In Looking Back

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In Looking Back

The Teachers Speak. . . . The smallest act of mercy has large repercussions. Remember that. When the smallest act of kindness is received it is passed on without thinking because the act gains a life of its own and struggles for expression. It gathers momentum as it moves through the person’s hands, their life and those about them.

It is these acts of kindness, of niceness, of love that keeps the role of the Earth’s purpose in mind.   And the Earth continues to vibrate its song and sings it for the ears that are destined to hear. One person can delay it, but no person can stop it up completely. It will only be delayed but never destroyed.

The many acts of kindness and goodness dispensed by each person takes a proper route and touches many lives. Giving to the each a measure of estimation they could not reach by themselves. Each time a person views what is created, what is built, and sees in the children actions of goodness , the source of that goodness is revealed. And the onlooker tries to duplicate or tries in his best estimation to reach those goals. This is the purpose of the each and precious life. That the each is a teacher, that the each is a student.

In Looking Back

Sometimes in looking back
to grasp meaning. . .
the uneventful brims with it

The small deed by the young
take on logistics of magnitude.
The smallest bouquet
often picked
from the neighbor’s garden
is innocently given
with largess of heart.

It is no small thing
when the child says
I will do it. . .
and unburdens the caregiver.

It is in the uneventful
that the heart grows
in understanding,
when the lesson becomes
the food on the plate.

Not good to look back?
How else to learn
what life has taught
and perhaps we learn
what not to repeat?

It bodes well to forgive
when harshness makes brittle
the connections.
But in the smallest detail,
in the dailyness of the commonplace,
we grow.

And the soul leaps forward and universal life is greatly enhanced.

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Glimpses

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You cannot know what deep is until you have fallen into a hole.   But no hole is so deep you cannot dig yourself out

The phrase ‘you had to be there’ recognizes that the event of itself is empty even as the participant retells it.  The emotional climate was all.

Exceeding the limit in knowledge because ‘we are only human’ is an incongruity.   Man does not live with incongruities.  He sets about blueprinting and readjusting his mental house very early on.

Knowledge recovers a previous knowing and elaborates a premise impervious to error.

Self  limitation is one’s own qualifier in case of failure.

To usurp authority is unethical. . . but to allow such authority to go unquestioned when behavior demands questioning is to compromise one’s own ethical system.

To compromise one’s own ethical system is suicidal.

One’s code of behavior is a systemic belief. . . infiltrating the cardio-vascular system and lodging in the mind, demanding self expression.

To singularly dictate an only acceptable code of behavior denies the evolution of man in the area of social custom.

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More Rock. . . Part II

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It Is Called The Hero’s Journey   Part II

The Teachers Speak. . .   Once you know that a change is being made, then you will find things pertaining to that change bearing down upon you.  You will find subtle changes in your attitude.  In even what you consider priorities for the day.  And when this happens,  welcome these changes.  For they are with you for a reason.   They are a preparation for what is to come.

And that preparation for what is to come may be better than what it is you now enjoy.  It will be for a greater purpose and perhaps the prime purpose for your life.   And it need not necessarily mean the end of your life where you are.   A subtle change, a needed change.  A new vision, a new exploration.   So do not anticipate your own demise.  It will be the rebirth of who you are.

You are being asked to take part in what is sometimes called the hero’s journey.  Not many people even know of it.  It cannot be seen,  or eaten, or worn,  or even bragged about owning or even sport around in it.  What is its value?  It happens inside of you and you will know and be known.  It is the pearl of great price and with it come the keys.  But it is a life’s affair with the unknown.

It might make you sad and even thoughtful and compassionate.  Sometimes angry and irritable.  Impatient with yourself as well as others.   Goodtime people will not want you around but you will be sought for in times of heartbreak.  Your mind will never be empty and should you persist long enough to find your thoughts answered,  you will never be lonely again.  You will find invisible friends and your life will be cleaned up to a fare thee well.

The quality of life becomes apparent.  Deep would be the word to most nearly describe the journey.  Deep in all directions;  down, laterally, skyward, vertically.  And deeply penetrating in all directions.  Life will reach beneath your feet, beyond your arms and literally the top of one’s head will be lifted, uniting the mind with the greater mind.  It leaves one in a body with no skin to limit but melds one with the beating air that at once insulates and protects and leaves one vulnerable.

