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Can One Be A Better Anything Than One Is A Person?. . .

 

Can One Be a Better Anything Than One Is a Person?

Many times, even vehemently, it has been stated that one cannot be a better anything than one is a person.  And the lesson is one well taken.  It would seem that more work is needed in the moral posturing  of would be leaders.  Lessons learned are not the ones they would be most proud of.  And the big lesson here is that there are many who feel that as long as they pay their bills and do good, nothing else should be questioned.

All who aspire to leadership of the common man, the average man needing the guidance of astute leaders wish to see those portions of one’s life one wants to hide, remain hidden.   But is it fair to place a man in leadership where when the big issues are approached one questions the integrity of the person?

Again we are at the basic assumption of whether one can be a better anything than one is a person.  What about one’s commitments, one’s honor, one’s word?  What about these values which have built people’s lives into civilized containers that have led many toward better health and quality lives?

In teaching morality to the young, for they will again need to be taught, is it the proper response to a biological function to say wear a condom or to say the highest of all human emotions regarding the sanctity of life needs to be placed in the highest category and not relegated to minute entertainment?

We have more than moral integrity on the line.  Should we also ask the aspiring candidates for medical tests to ensure that their tour of duty will not be interrupted by a social disease?

We ask that the nation united behind a leader who asks that one give his life in war noting that the issue is argued in good conscience by objectors of war.  And that same individual will unaccountably say that he could not commit himself to the marriage union without straying but in that case it was all right for only his near ones were involved.

The arbitrary disposition of such procedures still must be argued.  The arbitrary compulsiveness when the individual has no control over his own body yet wishes to control all bodies of all persons makes little sense.  Into whose hands does the common, average person place his conscience?

What one does behind closed door will be argued as private.  Yet war is not private but public,  for all to participate in, to maim and kill and honor and dishonor one another.  It would seem fruitless to go further.  It would seem not a cogent nor coherent thing to do to espouse maturity in judgment concerning matters of state when matters of personal discipline are questionable.

It would seem to an enlightened electorate that what is evidenced and is not questionable due to personal motives, be the guideline where the very large issue of personal integrity is at stake.  It would seem that perhaps all issues which neither fit nor are comfortable for the human be disregarded.  And should that be the case, what would be substituted as guidelines for those looking for direction on what to do?

We could dissolve into a sensual state where the pleasures of the body rule.  Where when one is at a loss in the face of large issues, one buries oneself in the momentary oblivion of the physical.  Perhaps that is the direction humanity wishes to go.  It would be far easier and soon there would be chaos in the streets where rape and pillage would not be an issue but a norm.

Perhaps it is carried to an extreme with this analogy.  But what we see when man reaches the age of reason, whatever that means in terms of legality, there must also come a discipline which is self imposed.  Perhaps there must be a waiting time for what is most desired.

Perhaps there must be new priorities set upon those common things of marriage and children.  But there must be education.  And there must be direction that will give the young avenues upon which their raging hormones can be vented in good use.  Not in the making of more babies and not in the promiscuous behavior which is given clemency in everyone’s mind.

Strange, isn’t it?  That the kind of behavior we espouse is behavior which in other times and places was simply called decent; the proper thing to do.  But obviously not in these times and this place.

In accordance with today’s mores, today’s values, and the statistics on the spread of diseases which can affect even the most productive life, of need will be a new adaptation of what it is the human body can withstand.  It would seem child’s play in retrospect to rediscover that education and an adherence to Victorian attitudes is in order.  But not with the ancient embarrassment attached to the human body.

With an attitude of understanding that the human body is vulnerable and the human psyche not equal to healing as quickly as one would suppose.  Even with death as a specter, reason should tell us that the human being is of quality as to be revered.  Not a conquest of the adolescent but to be honored and revered in direct proportion vulnerable as is one’s own life.

A thorough understanding of what human life is all about is in order.  A better understanding of what the fallout of promiscuous behavior has on the young should be apparent to all.  Lessons we teach are often not the lessons we wish to teach.  It would seem obvious to the thinker that lines of discipline are instituted for the just purpose of preserving life.  The thinking one knows this.

Those bent on shaking and moving must also be taught that discipline becomes the first one, and that is the individual.  Then the example will be the best teacher.  One has listened to the old adage ‘do as I say and not as I do.’  And yet when the authority figure in question sets examples that may lead to debility if practiced by another, one should first of all question the authority and wonder the example he sets.

