Archive | July, 2018

Adam, where art thou? . .

(In transferring data into subject titles from my journals for easy reference into the computer, I come across discussions which answer some questions I am now asked.  Some of the discussions have been with our sons whom I have mentioned in my posts.  They have been my best teachers.  In philosophy questions I have bowed to our philosopher lawyer son David who had the patience with me to clarify issues needing light.  In quantum theory all time is simultaneous and because I was born knowing that, (not easy way to live)  it is with no discomfort I speak as if it was yesterday. It will be everyone’s one day.   When I wrote the following in 1981 I was fifty.  Bear with me.)

Adam, where art thou?. . .

When the New Testament talked of the sins of the fathers being visited on the children, we now talk of psychological inequities.  The burden is far more than one generation bearing the problems.  We talk here of generations propounding the original guilt of even having been born.

What did we do to make ourselves walking clinics of all the psychological infirmities ever known to man?  I am not just one bearing witness to my own difficulties.  There are those who sit next to me and across and who have walked before me and still to come.  There is always  one who bluntly says I never needed to see a professional therapist and yet cannot see himself because of the log in his eye.

We are quick to see  the inadequacies in the other and are protected from seeing our own?  We know they would undo us if we probe too deeply our hearts and beneath our skin.  How long dare we blame our mothers and fathers and be blind to seeing how we continue the worn paths walked before?  Yet we do the only thing we know to do with the construction of our minds and bodies.

To change ourselves we must first have an idea of what we want to be.  And then it must be part of every waking moment, hammering at it with no rest.  Who has the time, energy or desire for that?  Our culture and society eagerly sanctions one’s desire to something material or concrete.  Who is going to sanction one’s aspiring, as David says, to sainthood?  But why  saintly to aspire to what is noble and human?

I want to be the most noble human being I can.  If it means putting myself through agonizing times trying to discern my inner motives and feeling about conditional and unconditional love, then so be it.  I need not aspire to sainthood because my godhood is intact.  It always was.  Somewhere along the line we lost our way.  Why, how, I don’t know.  I only surmise.

At the end I want them to say she gave it her best shot.  She learned who her god was and who mine is, loved herself and everyone else.  He (my mentor) did not say how hard it would be to love oneself.  Especially when the world was ready to condemn man en masse.  But he knew man could not love  his neighbor as himself until he saw  his god within himself.  What I granted to me I must grant to the Other.  Holds true for all of us.  If we dismiss others as we dismiss ourselves, it doesn’t say much for our feelings or behavior.

Ye are gods! The scripture says.  Did I not tell you  you are gods he said.  Where stands man who in his heart of hearts would deny his own divinity.  As god stands, man is.  As man stands, god is, I wrote in one of my poems.  Adam, where art thou?

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And we go home. . . .

 

And we go home. . .

What will you do
when fatigue overcomes
and chores lay waiting and
heart and conscience say
you must speak to these babes?

The work of your hands
gives them a piece of you to hold
and a piece of your heart.
In it all will be gold.

Take to your rooms
before the midnight hour
born of this heritage which
bespeaks this lineage of gold. . .

Not easy to do now. . .
the body balks;
the physical could always be worked.
The other, the detritus
that has floated in this
blemished Sea of Tranquility
has been harder to handle.

It floats and escapes the grasp.
That is the way of the Earth’s Dream.
But we have carved a philosophy
out of the Earth’s hearth and heart
and given her ours. . .

and we go home. . .                                                                                                                

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God In A Rock. . .

 

God In A Rock. . . .

Stay with me for a bit.  This may seem unconnected,  but it vitally connects.  Peter Wohlleben while tending a forest in Germany came to the realization that there is communication and relationships among trees.  He writes about this in a book called The Hidden Life of Trees.  Jon Katz of Bedlam Farm first spoke of this book on his blog.

My friend John sent me a link to another book called The Song of Trees by biologist George David Haskell about networking among trees,  using sounds and scents and vibrations.  Coming to mind was God In A Rock,  a prose poem I wrote many years ago but meaningful today.

Thinking of the hard and bitter choices all of us have made amid some good and happy ones,  the god of mankind’s creation was said to say vengeance is mine.  I thought where mankind was at the time,  his god had to be bigger, stronger and smarter of course than he was.

