Archive | Introduction

To The Table Of Thought. . . Beggar’s Prayer. . . again

To The Table Of Thought. . .

I talk of the Essence of God because in Quantum Physics becoming is the key word for all of us in the present stages of Is, Am, Are.  Some of us freshly wrought,  others centuries in the harvest.

I plead to my god within to see the way to go, because I stutter my way with words and thoughts and do not dismantle but perhaps nudge into some evolutionary progress that my mentor, the Nazarene spoke.  What we do for one, he said, we do for all. 

We need help for this planet.  And for worlds watching what happens with us that we do not contaminate the rest of the planetary systems.  It is more than just us.  Or we will be walking the Cosmos again and soon finding ourselves with boots on in dry ash.

Beggar’s Prayer. . .

I come with the Grace
of all those I beseech, quietly.
In all names holy.

My work done with love,
in prayerful attendance to Life,
to acknowledge the birdsong
extolling the morning and awakening
the sun in triumph over night.

Sending the mist to dissipate
over the Mount, to nudge
the sleeping sages into activity,
to secure the earth’s roving
in this sea of tranquility.

I acknowledge my blessings where I am,
but I beg,

extinguish the desires of the old who miss
their spoils of war, and if allowed would
set fire to the hearts of the young
to do their bidding, negating the work
of the parents who taught their children
to love one another from the first time
a sibling invaded their space.

I beg for lives to be spared
so families can again sup together,
that children will again
have parents on the premises.
Begging you again to hone the values
that would have us carrying one another.

I beg this beggar’s prayer that man
who denies his own godliness will one day see

the common ground of his divinity.

 

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On Wings Of Hope. . . .

Once Covered With Dreams. . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Wings Of Hope. . .

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

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

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

that I am cherished.

art by Claudia Hallissey

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Show Me. . .the highest altar of the Mind. . . .

It was only in rereading the journals for August of ’17 that I happened to come across these words.  Oftentimes I don’t get back to entries long after they are written.  And then I  am often humbled by what is given.  I am in the midst of this mental conference and when fatigue overcomes,  I shut down.  When I go back,  there is seldom memory of what transpired.

When I put these words into format,  I can only say it is a condition of the heart and there is no reference.  These words have come at a cost that is prohibitive.  I read them over and tears form another ocean.   A favorite doctor counseled and wondered the mystery to him of mystics in modern times and how there had to be something invisible that tied the hearts of one to another.

Proximity to like minds would disturb the ongoing work.  It is often a life of isolation.  It is tolerable because solitude becomes the favored state when rejection accompanies the mystic.  Earlier times were easier on them because seclusion was more prevalent.  Laughingly I have said to my sisters of the cloth that no doubt I would be in their convents but heavily sedated.   Or in the monastery working in the vineyards.  Alone no doubt.

I posted Show Me in late 2017.  Speaking of prayers sometimes seems like public autopsy while one is still breathing.   But it is a way to show a route that heals the dichotomy within.  And we are in need.

Show Me. . .you are the more. . .

When I see you in your prayers,
you pull from me something akin
to obeisance of the highest kind.

I drop to my knees and want
to pray with you to the mighty of
All That Is who garnished upon us all
the sweetness that would turn the hearts
of stone awash with tears.

Tell me, how do you enter that
holy place so quickly when
your thoughts begin with the heart
of the child and take them to
the highest altar of the mind?

You almost take the highest and best
into yourself by some turn of mind
and close out the rest of us
like the door closing against the
onrush of minor thought. . .

How to get there?
Who lets you in?
Somewhere you go that closes us out
but yet. . . .your love includes us.

You step over what is invisible and
takes you to the promised land
which is not a place but a condition.
You know of what I speak and so do I.
I want it for me.

Because you are the more because of it.  Show me.

 

Journal entry August 27, 2017
(primitive art is mine)

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Otche Nash. . .Our Father. . .potential. . . .

The two of them trusted me with what they were seeing.  My mother, transiting said I could not live in your world and she cried.  Stick with it as long as you can though,  she said.  There is a reward.  And David transiting asked how did you know to do it?  How could you go on living knowing what you know?  And I did not know that I did anything except what I had done before, in a previous time.  And I had three sons who were more than reason enough to go on living.