There are those who argue for the privacy of the individual to do what he or she pleases behind closed doors.  Contagious diseases are not silent.  They ride rampant and they maim.

In these days where nothing is private, it best behooves the individuals running for highest offices in the land, offices that yearn to set an example for the commoner as well as the foreigner, or the office that wishes to unite the world in peace and brotherhood, be above reproach.

The kinds of issues that are brought up with the undisciplined individual are many.  We started off with the undisciplined in body.  The body is what we try to master first.  If we are not able to master the body’s rage and desires, how then can we even begin to give appetite to others’ lives?

The individual who loves plants and wishes to water and feed them, knowing what is required, will be a good tenderer.  The individual who wishes to be a physician will know how important it is to be first a doctor.  The individual who wishes to be an educator must at first be a good teacher.

There are differences attached but the each must first be developed a discipline.  And discipline ranges the professions in the same measure as ranges within the individual.

In the outward things, man does not appear to have difficulty, assuming as he does that the work will be affected by the effort.  So in the human condition.  The individual will be affected with the results of undisciplined behavior.  It cannot be stressed too highly how the undisciplined, whether in private life or public life will have an effect upon those they wish to reach.  And the lessons we teach might be those we wish we had not.

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The Ruler. . .

 

The Ruler . . .

Do not chop me up in little pieces.
I hate the sight of what I see
when I see me through your eyes.

I strive to be perfect
and in doing so find me
killing my very self.

By whose yardstick
am I measured that I
should fall so short?

An unguarded moment
can make or break a world.
Today I find mine broken.

Should I expect you to build me a new one?

 

Recent Journal entry April 2018. . . They have written and they ask why they fall so short when they try so hard.  And this failure levels them to the degree that all desire for advancement leaves them in the dirt and in the dirt they are stepped on.

Lost in a world of numbers and competition for place in family, in life, notably already feeling unnoticed, has put many walking out on talents enormously needed.

We come into the world unique and yet this uniqueness is not appreciated but considered undesirable differences.  Those who want to be a presence in new life as well as those who wish to find their own centers of substance, are in need and they are neither female nor male specifically but human beings essentially. 

And to be different is not appreciated.  When striving to do better to please also brings forth intelligence which has an inner glow.  And again forces more separation because one appears then better than they who originally found the difference threatening.

We wish a way to avoid curtailing a person’s growth crucial to their evolution, and growth possible to those whose own sense of failure results in stepping on the heads of others, especially children.  The mother gods and father gods desire to hold their positions forever it seems lest they go down with the proverbial glub. 

Who has the courage to see their progeny outstrip them in intelligence and maturity?  Yet the purpose of life is growth and promoting the potential of everyone.  To grow and become accountable was held a priority. 

The intent has always been that emotional growth would be commensurate with chronological aging.  That when behavior was appropriate to the age, the emotions would match.  Such has not been the case. 

Adults go their graves clutching the child within to their bosoms.  Childlike awe and wonder is never out of date; childishness only appropriate under 5 years.

It is time to grow up.  Lest the devices deemed to amuse today’s world become weapons of war.

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The Cost Of War?. .don’t get me started. . . .

The Cost Of War. . .Knotted Family Ties. . .

She was little more than a toddler.  She was plain, even mousy by standards of beauty deemed for the very few.  Stringy hair, hazel eyes with poor sight even and not the porcelain English complexion esteemed by her heritage.  Left with her brother in Scotland while her mother set out for Canada to set up housekeeping for a husband wounded in the first world war and sent to a Toronto hospital for care. Left too long for the toddler, for when she and her brother were sent to travel the ocean with hired friends, she arrived to find herself no longer the center of interest.

Arriving to find a new sister, with blue eyes, curly blond locks and a porcelain skin already called ‘doll’ because of her exquisite English heritage.  Welcomed the first sister was with acknowledgment that she was a big sister to look out for the ‘doll’.  Her cry was ‘I’m little, too!’ and would be for almost a hundred years.

Heartbreaking, but pathetic also, to the generations listening powerless to untie the knots that were tied by circumstances only those who tied them could untie.  To hear an octogenarian  begin every explanation of her life with those words, ‘I’m little, too!’ and need to be parented by everyone regardless of age was an uncomfortable position for everyone.   Requiring always to be center, even when birthing an only child and stealing from the father’s child the parental love and caring necessary for his growth.

