How Much Better. . . if we listen. . .

Some readers have difficulty with my saying I scribe yet writers have forever said they write in the flow or with their muses or simply nodding wisely and saying nothing.  I say I know when the writing is mine and saying I scribed means I hear in silence and from where it comes is where I reach. 

I have long thought that when asking a question the answer already is known by the time the question is asked.  Somewhere lodged in our cranium is the answer to have puzzled the pieces of the question to be asked.  That said,  my mentor, the Nazarene, said  to us all, hearing you will not hear and seeing you will not see.  Meaning we see and hear only what we focus on.  

But if you knock the door will open.  The Comforter will tell you things you did not know and bring to mind what you have forgotten.  (except in this day of loud noises,  one must kick the door because a knock will not be heard)

Possibly it presents  questions unthinkable in two parts.  Do people ever think of themselves as the only intelligence in this  universe considering its miseries and what of its future  or if not the only intelligence and superior somebodies are at the ready to enter in surprise?  Both immobilizing. 

And if we are more than what we appear because of many lives and lifetimes and the answers are within us and beget wisdom, do we then entertain angels unaware for sure as my Mentor said?  Or do we take on  face value the childish utterances that bring on gasps and wonder from where do they come with such nonsense?  Did we not learn in kindergarten to say please and thank you and be kind ?

I bend at the knees easily.  I scribed the following . . . 

How Much Better It Would Be. . 

for  this noble planet
if we cherished her like a lover?

Or loved her as a mother
who adored her child and
wiped the tears away with a soft linen?
Or as a father
whose arms surround the child
are as steel beams supporting 
the frame of the tallest building?

Who would not want these for himself
if he could articulate what would heal
the dichotomy within?

Too few of us around
who love our home so fiercely,
we would protect her vital organs.
The sun sometimes is hidden from man
and the moon embarrassed to see
its  light dimmed with shame.

When patches of earth split 
from the shock of no rain and dust rises and rolls
across the open land, we wish then
not to shake dust from our boots but to greet
a sunrise in splendor.

Offer me this, the Earth Mother says,
that you will raise your arms only to surround
an Other in love.  Promise me this, again she says,
that the swords will be laid
at the foot of the evergreens now and 
a boot will never crush an Other’s right to live.

And I will forever cherish your children.

 

I scribed this poem August 6, 2013
art block quilted by veronica

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From My Plate. . .

 

 

Perspective depends on how open one’s head is.  Or how tightly closed it is.

                                                  ***** 
We yearn with the client for a vacation in an Eden which feeds and does not accuse.

                                                    *****
The Universe may be of a benign nature but it cares, because it too, must survive.

                                                  ***** 
That mankind can grow into a benign caring nature is the dream!

                                                  *****
Deep waters do not necessarily mean one cannot float, even though one does not swim.

                                                   *****
Man clings to many things in this world that no longer have a place.  It is his security blanket but full of philosophical holes.

                                                    *****
 Standing alone is better than leaning against a house which is in itself, sinking.

                                                  *****
There can be no victory unless there is a victor.

                                                  ****
Marthas do not compromise.

                                                  *****
But the Marys would not know to be pressed if they were between waxed sheets under a hot iron.

                                                  *****
Regardless of the mental and emotional garbage one carries, there is always that something one does that has a redeeming value.

                                                  *****
A good friend will give of his abundance and hug nothing back.

                                                  *****
Everyone is in the advertising business.  We keep plugging our immortality and live lives in such a way as to make good on our promises.

                                                  *****
When the world bleeds, from where will come the bandage large enough and where will we start to wrap the wound?

                                                 . . amen . .

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Everlasting Life. . we are already in Eternity. . . .

Life Everlasting. . . we are already in Eternity. . . .

 I scribed you cannot list the world’s disorders without revealing yours in duplicate.  If one cannot relate to the ills surrounding, can we expect something to be done with what is not seen?  Is life to be lived for others or for self gratification?  Is one’s pursuit for happiness the meaning of it all?

When your mind travels to strange places and then you’re dumped unceremoniously amidst daily deposits of crud, how to make peace with it all?   I found my experiences unsettling in  kind words, but requiring years of shoe leather to gain a semblance of calm. 

I truly had miles to walk before I sleep as my winter’s poet said.  I made many oceans.

 

I scribed February 19, 1989. . . .edited for space only. . .

When you have tramped the world and know other worlds deserve consideration, you have already opened yourself to what a universe of good can bring about.