I listened to people and read what bodies were saying and what they were saying did not match what was coming out of their mouths.  Everything seemed a coverup.  One learns what the silence is shouting.  One learns the love by the strength of the arms around one.  It is a sign that is hard to hide.  And by the evenness of the voice that sings in the air and the throat that does not gargle its sounds.

A favorite poet whose God quotes quietly the things of comfort , I envy.  And mine who thunders and rolls heavily the boulders down the grade to make roads, allowing what?  Allowing what, Veronica?

Otche Nash. . .potential. . .becoming. .

In deference to one
who mines the doxology,
I am in awe of his soft acceptance,
his protestant soft ways
as he whispers his way
to the altar,

accepting as
the silent snow falling and
his God quietly  speaking.
And I in my army boots thundering
and falling on my knees
in my approach to my god
rolling and thundering in my head.

The Great God moves
toward a no ultimate anything.
In motion always finding its way,
his way, her way, our way is
what a Great God does.

I, in my hard soles and
muddy high boots and
overly large coat lumber with him
toward an unknown potential.
Is that why I cry?

Otche Nash. . .
of undergirding intelligence.
I mimic the noisy business
of attempting to find the
Potential you chose. . .
to be undisclosed, a yet to be
discovered arrival

at perhaps another Star.

 

photo by John Holmes

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Emma E . . .the best of blends. . . .

She said wait and I will get my hat on and be ready to go!  And her hat is on and she has her bag and is ready for fun!  For our little one who is the best of blends. . . like good coffee or fine wine, she is a sparkler.  Weighing in early last Thanksgiving time at one pound 12 ounces, she is holding her own bottle and her grandfather said that driver training is next!

I am fortunate to be her grandmother great though I have not seen her in this world.  I need escorts to the car in the driveway because my legs are as wobbly as Emma E.’s are yet.  Her legs will grow sturdier and mine not, to be sure.  Her life will be filled with awe, as mine continues to be.  Her complaints will loom large in irritation to restriction, as surely mine do.  Both of our heads know what we desire to accomplish, though the surroundings differ.  We both will do what we need to do for the greater good.

Thank you all for your good wishes, thoughts and prayers.  Good has no boundaries and we have been grateful to see our Emma E. responding magnificently.  Your wishes have been a salve for our hearts.

 

photo by Merideth,  mom
of Emma E.

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My Sanctuary, my Earth. . . .2018

My Sanctuary, My Earth. . .

What I found in the sanctuary of my yard, a church if you will,  and still do, is a pull, albeit a magnetic one, to a something that transcends the physical.  I function in the physical, but never seeing it in just a single dimension.  There is a height, a depth and an all embracing width that I try to gather into my arms.  You are in that embrace.

I have written where I see in a glance the essence as well as the result, the consequence.  It is admiring the garden and appreciating the gardener, seated at banquet and knowing its intricate preparation and thanking the farmer.  It takes away the spontaneity and surprise; both a curse and a blessing.  What it gives is a first rate conscience and sense of responsibility.  It has you working till you drop but chalking  few regrets with gratitude for life and thanking the giver for it.

You might ask, who cares?  What difference does it make?  One day you will care and to you it will make a big difference.  You are its prayer, its question and its answer.  In you are the answers to what your life means.  There are no other answers.  You are the answer.  You are the unsuspecting shoulders upon whom the answer rests.  You will be the answer to who cares.  And you will care a lot.

Our Hearts Speak. . .

As we enjoin the universal spirit
to entrust us with another spring,
another resurrection,
awaken within us the desire
to nurture the world
that has nurtured us.

Let our hearts lead us
to that place where
we intuitively cherish the mother
who feeds and clothes us and
gives us sustenance.

Let us not forsake our responsibilities
to those yet unborn but whose futures
we have already mortgaged.

Blessed Spirit, enliven our curiousity
about our daily world, remind us
that the bird’s song needs our
acknowledgement and praise,
that the sun needs our greeting
and the night wishes it bid good.

