Windfalls. . .




When I was 12 my family moved to The Farm.  There is nowhere in mind that soothes my psyche as The Farm and for such a few years of my life,  my teen years and yet these filled my yearning for something my heart knew.  In my memory bank those years were a return to what I found to be a union with nature, with my natural self.  No matter the troubles or the hardships,  there was a something in me that found rest and found me ‘at home.’   The apple orchard was large  and I remember feeling so rich.  I remember best the crisp taste of the apples when I bit into them and they bit me back.   


They lay on the ground
in the soft grasses
that one would think
to cushion a fall. . .

But not enough.  The wind
already had dropped them
and they were blemished.
Not good enough to make
the grade for perfect apples,
to bring top dollar
but still with purpose.

We pick them up
by the bushel,
for in the barn the cider mill
in wooden sculpture waits.

The apples will roll
and as they are crushed,
onto the pails will come their juices,
foamy, thick on the tongue and sweet.

The stores will serve
the slick and bottled
to the city’s well heeled but
the poor will come for
The Farm’s gallons that will be put
into pitchers on the table,
nectar of the windfalls.

Not perfect without blemish
for the elite, but robust and full
of nature’s reckless breath,

the storm’s  windfalls for the rest of us.


Practicing Proverbs. . . a worn path



The justification is there for everyone’s life.  We are redeemed.  And the eulogies certainly point this out, don’t they?


Is it knowledge or faith in us that if push comes to shove, our God will rescue us.  Give it thought.


Freedom of choice is a responsibility.  It is also a sacrament


Man speaks with a forked tongue.  It generally has food for the belly on it.


People close their eyes to what they see because what they see will contradict what they choose to believe.


They use their bodies as the altar for the perpetual child.  They raise the chalice to venerate the holiness of youth.


People do not listen to what they say.  If they did, they would not speak.  Those who speak, don’t know.  And those who know, don’t speak.


To give Grace before a meal is a generous gesture.  But if the truth be known, it is for public consumption.  It adds humbleness to the reputation voicing elegant beatitudes.  When the one whose back is tired from preparing for the multitudes speaks their thanks to the larger Spirit,  it is true Grace.  For then the meaning of stewardship is known.


Sometimes information is beyond what the individual can possibly assimilate.  It is there for the taking but not for the assimilating.  It somehow has to fit before it can be worn.


photo by
Kathy Qualiana


Someone Has To Do The Plowing. . . .



And hope is the drug, the elixir, the stimulant,
the narcotic, the life saver, the god.

That tomorrow will be better,
that there will be a rainbow,
that the snows will come and cover the door,
that the rains will come and relieve the parched ground,
that the vineyards will be planted,
that love will walk in the door.

That the healing will come,
that death will be avoided,
that life will be everlasting and
the messiah is on the horizon.
That peace will be ours,
that brotherhood is a done deal,
that there will be sufficient food to feed the world
and eternally we will rest in the bosom.

These are the dreams, the hopes,
the desires, the opiates of this world.
And perhaps other worlds.
There is always that to consider.

The Master calls for workers
and the vineyards must wait.
I bless, for I have work yet to do.

Someone has to do the plowing..

photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.


The Laws of Compensation. . .


Too late I learn
life holds the sharpest knife.
Cutting the loaf accordingly
and with compassion

passes the butter.

The Laws of Compensation do prevail and it is a lesson most do not like to think about.  Retribution for whatever deeds is a commonplace happening but there will always be those who think the die is not cast by them.  That the intricacies of complex living seem too diverse and too extraordinary casts the attitude that all is coincidence.  But it is not.  It is not.

For every action there is an inaction and a reaction.  Which are one and the same.  An inaction is a decided action in zeroes.  For this there will always be the game of chance being played and the players think they will escape the consequences.  But in time, their time, there is a reactive legislation that prevails.  And no thing goes forgotten.

It is written in the wind, so to speak.  And Nature will have her day.  Always.  Life will have its totality.  Always.  What is sown is also reaped.  People understand this only in the most banal terms.  But all those precepts are ideas of long standing and have come to their own fruition. Listen well to them.  Cliches are true and have a substance leaking energies which do not dissipate until satisfied.

photo by
John Hallissey


Bless The Experience. . .



I needed the lesson and this blessed essay was a given.  It has found readers needing the comfort and direction as I did and that I can share this again  and bring comfort to others is where the blessing continues to be given.  We can remember the pain of the negative experience but we no longer need feel the impact.  It is blunted in time.  But not to hang onto it is what is important.  One cannot help remembering the injury but one need not feel the pain each time.  Time helps with that.

Bless The Experience

I learned something today.  I learned to ‘bless
the experience’.  For if the experience has been
a negative one, has left me with a hurt so deep,
has filled me with anger, then I must bless it.
For in the blessing I remove its power to hurt
me again.  I leave it impotent, unable.  I’ve
taken the wind  out of its sails and there it sits,
blessed for the teaching, but unable to wield
power over me again.

If the experience is a positive one, I bless it.
In like manner, it will remain powerful and
upon recall, able to confer its goodness time
and again.  In my thinking  happily on it, I
will automatically bless it again.

Life is a blessed experience, all of it.  Bless
it generously and gratefully.  It teaches us
magnificently and impartially.  These are the
magic words.  For in the unhappy experience
we are taught swiftly and surely and must
bless the lesson.  In the happier one our
pleasurable memory is our reward.  In blessing
all of it, we make our truce with life and secure
our place in it forever.



