When Heavens Thought Searches Ours. . . .

I have been wondering the quality of thought and also if my life could have been spent other than what I have been about.

How much of it designed and designated and how much busy work simply to get through without causing mayhem, or just abandoning commitments and doing my thing, whatever it happened to be.

I remember the hand outstretched after my younger’s birth and giving permission to take it and leave.  But who will take care of the children?  The eternal question with me.  Especially since I gave birth to these three.

When I was told that the Veronica today was not Who I was, in my thinking I was only Who I knew to be and did not know Other.  That’s why what is this life’s participation would not be sitting in the head of Who we Were.  And who I was with the deeds committed before birth would not be committed by the who I am today.

And the qualities of or the character of the then Veronica,  or whoever I was, could be or were as undesirable or hurtful or dastardly as whatever needed to be unlearned by me as well as my chosen ones.  We have a history because as Jesus said, the twig already is bent upon arrival also.

And therefore who is without sin, my Mentor asked.  Who is without sin to cast the first stone.    So he pleaded,  forgive them Father for they know not what they do.  There were few with prior memory.

I am awash. . . because it all makes sense.  And I turn over for what I need to see in a language that I will write today to be understood.  We need language in the vernacular to be an instrument of peace.  I am sure others know this but with me it connects everything in my head.  It makes exquisite sense and the connections are vivid.  I scribed the following (in bold)  May 23, 2020)

It seems like such a large task but it has taken almost a hundred years to learn.  And each step has taken its toll and left you awash again.  Yet you did not dismantle nor abandon.  You stayed the route and continued to love. Who do you know would have stayed?

(most of them did.  My sibling family except those whose lives were turned upside down.  When violence took them or abandoning was survival.  Yet the damage has been great because there was no one to teach or even say with meaning that this too shall pass.  Education,  but even formal education does not give this kind of knowledge.  I don’t know what does because I don’t know what is within the individual to work with the lacks or injustices to remedy what cannot be seen to be remedied.  Sometimes it is simply survival when we leave.)

It is all a matter of who holds the sparklers.  Isn’t it?  (don’t make it sound like a matter of who has suffered enough!  Like how much can you take before you break!  Then it makes it sound like some kind of game to be levied on someone still trying.  Because there is an element of undergirding ethics that Doris Lessing wrote about that laws are not made but are inherent in the nature of the Galaxy or the Universes. . . ..  I think that within each of us is the divine working that pleads with  us to keep loving because worlds are banking their survivals on the each or someone finding the way that will open them for life with Purpose, or Divinity or even Sacredness.  Its Sheen with meaning.)

That caliber of one’s thoughts will attract the caliber of teacher one needs.  Or possibly what think you?

Like Minds. . .

My thoughts rove the ethers
like a magnet pulling
like thoughts to themselves.
The excitement rumbles
through my belly
while heart accelerates its beat
forcing my blood to course
through my body drunkenly.

Heady stuffs
to know that mine is thought
matched by invisible minds. . . .

I swim in conscious waters
resembling earthstone.
Pulsating, yearning, I find it humbling
to think that heaven’s thought

has searched out mine.


And The Uncertain Dance Is Made Easier. . .

Sometimes I think the youngers would be happy
for me to lay down my things, and pay attention to do
what other elders do, so it would be easier,
than to pretend to listen to what they do not understand,
to make fit into what they cannot relate.

Senseless no doubt it seems to nothing that swims in their heads
to give meaning to what they imbibe.

The celluloid people they watch I do not know, give fact and
form to fit what to me is meagre fare, not giving substance
to the ache seeking expression.

But alas, I try to sell my perspective with its shining specks
flittering on the white moth floating in the night, along
with the fireflies sending messages still to be read by the
night creatures.

They inhabit my sight as will the morning birds welcoming me to
acknowledge their presence with my ‘good morning world,
I hear you, I hear you.’

I fear their noise will awaken those lives still filled with the passion
of murmurings I have long forgotten.

In their place and time a fit, comparable to the seduction of a high
heeled shoe, now uncomfortable and alien to the wobbly feet.

Feet needing to support a body still needing completion but wishing
to take flight with nascent wings, promising growth.

All the time the youngers know that my having learned the steps well
makes easier the uncertain dance now in progress on the floor.

My Mentor said, do for one and you do for the whole world, for eternity then.

