Psalms of Love. . .

This is the day I have long  awaited.  It is the day I can say to my family and friends that the book called Psalms of Love is available on Amazon.  The Kindle is available now and within a few days,  the paper back will be available if not already.  It has been incubating for all of my life it seems but with me and my philosophy,  it happened yesterday.

It could not be without my family.  John and Lori provide a wonderful home for me  with an awesome workroom without added pressures aging cannot handle nicely. Tresy, (Joe III) has formatted and done all the fine tooth combing that publishing requires and soothed my worries about being an irritation.  And Claudia has again done her talent justice by her fine art in the midst of  life intervening.   All done while their lives continued with work and upheaval of construction, moving, changing addresses and Emma E. making her debut in the midst of the moving weekend for her parents.  With civil liberties enhanced,  chaos abated, Emma E. still came home to loving arms.

Psalms of Love readers will question the poetry according to what they hold as their philosophy or belief or their religion.  Others will simply want to know what I smoke.  I will have to say as those in the past have said,  we live our reality. The habits of our days create the world we work at.  When it is said that by their fruits you shall know them, it would be wise if we take that maxim to heart.

Because it is so.  Those who have known me, or have  been following my blog for the last seven years,  know that I speak my truth.  When I said I crashed the gates of heaven,  it is so, metaphysically speaking.  Otherwise life for me would have been impossibly difficult.

We come into the world as the twig already bent.  There are those who wish to believe that we are a clean slate, but a history we already are.  Some of us remember our history and others will say we have a vivid imagination.  All it takes is to listen to the newborn as they master the language they are born into.  They introduce a vivid history.  The book no one ever reads but refers to with the question in the vernacular,  what’s it all about Alfie,  should ask the newborn as the good book says.

I truly hope that in reading this book of poetry, Psalms of Love,   sweeping across your heart will be an awakening that you too are known.  And with the journey begun, you will claim and be claimed.  To what will be your surprise.

I am grateful that we are not abandoned.  I am one of the fortunate ones knowing this.  It has been with this support I have been a contribution instead of an impediment to life.  My life drove me to study the why of man and led me to the why of who I am.  A life of independent study is not lightly chosen.  The rewards are seldom tangible but with hindsight, priceless.  No dictionary on this Earth has words to tell what it is to be known.  And to be of account.  The gift is matchless.

 

illustrated by
Claudia Pontarelli-Hallissey

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Embrace The Differences. . . .

 

Journal entry March 12, 1990. . . . .

I can remember thinking and finally saying out loud though I happened to be in the basement, I could tell who came in from outdoors by what swept over me.  It could have been their vibes or their energy blanket or it could have been something else that I filed into my brain since time began.

But I would know before they took a step in just who it was; even as a child I knew when my brothers or sister or parents came in.  It was only when our children were born that I realized that not all people were this way.  When I met someone, sometimes for the first time, sweeping over me would be the feeling of them.  I learned I was reacting to their emotional climate.

It is traumatic for the young child, the sensitive one, who complains of a stomach ache at the thought of school, to be away from the safe environs of home,  afraid of being laughed at or throwing up, or the washroom being too far.  How to explain this to parents?  They cannot and unless there is a divergent path taken, they will simply say  they have stomach problems and spend time in the bathroom.   Never realizing they have become the emotional pit stop for the world’s ills.

Sometimes the sensitive one must simply vacate the room to protect himself from the slings of emotional flagrancy. They have to leave when emotions rampage or they will throw up. There is seldom a someone who understands to protect the child or the child in the adult body. There is no protection for others’ emotions crashing onto them.  Even contained violent emotions can be deadly to the vulnerable.

The triggers for these occasions can be anything.  When I was a child in grade school the sound of a siren going by would find me running home from school certain that calamity had befallen my family.  Certain I was my mother would be dead or the house burned to the ground.

We were not spawned in a ditch.  We are a holy beginning.  We were before we are and we have a history.  We are a history.

To the one who said I draw conclusions all over the place  (it was not meant as a compliment)  and make connections no one else does,  I say to see all life connected is what Ancients did.  And I do this here and now because of those who cavort on Olympus.  But they worked their days on Earth as I now work mine.

