had been dismissed.   No one was about.   I tied my hood on my head and put on my blue coat with the little fur collar.  I put on my boots and went up the stairs through the door that did not swing shut.

 I trudged on home and knew I would hear about this day.   My brother was there and would tell in detail what went on.   And my mother would be embarrassed over and over.   I wished there would be a whipping because a tongue lashing would last forever.

 “Just who do you think you are?”  would be voiced over and over.   And no answer to that but I am who I am.   I don’t remember exactly what happened but I do remember the priest visiting and my mother bidding him welcome when he said I come in the name of Christ.   They talked and I heard my mother say over and over that she did not know where I heard these things nor who taught me.  Not from her she said,  not from her.

 I was left to ponder for the rest of my life where these thoughts did come from and what I was going to do with them.   I would be hearing over again, you think too much.  And somewhere on the way to growing old  I finally answered with the phrase,  “what’s a mind for?”

 The Rabbi Teacher said it.  “Knock and the door shall be opened.  Ask and you shall receive.”  But be prepared for truth for it will roll like thunder.

Comments { 6 }

Worth Thinking About

IMG_20140407_160951_715(1)

Worth Thinking About

One would think that for human progress to have been more rapid, a sledge hammer rather than a quill should have been used.

Unless emotional garbage is released, it will continue to be contagious.

The mind set to turn a particular way is already bent.

The split in man is so dichotomous that his life is one mass of contradictions.

What man dresses himself in,  his idea of himself, may indeed be all that he is.

Only the individual can judge himself.   Only he knows what is his own best effort.

Everyone thinks of himself to be of royal descent.   They are above the dailyness of the kind of work that deserves a shovel at best.

He who drinks the wine of the publicans,  though no alcohol touches him becomes as intoxicated as if he did.

Each man thinks he is an individualist and yet marches in unison to a step someone says is the only and proper one.

In playthings man finds his surcease.

In playthings,  gods hide the lessons.

There is a difference between sight and vision.  Vision is what makes the difference between looking and seeing.

Comments { 2 }

Paper Money

 

20150307_155322

 

 

Paper Money

 

I throw the covers back
to the still and chilly air
and feel my way along the wall
to the patio doors.

Slowly I check the catch
to find the door unlocked.
I alarm each door
to keep the burglars out.
Funny I think that even now
I check doors and windows
to make work for the burglar
intending to rob me of my treasures.

These can always be replaced but
the real ones I trust only to my god,
having worked in places
long and hard within my heart.
Their value, trust me,
would not be worth much
on the open market.
They are earned by pick and shovel
lodged by birth in every bosom.

The ones old farmers used
in days long gone,
found only in one intent
on finding his way back home.
It is on a map long forgotten,
deep in memory scavenged by years
and covered by locusts meaning
for it to stay buried.

The true journeyman works
the long way home,
straight to the coast of gold.
Burglars know the paper money
is in the safe behind the clock.
There is no gold in the vault to back it.

The real treasure cannot be touched.  It is earned.

Comments { 0 }

Grace To Be Trusted

20150303_124353

Grace To Be Trusted

 It is impossible to live or continue to live with a philosophy that covers personal life and not one’s public life.  To have it cover one and not the other is asking the observer to believe one portion and to close out the other as not applicable..    The dichotomy will rear itself.   It is illogical to say that one’s philosophy applies to one aspect of one’s life and no other.  It is impossible to continue to live outside one’s root assumption.

 Hiding beneath the obligatory assumptions is the  aphorism which tells the child to do as I say and not as I do.   It is excusing oneself as the human being and expecting the children to assume divine obligations.   It is a humungous lie and ought to drive the parent,  the politician,  the teacher,  the one in power positions to one’s knees to ask forgiveness.   There is not one among the huge numbers of peoples who has not been pressed against the wall,  to demand of one’s self behavior of a higher moral order.   It is not that we know what not to do it is telling those trusting us that better behavior is expected.

 There will be times when pressures will be hard driven upon us where we know our behavior will be questionable and we will tell ourselves that for the greater good we are doing whatever we must.   How to face the child or student when questioned that hopefully in the future explanations of this nature will not stand to be looked upon as the best that the human could deliver.

 Do we expect more of our leaders, of our parent gods, or our teachers?   We do.   And we must.   We must have the perfection of individuals to push against.   We must have our goads so that we will test ourselves against what we know will be testing us at some future point.   We may be too young in chronological years to form this thought, but intuitively we know that at some point we too will be pressed to show our divine nature as opposed to our very human one.   And we will have been shown how to discipline ourselves to deserve the vote of promise that we receive.   We will have demonstrated the spinal fortitude that holds us upright and shows those who have placed their trust in us that we deserve their confidence.   Because we have chosen to fight the battle on the same ground as they have we will show

 that the Grace that upholds us all is to be trusted.

Comments { 0 }

Who Will Teach The Children?

20150228_103743-1

The Teacher  (The Socratic Departure)

I will drink this cup of gall,
swallowing the bitterness
setting fire to earth’s waste.

But first I caress this chalice.
Its depth mirrors my heart,
shaking the foundations
of my very own selves.

Now splendid trepidatons
challenge the ultimatums
by which the earth rocks.

Challenge me, o gods,
not to see the outside
that has no bounds,
nor the inside that does not
set feel to the outside,
nor the depth
which encapsules other worlds.

Winds that know me by my name,
sunlight that weeps with my tears
and the night sky which covers
my brittle bones with the white moon
will continue to call me . . .and remember.

I will drink of this cup and
set loose the forces
that muddle the minds of men.

In chaos they will seek order . . .and there is none.
In the written word
they will seek understanding. . .
and there is none.
In the marriage bed they will seek delight. . .
and there is none.

Cross the stars.  Challenge the arch angels.
Banish the gods.   And quickly I will drink of this cup.
But tell me. . . . .

Who will teach the children?

Comments { 2 }