And I believed.


photo by John Holmes


It Has To Be Taught. . . . Conscience. . .


Evolution says It has to be taught. . .

It seems like such a small thing, this matter of conscience.  No big deal we think, cause everyone has one, everyone’s born with one, right?  Nada.  Not.  No.  Everyone does not have a conscience which is knowing right from wrong,  or more accurately,  more true from false.

It all has to be taught, like love has to be taught.  But we talk about conscience,  the ability to truth talk, or to feel shame when our behavior is inappropriate  in public or even alone when we violate our belief systems.

Small potatoes?  But we lead countries astray when we hold high positions or families when we are part of them. Or leading students astray when we should set the example: example for truth, facts, behavior.  Simple as that.  Or as complicated.

Having no conscience means that we feel no shame or remorse or even regret when we befoul the value system of the majority, especially when we unite for any cause and we agree on certain principles.  For example, appropriate civil laws of a country are needed for the ongoing peaceful life of all citizens.  Not too much to ask for.

A lot when positions of power, whether ruling heads or courts give favors to friends or those with money, placement above the law.  This does not escape the notice of the rest of us who must obey to the letter of the law or face judgmental predicaments.

The behaviors of those without conscience don’t seem to suffer and their charms defy punishment.  In fact they often boast they can do anything, playing on the secret desires of many who then think that getting away with inappropriate behavior is working smart.  As one of my astute readers suggested,  do we work hard or work smart?

Rules are changing and we should look to where the numbers are growing where knowledge does not allow options to cause harm with no penalties, no consequences anymore.

Because we grow in knowledge where to enhance all life, no matter where that life breathes. is the only option we have because to do otherwise is wrong.

Doing the right thing is what we are taught in kindergarten.  Life, with its Balance or God, will find us in circumstances not as good as we’ve known.  Biblical injunction is fact for those who believe Whose Vengeance it is, (and hovers beneath all knowledge we claim).

This behavior with no conscience has been costly.  It has cut short lives that killed many with crossed signals; taken meaning out of families intent on working hard and flaunting defiance of the laws intending civil unity.

Heaven can only send out souls in the caliber it has received.  Times they are ‘a changing, the bard sang eons ago.  There is a balance to all Life no matter the belief system one calls this Balance.

And I have to say Jane, your words hang on my heart.  Word hard or work smart?  Balance says we have ploughed the hard ground with sweat and Life smiles in favor of the work hard majority.    It seems the playgrounds are closing.


Under One Name. . . .



Under One Name . . .  (Genesis. Chapter 1. Verse 26)

Even the big guys prayed,
the Kings, the Princes, the Presidents
and the Oligarchs with their buying billions,
in that part of the night;

the part that kept them all awake.
In that dark pit when even
the warm bodies beside them with
all the crevices and secret parts

shouting their places of comfort.
But none comfort, not one of them
stem the flow of wet panic
threatening to drown one even,

even with all their victories.
Because in that dark place
of the night when ghosts arise
threatening your extinction, you worry. . .

That not enough good
is in all of your Beings. . .
even parts you do not know who
might welcome you to the place you hunger for.

The place you came from
and have to get back but
do not know how; when we walked
and talked under the one name. . . God.

To become under the one name . . . Man.


A Mother’s Lament. . . not knowing how to love. . . .


She lamented after birthing eight children. . . and in her last days, was sorry because she knew how difficult life had been for me.  I didn’t know how to love she said.  Nobody taught me.  And with the person who meant so much to her, her mother who did not rescue her, she never knew a mother’s hug nor a beating heart next to her cheek.

And it was another checkmark next to an emotion that has to be learned on this Earth planet.  With due respect to the counselor who ascribed to feelings are not facts, except in the process of learning to trust yourself and they are your feelings.  And trusting your feelings is a great step in learning to trust yourself.

When talking this over with my sister, she said she didn’t believe anyone cannot love a baby when they put that baby in your arms!  There’s a world of unloved babies who grow to be unloved adults who never had a mother’s arms around them with a hug.  Nor a breast against their cheek just to be loved close.

I had no clue when I cut a piece of sour cream coffee cake this morning, it would give rise to tears of memory.  Invited by a neighbor that snowy moving in March day with 3 children to dinner at their home, the first time coffee cake as dessert became special.

