Archive | Observations

Peace Of Mind. . . .

We persist in thinking we might make a difference because we don’t know when we might make a difference.

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When illusions are unmasked, coping mechanisms prove unable.

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Death is a triumph.  The tragedy would be had we never been.

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A cynic is someone on the threshold of understanding.

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Man’s God is a ‘controlled substance.’

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Man is a prime example of ‘substance abuse.’

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An image is a reflection of an idea.

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All worlds are reflections of ideas in various stages of completion.

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Love underwrites the hope always.  It has to be the basis for all of life.

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We. . . are always safe.

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Sometimes the body goes out of control and aches.  It is an ache with a memory.

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If you are not gun shy after being shot,  then you don’t understand the purpose of a gun.

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Within is the treasure and without the within,  there is no without

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Worlds I Know. . . to speak of. . .

A few weeks ago there was an evolutionary find with a faceless fish.  I knew that graphic because I have what you see beside this in an October 8. 1987 journal entry.  I knew it was somewhere in my journals but there was no way I could remember where.  Last night as I was note taking I came across this.  In my night treks I have entries that depict worlds I encounter.  I will share them when I come across the entries.

From this journal entry October 8, 1987. . . .I wrote. . . There were so many exquisite dreams  or consciousness of worlds so gentle.  A Nord, a Kern,  so many little gentle  fishes and  animals shaped so strangely,  but so gentle.  These creatures were moving with their babies, scurrying every which way.  Blunt heads and tails moving.

So much is given, so much to write about but who cares.  I care and that is a beginning.  Why not create a need for something that will expand the limitations structures have given us.  Something that will move the lines out that will give my grands memories of life in other dimensions.  I cannot be certain,  but knowing who I am,  only within my structures, I can suppose what they are, carrying what I am in them.

 (the following quotes are the Teacher’s response from August 12, 1987 concerning the worlds I know. . .)  we are using what you do to the fullest extent and you will be remembering more and more of where you have been.. . The worlds you inhabit are worlds most avoid because they are unfamiliar and cause discontent and frighten.  You appear where you are needed and the one looking for you appears where you are.

They are not just one world.  There are places of beauty that still the heart.  Places of poverty that touch the living heart and strum with songs of despair that cannot but help but be heard.  There are barren places, lush places and places that speak of the mind.)

 

 (when I did the journal entry on the date, I drew the fish as I remembered them in the margins.  I copied them on the board this morning best as I could.  When I saw the graphic on Television,  I knew it right away!.  I am humbled.)

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To Break The Waves, enough it is. . . .

After having been told a zillion times that no one would want my head,  I have decided that I truly would not want anyone else’s head either.  Because then I would not see the world that I love the way I do.  I would not see the pine trickle of a branch pulling itself courageously out of the trunk of the tree amidst a  half dozen other twigs and marvel at the beauty of it.  Or hear the young grandmother puzzle at the toddler wondering why is this child so angry?  And another placid?  And see the connections in all bornings from their source already bent.  Chance, you think?  My head tells me of no coincidences.

Understandably there are some who prefer to think everything is newly chaste.  But each of us has a history and life is a gift given.  It is with hope that we uncover its gems.  And profit from its lessons.

If You Can Bear The Truth. . .

If they should ever ask you
from where comes this knowledge
and you can bear the truth,  tell them.

It was written in the stars that I saw
with inner vision,  shining exuberantly
with a vitality that bears description.
It was hung and dried by a sun that had
dried my ancestor’s tears
for a million centuries.

The lyrics have pressed my ears
in moans that I find unbearable.
Does not everyone hear the cries?
If they should ask you,
tell them this.

It is the music of celebration,
when one, even one is freed from
a lifetime of servitude to anguish
clogging the throat.
This music is heard down long lines
of generations and will be mated
in their genes.   They will glory in
their freedom and they will live forever.

So if they ask you and you can
bear the truth, tell them.

It was taught by my Spirit
spilling into my heart with no reprieve
and into my mind with no relief.
It is a lifetime of no alibis and
a coping system diffused.

My teacher has no name,
still the imprint is within my genes,
implanted within my ancestor’s memories,
resting within me.

They do not rest while I cannot.
My songs continue, if only for me.

Enough it is for me to break the waves.

 

 

Photo by John Stanley Hallissey
(click on photo to fill screen)

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Streaming. . . .

All of humankind is in need of professional counseling, but who is going to counsel the counselors?

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If man is the result of the whim of the Potter,  how dependable is the Potter?

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Or is the lump of clay thrown out willy nilly and at the whim of the elements, molded?

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Can any constructive change be considered not worthwhile and worth the effort?  When does ‘at what cost’ enter into the argument?