(I was almost Sixty when the above was written.  I am now almost Ninety.  After years of therapy to accept the fact that my head was different but not mentally ill,  the doctors and I formed relationships that supported me.  I learned that there are those like me who are out of place in a world that has difficulty with ideals that work elsewhere.  And the Elsewhere has many worlds.  We embrace to different degrees values that can work here but at a very high cost.  If we are fortunate our families gather to protect what soon becomes the isolated child.  What is not realized is that  mavericks contribute in ways necessary for human progress but not noted until they are absent.  Embrace the obstinate child.  They chose you as parents for special reasons.)

 

Photo by John Stanley Hallissey

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The Gates of Heaven. . . .

 

When I Crashed The Gates. . .

You ask. . . .
 How do you go to your knees
and with tears bend
and lift your head and
to whom or to what?

I say. . . .
To a loving, wholly, holy
Spirit that supports me
with an embrace I know. . . .

You say. . . .
A verb cannot do that. . .
rolling thunder cannot,
only. . . .

I say. . .
Only a heart
that knows mine and
what I say in answer
to what I hear and know. . .

and continue. . .
only in obeisance
to what we both want
for beloveds, for Beings
throughout all life. . . .

You say. . .
 how do you get to that place?

I say. . . .
I worked to remember
from where I came
and what I knew. . . .
It has taken my life
and the cost has been dear. . . .

You ask. . . .
Was it worth it?

I say
I am here to write this.
They rescued me when I crashed the gates.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Ripped, Severed, Broken. . . .

Times Such As These. . .

I lock up the room
and pocket the last remnants
of words laying about
unattended.

Fearful that pieces of my heart
may be found
scattered among them.
And why not?

Times such as these
leave us with little salve
to heal the open wounds
which once were hearts.

For whom do we weep?
The children whose siblings
will no longer come to the table
to convey with no doubt
the events which took their innocence?

Or the parents whose hearts
were transplanted
when word came that
these unspent stars were already
breathing the rarified air
as heaven’s most blessed?

Look at us here.
Pleading that our children
will be safe as they try to understand
what we in our dotage
have not learned.
To resort to arms

means death in any country.

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Lean on Me. . . .

Lean On Me. . .

Lean, love, lean on me
and rest your tired heart.
Let me rescue you out of a dream
and allow you to awaken in a world of choice.

Bend to me, as the willow to the wand,
as the lily grips the water to float.
I have time enough and arms
strong enough to grant you rest.

 

Lean on me, love, lean on me.
Press your tired mind onto mine
while we give to each other
what we sorely need.

It is only a breath of a moment
that separates us
and but a breath
that holds us apart.

Come, lean for now.

 

(this Valentine’s Day with much love, Veronica (( from
the upcoming Psalms of Love,  ))

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Welcome Home, Emma E. . .

Welcome Home,  Emma E. . .

I am by nature not a mover, but a thinker.  I think a lot and have been muchly criticized for it. By people saying I read too much into life.  Mostly by people who never had a clue.  If my friend Emerson is to be taken as an authority, then to think is to act.  The body may slow as is the case of aging, but Spirit thinks itself a perpetual 35, which is a necessary preparation for ongoing life, here and elsewhere.

Awards may not hang on the walls, but many hang on the heart.  One came this day to tell me that my repetitive lectures bear fruit because of the evidence in this poignant photo.  Emma E. this newly minted daughter came home to arms that already know the shape of her heart.  They will hammock and support her and catch her for as long as there will be need.

Her father knew his father’s arms when he came new to this world, so the new father with tenderness remembered.  The emanating love in this photograph far surpasses anything this world could award.  It is priceless.

The snow covers the grasses on this very cold day and is marred by the traffic in the streets.  Soon its pristine purity will carry the dark residue of its activity.  Once I kept shutters closed to the streets and opened them to the back yard where there was life I could understand and cope with.

There were birds at the feeder, arguing still, evergreens growing in trust that life is ever new each day, demanding our very best with the promise that life is ever good.

Welcome home Emma E.  It is enough to know at this time that life is ever good.  You chose well.  There is love in abundance.  You have rekindled in these harshest of times, my zest for ongoing life.  You are a fresh dawn for eternity.  Welcome home.  I will always love you.

 

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Conversations: World Creation. . .

 

Conversations:  World Creation . . .

If it were not for the fact that our David came home for chemo treatment on a regular basis and he and I had dinner together at home, I would never have had the mind bending conversations we did.

It was then I learned of world creation for the first time when he said in an unrecognizable voice, ‘ by damn, if anyone could create a world, you can.’  It was a possibility discussed in his major which was Philosophy.