She gave me the recipe and another memory of her in tears at my door when she failed a son.  She did not know what to say when his baby died that she never met.  Though she cared for her son, the emotion was not real because the baby was not real.

When his mother died, we met and talked and overcome with emotion, the son was grateful  feelings were still hers.  He was afraid she had none though he was raw with them.  Evidence that those who are born to us sometimes come from different worlds than we do.

We are labeled needy, called drama ridden,  frequently shouted because Ma, she’s crying again!  We remember being loved, somewhere cherished and missing it sorely this time.  But too many neither know of love or close off the channel never wanting to know the pain again of not being loved.

On this Mother’s Day, to those bereft of arms, open yours, embrace those nearest and hold close the babies.  Let them be raised knowing the close presence of a beating heart next to their cheek.

It was an ancient belief that the Mother God would be the healing salve for reconciliation.  Be that Earth God to bring peace on this day.


artwork by Claudia Hallissey


Aged Forever Friends. . . .

Like Me. . . aged old friends. . . . . 

I had been asked what are my favorite books I go back to time and again.  Once there were friends and loves I phoned and chatted before my hearing deteriorated.  And rather than ask to repeat themselves, now my books become my old friends that I find just as refreshing as I did when first read. And without feeling guilt when I turn each phrase to catch their elusive meaning!

I reread and depend on eye sight and insight through lifetimes learned. Books now refresh thought and reveal themselves deeply as I too reveal myself.  There are contemporaries whose works are always timely.

The essays of Emerson and Thoreau speak to us all in varying degrees.  I say to him Waldo, I hardly knew ye. And Thoreau I admonish for the maxims told to those young who left their commitments to follow their dreams, their imaginations.

Accountability and shared work load was not yet in their lexicons. Authors and audience alike.  Yes, I know, I would spoil their fun.  I know.  Other shoulders carried the work while wild oats was sown; other backs were bent.  Forsooth!

Jane Roberts and the Seth books, whose talent was shared with those of her husband to produce controversial voluminous works causing protest lines around the publishing house.  Comfort zones were upset even then with new thought, yes.

While Doris Lessing and the Shikasta Series introduced those like me to evolution and learning throughout universes under the safe heading of science fiction so we did not have to explain why we danced with Spirits.

Susan Howatch with her Church of England  series told of earthy life and meanderings of those wearing birettas and long skirts  before the scandals of the churches both Catholic and Protestant and Frank Herbert with eloquent memory of his wife produced  the Dune books which my sons said Mother, these are your books.  Chapterhouse Dune was written I swear for me and they all are to this day.

These are my peer group I keep close to my chair.  These are old friends with whom I visit.  My newest visitor is Michael Talbot and his Holographic Universe which affirms for me my thinking since I came into this world without a putting place either for my memories or for myself. The others, the ones with worn out covers where I keep doing reference work, are my oldest friends,  my refuge. . . .along with my mentor. . .

In the beginning when I was young
and when I was very cold,
I took my mammoth skin
and drew it closer about me
and found refuge in dreams.                                                                                                           

Like a tourniquet,
it stopped the flow of life out of me.

Now I am old                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
and I huddle still deeper in my woolen wrap.
Closing my eyes, I discover
refuge again in my dreams.

And find it stops the flow of life out of me.  Again.                                                                                                          


More Than A Hope . . for earth. . . .

More than a Hope. . . for earth. . .

I grabbed an old yellow tablet to write on and came across a note I had written when I was reading Return To Life by Dr. Jim Tucker.  The note read that observation determines the reality.  Measuring something, I wrote, creates a reality that did not exist before.

Now my  thoughts.  When I made note of that and forgot that I did, tonight (April 30, 2020) it triggered the following which made me find the book (right away!) Holographic Universe by Michael Talbot. This undoes me because I have had no training in physics but in reading this in 2015,  I understood its meaning for me.

Subatomic particles once thought to manifest as waves.  Which for the following reasons they say should not be classified solely as  waves or particles.  But something (or stuffs) known as quanta.  Because the only time quanta manifest as particles is WHEN WE ARE LOOKING AT THEM!   (So when we measure a something and name it creates a reality it did not have before.  It opens a whole new world.

The comment in the book was not what we expect from the natural world but more from magic.   I am in awe that this was awakened in me, to make this connection the minute I saw my note. As I rummaged for the book I said in mind that this is what Michael Talbot said in Holographic Universe.  My knees go weak.

