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)


How Long Before All Worlds Will Be Safe . . . ?

Sometimes I run previous posts to acquaint my new readers with earlier work to show where it is I come from.  This is one of those times I need to remember for me.   A gift given and life was renewed and I am grateful.  There is always hope with a writer that words written will somehow be what is needed by a someone at the moment.  The following was for me today.

May I ask you a question?   He was sitting at the window and looking out as if he could will the sun to come out so he could play outdoors.   Why you ask?   Because I want you to know that if you don’t want to answer,  you can say no to me.   But you always answer my question and never say no,  he said.   I woun’t say no to you,  he said.   I maybe not know the answer but I woun’t say no.   I tried to frame my question simply.

I wonder, I said, if you can remember what it was like before you came here to live.   I waited.   He continued looking at me and I thought past me and then asked,  which time before?   I drew breath and then said the one you remember best.   And he smiled at me and said the one where we were together before?   Where was that I asked.   He said, you know,  you know.   That’s why I choosed you this time.   We were bestest friends and I knowed how much you could help because we were bestest friends.

Where was that I asked again.   He said in that cold place where we had to hold hands so our fingers could be warm.   Who was there with us I asked and he searched my face.   He was reading me I thought and then wondered why.  He said it was a hard time and this time would be better.   Why was it a hard time I asked and he said because our bodies were broked and sick.   This time he said we are not broke so we can go outside and play.   We were too old and broked last time and the cold hurt when we breathhhhddd.   How do you remember that I asked and why do you remember.

Because here I can breathhhedddd and it don’ hurt.   My throat burn in that place when things ‘ploded  ’cause they fighted all the time.  You ‘member he said, you ‘member.   And he became silent and his eyes clouded.   And he said,  we say to each other,  never  ‘gain,   never  ‘gain.  I pulled him to me and hugged him and said never again.   We will try to stay where it doesn’t hurt to breathe.   And I wished I could promise there would always be a place where it didn’t hurt to breathe,  but I could not make that promise.   For this time only,  I could hug him and keep him where the air did not burn his throat.  But how long before all places would be safe?

Until life in all forms vowed not to inflict such terror in worlds where to draw breath just to live would hurt,  we would continue to work.  That is a promise.


Say This I Can Do. . .and hold in your hand. . . .


I want to show you the final results of the blue material I made on post previously.  This I completed and wanted you to see what you can do just for fun.  It is a creative endeavor and limited only by the boundaries you set.  And I hope they will be few.

The next two are embroidered with the sewing machine either zigzag or straight needle.  Or if you are at ease with free motion,  give it a try with something you can draw on material.  You limit only yourself.  Try all things, houses, barns, trees or figures in one color and then bind them onto flannel for a child’s nap time blanket.  There may be no nap.                               .

The next example are five inch squares with a central inch white strip going diagonally .  Or a wider strip.  Glue it down with a glue stick so it won’t shift.  But first cut your five inch squares from an old soft sheet or new flannel sheets to mount pieces of fabric too small or unshapely for much else.  I prefer these strips to piecing because I think piecing requires larger pieces with much waste.  I prefer to use smaller pieces with strips having little waste.  You can place the squares to suit your fancy with straight lines or parallel ones or whichever pleases.  You are limited only by yourself.

The last one are the inch squares you feel you must use .  Take web bonding and using an inch ruler and make an inch grid covering the sheet.  Lay the rows as you choose and with the wrong side of fabric on the grid press to bond.  When cool peel away from backing and on wrong side crease and stitch along the length and width 1/8 inch.  You will end up with perfectly matched squares.  Wonderful way to use scraps and I honor the genius who thought this up.



These are things you can do with materials on hand or friends eager to lessen their stash.  Old sweats can be cut up as batting to give stability.  Try your hand at drawing on materials with simple pieces.  Use coloring books as source materials.  Attach things with glue sticks before stitching.  Do not be shy with your talents.  Do and you will be shown how.  Have fun with making something substantial you can hold in your hand.  There is satisfaction in saying to yourself,  this I can do.  And do it again.




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.




A Peace of Mind. . . .

It is not the mystery of  life which stunts man and does not beguile  him to further thought.  It is the work involved.


It is not easy for Wendy to become Tinkerbell in one fell swoop.  Not without destroying Peter Pan in that fell swoop.


Statistics are meant to sell beer and not to legislate the human spirit.


What seems like a tragedy in the absurd and obscure indeed is a well thought out and prescribed drama.


It is the lighted candle that sparks the heavens.


Live and become that dream where you make a difference in a world that makes no difference.


Bless the good day and blow the winds of fear as far from the ends of the Earth.  The alternative is more of the same in a place where progress is not so swift.


Wait not for death.  Be vigilant only of life in all its forms, in its entirety.  Embrace it all.


One cannot break a will which heralds its own functioning and its own existence.


When nothing is taken from our leisure  to add to our proportion,  it is debauchery and decadence.  We have license to steal from ourselves the only thing we have at the moment and that is time.


The hardest commandment to fulfil is the one to love one’s neighbor because it presumes one’s love for oneself.


It is sometimes necessary to be abrupt or we lose our 30 second audience.  We know the perilous times.


You have carved a piece out of the night sky and you stand alone on the jetty in the universal sea.  Who will you ask to dance on the ceiling?  I would be honored if you ask me.


artwork by Claudia Hallissey


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)


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


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)


To Feed My Spirit. . . .

Lately I find myself not equal to the day’s events.   And considering how close the century mark hovers,  it is not unusual.  But I cannot remember with this body how I rose to the occasions when events played havoc with my heart.  So I take myself to the work table and create something from scratch.  Normally it is to the kitchen but no thing seems palatable.  So I am going to create from bits ready for trash, something still usable to feed my spirit.

Place a silicone sheet  or a large piece of parchment on the ironing surface.   Put a light 8×10 inch fusible web piece on it and  then take scraps of fabric of a chosen color and cover the web.  Place the colored pieces in whatever design you choose and  then with a hot iron over another piece of silicone or parchment, press.  Once fused the top sheet of silicone will lift off and the piece of now fusible colored bits will lift off the bottom silicone in one piece.

I free motion quilt over the fused fabric to make certain it holds together if not used right away. I don’t want movement in the fabric drawer loosening pieces of it.   I use the fabric for wall quilts or small things.  They make good mug mats or quilt squares.

I am still of the mind set that hands should not be idle.  And every day is an adjustment as aging or illness takes what once were skills and of no thought.  Even the threading of a needle becomes a major task when eyesight is not sharp or fingers become numb.

My knowledge has been such that whatever is fed into the mind is what will determine what world we inherit or how we are used when we transit.  Everything teaches and it is up to me to feed that addiction I have for learning.  These are what rust and moth do not destroy.  These are the only gifts we take with us.

So today I share this with you.  If the pieces are too small to handle with comfort, iron them onto fusible web and create a larger piece that gives rise to a something that has a wonderful outcome.  You are limited only by boundaries you erect.



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?


Powered by WordPress. Designed by WooThemes