One lives one’s life while making a living.  Raise one’s children to the joys of this world even when one cannot see these joys yet.  One does not dismantle another’s world while trying to rebuild one’s own.  St.  Paul  took a year off after his cosmic experience on the road to Damascus.  His followers tended him.  We would call them groupies today and one would be a celebrity to have them.  For the majority of us who make the journey it is a solitary one.   Is it worth it?

To dislodge the fear that grips the heart and to walk in peace that surpasses understanding,  what can the world grant to match these gifts?   What  can touch the soul of me who walks beneath the wings of the Great God?  I know that I know.  For this world and time,  I am on my knees.

 

photo by John Holmes

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More Pieces of The Rock

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Can We Change Who We Are  Part I

(The doctor looked at his middle aged patient and said you know,  there was a time when an old friend would know your despair and arrive at your home with a good bottle of wine and say let’s go out in the yard and talk.  And the two of you with a carton of cigarettes would sit in the dark and talk not once,  but many times, about the heart’s utterings.  And both of you would benefit and your families would know that this is what old friends do for each other.  Modern times have me writing prescriptions for what was once done for the heart of man by his friends.   I cannot say we have  progressed.  A true physician would heal the soul of man and I,  here,  doctor the symptoms.)

It surprises me that people do not wonder why they do what they do.  It holds no wonder for them but obviously they feel helpless.  I suspect  genetic memory holds us all and though material things and times differ,  basically we are what we are.  In another era we played the same games, sang the same songs.  For some it is all right but I find it difficult.  I think we play the game with a loaded die.

There are those who know this.  This classroom and lesson plans are written as we grow and when we reach graduation we leave.  Here for however long; illness and chance having their say and genes determining our stay.  So we are told we are right for this time and place or guys,  you have a lot yet to learn for this here place!  So we keep trying.

I was reading about cell consciousness and how a person or species borrows a future and prepares the DNA to be rewritten in preparation for that future.  And how the entire human body is apprehending one’s environment all the time, literally feeding to the brain what it needs to see.   It is something I have learned with this body of mine.  How it already knows what is happening long before my brain gets the message.  The reaction is visceral  before thought reaches consciousness and informs after the fact.  It is ridiculous to be in the throes of emotion and to identify the problem before conscious thought arises.  Strange also that the science gods say that the mind will control the body.  When for some it is the other way around.  Not everyone is born with filters intact for this earth needing only five senses.  Some of us become earth’s emotional pit stop.

It is not that  mind cannot do it because it can.  But not before there is a determination within the person, within the physical self to begin a change in one’s belief system.  Long before this is a conscious thought there is a germinating idea  that things are not sitting well within.  This can occur because of reading, through dreams, meditation or talk and thought but on a gut level.  When it is lifted to conscious thought and takes root,  changes will be made.

This is when deep friendships are crucial.  These days leave little time for friendships to be nurtured.  Driven within will bring to fore a compliance on a level that will give birth to a sustenance of a new kind.  Stay the ground and there will be a way that the road not heavily traveled will open for the journeyer.   It is worth the travail.  It is giving birth to a new you and staying the route will open a new world.

photo by John Holmes

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Abundance

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Since the publication of Kiss The Moon,  I have had a few requests to use the poem,  Abundance, in ceremonies of commitment.  In these months of May and June ,  I would be honored if you choose the poem to be read at your ceremony.  It is one of my favorites and I think speaks to the hearts and minds of those who are making this very  large commitment to each other.  Use it in the way most meaningful to you both.

Abundance

In my abundance, I come to you.
In my abundance, I love you.
This love shackles you not
nor binds you tightly in chains.
It gives you freedom to soar
where your spirit wills
and in the same abundance
finds you winging back to me.

Run quickly from a love
which possesses by need.
Its momentary satisfactions
bind you to a life of servitude.
Its very negation of freedom
murders the giver and the recipient.
Love beckons not out of desperation,
but out of abundance.
It is life, calling to life.
It is life, begetting life.

Come to me,
when in your abundance
you would find annihilation in not giving.
When in your joy of living
you would find death in not loving.
Come to me then.
For in my abundance I come to you.
In my abundance, I love you.
And in our communion,

the Spirit lives.