I have used this book as reference since first read.  It explains my world of me to me.  I knew where in the book this topic was.  In minutes I found it.  I have written that when we pray, think, converse in mind, we assume an Other.  This mind companion is our Divine Within, the highest and best we hold as our bar to match our lives to.  All actions, all thoughts, everything.)

I scribed. . .    ‘ We will ask of him how did you spend your days?  And man will say, I work at such and such and have accomplished great things.  But we will say, what did you think?  And what will man answer?  For the heavens know, do they not, what transpires in the mind of man.  

The heavens know.  To resolve issues which plague the heart is the work of man.  We pester the mind with that which has not been resolved and bring forward the issues until man feels possessed.  Try, we say, try.  Resolve them and bring some peace to your life.  But thought, that marvelous process which separates man from the unthinking and no vision creature,  when we see that man disparages this active tool which is his gift,  then heaven laments.

Thoughts will be the wings upon which man will fly.  It will be the culmination of a life’s work and there is nothing else.’

Please, I say, open the books and learn.  Peace will then be more than a hope for Earth.


When a Dime is a Lot of Money. . . . .

Since I was a little person, I was conscious in an unconscious way that money was not available.  I remember once arguing with my mother  that it only costs a dime, whatever it was.  And the wise woman said when you don’t have a dime,  a dime is a lot of money.

So I wished for a doll with hair so my wonder was what could I do.  And we ate bread sometimes that came wrapped in yellow-orange cellophane.  So having experience in substitutions, I cut strips of the cellophane and curled it around a pencil and it stuck itself into curls.  I glued them on my bald doll and whoa!  I made curls.

I taught myself many things.  Some were primitive and still are with no innate talent. Some things I learned became quite good simply by practice. Never professional by any stretch of the imagination, but quite good.  Passable.  And they served me.

Like the small cupboard I made for my sweats by building a three shelf bookcase and then putting on shutters which served as doors.  Stained and sanded to complement other room items, it served well.

Some people are averse to substitutes.  Not the real thing they say, always reminding one that they are substitutes.  One can be patient for the real to come along,  but circumstances alter things,  friend Jan often said.  Priority was need and money unavailable.

When I began scribing, I learned that my night travels were welcome.  I visited other worlds and showed how I took what laid about and used in the making of something needed.  Ahhh yes, substitutes!  Whoda’ thunk it?  Except me because it was something I did.

In my Pewabic dream segment I appeared somewhere with a tile and showed the audience what could be done with things borrowed from a future source matched with things unused.  It is done all the time.

The wall quilt piece shown makes me pleased.  As my skills lessen in age I have used other muscles and organs as substitutes.  That word again!.  Fingers go numb because of nerves pressing uncushioned.  Hand and eye coordination is not swift.  Muscles atrophy.  I cannot hold a needle and thread and cannot bend easily anymore.

But like the little engine that could, yes I can, yes I can, my head sings new melodies.  And ideas blossom and keep me fed.  I cropped the quilt’s blue binding so as not to distract from the new materials I made with green scraps for the evergreens and blue for the home.

I am pleased with the free motion quilting background.  It took longer than formerly,  but as Governor Cuomo says all the time,  the new normal is now.  I did this, you can do your thing too.

As long as I breathe this rarified air of my blessed planet,  I will not be a kept woman, but still a contributor.  A small way to be sure,  but a big some thing for me!  Served with a crusty loaf of bread to make grown men cry. . . . .


Saints Standing. . .

Saints Standing. . .

When I try to explain what track my thinking has taken in my life,  even as a child or a teenager when a peer said that I talk as if I am reading out of a book,  I am at a loss.  In the following excerpt from The Last Bird Sings,  Marshall,  the student is explaining to his mentor,  Felix,  a feeling he needs explanation for.  He is at the point in the story where having found the brothers  and Felix he feels finally at home, wondering why he feels as he does. I have edited the segment.

Marshall thought for a moment.  His feelings needed some sorting.  He looked at Felix with intensity.

‘I cannot see it, but I can feel it.  I cannot put a name to it but it is real. When I talk to the brothers,  each and together, I get the feeling that I am not just talking to them.  By themselves or altogether.  I get the feeling that there are great ones standing about listening.  I have the feeling in the midst of saints standing, that we are  even now,  I have the sense that we are not alone.’