As we nourish those of our commitment,
speak to us of our commitment
to the home we know, our planet Earth.
Let our love guide us to make beautiful,
to make secure and to guard diligently
what has so faithfully harbored us.

In love we pray,  Amen, amen.
{scribed April 5, 1991}

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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Come, Sit With Me. . .

The words to each will mean something different.  They will root in the heart, in the mind and have a life of their own with you.  At some time I hope, they will mean a something that answers what is now a question.

Our Time Is Now. . .

Listen to the peoples, listen
to the peoples.
One learns what the silence
is shouting.
One learns what is not said
when words spilling forth
are not true.

One learns of love
by the strength of the arms about
that do not lie.  I know, I know
it to be a sign that cannot be hid.

And by the evenness of the voice
that sings in the air
and the throat
that does not gargle its sounds.
No matter how smooth
is learned the persuasion,
how smooth.

Come, sit with me.
It is our time and it is now.
No matter the wait
for time impends its weight

and our time is now.  Now.

 

{painting was a gift of
my granddaughter Jessica,
who knows her grandmother well }

 

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Cost Commensurate. . .

 

 

What can be born and be borne?   Knowledge is that all reality is a preferential viewpoint.  That the dream is born and in it will be the
lesson plans inherent.  That with the lesson plans will be what we
need to learn and they will be borne within the dream’s boundaries
and the lessons will be carried.  We will be equal to their weight and
profit from them.  And we will grow and mature and do good and
the dream will be a success for this time and place.  We will do what
we can do. 

 

 

 

It Comes With Cost. . .

It comes with a cost.
Learning can rip the heart.
Let the words be carried
to the Ethers and
wrung dry of your tears.

You shout a language foreign
to the ears of him.  You live
nowhere but in your heart and
nowhere but in your mind.
It is time to go to that
small place and bless who you are.

Tears of anguish ask for
acknowledgement.  The words are
lost on the south wind which carry
them north and lost on the north wind
as it brings them south again.

Your heart is tapped deeply
revealing the Source of who man is.
It is time.  It is time.

It is time he knows this.

 

art by Claudia Hallissey

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Emma E. . . A song of joy. . . and Magic. . .

Song of Joy. . .

My joy is great in presenting this heartfelt bundle in her run for the roses.  She does nicely with wonderful parents and grandparents ready with arms open.  And uncles and aunts by relation and a hundred cousins and others by adoption.

She has reason to smile broadly and wink in secret.  She knows, of course, she knows what the secret is and who holds the keys.  We all wish we had arrived with such welcome and so much love.  We think what wonders could have been wrought, but we know now what we can give to each other.

And with open arms greet each other to assure a welcome when we meet.  Emma E. has already taught us all much.  She knows who holds the sparklers and knows also,  in her heart,  that she is one of the ones who holds that bit of magic out to us.

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The Invited Guest. . . .

We have those things that comfort and reassures us.  It can be a photograph or a painting or something bringing to mind a feeling.  It takes us to the place where we were all of a piece and peace.  I have many such things and one of them is wood. 

My woodworking days were of such quality that when I finished a project,  having carved or sawed and sanded and then waxed and polished, I would with great love bend my face to it.  Feel and smell the earth I love in it and know I will cherish this scent forever. 

What world taught this now female person to be a carpenter with so much love that when I picked up wood and saw and file I knew what to do?  Where to begin and how to proceed?  I loved those years of woodworking.  Humbling an idea and creating a something. 

I do not remember the lifetime but there was a teacher who gave me tools.    Those tools were courage to try and confidence to do, so the means manifested.  I learned ‘do and you will be shown how.’  The intensity of purpose was the prime ingredient.   The invited guest became my Mentor. 

The Invited Guest. . .

I once knew a good carpenter
who, with hammer and saw
and wood and file,
showed me how to build a chair.

I did and sat on it and
then decided I needed a table.
With hammer and saw and
wood and file,
I built a table and sat at it.

I knew I needed another chair
for an Other to sit on.
So with hammer and saw
and wood and file,  I built it.

I then invited the carpenter
to join me at the table.
We lit a candle and talked
and a new world was born.
How did I know

I first needed to learn how to build?

 

photo by John Holmes

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