Archive | Essays

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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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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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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White Anglo Saxon Protestant. . . what it means to me. . . .

 

White Anglo Saxon Protestant. . . what it has meant to me. . .

The families had gathered for our marriage and we were getting ready to leave.  The favored aunt in my new family said in parting,  I hope you are good enough for him.  I gasped and stumbled and was silent.  There was no argument from anyone.

During these recent times, coming to mind because of the immigration problems have been these slights to the heart that are constant to the minorities, be they of any color or station; anyone not having been born white anglo saxon protestant.  One may be the same color but the position was clearly inferior if lacking any of necessary qualifications.

Years into the relationship with this family, a contemporary and I became great friends.  She was visiting and she was going to her first Big Ten game and her joy was infectious and envied by me.  How could one be so enthusiastic entering our dotage about a game of football that caused her to jump with glee?

Only after much thought was the realization that though life changed for her, what was not lost was the image and the self esteem that she had been born with and no one stepped on.  That was what I envied and was granted to the genetic heritage of the family line; the elite of the purest.  It was never spoken about in so many words, but it was an accepted condition of birth.

As my own family had theirs, the newly acquired family for me at the tender age of 20, had bigoted perceptions which engrossed family traditions.   These perceptions were prejudiced for various reasons.  The new ones I could not understand anymore than I could understand my family’s prejudices growing up.  What I grew to understand,  as I do now more than ever,  that our behavior is based on fear.

The fear of soil, the fear of change, the fear of losing who we are because of slights and insults to who we were in ancient times.  We have agonies of memories from ancient times clouding the genetic heritage that somehow we are going to again lose who we were as we did before.

So we kneel on the necks of those who bring that fear in us again.  We must look thoroughly into the genetic heritage  given each and relate intelligently.  Are all men created equal?

When listening to a teen talk about how his contemporaries hated the Irish Americans because they felt they were rich and had everything,  I remembered signs which read Irish Need Not Apply.

Another countered that having a mother and father and house and a name made one rich.  These were young ones, saying these things.  When any of these components are missing,  one is then inferior?  What are we doing to our children?

I spent my most learned years on The Farm.  I was the farm girl whose father came from the Eastern continent.   All over Europe the harsh voices are rising to keep borders tight.  The rhetoric is such that not one of us qualifies for this ephemeral condition of purity.  We each have worn coats of many colors.  When that knowledge is ours along with our shame for our behavior, heaven’s door will be closed.

Who will take us in then?

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We Are Heaven’s Reflection. . . are we proud?. . .

My readers are the most intelligent of the top one percent of the reading public. They teach by their comments all the time.  Some of them wish not to be quoted which I respect and cherish also those who comment publicly.  I grasp with eagerness what they say.

One said there are places I would not be allowed to voice my thoughts or concerns.  I have lived my almost my entire life being cautioned as I left the house about what I say.  I had no intent but to do good.  So why?

It became a constant worry and dampened my enthusiasm, so I seldom spoke in public.  A well placed innocuous question kept whoever was speaking,  holding the floor,  so the public was spared my stuttering.

Another reader commented on my hero’s journey with much sensitivity that it was difficult at best and unbearable at its worst. Only when one is knowledgeable can one surmise this.  They teach me from experience with coping when life blind sided them with balls thrown from left field,  with chronic illnesses and pain and insensitive cruelties to their psyches.  These are people of conscience.

I began journaling because there was no one to talk to.  No one was interested in subjects I sweated.  What transpired in my entries is worth further explanation at another time.  Now I simply touch base with the overriding problem that arose when I was ten in 1941 and has since consumed my life and caused relationships to freeze.

Born with an open head and memory alive, any question I asked was the wrong question.   Amid the daily occurrences were the philosophy questions that plagued me.    Like the one when I was ten and silenced many times, where was the cosmic intervention by this god who we were taught watched our every move so that we wouldn’t embarrass our parents and strike us dead?  Were not 6 million reasons enough reasons in war for cosmic intervention?

I was ten and asked where were the smart, important men in this world, where were the church’s leaders,  who knew important things and were powerful enough to make the world run but could not stop Hitler’s war?   Where was this god of my parents?

It is a long journey to integrate thought, discard painful, useless dogma taught under penalty of death and still find my beloved planet reason to keep breathing.  But only as we emerge from this life where we wear human skin, can we even see the immanent god is the power within.

With a world of pacifists, artists, artisans, we see a world of sensitive and gentle souls who will forever wilt in the confrontation of a peoples equipped with weapons and the ability to arm the dark side of humanity with the power of thought.

It is what we see being done by the elected with a buffoonery that verges on the hysterical.  It is a dangerous specimen of humanity.

This is my thinking.  I drown in my tears when I think of the immense love that holds this Universe afloat.  Free will is free will.  And I do not like to think that the god within has not evolved further than the human who houses him.

As above, so below was the dicta when Christianity’s mentor stood on the rock.   We are heaven’s reflection.  Are we proud?

 

Photo a gift given by Jon Katz of BedlamFarm.com
Photo framed by my granddaughter Jessica Hallissey

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The Cut Of The Cloth. . . .