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The attempt to discern writing of the ancients is an attempt filled with trepidation.  As man and his language evolved , to trace early meaning accurately is to find a man with mind and an ancient frame of reference.

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When we fall down, we will get up only as fast as we are embarrassed.  Or hurt.

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It is never too late to do a good thing.

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An accident is only an accident when we do not feel responsible.

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Heaven is kind to allow us so much time as children, otherwise we would never be forgiven.

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As long as we have the ability to emote,  we have the passion to breathe

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The dismay which follows truth should not defeat us because in a quiet moment longer, the courage will be given for constructive action.

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Love life sufficiently and make it all sacred,  for it is.

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Kin have to become family before acquaintances can become friends.

 

photo by John Holmes

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Maudie Update. . your way home is well lighted. .

 

 

Maudie Update

Last week when I posted  Again Maudie??? and asked if doves or birds blinked intentionally, on Saturday’s 15 July entry I knew.  As I bid good morning to Maudie she blinked several times.  Her eye was pinned on me and a veil dropped,  a light grey, greenish color and covered the eye.  She did it several times and drove me to tears.  She knew I questioned and she answered me.  She was turned the opposite from the way son John took her photo.  She is a dear and a good mother.

Since them I have watched her peck the eggs and the babies hatched.  I have watched her feed the babes and groom them and I have watched the babes grow overnight and inch their mother to the brink of  falling out of their nest.  I have encouraged her to push them out so they could learn their wings will hold them up.  I have stood and sat at the sink and when I turned away of course the biggest babe flew off.  And hours later the little one found his wings fluttered and gave them a try and took off.  The nest is empty.   Every species has memory and we are connected.  Maudie is a wonder and I suppose together we are both a wonder.   My loss is again a physical loss.  But my experience has taught me much.

And if I deny my experience,  I may as well deny my existence.  And I am.  If nothing else,  I am.  Nothing teaches as well as experience.  I am sure someone else said that sometime.

Journal entry
April 5, ‘84

‘the sun still shines,
the snow will come
and so will the night.

But your way home is well lighted.’

 

Journal entry
January 23,’86

The son asks,  ‘should I drop Philosophy?’   ‘And I say. . . .there is no other class worth the taking.  Except History and Literature.  And Humanities.  And some others like Ethics and the Religions of Man.’

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Seriously Consider. . .

 

Seriously Consider. . .

 

I go back to thinking time and again that one cannot ask to govern a body of men when one cannot govern one’s own body.  And for those who say one’s private life has nothing to do with one’s public competence,  I say character will determine private as well as public behavior.  One cannot perform better in life than one is a person.

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Angels are about you.  Sometimes the costumes can fool you.

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Information is often beyond what the individual can assimilate. It is for the taking but not for the assimilating.  It somehow has to fit before it can be worn.

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There are those whom you cannot take seriously but you must because often they hold tremendous positions of power to do ill.  They do not know the meaning of seriously.  One day they will.  Then the memory will nudge and the terrible weight will fall upon them and they will know that between men there is no other god but the weight of words with whatever intent spoken.

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Three things have guided me.  To do some good,  to do no harm and to never ever be afraid.  The latter is the hardest to learn and the most important.

For to exhibit fear gives the hoodlums advantage to take over the world.  And then it is no longer free to the majority who approach life in a concerned way.  This will no longer be a classroom but a prison.

It will not be the learning  experience for further evolution but become the place where those of ill intent are bent on destruction.

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In this world such little emphasis is placed on words like truth and character and bonding.  If in another world you learned these guidelines of the heart,  its absence has filtered down to you in this world and has caused you grief.  The unease devastates with nothing tangible to grasp except to say you don’t feel well.  And well you are not.

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The first step inward is the most difficult one to take.  Most will run away from rather that toward themselves.  Most do not know themselves well enough nor trust themselves well enough to take that first unsure step.  That is where the work begins.  It is foreign territory to most.  It is territory that the Science Gods have filled with curious creatures and religions have filled with devils.

photo by
John Holmes

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A Chance For Love. . .

 

 

A Chance For Love

Each day is a new beginning,  each breath the birth of a new world.  Time now to forgo the past and give life a chance.  Accountable we are and to allow that to become a fact,  it is the moment to begin anew. 

 The poem will only take on meaning for those ready for it.  It becomes self explanatory and within one’s frame of reference,  a truth.  It will not distort nor become a trajectory for misguided action when viewed from the heart, one’s true compass.

A Chance For Love. . .

Each time is a new time.
Cast in the shadow
of a rock, a cave,
or even a cove. . .

Simply set and
inspired by a rolling coast,
a sunset,  a glimpse of
a new place. . .