We are an experiment in time with our fledgling democracy when other countries have prided themselves on their longstanding existence and smugly reminding us of it.   Noting  our now struggle  to re-establish prior goals and regain footing, we take pride in our immigrant status as preparation for universal life.

When one assumes a good, an attainment one recognizes just beyond reach, is where the challenge is, where the purpose is.  To make manifest that good in whatever existence one is, then that purpose is one’s own purpose to continue to the betterment of universal life.  Everyone prospers, everyone benefits.  We hold onto the bigger picture.

Religions  have tried through centuries to show that ‘as above, so below.’  We are the reenactment of other world  trials and when we succeed, universal and cosmic life succeeds.  Life in every dimension is enhanced.  When we vet  each other by critical standards we adhere to in our most public and private encounters,  we then adjudge with compassion.  Science finds new planets circling to show life in forms not known yet to common thought.

We then as children are colorblind and compassionate in character, to see the absolute efforts engaged by others to then be ourselves judged.  The God Within or our uncommon Spirit  employed by us, will demand an honesty not to be compromised.

As a country we strive to see not color nor handicaps, not differences in appearance but a steadfast gaze in eyes striving to connect, to see not mishaps in appendages, in lacks of the common attributes,  but in arms and hands reaching out to us.  

Everything striving to accommodate the newly portioned lives while trying hard to hold onto what cultures give for stability.  We know we are a motley crew of stewards in a new land looking to being a friend in a place once designed to welcome us.

Maturity with empathy and compassion are required to relate instead of how to confront.  What greater good is there?  We then contribute to the Allness of the Father,  the Allness of Life, the life sustaining Spirit giving life,  (however we chance to call it) so all may live and grow and prosper.

In the most selfish sense we do the best  we can to make it easier on ourselves.  Because life is everlasting and we the God participants partake in it over and over and over again.  That is what evolution is all about.  And one day we find ourselves not on the outside looking in but finally on the inside, home.

One has to learn to walk in all shoes to know how heavy the burden.  We are already in Eternity.

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Out of Nonsense. . . comes Sense. . .

Life before Covid had us all Monday morning quarterbacking at the water cooler about the weekend’s highpoints.  This time we witnessed the dancing in the streets with the election’s electoral count yesterday.  And with Mary Trump, professional Psychologist and niece of  the incumbent president, along with the almost hundred year old eyes researching the why’s of life,  we have some answers.

And truth being companion, all of us have come from families with mental problems.  The one seeking therapy is seldom the one causing problems, as my favorite philosopher Sydney Harris sighted, but the one having difficulty understanding them.  One of our David’s last questions to me, his mother,  was how did you know to do it?  Sheesh. . .he whistled when I did not know what I did.

Because it was not new to my thinking for all my life, it is evidential now.  And I read journals with new eyes. 

I scribed April 3, 2017 . . edited for space only. . (you crashed our gates and got us off our duffs because your family, your sons were the crux of your heart.  We never knew those feelings with our progeny that you had.  They were clones of ourselves.  They were not our creations.  They were yours.

Not everyone looks upon children like you do.  Mostly it is a matter of biology.  Clones.  With you it was your heart.  When the hand was outstretched after the birth of your  youngest, your question was who will care for the children.  They were of your body, your creation and commitment.  This is a remarkable difference in thinking.  . . . .

Years later when asked (feeling called)  will you follow me and you looked upon the face of your 10 year old  and knew his world would fall apart if you left.   You could not.  The Nazarene said what good to save the world when your own house falls apart.

David knew you saw the connection between parents and children.  You saw when parents could not parent because the parents could not parent . .ad infinitum.  The fathers could not father because the fathers could not father and mothers could not mother because . .the mothers could not mother. . this is the lesson for all.  You write that what is learned on one hearth is learned on all hearths. . . learned love by the hand on the brow by the father and at the breast with heart of the mother before the child is ready to go out the front door.  We need to grow up to parent.  Children cannot be left to have children.  We have the results of a world of children.  An eternity of children.  Time now to grow up.)   

 

In the Dead Sea Scrolls,   the Nazarene speaks and tells the disciples that a man cannot be a father until he is at first a son or a brother.  Somewhere in his history he has learned the love from a father and be the cherished sibling of a brother. . . to be able to parent. . . .

(Excerpts from) . .  Not A Borning. . .     