 

Several years ago I wrote that an elderly once said to me people only know what you tell them.  My reaction was a gasp! because she believed that.   There was no exposure to people more knowledgeable or more observant than she.  Although she would adamantly vow her God knew everything and nothing was forever hidden.

Such was her focus.  And many can relate to this thinking.   Huddled with their own preferred prejudices and religious dogmas which forbid dabbling with so called devilish dervishes, much was undisclosed.

With many who think that minds are private and secrets can be bought with hush money, there are still those who cannot fathom the innocent bystander upon whose head thoughts settle unannounced.

These are the souls who take to the woods and live out lives in solitude, or with the natural world. Or simply close the shutters.   People cause fatigue to these innocents who carry information that has no putting place in their lives.  Besides, they spook people out.   Oh yes, they do.

They become vaults of knowledge with nowhere to dispense it.  People will say about them, ‘never knew them other than just in passing.  Kept pretty much solitary.’

I have written poetry about subjects like the above and am surprised when I come across the poetry years apart.  But interesting are the perspectives and sometimes I find they change little.  Many Truths was written in 1986. . . .and Overheard was in an involved work of last week.

Many Truths. . .                                               

I tell you true,
if my eye caught it,
a picture has already
been taken of it.

If I know something
I can tell you true,
the neighbor down the street
or the unknown one
around the corner,
knows of it also.

If my ear has caught your cry,
or the deception in your words,
the heavens have heard the cry
and the deception, however layered,
in time is betrayed by you.

If my song is sung,
the heavens and my god
have heard the melody
and whipped the wind
and carried the joy or sorrow
to its Source.

It has always been so
and this I tell you true.
The difference?

I, now, know it.

November, 1986

Overheard. . .

I hear them say. . .
I cannot follow
what she says all the time. . .

And you say. . .
I don’t either all the time,
so don’t blame yourself. . .

But then I hear. . .
But she says things I know are true
and I think I only
could know them. . .

And you say. . .
that is why she can say
what only you know to be true,
because she has been
to all these places
we don’t understand.

And you say. . .
I can only wonder how long
it took all those doors

to open for her. . . .

June, 2018

 

 

 

 

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Come To The Table. . . you are invited. . . .

 

Come To The Table To Share. . . .

Several years ago a loved one said to me you take such giant steps and expect others to follow you and we just cannot!  This was a surprise to me because everyone seemed yards beyond me and I was trying desperately to catch up.

It was with excitement I started to blog.  I would ask the questions I wondered when my hands were elbow deep in suds and  mounds of laundry.  A reader wrote and said I had no difficulty asking who they would take on a journey as Dante took Virgil but she like others never gave thought to these kinds of questions.

Nor roamed the ethers with such equanimity as I seemed to do.  I had and still have difficulty with this concept because I thought that my head is like everyone else’s.  We are taught in school that all men are created equal.  And children do not want to be different.  My head wanted to know things.  I had a need to know.

In my writing I see where people are not born all in the same kindnesses.  For some the ability to love has not been born in them yet.  The ability to see also has not been born which is different than looking.  The ability to discuss things,  to feel,  to conceptualize, the ability to grasp the essence or a nuance, or the ability to relate by bonding, by trust, by hope, by word or handshake, and simply by humanity is outside their frame of reference.

When our rituals and icons seem narrow for the questions burgeoning, it is time to broaden the premise.  Not to toss out the premise,  but  broaden our understanding.  When our God seems too small for the questions forming in us,  it is time to broaden our concepts with larger understanding.

When a favorite sister came out of open heart surgery her first words were man’s god is too small!  He is huge!  No church can hold Him!!!

Will it surprise us that the god of our childhood has a soaring scope that our finite brains will have difficulty envisioning?  Ahhh!  that is a journey that is exciting to begin.

And when we reach an understanding that goes nowhere and we bang our head on the wall with the maxim it is all a mystery,  it is only a way station we reach and another door will open up.  And again we are given light to brighten the way.   Seems like work?  It is.

But be assured that you will be invited to the table to share your journey.

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Words From A Borning World. . . .

(from a recent journal entry edited only for space)

So there was no one to talk to.  No one who understood the worlds I trespassed nor was welcomed in.  I stayed.  And took cover in what I had to do which left me open mouthed every time I heard something that belly whopped me with I cannot believe they said that!  Cannot believe!

And I never learned to talk on my feet even to this day.  I listen and give the speaker their time and think about what I coulda, shoulda said.  But could not, did not because I do not talk on my feet.  I need to think.  And I can only do one thing at a time.

So I have listened.  There have been a handful of good friends.  Heart friends who said I was a deep thinker.  I did not know what a deep thinker was.  What is a deep thinker?  One who listens  to the silent voice within,  the Comforter within,  the still small voice within,  the thoughts which come from a somewhere else destined for you?  Because no person  wants to talk to you?

And when my thoughts because I think them,  originate with me  I take  to the wall and bang my head there,  I find matched by thoughts from an elsewhere world, I know I have come home to another some place.