So saying vengeance is mine as man’s loyalties as well as his choices became harder,  put the balance in life’s way or his god’s hands.   There is balance and to teach this was a necessity to have an outside intelligence greater than the knowledge man had at that time.  To be sure this was not a consensus as to life’s meaning, for few there were who were spared food foraging issues.

Considering growth commensurate with the intelligence sparking within,  all things are compensated.  What is taken illegally, unequally as one’s own, and here I scramble for words, there is an internal set of scales that balance.

Mentally cognizant or not, the balance is weighed and known and there are consequences.  Vengeance is mine sayeth life in total had to be this dictum or life in any form would no longer be.

All things, all,  are itemized and noted and destined for all good or all god.  I wrote in January of 2014  that intelligence was the primary factor of all universes.  In light of science arguments, this was my diverse thought.

Not a thing to be taken for granted, as a nothing or non life because we have as its center, life, the smallest particle which one day is growing into full capacity of intelligence.

To whatever ends the particle participates and succeeds will be another meeting which in its composition will again grow toward other forms of intelligence, other forms of life.  Indeed, there is God In A Rock.

Because the inanimate, the least seeming alive particles has within its substance the desire to unite and ultimately grow.  The vengeance is mine concept as life begetting life, not out of anger or fear or desire to best the impossible, but to allow growth and life in the best capacity.  What that capacity will be we simply do not know.

So we learn by those whose vocations lead them to conclude that trees are intelligent and we should learn who are the mother trees and what function they have in the fullness of maturity and health of the forest.  What we have learned  will in turn help mankind’s ability to survive and how to sustain the viability of our forests and the air we breathe.

We already know that the oceans team with life systems, that we are creating a species of companion animals who respond to  vocabularies of 1500 words and thought transference and may I again tell you of the night speaking its secrets to those whose ears are not clogged?   Coincidences?  None.  Part and parcel we are of Nature and one another.  My well being depends on the well being of the All about me.

We should not be surprised if we have given thought to our portion of life, that whatever we wonder about is but a fraction. We don’t know the full connectedness of life nor our connection to it.

If we did, we would all be on our knees.

photo by Kathy Rybacki Qualiana
(click on rocks. . .awesome..humbling)

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How Long Before All Worlds Will Be Safe . . . ?

Sometimes I run previous posts to acquaint my new readers with earlier work to show where it is I come from.  This is one of those times I need to remember for me.   A gift given and life was renewed and I am grateful.  There is always hope with a writer that words written will somehow be what is needed by a someone at the moment.  The following was for me today.

May I ask you a question?   He was sitting at the window and looking out as if he could will the sun to come out so he could play outdoors.   Why you ask?   Because I want you to know that if you don’t want to answer,  you can say no to me.   But you always answer my question and never say no,  he said.   I woun’t say no to you,  he said.   I maybe not know the answer but I woun’t say no.   I tried to frame my question simply.

I wonder, I said, if you can remember what it was like before you came here to live.   I waited.   He continued looking at me and I thought past me and then asked,  which time before?   I drew breath and then said the one you remember best.   And he smiled at me and said the one where we were together before?   Where was that I asked.   He said, you know,  you know.   That’s why I choosed you this time.   We were bestest friends and I knowed how much you could help because we were bestest friends.

Where was that I asked again.   He said in that cold place where we had to hold hands so our fingers could be warm.   Who was there with us I asked and he searched my face.   He was reading me I thought and then wondered why.  He said it was a hard time and this time would be better.   Why was it a hard time I asked and he said because our bodies were broked and sick.   This time he said we are not broke so we can go outside and play.   We were too old and broked last time and the cold hurt when we breathhhhddd.   How do you remember that I asked and why do you remember.

Because here I can breathhhedddd and it don’ hurt.   My throat burn in that place when things ‘ploded  ’cause they fighted all the time.  You ‘member he said, you ‘member.   And he became silent and his eyes clouded.   And he said,  we say to each other,  never  ‘gain,   never  ‘gain.  I pulled him to me and hugged him and said never again.   We will try to stay where it doesn’t hurt to breathe.   And I wished I could promise there would always be a place where it didn’t hurt to breathe,  but I could not make that promise.   For this time only,  I could hug him and keep him where the air did not burn his throat.  But how long before all places would be safe?

Until life in all forms vowed not to inflict such terror in worlds where to draw breath just to live would hurt,  we would continue to work.  That is a promise.

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Say This I Can Do. . .and hold in your hand. . . .

