Archive | Introduction

The Breaking Day. . .

 

Not often do we find sunrise photos.  I thank Jon Katz of BEDLAMFARM.com for this photo which he so graciously lets me use.   Here in California,  morning’s sunrise can be counted on pretty much and often to our detriment as these weeks have shown.  Still, photos like these require a photographer to rise early to greet them and be in the right place.  This is a favorite of mine and says perfectly what I try to say in this Breaking Day.

The Breaking Day. . .

There is a texture to the morning
that I distinguish from
the silky drape of the night,
to the languid folding
of two o’clock in the afternoon.

I greet it with a welcome
and crisp breath that
will increase sharply my taste
of morning coffee.

The smooth touch
of the furry Newfoundland with
his wet nose give off a sparkle
of light in the rising sun.

I taste of the morning with its clarity
that I will miss in the
oncoming heat of the day.

But this breaking day I move
my arthritic fingers with
their numb tips and wonder where
the girl has gone who never gave thought,
not once, to the dawn that
would ever break unevenly
in her world.

Nor did she ever think that the magic
of her mornings would ever change,
and never knew of the Grace
that the Greater Heart would grant
her aging one,

to feel supremely blessed.

 

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An Observation. . .

Nowhere Else To Go. . .

 

There are  those who are quick to say that all of life consists of making choices.  And choices are made many times.  But what is not considered is that Conscience is a heavy determiner.  There are circumstances that prevent choices and options are non existent.  Commitment and responsibility are obvious reasons for negating personal preferences.  The road becomes narrower as one ascends.  Be compassionate before leveling a charge of ‘you made your bed’ at anyone.  One cannot know the weight of the world Atlas shrugged.

 

 

 

An Observation

You say. . .
What I see as your reflection
is not what you think.

I say. . .
I don’t only think but I see
this face I don’t know.

Her contours are strange to me,
speaking of an old one
who can no longer
remember another face.

You say. . .
Her light shines for me,
speaking of a road traveled
long and hard.  One that would
not be freely chosen unless
one loved much.

I say. . .
The road I traveled was mine
because of circumstances I
could not change.

You say. . .
Hard it was
though not for naught. . .
The derision is only surface
signifying a significant accomplishment.

I say. . .
It did not make
the face beautiful.
My eyes do not deceive.

You say. . .
Other eyes see differently.
And one day other eyes will be yours
and with those eyes  you will say
. . . there was nowhere else to go.

And nothing else to do. . . .but do.
And we will vouch for your authenticity

and share the awakening.

 

 

art by  Claudia Hallissey

 

 

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As I Watched. . .

 

 

My journal entry says it was a Tuesday when my world folded onto itself, the trees blending into oblivion and the screen folded onto itself.  I was in a place as close to a cabin in the woods as I could be.  I loved it.  It seems I have been a recluse in several lifetimes and in this one it still was an effort for me to mingle with others.  As the world faded from view for the last time, I felt within, whole, and that I could step over whatever boundaries were beneath me.  It was the way I entered my nights voluntarily and traveled.  I lost it then because the next I knew were burly men shunting me over a gurney and into an ambulance.  ER became a reality as did the next days.

 

 

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 to me, don’t move.

And time collapsed for me
and events catapulted 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.

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Another Matter of Trust . . .

There was a little exchange with an elder.  I said, but you told me this and I believed you!  That was your problem!  was the retort.  But why say it if it is not true?  And then the paradigm spilling forth;  ‘there is no one so gullible as the one who loves you!’  There was laughter,  indeed.

Over such a small matter as saying that when you come to Wednesday of the week,  the rest was a piece of cake!  And I believed. And I worked very hard being promised relief.   Wonderful exchange,  wonderful lesson.  And again in a manner deserving of note,  learned that no one is so gullible as the one who loves you.

The one loved needs to be trusted and the one loving the loved needs to know these matters are not to be treated lightly.  Trust must undergird all relationships of note or all else erodes.

(excerpt from the poem)

Trust. . .

What precious treasure
to compare to this?
What pearl or diamond rare
has seen its equal?

Who would not raise it high
for world upon world to see?
And guard with life
if this be asked?

Not often given, but rarely refused
by those who trust have earned.
A burden love has made light.

Trust is a burden love has made light.

 

photo by
John Stanley Hallissey

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With A Promise. . .

 

Fortunate are those who walk with their cameras at the precise moment a sunset images the evening sky.  And we are fortunate to have those photos in our libraries.  Most fortunate are we who have the intent of the photographer rising at dawn to catch the morning sky in colors unmatched.  Few are the photographers and fewer still the mornings to be counted on to arise in  the eastern sky with brilliant precision.  It is almost a game with the gods of how much do you care?  And with joy we are fortunate to have in our yearning a photo like this,  a treasure of Jon Katz’ discipline that brings him out at dawn  to capture the emerging dawn’s chameleon concepts.  And with his generosity I add it to my growing library.

With A Promise. . .

There will be a tomorrow
somewhere. . .
waiting in the sunrise.