The woman labors
and brings forth a daughter  like herself. .
and brings forth a son, dressed in male skin. . .
she knows both well. . .

The man sees a brother like himself
and is dismayed.
The mother sees a sister just like herself
and aches. .

Neither prepared themselves to uncover
what each could not release. .
the begetting was easy to do

But to borne meant unearthing. . . .   

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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Our Coat of Many Colors. . .

 

 

July 9, 2020
Thursday 4:40 a.m.  (excerpt from journal entry)

And the thought again is to write of my coat of many colors, and should title it our coat of many colors.  Since I have memories, of who I portrayed over the centuries, and have written of my dreams, seeing who I was through some of them and have had the emotions of them, but no verification as to when I can only assume a knowledge of them.  But my poetry depicts them and memory serves me partially.  Perhaps only the humanity of them, but it is enough for me.  It answers my why of who am I also.  A big answer for me to life is everlasting.  Only partially but Jesus said my father’s house has many rooms.

And where those rooms are is conjecture at this point but will be knowledge again.  Planets are found all the time having suspected life as we know it.  But perhaps many support life as we do not know of it.  Jesus said seeing we will not see and hearing we will not hear.  We see variations of that all the time on this planet.  I wonder all the time did I really hear that?  Or did I really see that?  Does he listen to the words he is saying?  And when you see behavior that mystifies or cannot be understood,  did I really see that?

Everyone is at different stages of understanding.  It all eventually makes sense where we are in growth and maturity.  Technically we can be savvy but emotionally or psychologically immature.  Different aspects of who we are.  We can speak the words but meaning eludes us.  We simply do not know what we say.  Jesus said, father forgive them.  They simply do not know.

I harbor the woman in the cold, the black woman with a basket on my head, the Arab man who is harvest for the flies, and the Polish woman kneading her bread.  My gnarled fingers are the hands knitting with smooth sticks in the tent house circled in the firepit drinking some kind of brew to keep warm.  I have to keep my focus right here and right now else I walk into that time frame of who I am.  It becomes a problem for those like me.

 

 

‘Each lifetime lived adds to the cumulative sense of loss.’
                                                                                                the teacher

All Who I Am. . .

I feel the pull of the Polish one bent over her bread board,
pounding, kneading, smoothing the egg dough
into a satiny mound.  Raisins, like eyes, half buried
in the fleshy loaf, stare at me, daring me to absorb
her rhythm into my blood.

Her aching restlessness I breathe already. 
Her utter frustration to make new whips me to
a working frenzy, a woman possessed.  She delivers me
to my bed in agony.  With memory splintered, glinting
off the corners of my eyes, I find me.  And awake again
to a morning promising me no relief from her visions.

                                             II

My brow furrows, forming ledges to shield my eyes
from a sun that beats unmercifully.  Sweat pours to drench
my body and nausea routes its way flooding
an overloaded circuitry.

The wandering tribesman leading the camel favors one foot.
Calluses shoot pain into the moon calf of his leg and I limp.
The tart taste of yogurt in his mouth washes clean
the sand out of mine.

Each step becomes a mile in length and his laborious effort
throbs in my temples.  I will be harvest for the flies. 
I cannot bear the heat anymore.

                                                    III

The air, sharp as a cut lemon, washes me.  The children race in
their overlarge sweaters with roses painted on their
faces smooth as milk legs.  Lace fringe curtains entertain
the visitors agape at the starkness, the simplicity,
the square picture.  I am at home.

The arctic terrain beats my blood to a froth with exuberance.
My sturdy body matches my earth.  My love shields me,
woos me and I am as cherished as a milch cow in a land
of sparse grasses.  To each other we are the heavy cream
poured on a dish of skyr .

                                                         IV

How far back do I dare reach to uncover all who I am? 
Is part of me racing, black skinned and hot, basket overflowing,
precariously balanced on my head and heart beating
outside my skin?  My loose breasts clap-clap in pain 
against my rib cage as I hurry to make up time spent chatting
with my sisters, fearful of the masculine outrage brewing?

I sit at my desk, surrounded by the present essences of
today’s people, today’s commitments.  The air is spicy with
fomenting earth.  My brow does not furrow from the heat yet. 
Summer’s dog days will arrive too soon.

I ‘ve reached backwards and sideways and tasted portions of lives
both palatable and unpalatable.  But altogether rich.  Is my
fatigue of genetic empathy, perhaps imagination gone wild
or an accumulation of too many lives lived, too many
sorrows sorrowed, too many dreams dreamed?