 

I want to show you the final results of the blue material I made on post previously.  This I completed and wanted you to see what you can do just for fun.  It is a creative endeavor and limited only by the boundaries you set.  And I hope they will be few.

The next two are embroidered with the sewing machine either zigzag or straight needle.  Or if you are at ease with free motion,  give it a try with something you can draw on material.  You limit only yourself.  Try all things, houses, barns, trees or figures in one color and then bind them onto flannel for a child’s nap time blanket.  There may be no nap.                               .

The next example are five inch squares with a central inch white strip going diagonally .  Or a wider strip.  Glue it down with a glue stick so it won’t shift.  But first cut your five inch squares from an old soft sheet or new flannel sheets to mount pieces of fabric too small or unshapely for much else.  I prefer these strips to piecing because I think piecing requires larger pieces with much waste.  I prefer to use smaller pieces with strips having little waste.  You can place the squares to suit your fancy with straight lines or parallel ones or whichever pleases.  You are limited only by yourself.

The last one are the inch squares you feel you must use .  Take web bonding and using an inch ruler and make an inch grid covering the sheet.  Lay the rows as you choose and with the wrong side of fabric on the grid press to bond.  When cool peel away from backing and on wrong side crease and stitch along the length and width 1/8 inch.  You will end up with perfectly matched squares.  Wonderful way to use scraps and I honor the genius who thought this up.

 

 

These are things you can do with materials on hand or friends eager to lessen their stash.  Old sweats can be cut up as batting to give stability.  Try your hand at drawing on materials with simple pieces.  Use coloring books as source materials.  Attach things with glue sticks before stitching.  Do not be shy with your talents.  Do and you will be shown how.  Have fun with making something substantial you can hold in your hand.  There is satisfaction in saying to yourself,  this I can do.  And do it again.

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In A More Perfect World. . .

There were just a few of us gathered when we were young and the talk was rising in enthusiasm about what a swath to be cut by the young on the political scene.  There was energy and ideas with a tail wind to push these things to fruition.  We would make a difference where our parents with old ideas and lack of idealism had done little.

I listened to these young parents and wondered who would be taking care of the problems at home.  I threw some cold water on the hot bed of enthusiasm when I mentioned that there would be brewing real needs unless there was an adult on the premises.

While they were out volunteering their time to be involved with those less fortunate,  their own were left to their own devices and would become the work of other agencies,  such as the hospitals and the police and the after school clubs set up for the troubled.

You are of course on the circuit doing good and your own house is falling apart.  Volunteer your time you are told and your own problems will appear small.  It does not occur to them that with time devoted to the home and its young at dinnertime and afterward,  the troubled times would disappear.   That children of one’s own are infused with the virus of learning when the parents present themselves as role models.

Here too,  to love what you have borne to you and want for a richer life,  not in material ways, but in depth and meaning and rich in emotion,  means that this deep quest must be borne into you.  I have heard many in my generation say offhandedly,  what’s so great about having babies, every body has them.

To them I would say, don’t have them.  They deserve what I see in the face of my grandson holding his infant daughter.  Borne in him is the deep quest and his heartbeat will assure her that he will do his utmost for her.

In a more perfect world, every child would be born into arms designed just for them.  Even if you had not known such arms, your heart tells you what you wished for.  Make it happen.

It Is Said. . .

It is said that the heavens
care not what goes on
the world stage.

It is too late to change
the outlines of a world gone mad.
But here. . .

Within four walls are children,
eager to eat of the bread
of the gods to feed hungry minds.

Those the heavens note,
for within these walls is the outline
for peace on the next stage.

And here, the nurturer, the feeder,
will be given what is necessary
to begin the new world;

the brotherhood of man,
that could not be dreamed
with the old man’s dreams.

 

 

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A Peace of Mind. . . .

It is not the mystery of  life which stunts man and does not beguile  him to further thought.  It is the work involved.

*****

It is not easy for Wendy to become Tinkerbell in one fell swoop.  Not without destroying Peter Pan in that fell swoop.

*****

Statistics are meant to sell beer and not to legislate the human spirit.

*****

What seems like a tragedy in the absurd and obscure indeed is a well thought out and prescribed drama.

*****

It is the lighted candle that sparks the heavens.

*****

Live and become that dream where you make a difference in a world that makes no difference.

*****

Bless the good day and blow the winds of fear as far from the ends of the Earth.  The alternative is more of the same in a place where progress is not so swift.