Perhaps in the shadow
of the footprint
on which you stand
this moment. . .

Or perhaps in
the light of a morning
in a world not thought
yet into Being. . .

But you will have it,
earned by the tenor
of your days,
practiced diligently.

It will be met
with an of course,
having visited every night
and well met. . .

with a promise once again to reclaim Paradise.

 

photo by Jon Katz

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On Bended Knee. . . Peace-d

It is on bended knee that I approach my blog with what nearly a century of living has taught.  With what I have learned of our holographic universe,  acknowledging talents given at birth or contracted for I must speak my experience.

It is a linear world we live in to help us learn.  It can be counted on being.  It is also a prime example that all time is simultaneous.  The past is still happening,  the future has already happened and we in the present race to catch up with it.  The following was one of the first posts I wrote 6 years ago when I first blogged. My life has stood me in good stead.  It has been all of a piece and I would be foolish to deny it.

September, 2011. . . . It is a trying thing we do.  We want to understand what we remember of a specific time when all we have are bits of memories and what historians say went on at the time.   But we cannot take as fact all that we read or hear.  Everything written cannot be taken as gospel.   Everything heard cannot be taken without question.  What we have in our memory bank we get in snatches and try to make as much sense out of them as we can.

 For when we try to do more than this, we are playing a guessing game.   It is also a guess when we are not certain whose memories we are jousting with.   Are they our memories of this life or perhaps other lives of ours as more of the world believes or perhaps even of distant or ancient ancestors written into our DNA?   Are we responsible for unfulfilled talents or love not returned?   Can we or should we put to rest our ancestors’ anguish?

 And what about all the historians’ views of history?  How much of it is conjecture?   How much of it is piecing what bits can be garnered to fill in the spaces when the times themselves have left no record?   There is much that can be retrieved through concerted research.  But retrieved also must be the long lost habit of conversation with aging persons.  There is much that oral history will reveal that written history has neglected to mention.  

It is a hard work we do to find a putting place for memories.   But it is one way to find out who holds the candle for each of us. 

Peace-d. . .

The numbers are few
who can share in this journey
that takes a lifetime
to get to the heart of oneself.

One learns to walk through
the warm woods of one’s empty house
to find the communion
with invisible friends
when a soul across the table is not.

The immediate pressure of voices
long gone have ears aching
but there is a conversation of saints
and the company of good minds
commingling;  kindred spirits housed in thought.

Confrontation of points hidden within centuries
of genetic history has one acutely conscious
of love freely given and healing accomplished.
As we are given the capacity to love,
Spirit within gives that capacity also to the Other.

And pieces of The All That Is will be peace-d.

(poem written March,  2016)

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Come Veronica, there is a bridge we can sell you. . .

The old argument came up about my impracticality. Others have difficulty following me.  Yet I was seeing to home maintenance over the years with no help, 20 white shirts a week ironed, suits pressed, meals on time, lawns manicured,  and best of all, children reared and raised in love.  And office work for those many years.  How impractical?

Our teacher son said that had he seen the growth in his students that he saw in his grandmother after she arrived to be in my care,  he would never have left the classroom.  I see as I always have so why must I explain connections to make a problem understood?  Mine is not an engineering mind and am not credentialed.  How do these people get degrees who don’t see the commonplace?  The teachers asked me to explain my day of choice.  The following I lifted from a journal entry of October, 2010.

(Wonderful day raking the leaves.  I felt as if I were a violin and the heavens were playing me.  The heavens were the bow that played on my heart and I sung with a high vibration through almost two or more hours.  It was wonderful.

This day was a gift.  This is how I connected in our yard with the All that was in me and in everything.   I was the god and the god was everything about me.   In my arms and the swing of the rake and the beauty of the day and the breath I took with my body.

I was the song and the instrument on which the All played.  I was the melody and I was the song.   And the day was the symphony behind me.   It was how it was for me when I was twelve and we moved to The Farm.  I connected with my earth and my earth was me and I was the god and the god was everything.)

The Teachers responded with . . . only another like you would relate.  The connection you have with your earth and you said, in love with it, is what we wanted for everyone.  How would you go about teaching this connection?  Or explain it to your beloveds?  You tell about virtue in labor and beauty in the doing,  and they resent you.  Not everyone sees the connections.  To them physical labor is grunt work.  But you sing with it and though your body pains,  you praise the day.  Who understands this kind of thinking today?

People text while they walk,  while they motor and while they make love.  What world could we give to you to teach virtue in labor,  beauty in the doing?  Come, Veronica,  there is a bridge or perhaps a world to sell to you?

Listen To Me, dear Earth. . .

This space where my sounds
break out into form and
I see, I see, and I knew it
all the time.

So listen to me, dear Earth,
and sea and sky,
for I speak your language and
hear your sound and hear your music.

And it is all for me,  for me.
The tension in my body
is the lyre upon which your music
is played.

My mind is my opening to worlds
that I know exist and can feel
through the thoughts winging
sometimes painfully against my ears.