I was thinking this morning,  sitting in the dining room and looking out in the yard,  that what if I wrote with my computer what I did in the 2012 journal that there is an  overriding power that undergirds this universe, or universes with the symbol >:____—–:> except there would be curving lines which I cannot do or cannot do with this keyboard but another world took them to be a primitive understanding of a physical world because this is a borning world.

With a small physical brain and said she had something there with this and then put this symbol to work with a higher element of learning,  I would not the teachers said,  recognize the experience as mine  but within the higher learning I could  take comfort that my gleanings would have meaning.

They could take this symbol and say she understood that there was a rumbling thunder that was the beginning that left in its wake what we now know as the heart’s assuagement of a yearning that is the key to understanding somewhat a birth in process of a movement.

What was  thought of as a big bang theory was in reality an assuage of genetic anguish that has kept the earth in turmoil for forever it seemed with no termination.  Giving it a name will eventually terminate it and chasten the ancients’ ancestors’ anguish and continue therefore  a birthing process in movement.  And perhaps the babe in the manger will be allowed to grow to be the adult Christ in our Heart   (Emmanuel. Emmanuel god within )  and evolution will jumpstart itself.

And they will ask again,  give me some of that pipe she is smoking.  I like that mixture.

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Loved You Long Before The World Ever Was. . . .

 

This is the latest photo of Emma E. that I have and I love it.  I think she has a big surprise that she keeps hidden but I am sure she will let me know soon.  That half smile she has lurking around her eyes gives her away each time.  It is a big secret I think she keeps,  but there is no prying out of her.

I know all about prying locks open before their time.  It is like letting loose a down pillow with all the feathers flying about.  Like Pandora’s box letting loose its secrets before their time.  No use then trying to get the secrets back into the box!

Emma E. holds herself upright much of the time.  She tries standing with support and one of these days she will as her grandfather’s youngest brother did,  climbed out of his crib at barely nine months.  And when I plumped him down after a hundred times shouted at him,  why did you choose me as your mother?

Will Emma E.’s mother shout at her after a hundred times the same thing?  And will she be as surprised as I was with the words coming out of me because I never gave thought to my sons choosing me?  And realized of course I knew that somewhere deep inside of me?

Because I always told them I loved them long before the world ever was!  And I always told my grands that I also loved them long before the world ever was.  I, of course, knew that to be true but I had to hear myself saying those words out loud.

Maybe Emma E. smiles because she already knows that I have loved her long before the world ever was.  And she knows that I will love her forever and forever more.

That has to be a nice thing to know for sure.

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My Earth, I Take It Personally. . . .

My Earth, I take it personally. . .

When I was a homeowner it was said I took it all personally and it was impossible to live like that. To me the world cannot be lived in fully unless it is taken personally.  It is the only way to process information for any meaning to be applied.  It must be personal.  It must be meant for you.  If it is not personal, you are a passer through.  These are my thoughts on this, my world.

Everything in this world is mine.  From the thought in my head to my surroundings.  To my actions, to the weather in the course of days, to my thoughts in the length of my nights.  I am on stage in a morality play, in a thoughtful participation of all life.

I do everything in conjunction with everything else.  I do it because I must, to the best of my ability.  The things are visible, to someone in a somewhere.  To my neighbors who are nowhere in sight.  To the ethers who view and label my actions, to the best of my ability because I can do nothing else.   And what I do will have far reaching effects.

I think what I think because I think it.  My earliest thought was ‘think it through’ and I did.   Embarrassing, uncomfortable all the time, but rewarding in retrospect.  In carrying a thought to conclusion another aspect opened.  And so led me to more thought.

And I learned that all life is thought.  Everything is a thought form and every thought creates a something. With the question arising, what is it we wish to create?  We are a lesson in process.

Arrogant?  I think not.  Because if everyone knew this, we would be working our buns off outdoing each other in caring for our Earth.  Work would be the mode of action.

I saw a pin on a young woman in a store that said, Ask me to do as little as possible!   Inspire confidence?  Shows me she cares or is proud of her work?  Shows me she approaches life in a caring way?  She will leave the world a better place?  Funny pin?  To some, perhaps.

Because I take things personally, and because it is my world, made for me, I have to do what I can.  I wish to leave it with one more person caring.

Just for those who cross my threshold to feel better about themselves.  And given food for thought and to see their eyes light up on the yard and see that love cares for it by who the gardener is.

All birds sing for me.  All life grows for me.  All thoughts are directed at me and I with love embrace all of it.  Because I feel this way, I will work and my eyes will appreciate the greatness of the gift given.  And know the ache in my bones and fatigue is indeed a small price for this caretaker.

You realize of myself I can do nothing.  To ask to be an instrument of peace means that one will be asked to work.  It is my world and it is personal.  I have not been a passer through.  Everything is a lesson and everyone teaches.  I did not know how else to do it.

My world, my commitments, my priorities. Maybe arrogant to think so, but it has been a responsible attitude, done with joy.  If nothing else because then there was no one else to do it.  Now that circumstances alter cases, because I see, it is still mine to do as long as I am able.

artwork by
Claudia Hallissey

 

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