The girl toddler grown aged never made peace even with her own progeny.  Always displaced she was, shunted aside for every newly minted child coming into the family.  Hers was a life of pampering the aging psyche forever the child by a husband who could care for only one.  He learned too late for him with no time left, the unhealthy conditions for everyone.  And how what was not done left the shouldering of burdens on the unsuspecting coming into the family.

We learn ‘suffer the little children’ with the words taking root and no one thinking that the conditions of the beatitude would take forever to unearth.  No one thought we would perpetrate upon our progeny burdens that would make leaden their feet and prevent growth.  We would fertilize beliefs that we must assuage the anguish of the ancestors and give them what was owed.  Hence we prepare the ground for more bloodshed.

Do circumstances of our lives provide the fodder for weapons of war and peace and goodwill are the two weeks of grace given as reward at the end of the year?  I don’t think that was the intent when the prophecy was fulfilled.  We have to grow up sometime.  Else the stagnation persists and evolution is halted.  Think on it.  This small instance of one little girl is multiplied forever anon.  The cost of war?  Don’t get me started.. . .

Excerpt from the
Knotted Family Ties. . .

I close the shutters and pull up the steps.
I learn to live in my own house.
I stay my time and do what is mine.

Jesus, it hurts to watch and be able to do nothing.

 

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We Can Always Say. . . not ready. . . .

On What We Build Our Lives. . .

The construction is still in process, but we are nesting!   I am not sure it is Maudie, but surely a younger.  No doubt word was given that if babies are on the agenda, ‘this place is one we know and trust.  And they talk to you with real words, all of them do.  They keep tabs on you and watch the watch as all of us wish.’

I was surprised to see the doves begin building their nest.  Certainly with the construction going on in the back of the house, there were splinters and broken by the wind leaves and branches.  The two birds carried the pieces, one splint at a time, up to the nest.  I watched for some time and wondered if they would soon figure an easier way to do it.  It seemed to take at least two days, but then sitting on the nest was mama.  We didn’t think there were eggs yet, but she sat and is still sitting.  I will note the calendar.

When sleep eludes, the backyard offers privacy to hold the Newfie along with Maudie again and of course the (invisible) Sages In Conference.  I am at home with all this and know how fortunate I am.  In February I journaled that as I was sitting resting my arms on bent knees, I felt what I thought a hand on my back.  It was a loving touch and I thought son John had come through the patio door.

I lifted my head and a bird flew over from my back.  I thought oh my, he walked up my back and I felt his weight. What trust!  The connection I feel with Nature assures me my presence is welcome and my words to life are understood.  When we lose that connection to Nature, we soon lose it with persons and it becomes non existent with the cosmic world.

We count on devices to tell us we are liked and ignore the human next to us.  Who will catch us as we draw our last breath and watch the world calmly folding itself unto itself as the illusion it is?  On what have we built our lives?  What has been our focus?. . . .

As I Watched. . .

Part of a whole, yet wholly here.
Slowly as I watched
the silence was encompassing.

Piece by blessed piece, each tree,
each entity slowly folded upon itself
and laid itself down.

The screen protecting vanished
as it bent itself into nothing,
a wisp of an idea no longer useful.

Trees, one by one bent over themselves
and laid themselves down and
disappeared onto the forest floor.

And I thought now neat!
No evidence, no residue of debris
to litter the surroundings.

I murmured his name as I watched
the scene disappear and he said, don’t move.
And time collapsed for me again

into the frame of reference I know as mine.
And again the journey continued and
I sit and wonder and marvel at

this multifaceted existence I know as life.

(poem written March, 2017)

photo today April 8, 2018
by John Stanley Hallissey)

 

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Dreamed Into Being. . .

 

Physical and mental boundaries are not finite.  We often speak of primitive religions disparagingly.  It does not take a genius mentality to see that in this tech world we have lost the spiritual connection to the cosmic populace.

We speak of life everlasting yet are afraid to die.  We speak of resurrection and buy cemetery plots to make it easy to put us back together?  Come again?

We are creators of the worlds we inhabit as I write so many times.  Individually and en masse we create the climate for what happens.  The book by Robert Nozick called The Examined Life (written while on sabbatical from Harvard) announces that perhaps we are in the creation business as apprentices.  Perhaps we will be in charge of something else anon?

Mental boundaries no longer exist.  There is a spirit afoot (always was) to those whose ears and hearts are open to hear  and will have courage to speak of this.  There are those whose brains are open albeit a tiny percentage more than the average and are given ideas that will find grounding in this world.  And to those whose eyes are open will see and be able to interpret the writing on the wall.

