Author Archive | Veronica Hallissey

A Time In The Heart. . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It never occurred to me before.  As often as I said that this is a classroom of a first order, and we must keep it not only for ourselves but for those to come,  it just never occurred to me that it was the purpose of the classroom to stay the classroom.  That things were not going to change because this is its purpose and any change must come from the individual.  We can be the example but change anyone, not.

The bottom of my world fell out when I realized that no matter how hard I worked, the only change wrought was what I did to myself.  I mattered.  The good I did was a spill off from my cup runneth over.  Good that came from abundance was lasting good, but when it came from duty resentment clouded the issue.  I think that is the kicker.

We feed our belief system to build ourselves into what we need to be.  The good coming from actions benefit us first or it is not lasting good.

Because people are born into different cultures, my small hope I harbor is that all countries are emerging as united states in that there is mingling and borning of different peoples everywhere.  Where children are born into a variety of mixtures and children are color blind.  And grandparents have to acknowledge eventually that whatever color our grandchildren they have our habits!  Saints praise us!

I may make peace with myself but it does no good for my neighbors.  They must make peace within themselves.  And thus within the cradle of the heart will be the birth of peace.  And Christmas is a time in the heart.  I wish each of you the best of these holy days or holidays.  Thank you for being in my life.

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The Light In Our Hearts. . .

We carry the Light in our hearts
and it reflects in your eyes.

You carry the heat of its flame
and we both are warmed.

Silvery, silvery night,
piercing as the child’s cry
cuts sharply into complacency,
peace-ing the soul;
unerringly slipped
into a world of nights
to make a difference.

The Light and Flame linger.

Do you see what we see?

 

(The candle was another effort in the late ‘70s when I started the Christmas cards when our David was diagnosed with cancer.  They were still done with materials at hand and what I was limited with time and funds.  What was in abundance was emotion.  It was a time of upset but life does in its minute ways to compensate.  As I made these in the late hours of the night much was igniting my inner life.  In ways I can hardly believe, I was a mystic still in those days of hectic secular life with its complex issues to deal with.  In retrospect,  I lived it all and did everything I saw to do but in innocence did not know what I was truly doing.   Uppermost was the intent to create memories that would sustain in spite of circumstances.  This was a need as I saw it.)

 

 

 

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What The World Needs. . . .

The Tender Embrace. . .

 

We all speak from memory.  Whether it is ours or not, it makes little difference.  For within us it is so that the one time speaks for all time.  And everything else is a variation on a theme.  I could not know how deep the emotion which evoked the tears.  Enough said that at one time in a history it happened and given a glimpse this photo brought forth another ocean.

The words were a Given.  From this point in time, the meaning is such that it brings hope.  For what I don’t really know but that they make a difference is one.  It is a Christmas gift to all with what the heart of Jon Katz caught with his camera.  Eloquent.

We Need Not Speak. . .

We need not speak.
Centuries ago we passed
from realms noted for words.

We now simply look
toward the Other and know
by obvious signs what the Other seeks.

It is a far cry
from the world of words where
the simple I  love you spoke
what reams of paper
could not properly say.

It was a love letter that united
planets of thought
that we searched.
I will miss these words

spoken from lips pressed
to my ear only to have
the world know
by the tender embrace                                                                                                                        

that the words were meant only for my heart.

 

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And Gather Moonbeams. . .

We Dance. . .

We dance then
through the night sky
and gather moonbeams
for our baskets. . .

We strew them
onto the paths of the children
who will pick them up
and throw them
with joy to the night sky.

They will be stars again
to be gathered by a one
who recognizes stars
as beams of light. . .

The light is a reflection of you.
The love spewing forth as largess
from the largest cup
is what you have to give.

And the supply is neverending. . .

 

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Tangible Slices of Memory. . . .

This was from the box of forget-me-nots that I couldn’t part with.
This was the first Christmas card I made.  With whatever I have gained in computer literacy,  I have been able to restore a reasonable semblance of the faded copy I was able to unearth.  There was no discretionary income to spend on materials, so I used what I had on hand and could garner out of the slim household budget.

I wrote what was in my heart and what I wanted to share with those I cared about.  It amazes me still that there are responses so poignant when something touches people.  And I keep those in my heart pocket.

It taught me that when given from the heart, response also is heart given.  It cannot be otherwise or consequences to intentionally deceive under skilled rhetoric  has its own judge and jury to be confronted.  Our actions might as well be in stone.  They are not forgotten.  Perhaps the lesson should be revived?

Looking at the card now after so long a time,  I notice the Star Of David I hung on it.  Even way back then I embraced all belief because I was certain with apriori child memory that everything was God.  I stumble about what to capitalize because everything in life is Divine.  Perhaps I should Lock Caps on my keyboard.

(the following was the verse for the card)

Lifetimes lived secreted
behind the wooly frames of memory.

We jog the frames
of Christmases past. . .