How To Do It. . . .



You ask. . .

On focusing, your thoughts, your words. . .
how do you do it?

I say. . .

I barrel down into my center and listen
with my inner ear and hear what my heart says.
It is within me that I have my world.
This is what and where I am at home.
And this is not something that can
be taught.  It is how the twig is bent.
And what world we appear in is where
we do our work.

You say. .

You listen to your heart.
How does a heart speak?

I say. . .

there is a murmur within that tells
you things and it is with the heart
that one moves.  The heart is the
largest area of emotional and profound
truth.  I can see where the child
who is maimed right from the beginning
and embarrassed because of his openness,
can dismiss this avenue and close it up.

And the world suffers and evolution
is held up and we have one who is in trouble.
It is always the children with me.
I would protect them.  The sophisticates
I would tongue lash and say grow up.
Stop using childish tactics to be cute.
When you have an old face and
childish mannerisms, you are not cute.

Cute is for under 5 years old.

Artwork by
Claudia Hallissey


After The Storm. . .

photo (5)

To those who have inquired and wondered how we have weathered Hurricane Matthew,  we did well.  The Refuge behind us soaked up water as it was designed to do and our home withstood the elements handily.  Thank you for your concern and this hurricane will do nicely for the rest of my days.  Uneventful is what I anticipate and appreciate in my mid eighties.  Thank you very much.  The following are some of the sparklers in my thinking.


Man can strike the essence of what is wrong in an area the heavens cannot.


Man must process an enormous amount of garbage in the place where integration of the human is of vital interest.


The sounds of mortal life cut deeply and quickly and with great pain to those who have ears to hear.


It is always more enlightening to apply criticism of an Other’s behavior to oneself.


Rehearsed rhetoric is a game to use for one’s own justification.


Humanity’s progress comes quarter inch by quarter inch.


Mass evolution is an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms; never a fact and never a reality.


In Being A Child. . . .

FullSizeRenderThe Importance of Differences. . .

If it seems that I persist in speaking of differences in perspective, it is because that is what makes us unique,  it is because of my intense desire to keep our planet alive and this classroom operative for those already here and those yet to come, who desire to make a difference.  Children are our hope that any differences can be effective in making this the best of all learning places.

In one of Doris Lessing’s Shikasta series,  the  2 percent difference the woman speaks of to the psychiatrist is a big difference when the issue is quality of thought.  And the 2 percent in the quality of thought puts both people,  the speaker and the listener in different countries and maybe in different worlds though they be side by side.  So I wish to bring up the difference again and as little as a breath separates our thoughts.  Evolution?  How long does it take?  Look about our world.  Look into the eyes of children today and you could see angels walking into your heart.  Beautiful and innocent and smart.  And if someone does not step on their heads they will be able to come to you one day and say we know who you are.  You are the safe one.  You are the haven they require if the world is to progress and they are to contribute.

In Being A Child

They would say of us
we had no sense of style,
for we dressed in faded clothes
long after they were carried
out of the store.

We put on caps knitted
by loving hands and pulled
over ears fearing frostbite.
We carried walking sticks
and gently jiggled loose piles of leaves
to shunt the mice out of roosts
buried deep.

Great fun we thought.
We tenderly picked the twigs
with berries loosely held
to decorate wax covered driftwood,
simulating snow for centerpieces.

We opened books and closed books
and talked of what was
remembered from other times.
They call it hands on this day
in the language of those privileged
in private schools.

The less fortunate might one day
have a field trip in search of natural life
in an open field.  We called it
all in a day’s work

in being a child.

Painting by
Claudia Hallissey


Savor The Minute. . .


Savor The Minute. . .

Could we take the time
to savor this minute?
Hold it close?

There will be
more minutes, but none
more special than this one.

It tells me that
you treasure our friendship,
to show our true feelings

that connect us,
one to the other.
I will remember

the marks on my life
you put there when
you took the time to rescue

the self I thought I lost.
Today I am whole.
Forever drawn as a heart

beating steadily as
with an inserted pacemaker

but with gratitude transcending its beat.


Her Voice Will Be Heard. . .


I had intended to do a post on my blog this morning but after reading Maria Wulf’s post this morning on her blog, I am giving her space because her essay is well written and pertinent to our time.  For those women who are of recent years and have had no experience with sexism I can only say how fortunate you are.  But for those of us  especially of vintage years who were brought up with mothers who were revered because of the number of sons they bore and dismissed the daughters born by them,  this essay speaks loudly and with despairing truthfulness.

That the old boys’ network flourished during my lifetime is without question.  That there were those few whose self esteem would not allow this subjugation was apparent and envied. But that the old thinking is still prevalent even in the present generation of women is appalling.   The following incident happened in the emergency room of a local clinic where I waited with a relative.  A young girl of ten or eleven was in tears waiting to have a cast put on her broken leg.  A boy had tripped her she was telling the nurse.  Oh, the nurse said, he must really like you.  He would not have tripped you if he did not like you!   Before I could gather my wits about me, she was wheeled out and I have regretted not following up with names.  Any wonder that persons of abusive behavior feel at fault?

Please read Maria’s  http://fullmoonfiberart.comAt least half of the world can relate to this essay.



Photo by
Jody Simons


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