                                                            V

The answer will be mine.  With my departure I will take
the sum of my days, the loves loved, the dreams unfulfilled
and all who I am and walk again the cosmos.

And because of my love for me I will create another world.
Due to my cumulative sense of loss. . . . 

There will be no more loves aborted.

 

photo by John S. Hallissey
of art by veronica

 

 

 

 

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A Chance To Make Better. . . .

Gratitude. . for lives consciously loved through. . . . . .

She was a friend of the boys and came to share her grief with life; an aspiring legal mind that looked to reason the why of it all.  She asked in despair, why did you settle for so little?

Words escaped me because life had given me so much.  Yet her question haunted me all these years as I struggled with it. The question, unsatisfied with my answers, kept returning.

Have I lived a substitute life the erstwhile minds labeled, by allowing others to shine?  That deserves its own essay with arguments.

How to evaluate others’ perspectives fairly without the ability to see behind their eyes?  How to gauge the value of what I would have missed, taken other than the path destined?  Big questions that deserve consideration.

I listened and watched for full impact of President Obama’s speech in Pennsylvania. His words impaled my skull.  No, he said, we weren’t completely successful, but we made conditions better.  I paraphrase because this is what I needed to hear.

And this, in my endtimes is what I  struggle with.  One would think that after a lifetime of hard trying one would have something, a tangible something to hold in one’s hands.  But the prior President’s words were meaningful as he gave hope to the community workers needing guidance.

My teachers say it may not be in our lifetimes that we see the success of what we do completed.  What has given me motivation and hope to keep on keeping on have been lives of great dedication to those values of mind.  They have been a testimony to the commitment and devotion not only to intangible values but to humanity. 

We are a country of immigrants granting second chances.  We don’t junk humans. Even in our common singular lives we have many of those chances to better all lives we touch.  It is not the road most traveled and it is not easy, but to make better is what should be our intent.

Perhaps teaching our young to persevere with good intent is to benefit the All, which is Life.  Success is perhaps like this. . .my inlaw mother calling to me as she drew last breaths and took my hand.  She lifted my fingers with a kiss to them. . . . and I knew she was grateful I was in her life.   

For over a half century I tried.  Easy, of course not with almost a century of rock driven issues for her to peace.  The mills of the gods grind slowly.  But her next borning in whatever world will be with an eager leap. 

When we help to make better. . .Conscious Evolution with thanks to Dr. Jonas Salk. . .  with love.

Portrait of Dante
by Wikipedia

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Scribings. . . .

 

 

Scribings. . . .

To stand straight need not be at the expense of another’s fall.  It can be because of one’s need to reach higher than one knows.

                                           *****
Facing one’s self in declining years is a task best left to those who point to kudos on their walls.  Their sights rest on visible accomplishments.

                                           *****
When one’s commitments are successful,  rewards are hung on hearts that supported them.  Not chosen to be seen since public autopsy needs bodies not breathing.

                                           *****
God is a word most people stop at because mind balks at its meagre knowledge to proceed.

                                           *****
To not remember is to lock the vault only to have it burglarized and be called to remember without those whose presence would have made the memories bearable, either in joy or sorrow.

                                           *****
To put memories into a vault, tightly lidded, is to crowd emotions into a body with only death as a release.

                                           *****
The ugliest thing is not ugly but incomplete.  In its being incomplete, new references are being formed.

                                           *****
The right to truth is mine to uncover; the right to conceal belongs to the Other.

                                           *****
Nothing good is gained when the Other is forced to lie for survival.

                                           *****
Possibly consider denial of obvious facts as suicide prevention.

                                           *****
How great a problem is has already been decided by the forgetting.

                                           *****
To inflict pain one  must stay around to heal.  Eternally if necessary.

                                           *****

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A Cosmic Prayer for Mankind. . . .

 

Much crowds my head and I would wish to put it out like a grand buffet.  But it would bring dyspepsia  for the majority and who would turn away.  But life is a balanced judgment.  We seem to be fed what we need and purposely not what we want.  And that is where good judgment is balanced.

This poem came from June ’93 journal and written  in November  2013.  It was meaningful to me then and meaningful now. It is something we as God Participants can do.  As mothers and fathers we can love the children and feed them those things that will provide nourishment for growth in a world we  cannot imagine.

The poet, Kahlil Gibran called people Earth Gods.  I scribed from the Teachers that we are God Participants.  Mother God, Father God, love your children and prepare them for the world when you send them out the front door without your shepherding.