The science gods tell us that we use just 5 percent of our brains.  Why has evolution stagnated?  Why are we so narrowly focused and why has our Earth become such a playground for the privileged?

These ideas are not new.  I try to make them understandable.  All life is simultaneous.  Quantum Physics teaches this.  When man appeared on Earth, Eden was everywhere.  Maverick thinking? I think not.  My scope had to broaden to contain my commitments.  Whether my lifetime bears me out, I leave to the heavens.  They still hold the sparklers.

Dreamed Into Being. . .

I love this Earth Planet she said,
it is a place of verdant lands
and high thoughts. . .

It is a place where images send
these thoughts aloft and tie me
to that place of love.

We walked it many times of course,
she said, but now the choice
is mine again. . .

How to stay and finish a work
the Master said was needed even
by one such as me?

I hold the only authority that counts.
No letters can give me that
which is already mine.

I claimed that on the day I said, I AM
and chose to BE. . . .were her words.
Simple as that and as hard. . .

I finish my work and then go home,
to the ‘old country’  that holds for me
she said, all that I cherish.

It is a dream I dreamed
and called into Being. . .
that is how

new worlds are born. . . . .

June, 2015

art by Claudia Hallissey

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Prayer In Concert. . .

In Conference. . .

I was a young girl when the priest came to our home and my mother saying. ‘I don’t know who teaches her because I don’t.  I don’t know where she gets her ideas.’  Years of criticism for my different ideas but my work habits were praised.  I was diligent, thorough and needing praise for a starving heart.

On my road to Damascus experiences when my world crashed in my mid thirties, I could not believe good intentions and love were so easily crushed.  With the help of a good doctor and my belief that I was still choice goods, rebuilding began.  Not easy to do when one’s only bastion of strength was in thought and thinking.  And one’s reason for being were three young sons who needed their mother at home.

Some call it prayer, others call it meditation.  I called it duelogues because oh my I argued.  I seldom carried it out loud because of setting off unrest in others I learned, hence the duelogues.  I crashed the gates of heaven because how could what was taught in church school and on Sundays be so wrong when I worked so hard to do everything right by the church, by the book, by heart and even invented.

If it could not work where I was, then it was a lie and I wanted no part of it.  Heaven  convinced me that it could work and did and then we began our work.  And work it has been.  24/7.

Then over the years dialogues and then In Conference.  The poetry was continuing along with the journals when I found myself scribing.  I typed hard copy because of my need to see in print what I heard was psychologically sound and philosophically palatable.  It had to make sense.  And my life had to show it.  It has and I continue to work it.

To make my work understandable, the small voice within, god within, comforter, or the smooth pipe that Emerson called it that the angels or the muses speak through, works at one with me.  I hope this post makes my work easier to understand.  I am unable to explain the thought processes.  But it has been a lifetime of mutual trust.  (I enclose an excerpt from July 1, 2015 journal and also a poem for that day.  Sometimes they coincide and this day is one. It will make the poem easier to understand.  Some editing was done as I pick up the words)

From the Teachers . . .much will jar the houseboats of peoples and they will look again at the justice and injustices of partnerships whether in the same house or not.  We know the intricacy of such matters.  We know your penchant to keep words to a minimum.  The aim is to get as many as possible to the table and to think.  Eat and think.  One and the same.  What is being fed will make its way to the minds of men and there will be growth and there will be a road that has been scythed for travel.  We will have a striving for peace.  People will realize that the difference they make within themselves will be the greatest difference they can possibly make.

Prayer In Concert. . . from the other side. . .

It was prayer you held in concert
with the Great One who marked
your presence on his counter of beads.

Talks, mostly dialogues, it seems,
and held court with sages long asleep
on couches too soft for too long. . .

Rise!  You shouted and they, appalled
at the sight of woman,
rose and were rightly chastised.

They had forgotten the bread lines
and the penniless people and
children’s bellies bloated from hunger.

You brought them to shame and now
they remember how the ivory towers
separated their lives from the
grime in the streets below.

Now you tell them in languages understood
how deep the hunger for knowledge
can be as if for bread; to keep alive
a mind from sleep;  (like scourge
it contaminates all minds of men).

We wake them up and put to work
the fathers of the children forever seeded

with memory from a place the angels tread.                                    

 

 

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The Heart’s Excess . . .