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A Different Reality

image1-2A Different Reality

I have read Michael Talbot’s book called The Holographic Universe and in it is a different way to explain reality.   It is what the theory of quantum physics is about and I was surprised that I have been living this physics.   In rereading journals I have found much that I had forgotten and much that I have integrated all the while as I was conducting my life in the best way I could.   In retrospect, it has not been a walk in the park.   It has been a journey of note and a hard one at best.  I came across an entry I would like to share.  This entry is longer than my usual 400 words,  but bear with me while I try to explain what that unruly, really different child is trying to do with his or her life not quite like other children.  Their intent is not to drive you crazy.

December 12, 1993

(For most people the connection between the past and present does not exist for them;  that today is what they concern themselves with thinking it is standing all by itself.  How best to explain this continuity that those like me know?  That thread which is stitched throughout our lifetimes?  That carries the past into the present and borrows on a future already in progress as we race to catch up with it?  It makes no sense to linear thinking, and yet to me is as real as real can be.  It comes with a sense of feel that is as ephemeral as a snowflake, yet as real as a coal that burns with a hot fire and the ashes that serve to fertilize a world yet unborn, but still as real as the one we think we inhabit.

It comes with the ability to place myself within time, sitting here in front of the monitor knowing the outside of me is part and parcel of what it is I sit in.  I breathe the air that breathes me.  I see my surroundings as I am seen by my surroundings.  I hear sounds that are as conscious of me as I of them.  I blend, I multiply, and I yield.  And am blended, am multiplied and am yielded.

I reach out and reach in and find that I am reached both in and out.  I think my thoughts and find that my thoughts are thinking me.  I cry my tears and find that my tears are crying me.  I no longer am separate and no longer find that my world is separate.  For I am whole and my world blends and multiplies, breathes in and breathes out, and there is a depth that no longer escapes but permeates.  The past is still happening, the present is now and the future already lends its essence to my now.  I race like hell to catch up, try like crazy to mend the past and work my fingers to the bone mending and rectifying the present.   To enlist some meaning to the now, to create within its moment a depth that will give it substance, that will not be lost somehow to a meaningless present.

I fear I speak a language escaping those about me.   That it is with a foreign tongue I speak.  Not the vernacular that would tidy up the present.  Not with a meaning that would challenge the thoughts riding within heads like mine.   Or looking like mine.   For I fear I am out of step, that I have not the words that connect my world to others.  Or my worlds to this one.  I fear that what I present would be territory foreign to the present mind, to those whose only hope is the restoration of their childhood feeling of excitement in the holiday season.)

This was written in December of 1993 when I was 62.  Seven months earlier I had had two cardiac arrests. There was no one who understood the context of what I tried to explain. And yes, not even the doctors.  I ask that in reading this, for the child whose behavior is different, for the adult you cannot understand,  whose language you also find foreign,  that perhaps there is something to learn.  And that something might yet be a light in some way for all of us.  There is always that hope. 

photo by John Holmes

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I Lit The Candle

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I Lit The Candle

I lit the candle and waited.
Time passed.
I lit the candle and waited.

Fill me, Sweet Spirit.
Let my heart learn
once again the habit of loving.

Come into my kitchen
among the cutlery and pots,
to the table
in the middle of chaos.

Two chairs.
I light the candle
and look for a hand
ready to grasp
my outstretched one.

With a soothing balm,
salve my Spirit, my weariness
and prepare me wisely
for a time waiting
cross hair in time’s  vision,
as my arms
enfold a future worked for,
and prepared,

shaped by a life loved through.

 

Photo by John Holmes

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Pieces Of The Rock

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Pieces Of The Rock

Nowadays we nicely say that one is in denial when what one is too embarrassed to own.   We say it never happened.  An elder always quoted her favorite saying as an absolute.   You can always catch a thief she said but you can never catch a liar.  Jesus said all ye are liars!   Today though, we know that these are psychologically damaged people with strong coping mechanisms  carved out for survival.

But as our knowledge grows and we have a broader base of understanding,  we must not be quite so quick to label people.   When we have memories that have no putting place and we have youngers who speak of other lives with exacting details,  until we have further knowledge and understanding,  we must withhold judgment.  When we can truthfully say that what we knew yesterday is not our knowledge today because our perspective today is different,   we must grant the other the same growth.