Scents of
pine boughs and holly berries
mince pies and cranberries. . .
crackling fires and laughter

And the sound of silence,
as love stretches through all dimensions
to encircle Thee and Me.

As real, as tangible,
as the star beams
on the evergreen.

A promise, given and kept.

Do you hear the angels?

 

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To Sweep Clean My Father’s House. . .

I Am Not Finished. . .

When I was a girl I learned only because I hung onto my anger (as fuel for my work) that I could find the energy to continue with what was demanded and not give up. This is what keeping on with keeping on means to me.  Anger ( used also by siblings), was a way to get the work done because otherwise we would be open for more criticism.

Many people work this way and it wearies them into confusion.  Not identifying why there is hesitancy about finalizing work, they unconsciously think finishing will finish them also.  They think they will not then have anything in reserve to continue their lives and it will end for them as the project they work on.  It doesn’t of course because when we are finished, whatever the results,  we are given another bout of energy to force us into action. Another memory will arise reminding us of unfinished business and because we are conscientious, we are off and running.

I have been inclined to use my anger throughout life in this way, to build on meaning and not to dismantle life.  I have worked until exhausted but gratified to have finished the muscle work, or the creative work, or the mind work that puzzled and tired me no end.  Did I learn something?  Of course, of course.

Heaven uses us in diverse ways.  Heaven does not waste incipient lessons.  There are some bright lights (not all of course) on the other side that can see the consequences of our behaviors.  Very little goes to waste in the skein of things.  Things heaven cannot do something about are as heartbreaking for them as for us.  But as we see the summation being of use in positive ways, the heavens also are spurred into activity that is consequential.

It is an effort that is unifying at best.  When we are open to the thinking, to the thought, we can see that we are an experiment in a new world of communal living.  We are of diverse pigmentation, of different cultures, of frames of reference that involve evolution on scales unknown to isolated peoples whose rituals of living are similar.  Our country is envied by worlds as the example of universal lives in progress.  Others are stagnant in their thinking, breathing the stultifying air of diminished lives but laughing at us struggling with self imposed obstacles, to be sure.

In the obstacles, the minor as well as major ones, are the lesson plans for growth and progress.  We make them ourselves for in the larger picture, the broader reference, we race with the greater god and the divine in us toward universal concepts still to be born.   It is only one truth toward life everlasting.  Count me in on the race.  I am not finished.

(Excerpt from poem)

New World . . .

What is dealt on a scale
unfathomable
are heart’s yearnings
toward new understanding.

Of a universe or more,
equipped to handle
a multifaceted life
with undreamed answers
to questions giving life
to new dreams,
giving breath to new forms,

and heart to life everlasting.

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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In Universal Purpose. . .

The Ultimate In Universal Purpose. . . .

Because I was told in a million ways my unhappiness could be rectified if only I would. . . and the list was endless.  And the harder I tried and  longer I worked because it was love that gave constructive criticism I was told and believed, till I finally realized that the only difference I could make was within myself , changing me and my feelings.  The Teacher replied and I scribed in February, 1995. . . .

‘when passion is exhausted, wisdom begins.  It is only from having lived a life to the fullest,  having gleaned what you  have, that you can go gently into your good night.

Because you have worked on these things and questioned your Source,  you now are in an envious position making your times rewarding.  There is no need now to strive to change a world that requires individual change.  Since you have learned there is no mass evolution and long accepted this classroom situation, you know the envisioned paradise can only be achieved on an individual basis.

You wrote the promised land is in the heart.  It is not a place except as one strives toward greater understanding of the self.  And neither is heaven a paradise of cloud hovering.  It is of work and things to learn.  It will be of self improvement, self understanding and understanding of the greater god, the ultimate in universal purpose.’

And because of greater understanding of self and one’s Source, one then becomes extremely sensitive to Others in connection and commitment.  Understanding itself becomes two edged, both a curse and a blessing.  To live with the ability to understand does not necessarily make life easier.  Sometimes it only makes life bearable.  Endurance has a high value.  The greater question becomes then what can I do to love more?  Not the easiest when the irritations are constant.  Being human is a hard work.

Consider This. . .

What makes you think
we do not use
a worker who thinks
and injects new thought
in old ways?

What makes you think
we would let loose
the likes of you
in a world for frolic,
for nothing more than waste?

We look for farmers
for the vineyards,
for the fields needing seeds,
for food. . .
for thought. . .
for starving minds
as well as bodies.

Where we put you
is in a place of value,
of your talents,
of your loves,
of your sweet thoughts
feeding the children of all ages.

How else to sweep clean the Father’s House?

A Given in January, 2012

Art by Claudia Hallissey

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The Rose In December. . .

I started to make our Christmas cards when I couldn’t find a card to translate our hearts when our David was diagnosed with cancer.  Many of our friends over the years have kept the cards I have made.  It warms my heart to hear them called the Veronica Files.  My efforts in artwork have always been primitive,  but my poetry has been a Given when I knew not what Given was and I scribed.  Our memories, both painful and joyous create who we are.  I will share what I can find in the boxes of efforts I could not part with.  I awakened this morning with The Rose In December and thought it a fine beginning but could find only one card with artwork.  Still primitive but I hope my work will have meaning.