 

‘The circles she made in the air went round and round and she said The Teachers are telling me that the only way to get off is to step off.  And we can get back on again. And this was the Earth she talked of.  She made circles with her hand while she lay in the bed, as white as the sheets she lay on.’  From the prose poem ‘at her bedside.’

 

The Heart’s Spillage. . .

It is the medicine talking!  His exasperated whisper may as well have been shouted in the  hospital room.  Let her talk, I angrily answered.  She is speaking truth.  And our mother in her near death experience proceeded to tell us what was going on and who she was talking to.

My brother left and the next day his wife asked what went on because he was an emotional mess.  He didn’t hear what would have confirmed his cherished belief that open arms of his god were ready.  At nearing ninety mother instead held herself accountable.

We have heard people say it is the alcohol talking, or drugs or anger talking.  And I say it is a truth they are saying, when it is the spillage of the heart.  When we hear adults speaking gutter language,  or  calling it locker room talk, it also is the heart’s excess with an insufferable wound.

I had six brothers with many friends and never heard language as on television with youngsters mouthing things with gestures we thought halted in preschool.  Want to know the far influence of thoughtless or gutter spillage of bathroom behavior?  Listen to the children who have television as their baby sitter.

I hung up the phone and my in law mother asked what did I find to talk about with our sons.  I said there are not enough hours in the day for all to be said.  I mentioned this to our eldest who answered, but we have been practicing all our lives!  And we had.  When did it stop?  At what point did we become tongue tied or embarrassed or insufficient to thoughtful conversation?

The book which sits for everyone to see and no one reads says the word is god.  The word.  What we speak, our  language is holy, sacred, what we use to connect our minds, our hearts, our souls,  in speech, in thought with what ties us to one another and our Source, our highest and best. Thoughtful consideration, who stole it or did we give it away?

Did I think,  I scribed one day,  that people would clean up their thinking if they believed that heaven would find their views worthy of consideration?

I ask, would it be worth the work?  24/7?  To find it the elixir of life?  Would you?

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Drunk of the High Wine. . . .

It was a difficult lesson for me to  integrate.  It is for most people.  One of quantum  premises is that all time is simultaneous.  Those who follow my blog know I speak of this often.  It is difficult for me to write of experiences if I neglect to incorporate a fact that makes my work understandable.  Especially when it has taken fifty some years to be comfortable with the fact.

I had another dream Wednesday morning  the 21st of March about 4 a.m.  when I was aware of my French connection again.  I prodded myself to remember this.  It was a different household,  but still with members of family.  I had a granddaughter celebrating a birthday and I was invited out with them for cake and ice cream.  She did not look like my California granddaughter but mine, nevertheless.

What made me take note of this was that I had been preparing dinner as I often do but the food was unfamiliar.  I was not inept with handling it but the thought was that it was different.  The thought injected perhaps to alert me to this parallel life we all have  but wave off.

It reminded me of a post I wrote of when I awakened in the night and sat up speaking French.  I do not speak the language but I was in vivid conversation going a mile a minute.  I was pulled down and went back to sleep.  This happened in the summer of ’85 I had journaled.

I also wrote when I dreamed as a monk in the summer of ’83  that I walked up a hill with a group and I made note in the journal that it was the year of 1790 and time of the French Revolution.  I dragged a cross on my shoulders portraying Jesus’ crucifixion.  Windows were boarded up along the way and evergreens shining in the moonlight and everything was dusty.  Vivid.

Coming to mind especially was the meeting with the German VIP in Munich who scolded me because I had not told him the previous week in Paris that I would be in Munich the following week.  I informed him I was not in Paris and had never been.  He became very angry because our conversation was prolonged he said and friendly.

He was insulted and righteously because his was an important job because of his ability to remember people and where he met them.   (Tourism is vastly important to all countries.)   I could not convince him when my husband appeared steering me away.  I have never in this life as Veronica been to Paris.  Many places, but not ever Paris.

It all makes sense and convinces me that we are more than what we appear.  I firmly believe we will one day on bended knee say thank you to our fellow man.  We just don’t know how heavy his burdens.

We’ve Laid A Mark or
I’ve drunk the high wine. . . .

Upon this time we’ve laid a mark.
Because we were and are.  Sometimes
not much to be sure.

And will be forgotten in time,
but those we leave have upon them a mark,
cherished.

They say it is hard won because much
was demanded.  I say, earned, because
they produced by work.

Both right, altogether, a symbol,
to be wrought or cast in iron
to be remembered.