I did not come across the creation theory until years later when studying Robert Nozick’s book, The Examined Life.  He said before his untimely death that he thought possibly that humans were in the creation business, in training for world building.  And here David and I were discussing this years earlier at the dinner table.  (I have had some very good teachers?)

The following was from a journal entry of November 8, 1983 and I scribed the teacher’s words.

When your actions are such that no ill will is intended then acceptance of a decision need not destroy you.  It is part of growth which allows a future to be decided.  You have spent a large time thinking that a decision has been made before your heart knows that decision.

We do not take lightly a deference to opinions.  Your philosophy shows already what happens to choices in a world of  worlds.  Yet you think a forced decision is no decision.  You have already taken into consideration possibilities.

If possibilities are probable, then we have already built worlds.  No need now to hesitate.  No need now to reconsider what is already imprinted in a world somewhere.

We need to take all probabilities and let them fall where they may.  Now we know that all things are considered at some level.  Now we know there is a somewhere and a somewhen for all things.

Let the answers be what they may and you build your world with the intentions which come from your heart.

(if there is energy left I may do a small volume on world building with the Given poetry on worlds through this lifetime.  Right now though after much time trying to choose a short poem on decisions,  my thoughts lead me to choosing a heart theme,  with the words of the last line from the entry.  ‘You build your world with the intentions which come from your heart.’  So close to Valentine’s Day and within a short time that my elder will be ready to give the word on The Psalms of Love,  I chose the following.  In journeying what one wishes is not what one thinks is priority but what one gets, IS.  Not up front at first,  but in the final analysis,  it Is.)

Not Wished but Needed. . .

It is a heart
full blown
inclined to burst.

But for now
it beats its song
too sweet not to hear. . .

Why, can it not be
forever inclined
in a direction of choice?

Instead fully charged
toward what is not wished. . .

but needed. . .

 

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A Lesson In Strawberries. . . .

A Lesson In Strawberries. . .

( I awakened one recent morning in conference with someone who said it was again time for the article on the lesson in strawberries.  Several years ago it was printed in The Detroit Free Press and has since been reprinted several times.  A man appeared at my door the first time with a quart of strawberries from his garden and several stories to tell about his mother and her philosophy.  It is with wonder that some ideas will strike a warm bed of memory and spill its essence.  I cannot bring to mind to whom I was talking when awakened but no doubt a classroom again.  I think I am nighttime’s perennial student.) 

I was a young girl, about 12.   It was our first summer on The Farm and it was a hard one.   But it also was filled with good food straight from the warm earth.  My mother had a talent for growing things in the city despite its polluted air; even 70 years ago people knew to be unhealthy.   But in the clear air of the country, in the soil of her loam filled garden, her talents blossomed as did her crops.

We were getting produce ready for the stand down near the road.   As we were preparing the fruits and vegetables, selling them as fast as we put them out, friends from the city were arriving.  They were diverse characters.  Some were people in her circumstances with many children and little money.  A few were wealthy but the outstanding characteristic of all these relationships was mutual respect.

Toward the late afternoon, I was tired and whiny.   The source of my irritation was the fact that my mother was giving to her friends, without charge, the best and finest of what we were putting out.   A bushel of potatoes here, quarts of strawberries there, a basket of fresh vegetables here.

But the strawberries were my argument.  I loved them and the ones she grew were the reddest, juiciest and largest I had ever seen.   They were sweet clear through and the dream stuff of that first June on The Farm.  With the heavy cream separated from the rich milk the excellent cows gave, these were mine she was giving away.  The strawberries summed up my resentment.

“You can’t keep giving away our profits,” I said.  “you have given away half of all the produce!”

She turned to me in a voice I have not forgotten and a lesson that has stayed with me.

“These are mine,” she said.  “I will do with them what I please.  These are for me to give away if I want to.  No one can tell me who to give to.  My friends may never do anything for me, but if one of them does something for my children or my grandchildren, then that will be payment for me.”

I have thought often of that lesson in gift giving.  In giving what is yours.   In the course of my days, when someone did something for me I did not expect, there was the lesson in strawberries.  When so much has been done for our children by their friends and ours, the lesson in strawberries comes up.