‘You are right, Marshall.  We are not alone.  And it is good that you sense this.

For too many people talk as if what they profess to believe has substance and presence and yet act as if it does not.  We would have you act in the knowledge that even the invisible has substance and intelligence.  And to act accordingly.  It would  help man to act to his best capacities and to elevate himself.  He would clean himself of the corrosion that hampers growth, his and all men.

He would open  himself to what is highest and best and be its reflection.  He would be able to judge behavior according to what is highest and best and want nothing less for himself or his brother.  But he must first know who and what he is.  And only in the silence,  Marshall, will man be taught.  He must go into the closet of who he is and listen.

You are right to sense the presence of others.  They are about and we are never alone.  We have not been abandoned.  We have chosen seclusion to accelerate our learning.’

Marshall listened, and tilted his head to catch all of Felix’s words.  Felix knew it took courage for Marshall to choose the route taken and his antennae were pointed to the heavens.

Marshall stood and then spoke.  ‘It has all been written, hasn’t it? It was all put down somewhere, sometime.  That is what the brothers read and listen to, isn’t it?’

Felix shook his head yes.  He waited in silence..  There was something going on in this boy and would come forward.

‘There is some thinking I must do,’ Marshall said.  ‘There are questions I must put into words.  For some I know the answers and others I must feel out my answers.’  He turned and was gone.  Felix seated himself and closed his eyes and prayed the prayer of the select few who knew the power of words.

‘To the best and highest within me, help me to choose the best and highest.  Amen and amen.’

I was fortunate to have a handful of friends in my life who loved me.    One in particular came to my home because she said she loved the feeling she had of being in a crowd of invisible saints. We were 5 in number of regular people  but she saw a roomful of saints.  We do entertain angels unaware and she, Helen, was one of them.    


Book Cover by Claudia Hallissey

(There are copies still available of Last Bird for $20.00 shipping included.)


Hunger For What Is Remembered. . . .

I write only of worlds I know.  Of little, gentle fishes called Nords and Kerns and of Teachers.  Did I create them or discover them in place?  They shimmer for me.  They are not just one world.  There are also places of poverty that touch the living heart and strum it with songs of despair which are heard day and night.  Barren places and places also speaking of Mind.  These I write of and scribe.

In the light of daily observation about what goes on in our country,  what must be kept in mind is the progress we make, the potential of individuals and what is voiced as  thought processes.  In the long torturous road to maturity, we look to see what was exhibited in process.

In our leaders, has the genetic line been enhanced with education, perseverance and viewed with no embarrassment because intelligence has been acquired?  One can then guardedly assume stability and maturity within the individual.

We must look upon those wishing election and reelection, at their ancestors and family and be kind in judgment.  In this day when good minds and strong character must be exhibited before important decisions can be made concerning affairs of the world’s countries and therefore the body of man, more care should be given to lineage and character of the person.

And weighed carefully against spirit and dedication of the individual and what has been accomplished in their life.  Personal characteristics as manner and art in coping with the exigencies of life must be accounted for.

The day when credentials consist only of the work accumulated with PR is gone.  You cannot be a better anything than you are a person.  No matter the job.   One whose life is publicly intentioned will hold his personal life above scrutiny.   They will hold themselves responsible and accountable as well.

These days of wholesale keyhole peeping will unveil all manner of decadence.  It is no longer an okay thing to blatantly be crude, an embarrassment not only to the parents of children but also to brothers who have sisters.  The young will demand better behavior.  To the answer ‘everybody does it’ the comment will no longer be hesitant, ‘well, I don’t!’   And the behavior will be unblemished.

In the beginning we were an experiment in the borning of a country settled unethically and dismissive of native pilgrims. Our tortuous route to democracy is constantly questioned and must be compassionately worked at.

Sophistication has catapulted and public education has sent persons unqualified and unbalanced to high offices. But the right to life continues its cost and purpose. We must study and work to make balanced decisions.

The times now demand the best of who we are.    Some think it is a hellhole and yet others know our best will lift us again for those who hunger for the good of what is remembered.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

(for those who understand how things change and remain the same. . . .this post was mostly scribed from  journal entries of August 12&21, 1987 edited for space)


Powered by WordPress. Designed by WooThemes