And who made the person fear so greatly that changing the story was the only way to survive?  It seems for whatever reasons, we are all damaged goods in some way, are we not?

Who I Am Not

Do not try to
pigeonhole me,
nor typecast me,
nor make a caricature of me.

For just when you think
you have the feel of me,
just when you think
you have grasped the essence
of just who I am,
I will steal away.

I will vanish
never more to be
who you think I am.
That is the way it is.
For at the precise moment
when you say. . . .

I know her,
I will not be.
I will have become someone else,

just yesterday.

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Fairy Dust

 

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 Fairy Dust

Will the children find
how shaky all things are
and the gods who are their parents,
all illusion?
What will I say then?
“All of it, my dear, all of it
is nothing but fairy dust,
created by a head
in search of its own dream.”
Where would I be then?
In the midst of this day
or at the end of it, charged with life
pulsating within me.
Tired to be sure
but marveling that in spite,
despite everything,
life is sweet in any dimension.
I am as real as these fingers
on this keyboard, as real as
the smile that crossed my lips
when the computer commanded
“please wait.”
Or as real as the work
I see surrounding me
that I may never get to.
I do what I see is mine to do.
I am committed as clearly
as I more nearly see.
I write as I more nearly think.  I think.
And I hear what is mine to hear.
So am I real?
Only to arms around me.
Only to those in whose memory I live
and will continue to live.
And as alive as I am in my progeny
whether here or elsewhere.
As I walk, I am.   As I think, I am.
And as I love, I am.
This is how real I am.
And if what I participate in,
including this,
is illusion, so be it.
I would hope it would be
a life giving illusion.
In the face of no hope,

I would be hope.

 

Painting by Claudia Hallissey

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The Homecoming

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The Homecoming

The Teachers Speak. . . .there are many ways to explain the life most lead on the Earth planet with even a normal set of senses.  Yet there are so many different ways outside the senses and if one tried to understand fully the picture,  one would become immobile.   There are that many.   One of the easiest premises to help explain this life is to realize that all time is simultaneous.   That there are people who have lived with this premise and had productive lives astounds even those of us outside the Earth’s boundaries.  What we have are people who without science giving it the name of quantum physics have learned to live with time’s phases changing as they have walked in the streets.  That they have learned to accept these phases in their perspective leads us to honor them in what ways we can.  Those with challenging chronic conditions often also hold  different perspectives that help them in many ways and also hinder them when trying to lead lives as normal as possible.   When these people come to our attention,  and they do because of soul stuffs shining their wattage,  we try ourselves to remember what conditions were like and we give as much help as possible.   

(I was walking home from work one evening and the sidewalk changed  beneath my feet to become a walk of cobblestone.   My  pant suit changed to a skirt as it  swirled about my ankles and I had on a pair of shiny boots.   It was twilight and the street became another but familiar and the streetlights became lantern lights.   It lasted for almost a block and then I was on my familiar corner, ready to turn down my street.   This was one of the most vivid  bleed through events I had  had to that time.  Still happening?  The 17th or 18th centuries?  But there were others and as many of them as I have poems in my files.  The following poem will have new meaning to those who have been following my blog.)

The Homecoming

My warm breath makes a circle
of clear space on the frosted pane.
I gaze at empty horizons,
willing your outline to appear
to give this day extra measure.

You move with water pails swinging
from shoulders whose strength
I know by heart,
with strides cleanly cutting
the knee high snow, effortlessly.

I move within the circle and my warm world,
eagerly awaiting your shout
and stamp of feet on the threshold,
feeling already your cold face
along the line of my throat.
The woolen nap of your winter shirt
is rougher even than my hands.

It’s been too long you say since you left.
And I laugh.  Hardly time enough
to clean the barn for barely
were you gone an hour.
And here already.
My day has taken shape.
******
The stamp of feet, the key turns
and the door clicks open.
My hands press the smooth fabric
of your well tailored coat
and do not catch.
I take the leather briefcase from your  hands
and lift my head for the homecoming.
It’s been so long that you are gone, I say,
and you laugh.
I’ve only been gone a week this time,
you say.

I turn again to the window
and find it frosted over.
And know that worlds have died
and been reborn in less time.

And today, another one.

Art by Claudia Hallissey

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