It is the only gift that matters, for you will have given the best of who you both are.

A Cosmic Prayer for Mankind

We would wish for much.
We would wish
for the sublime love
that was preached
from every mountaintop.

 We would wish
for a mother’s love
to be there for the infant
and the father’s hand
to caress the brow of every child. 

We would wish for peace
within the human psyche
and learning to be brought
to the dinner table
and the breakfast table everytime.
And love to be served
as the main course.

 It is much that
we wish for;
much that we yearn for.
But peace is designed
for the human in mind
from birth to the grave.

Bring peace.

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Make It Count For Real. . . . .

Since I know that no steps are skipped  in Evolution, lest we have gaps in behavior even more difficult than what we see, I admit to fatigue as the years encroach.  Coming to mind from a time past is our eldest as he waited for his father to drive him to the train back to Chicago.  His words still echo in me.  ‘You must get very tired waiting for all of us to catch up to you,’ he said.  Taken by surprise I murmured something but what?  Was I so easy for him to read?  To this day my one regret is not being able to convince those I love most.

At the time this poem was written (journal entry, December, 2015) I had finished Michael Talbot’s Holographic Universe.  Affirmation, verification, understanding all plied their substance as I approached my 85 years.  How much of everything is illusion, how much gravity filled draining away, siphoning of matter because of our Earth Hostess?  And I, with a foot in another world, lived it every minute with a paper trail.

How much of everything, life itself, is lived in the head?  All of it or much and neatly done but tiring if one is not a ‘walk through.’  The only way to make it count is to take it seriously and play it for real.  Else the quagmire deepens and stagnation results and we are still on watch.

The Sound Loaf

 Evolution or God
(perhaps one and the same)
finely grinds the meal ever so slowly,
while I cannot breathe with the dust in the air.

But there will one day be understanding

with the digestion of the bread. . . .
The wholeness of the grain
so nicely baked till the hollow sound
is heard when tapped
gives credence to the sound loaf.

I can no longer wait for it all to cool.
It has taken far too long for this bread
to be made and yet still to be digested.

The bellies are still
immature for whole grain.
Pablum is the mushed cereal
of sort for feeding infants
too long in the pram.
I suffered the parents to grow up

and now have no time to wait for the children.

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Life’s Biggest High . . .

Life’s Biggest High. . . .

Because of the pandemic, we get to see an aspect of newscasters working from home and giving home tours  inadvertently.    

When the sober and serious doctor was commenting on the President’s health, the doctor’s grandson played hide and seek behind the awesome doctor with a  laugh breaking out all over the place.

And Elizabeth Warren’s dog rounding about her living room . . .  I love these very vital live insertions of real life into what appear to be sober realities of existence.  Besides, I marvel at such neat freaks who show no clutter or signs of coffee spilled.

I watched as Olivia Troye (resigned) who was the vice president’s aide speak of her experience in this White House, and I noted her wall  hanging.  (If I paraphrase, forgive me)

Always find time for things that make you glad to be alive.

It made an impression because I  have lived my life like that.  With three babies coming in 4 years there was no time other than care for them.  But I was parent on premises and became proud; my joys were soon wrapped in their accomplishments.

Heady stuffs teaching when classrooms are the fields, libraries, books, and hands on.  As a girl I learned to knit and sew and manipulate my environment on the farm because we were a large family needing sustenance and no money for frolicking.

Marriage found a fledgling family with professional standing but poverty status.  My upbringing allowed me to recycle and make do as we all learned during WWII. 

Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without. . . . .

 I learned well;  money did not go out for services.  Nor was there money for entertainment, or for what was  taken as truth to spend freely. . . because you’re worth it. . . Aren’t we all?    Of course, of course.  And some feel so impoverished, every cent goes for their shoring up. 

So the wall hanging took my attention and reminded me without anyone saying this was to be held tightly.  To find that learning, loves, learning something every day, was going to be the biggest high of my life even in my terminus.  

My mother in law  said to me in her endtimes that ‘you do so many things so well that most of us would like to do just one’ . . . she also wished I’d been her teacher. 

Even now when I perfect something even commendable,  I shine with pride.  Spastic hands, no hand and eye coordination,  wobbly on foot,  but would you like a  piece of my addictive taffy?

I only learned to make it in these last two months.  But I learned. . . . . . . . and it’s a keeper.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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