The Rose In December. . .

The first frost of winter
has caught the bud unaware.
But lo, the edges

are burned at the fringes,
closed tight and full.
The rose will bloom again

in December, I promise.
Look to the bush along the fence,
its roots buried, frozen.

The upright branch will sponsor
the blooming rose.
You will pluck it and know

I do not make light promises.

 

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Still In A Time Of Infamy. . .

Pardon Me While I Cry. . .

My oldest brother Edward was 20 years old on December 7, 1941 and I was 10.  I will never forget my mother’s tears and lamentations when word came over the radio that Pearl Harbor was under attack.   ‘Matko Bosko’  (mother of god) she wailed.   Edward was in the Navy at Pearl Harbor.  We were a large family of eight siblings and concerning us was the business of clothing and feeding.  Any thoughtful considerations were done in the privacy of mind and never discussed such as world conditions or philosophy. 

Only when I became a parent on premises did I forge the thoughts that my concerns and battles were fought visibly and invisibly.  War itself was not the answer to man’s problems and never has been.  Scars are formed and are never covered even by keloid tissue grown to resemble normalcy.  These scars carry into generations and progeny still to be born.  And we are kin forever. 

Edward is one of the few alive from that war whose memories of this day are keen.  So are mine as that child of ten.  He will be sought for this day to speak for his time on that fateful day.  My memories will haunt me because as a mother who carried life beneath my heart and gave birth to souls who were part of who I am,  I will forever hold that war is not the solution for thoughtful humans.  Life is a sacred existence of which we are part of.  As thoughtful Beings,   our behavior through life on this planet Earth,  gives us the responsibility to use our minds for solutions which give hope to all in the Universes who observe us.  We are accountable.

Pardon Me While I Cry. . .

So long to have to yearn
for times that show love
for what is ordinary.
The times where toast burned
while the children wrestled
with their cod liver oil.

Times when snow suits bulged
over sweaters that were designed
only as the outside shield.
But these tears I weep
to see young hearts leave home
forever are ragged.

The old men are sitting
in their three piece suits and
playing war games
while parents cry.
It was a lark for them,
these war games playing
king of the mountain.

And now the young leave
their homes of ordinary days
and ordinary duties.
For real guns and other weapons
of destruction so old men can
vicariously play their games
for a remembered thrill.

These young were not taught
to think of war as
real people killed for real.
They were games played
on hand devices to swallow time.
It was a surprise to them and
a heavy burden their hearts cannot shrug.
They call it post traumatic stress disorder.

So pardon me while I cry my ragged tears
still in a time of infamy.

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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Centuries To Arrive. . . .

Centuries to get here . . . .

There are those of us who are sensitive to our inmost thoughts and often we consider them nightmares.  A favorite writer tells of his dreams that leave him unanchored.  They take his equanimity and disable him.  Like his, my journey for years left me with events that had no putting place.  Our memory banks are similar.  Children with bloated bellies and tears and clenched fists.  Sacrifices and incense and swords and hot sands in strange places.

I would suggest the library with its Metaphysical shelves as study for the saints and souls who trudge the inward path.  Books were my support because I did not find an Other to match my  path.  I could not share my nightmares with an Other whose survival depended on their soup bowl not being broken.

Who would understand falling into a limitless depth with shrieking voices on the way to sleep to be caught by strong arms and lifted into Light?  And when doors opened within the brain to hear music drifting with arias never concluded and the noisy games in the gym forever unending?  I am a generation older than the writer and it has taken a lifetime of footwork to realize it is a gift given.

There are reasons and all not brought to satisfying conclusions yet.  Enough though for this world with our finite brains to show others have  journeyed and written  to let us know they have gone the route.  Religions have not focused on the larger picture. Their eventuality will be the absorption into a greater spiritual reality. They are appropriate for this planet and its peoples on diverse paths with more narrowed focus and needing support.

The larger picture requires a stretching of the psychic muscles that seem to embrace what is considered bizarre.  Only so because trying to pull the greater picture through the narrow aperture distorts the vision.  Other world experience cannot be drawn into this physical reality with its boundaries.  They belong in the world they were dreamed.  You travel centuries to remember them.  Research them; you are special.  They are earned glimpses so take pride in your journey.  It has taken enormous courage.

Life Everlasting. . .

Without ears to hear, he hears.
Without eyes to see, he sees.
With heart he understands
the small musings
of this limited mind.

I can see, I say for this is mine. . .
only with how I perceive
this limited existence.

Fair enough,
for this time, I think,
but only for this time.
There will be other times
when it will not be enough. . .

And then I grow
unto his splendor. . .
I will be guided  unto his doorway
and I will be led . .

And again, I will find
my way home.
Again, I will be led
and there will never be
a final time. . .

It only begins, here and now
and again it will be

time to move on.

 

 

 

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