As important as the tablets
brought down from the mountain,
though this itself was chiseled with sweat.

Workers both, to be certain, honored
and to be brought toward the frontispiece
of a life lived

with reverence to a lifted chalice.

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We Don’t See What We Don’t Know To See. . . .

Most of us have heard of black and white holes in space.  When  massive stars burn out gravity causes them to collapse and shrink out of sight.  A black hole appears and matter disappears into this.  Matter  then appears elsewhere in our universe or other universes.  My understanding is simplified.

Everything has energy especially our thoughts and emotions and those things that enliven us.  When I said the cosmos views us as dim or bright bulbs this pretty much is on target though simple.

When this tremendous energy is given off we can say similarly that it drains through  black holes and is enormously magnified and returned into our world through white holes.

These coordination points have great energy and earlier civilizations before going down the tube used these points to plan their infrastructures to great advantage.

This is a good point to keep in mind when news of ancient cities are discovered and we wonder how they managed to stay intact.  The reason being that consideration of these energy points greatly stabilized structures and were highly utilized in building.

We hear of thermodynamic laws and closed systems and laws of entropy meaning there is diminished energy available to work. We have only our narrow focus of this physical world.  We don’t see what we don’t know to see.

Physical laws are suspended many times.  Women lift cars and tractors to free a beloved and save a life.  In wartime suspension of laws is called courage and awarded with medals.  When they happen in our lives, we say nothing and family looks askance and try to forget anything out of the ordinary happened.

Be careful what you say I was cautioned.  I would have to deny my life lived.  And because of journals kept for a half century,  I would have forgotten many things.

How did you do it Mom,  our eldest would ask as a child when the 3 cushion sofa was moved up and down the steep stairs.  My young neighbor said I moved evergreens about my lawn with root balls of enormous size like lawn furniture and replanted them.  And this same young one helped me move an old heavy desk from the garage through basement stairs.  I would move it to the other part of the basement through two more doors.

I got stuck.  Neither the desk was able to budge nor I pinned with my spine to the jamb and with little breath.  The door frame bulged and I thought he will kill me if he has to call the fire department to free me.

In less time than it takes to write this and I have the journal entry,  the desk collapsed and stood upright on the other side of the door and I whispered my thank you.  I then moved it with no problem through the other door to my workroom.

From one of my poems is a line that says ‘thorns do not a rose make but intensity of purpose yields the bud.’   Many times I have been told things have not been worth the energy I put into them.  Not comfortable to live with I have been told.

Yet we don’t know how that intensity is utilized nor how we feed worlds or are fed by it.

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Love Is The Answer. . .

Love, But Not Without Work. . . .

It was with derision that laughter came because I said love was the answer.  Naïve I was called and impractical.  I was told I did not know how the real world works.

But not without work I added.  Love needed work.  Wherever we were,  the boots had to be put on or the thinking cap.  That is where we begin.

By magic meals appeared on time, clean towels flew to shelves and clothes to closets hung all by hocus pocus.  The real work was the hand on the sick brow, emotions calmed, anger abated  and crises averted with lives prolonged by hearts transplanted.  Fears were laid to rest.

So now I work and find some words to describe my feeling.  Yet I even wonder now if these words are mine, except I do know that they are of me, my fabric and what it is I have lived through.

A romantic?  I am and just maybe I put into words what others think and cannot articulate.  Claiming my romance. . . I learned it somewhere.  I knew it at a time. . . but what time and where, this life does not tell me.  When we claim knowledge of a something and this life has not taught the principle, then we must claim it from somewhere.  Else how do we know?

To know means the lesson was taught at some juncture, long ago or perhaps with such vitality  we could not forget.  It has become part of our fabric and knowledge and therefore we claim it.  It is not to be uprooted by an ill wind blowing from wherever, because the knowledge is innate.

I write what I know.  At the moment I may not be cognizant of the fullness of the words, but they are brought up from that place where memories lay hidden and the greater self speaks.  And if the fences have been dismantled and the stones knocked down, it is with grace that the knowledge once again surfaces.

Love Is. . .

oh trembling soul,
that has seen beyond
to know the wonder of love.
Whose magnificent hand has shaped
the universe and all within with love?

What visions have the eyes seen unfolded
to cause the soul and mind a oneness,
heretofore, unknown?
Who loosed the shackles of
the mind encaged and sent man’s
Spirit soaring?

Love that has impregnated and nurtured
and caused man to grow upward

Is. . . .

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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