When time, whole weekends of time, have been given to sit with a sick child, to listen to an impoverished spirit, to make dinner when the task seems insurmountable and appetite non-existent, to do any of these when time has become our most precious commodity, it is a gift of Spirit.  When a check arrived unexpectedly from someone whose only reason was “I remember how I would have felt to have received this” or the someones who oftentimes helped our children through school because “it was done for me.”

I thought of the lesson in strawberries.

As I review a life where so much has been done for me and mine, from sources unexpected, I am grateful for the lesson in strawberries.   My mother gave what was hers to give, what she worked for and gave freely.  She was paying it forward long before the idea became novel.  I do not forget.

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The Past Is Still Happening. . .

Journal entry of November 3, 1983—(keep in mind I work with all time is simultaneous, a quantum premise, though I did not know it at the time when 35 years ago I was into black holes and white holes where this entry picks up) . . I scribed. . .It is no small thing when we start commenting on the universes within universes, penetrating and interpenetrating, we then go into which had its beginning, yet when?

It is still happening you were told.  The past is still happening and the future has already happened.  Take your pencil and make circles extending even further and further out.  You will find that the circles become interlocked and in them you are, picking up material for a book, for living, for a problem which yet is not solved.  We like to see material stretched and the mind boggled.

(I did what you see here and then the teachers comment).  The interlocking circles show the universes.  That is as good as it goes.  From your I Am you then project into an I Will Be and then the will be will show your then I Am.  Following this procedure you see where the reverse will also be true.  Your I Am falls into the I Was interlocking and in the I Was is the center of the I Am and it is still happening.  The past is never finished, never done.  It is in progress.

When you looked upon the Amish material simulating the book cover, it peeled your hide back again.  You found a tugging to where your present I am is still a part of that present.  This is what does the arc angle in people’s heads.  They don’t know why they are drawn, but that part of them that still yields to that present,  the past present is where the turn of events draws them.

Your Circa 1840 speaks to a time of a woman and family.  She lives yet and draws on you.  And you on her.  Your feelings surmount the time element and give to her the needed support.  Her lack of knowing circumscribes her knowing.  Both of you are in the process of requesting a greater something and you think you knew it from a somewhen.  What somewhen?  The somewhen is in your memory bank and you knew of it and wore it with splendor.  Where did you come from?

Circa 1840:  Revisited

She could say in reverent tone,
I love you.
I polished the hearth and
set the bread to rise.
While her heart cried silently,
do you love me?

The children came, one by one.
She loved them, each and everyone.
They were good.  She said I love you.
I’ve borne you sons
and taught them how to pray.
I’ve polished the hearth
and set the bread to rise.
While her heart cried silently,
do you love me?

The sons grew up and one by one
they went away.  He never knew why.
He never knew that they too, said,
I’ve fed the chicks and bedded the calves
and got a perfect score in sums.
While their hearts fairly burst,
do we please thee?

He accepted the polished hearth,
the risen bread, the handsome sons
who tried so hard to please
as that which was his due.

One day the hearth no longer shone,
no longer was the bread set to rise,
no handsome sons to plead
with eyes that tore her heart apart.

‘You do not love me!’ he angrily shouted.
Wearily she turned away.
Did you not see the polished hearth,
the bread set to rise,
the sons who tried so hard to please

and love that died?

 

(click on illustration for details)

 

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So Much To Be Said. . . .

 

 

 

 

 

So Much To Be Said. . .

You say,

So much to be said.  To take a hammer
to a word and splinter it. . .what’s to be gained?

I say,

Where is the meaning if you don’t?

You say,

Let everyone take what is theirs and build on it.
That is the way of the world and the way illusions
are granted a solid state.

And darling woman,  it is all right.

 I say,

They say that life is too hard just to be illusions.
The people will say of me she was off the wall!

You say,

There will be those who say you have a fine
imagination.  And others will say you took an impossible life
and created a philosophy to sustain it.  Does not everyone?

 I say,

Not every child is shown tender mercies.  And
without them there is a long sleep when transiting.  Remedial
help is needed.

 You say,

You shored up when fault was found within your system.
You continue to love and lady,  continue I ask.

 And I ask,

            Where will you be?

 You say,

Until the day you can no longer do it, walk to the fields
and lie down and say no more. . . .  I will pick you up and we will
again set fire to hearts which do not flicker yet and create that
world where love abounds and commitments and priorities take
their proper place.

Time is limited and it grows dark.  We work, we work,
with love, lady, with love we work.

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