*****

Wait not for death.  Be vigilant only of life in all its forms, in its entirety.  Embrace it all.

*****

One cannot break a will which heralds its own functioning and its own existence.

*****

When nothing is taken from our leisure  to add to our proportion,  it is debauchery and decadence.  We have license to steal from ourselves the only thing we have at the moment and that is time.

*****

The hardest commandment to fulfil is the one to love one’s neighbor because it presumes one’s love for oneself.

*****

It is sometimes necessary to be abrupt or we lose our 30 second audience.  We know the perilous times.

*****

You have carved a piece out of the night sky and you stand alone on the jetty in the universal sea.  Who will you ask to dance on the ceiling?  I would be honored if you ask me.

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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Do. . . and you will be shown how. . . .

Do . . . .And you will be shown how. . . .

When I was a girl Shirley Temple curls were popular and I sorely wished for a doll with real hair.  I wanted my doll to have curls.  My mother occasionally bought Honey Crush bread I think it was called and I coveted the orange colored cellophane wrapping it.  I cut one inch strips and wrapped it tightly around a pencil.  I glued them on my doll’s head.  I pretended they were real curls.

It was a substitute and I never fooled my self but I was practical even then and knew with 8 siblings, a doll with real hair was not going to be.  But it is my first memory of using what was on hand to create something I wanted.

Oftentimes to create requires a collection of expensive tools that dampens any desire to begin.  The budding artist seldom has relatives with spare monies to help defray costs.  Whether it is paper or pencils, or paint or fabric or yarns or whatever, it all costs.  But if the desire is strong, begin.  And ways will open.

Fortunately for us scroungers, we live in a throw away society  with second hand or thrift stores.  Older relatives can be lookouts for estate sales.  The boys and I took their red wagon and walked the alleys to scrounge.  After storms we hauled uprooted bushes and trees to bring home and plant.  I picked up a book on sewing with knit fabric at a garage sale and I was off and running when the grandbabies arrived.  I learned to knit when I was 15 and bought a knitting manual for 25 cents.  I watched the guys with power tools and made a side table and learned carpentry.  Do and you will be shown how. . . .

The brother next to me ran our farm because of our family’s needs so the job fell to his shoulders.  But he was an artist.  In what spare time he could muster,  his tools of trade were his farm tools.  He soldered and hammered and bent and polished nails and machine parts and screws and metals.  He is a memory with his goggles and blow torch.   He was a commissioned sculptor and his work still stands.  Other brothers met their creative spirits on the city dumps to make bikes and radios and ham radio receivers.

Times change and new rules apply.  Safety measures must be adhered to and caution taken.  Still, we can work and find satisfaction in creative leanings.

The work of our hands still comfort when spirit struggles.  Do . . . and you will be shown how.

  click on photos to magnify . . .                                                                       (Veronica’s Pink Feather Fleet)

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On Wings Of Hope. . . .

Once Covered With Dreams. . . .

Some may think there might be no choice on anyone’s part for any thing.   All things may be a matter of destiny.   Many think there are choices in all avenues.  But supposing there are no conscious options.  Supposing conscience already speaks on issues and there are no options.

But it is too much like work to think it through.  It seems with today’s role models it is better to form a gut reaction with no thought accompanying; that it may end up being nonsense is a fact.

Fear speaks through them and as time narrows its focus someone in their circle of beloveds will be caught in the crossfires of their fear and what then will they do, be it the very bias of what they think, gay choice or gay marriage, unplanned pregnancies or physical or emotional abuses?

Those of narrow thinking we know.  Too many times when voices carried anger I couldn’t speak without my voice carrying tears.  Yet silence often carries assent.

When I look at who causes the violence I think they also were loved at one time.  Brought into this world and fussed over and loved and no doubt covered with dreams.

Not going further than the newest greats or one of the many grands may be the child in the moment of courage who tells us that they always knew they were different.  Will we strike out and say you are not mine?  What will we do when the love for this child strikes us where we live, in our heart?

On Wings Of Hope. . .

I gather the day’s allotment
and present myself as altogether,
looking for your eyes
to shine with approval.

Spearheading into the day
with a visual containing
all that I hope
spells success in any language.

There is much riding
on wings of hope and I will know
the minute I see
your eyes fill with love

that I am cherished.

art by Claudia Hallissey

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