Listen to me they say, and hear, hear.

(poem written in August, 1982)

 

 

photo by John Holmes

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Rolling Thunder . . .

 

Last week I awakened with a memory of a place and trying to make sense of it.  I realized I was given a piece of action to remember.  I remember reaching for a  framed photograph of  silhouettes of the children when they were little.  It was lying on the floor and as I tried reaching for it,  it kept moving.  The whole room was tipping around and the photo was nowhere still.  I realized as I tried many times to pick it up that I was in rolling thunder and the implicate and explicate of quantum theory came to mind. 

According to Michael Talbot’s Holographic Universe, the physicist David Bohm says this deeper level of reality is the implicate or enfolded order and the explicate,  the outer or unfolded order.  I remember it as the central part of the dream and the outer fringes.  This is what every aspect of life  means to me when explaining the rolling thunder of the universe.

Our Earth is the classroom of stability, the learning place that makes it easier to accept life and its principles, to adapt to  and is wonderful as the learning classroom it is.  The stability can be counted upon and makes it easy to acclimate to life and makes excellent sense to want it as a someplace to return to.  Which is why it has a growing populace who learn the rules and apply them from lifetime to lifetime.  And the sophisticated soon learn the place to excel is the Earth planet and the waiting list is unending. 

I wrote Rolling Thunder last year and thought it might help with the explanation of the nighttime excursion. Since I see all of life connected,  it was a natural selection to the dream sequence of last week.  I hope you read it with an ahhh sooo maybe ??!!

Rolling Thunder. . .

from what was a formless start
were pieces sent scattering
into a nothingness. . .

Our Consciousness spoke
one to the other and the thoughts
formed a place ready to hold our dreams.
We then broke off pieces of who we are and
went in search of meaning. . .

For sport, for something to do to fill ourselves,
for then we came to that place where thought
demanded a something to hold.
It was called Manifest.

This thought was like rolling thunder
with a threat of storm.  It was filled with power.
That power engulfed the whole of us
and we emerged as Man.

We grew and contributed to this great turbulence
and life took on a beauty which ennobled us
as creatures of this space now forming worlds at once.

In the center we knew our sense of power,
like thunder rolling and even now continues
its unrolling the events from our lives and dreams
and as it all enfolds it becomes part
of an Other’s dream.

The dreams unfold and pieces spark Other’s dreams
into an unrolling of the Great God’s Becoming.

It is with this understanding that the why and how has
neither a beginning nor an ending but is everlasting.

We always were soul stuffs and
were known by one name.
And when our thoughts grew with power we came into
Being and are known by one name again.
It is Creation we are involved with.

And we light up with surprise.

 

photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.

 

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For Sitting On The Porch. . .

 

For almost half of my life,  we lived in the one home during our marriage.  And maintenance was my responsibility except for big construction work which was hired out.  Every spring, staining the porch, (it is now called deck)  was mine.   And the first call of balmy weather had me with roller and brushes beginning.  It was an all day affair to get it evenly covered.  So the rest of the ritual was planting the hanging pots and barrels with the annuals. I stained the barrels and everything that was wood with Oxford Brown.  I loved the color.   The placing of the summer furniture completed the work.   It was a secluded refuge.

Early morning and dusk into evening were the best times for sitting.  Early morning for the greeting of the birds ready to acknowledge, by a brief halt in their singing,  my good morning.  But evening when I sat in the oncoming dark with my mind’s work in progress,  I was haunted by memories which kept me company.  Never feeling alone but accompanied by centuries of companions who stood and looked with wonder with similar eyes fastened on the sky.  Seeing perhaps what my eyes did now.

 

For Sitting On The Porch. . .

It is a night
for sitting on the porch.
The night is soft
and there is a breeze about.
Soft.  A love night. . . .
How could it be better?

Only to share with an Other
whose eyes see as mine do;
the shapes of the trees
against the darkening sky.
The maples are round
like balloons;
the irregular Tamarack
whose wispy needles
look like bare branches.

The feel of the night
like a caress,
a loving touch,
a whisper.

I was the night and all of my Self in it.

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A Cosmic Experience. . .

From a past journal entry. . . emotions become a burden needing to be understood before they are shrugged.  Once understood they become integrated and no longer need to be carried.

To understand the fullness of humanity is the first step toward the cosmic experience.  When the feelings become more than the human body can carry,  the heavens step in and with one fell swoop,  open the understanding toward greater truths.

And those truths need to be examined and placed in context of the person who is exposed.

A Cosmic Prayer for Mankind

We would wish for much.
We would wish
for the sublime love
that was preached
from every mountaintop.

We would wish
for a mother’s love
to be there for the infant
and the father’s hand
to caress the brow of every child.

We would wish for peace
within the human psyche
and learning to be brought
to the dinner table
and the breakfast table every time.
And love to be served
as the main course.

It is much that
we wish for;
much that we yearn for.
But peace is designed
for the human in mind
from birth to the grave.

Bring peace.

 

photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.

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