New tidings of good cheer;
a glass of sweet wine,
robust, quaffed in slow gulps
but favored by a thirsty throat.
Ever new, ever fresh
as a new beginning.

New worlds,
hammering their impatience
with promises;
limited only by how much

we are ready to forget.

 

photo by
John Holmes

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Time For Work To Be Done. . .

It was a desolate landscape.   There were ice mountains in the background.  There was a building,  more barracks like  with  no thing,  nothing around it.   The moon was white and things were outlined but barely so.   Sparse would be putting it gently, but desolate and bare of life would say how tragic it felt.  I could not say what world.  But unfinished work it is.

What if we find ourselves  doing the work of mules in places that need our talents in  very practical ways?  Would we not answer the call to help in the vineyards  with things of value that moth and rust do not destroy;  things of the mind?  Jesus said, as above, so below when he stood on the rock.   Life on Earth is the reflection of Heaven and we the reflection of what we hold as truth..  Are we not all unfinished work?

There is unfinished work everywhere.   I cannot go back ever to not knowing.   There are worlds needing what we hold as valuable, what we can only take in Mind.  We may look like mushrooms but our hearts are daffodils.    It is a good thing to keep in mind.

Jubilation On The Mount. . .

You go out too far, she said, too far.
But that is where the work
needs to be done, I said.

Jubilation.  There will be time
for jubilation; a time for frolic.
We will drink the variegated drinks.
And we will dance.

There is a time for work
in the far place,
where the vineyards
need to be planted but first
the plowing must be done.

Until the time
I do not care to stir the ashes
to bring forth another fire,
I stay.

Where I am is reason enough.

                                                                                                                                         

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Beyond Morsels. . .

Beyond Morsels. . . .

When one needs a fire to rest by, one often  has to build it first.  But no fire made by other hands warms as compared with effort gone into the building and fanning of one’s own flame.

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You cannot list the world’s disorders without revealing yours in duplicate.  You identify them because you relate to them by knowledge of experience.  You cannot blame others for what they are unable to relate to,  seeing nothing of themselves in the ills surrounding.  And not being able to identify them,  they cannot do something about what they cannot see.   How to open eyes and by what process?

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He spoke a good song but he did not sing it.

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Kindness is never out of date.  Nor is it old fashioned.

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The right to truth is mine to uncover.  The right to conceal belongs to the Other.

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When illusion hides the reality, the bears become frightened.  And they stand and attack what could be their greatest gift.

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Sometimes it seems that nowhere is the rational voice or the clean motive.  And there are none. There are only people who justify themselves and give forth with their justifications.  And the justifications are needed.  They could not continue otherwise.  Are we not one of them?

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To think is to act.  To the Others it appears as doing nothing.  But it is a supreme undertaking one approaches.

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Conscience is installed to monitor one’s life for one’s survival.  Conscience is memory of acts done to one with a memory of pain.

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We are our belief system.  As we stand, we teach.

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There are worlds being spun out of glossy webs that bespeak of spun sugars.

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You cannot fool the nature of souls and souls have a way of propounding the innocent and the complex.  In the midst of all that is done,  the soul will fathom the doer and know beyond doubt what the motive and process has been.

 

art by Claudia Hallissey

 

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The Laughter. . .

In a lifetime of many years,  certain things stand out as a moment imprinted on a mind to last forever.  One is the good fortune of living as a neighbor to a family of daughters.  Their laughter in the course of days that presented worrisome events,  was the hallmark for life,  that somehow my own handicaps would be overcome.  Open windows threw the girlish giggles across the lawns and into my heart.  They meant that life could be lived even in the midst of heartbreak and work to cow a giant.

I am grateful to have heard that laughter.  Grateful to the parents under enormous events that all things can be borne and laughter when allowed its moment,  can lift the hearts of all within hearing it.  A boisterous laugh,  a giggle,  a laugh so hard it makes one sneeze,  are a measure of the soul’s ability to harness the serious life.  It imprints the mind and assures us that all things pass but the laughter is memorable.

The Laughter. . .

In the dim light
of the silent candle,
while seated at the kitchen table,
I heard laughter.
It rose from the belly of one
seated at another table
and hit the ceiling with a loud guffaw.
The ceiling fan threw the laughter
out the windows to the winds,
carrying it afar.
My heart welcomed the sounds
for safekeeping.

The girlish giggles in answer
roamed the table
and shushed the corners
of the room and I wondered;
the girls, where did they go?

Now I sit and pound my keys
to a fine fettle
and ponder the turn of wheels
that held the world
at its pivot.

And wondering what happened
to the laughter
and why did it die

when we were so hungry for it to last?

 

photo by John Holmes

 

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