Ideas. . the power behind the horse. . .

This is from a journal entry shortly after my cardiac arrests.  Again I mention since my head works in quantum physics,  it is as yesterday.  The scribing is as true today because time is our measure, the measure our planet works with.  I had been slothful I wrote because I read immersed in family sagas for relief from the physical maintenance work.  Also I had word of a heart friend who was hospitalized and being moved to a facility with more state of the art machines and died enroute.

I was weeping on the phone to my younger and he said ma, she had an offer she couldn’t refuse.  That doesn’t make me feel any better, John I wept.  But he was right.

We think anyone leaving us no matter when, is too soon.  Yet the very young have fulfilled destinies we  probably cannot understand nor give credence to.  And the very old we see clinging to life like Hera to a love lost.

Sunday school for adults may look upon this entry with interest tomorrow.  Give it some thought.

I scribed the following. . . Oftentimes people say that a soul is dispensed before its time.  But this is not the case.  For we work on many levels and because we do, when the purpose of our existence has been served, we then are free to move on.  Notice how that term is used.  Free to move on.  Not tied anymore.  Not tied to anyone or anything.

Physical life gives the illusion  of permanence and material things, items, give the appearance of being in a finished or unfinished state.

This is to give continuity to physical life.  This is the linear measurement which is necessary to prevent a chaotic mind.  For it is far easier to deal with permanence in a positive material mode than it is to deal with nuances or illusions or concepts.

Yet ideas , concepts are just as real, just as permanent, if not more so than the so called material or permanent things which indeed decay with rust and rot.  But ideas are clear items, they are undying.  They may disappear for a time, but reappear when the time may be more precise.

Concepts are pie in the sky many think.  Yet concepts are to be grasped, grasped to be used to build a life on.  For that is all we have in mind when we come to earth.  We have an idea, a concept and proceed to chisel it to make it permanent or concrete.  A something to be touched.  A something that can be handled.  Yet the concept with its energy and power is the permanent thing.

It is the power behind the horse.

excerpt from His Purpose. . .

My God, he said
when first he saw himself in light of day.
Hidden with full knowledge was Creator,
Implementer of  dreams
gathering raw data to circumvent
the mind’s illusions.

My god, he said
and picked up the mallet
with his own hands

to chisel his own destiny.

(poem written 1980/81)

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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Among the earth’s persons. . racing toward his truth. . .

 

We were sitting at dinner on the Farm visiting with my beloved burly brothers.  I had been the first sister amid 5 brothers born and never doubted their love.  They were my introduction to the world of men and they could do everything. And when I first talked with words of meaning, I announced my intent to marry them all and be their slave!  I think I was about five years old when I stated my premise.

At that dinner, my brothers were talking about what they did to help, the meaningful work of life.  And when they got to the fledgling newly wed they asked what do you do?  In a loud voice he proclaimed. . .I pay the bills!  And a thoughtful response from my quiet brother. . . that is the easy work.  The hard work is within four walls.

And my life of nearing the century mark in a decade taught?  That the hardest job in the family is on the premises as parents.  That it was with cosmic intention birthing would be the extension of the mother’s heartbeat and the father’s process would be the soothing open hand on the child’s brow in love.  This was the paving way to brotherhood among the earth’s persons.

Both would be required and life would be lived with promise and the living made with talents sorted.  Where the talents the world used would be the living made and home where children reared with love.

In this new country settled by immigrants, life would try on and keep trying on the many ways to make a living and a life.  We still are in process for a more better fit.  With working it out, transitional methods are tried and in flux.  But we continue with hope to work hard.

The caring, the uniting, the intention of belonging to the greater humanity was what being human was all about.  Before going on to other worlds, we must learn to accept and respect the differences in ours.

Life everlasting  means that chances are given in many worlds for Beings to work on themselves, to bring forward the good within each.  We were told of fields ready for ploughing and farmers needed to feed mind and body.

Jesus said my father’s house has many rooms and this is but one of them.

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 the bread
of the parent 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.

 

sculpture by Stanley Rybacki

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You are invited. Come, we eat. . . .

We become what we feed our mind.  
*****
Become the person you want to meet coming down the street.
*****
When you form the question, you already know the answer because you form the question.
*****
Hopefully the added years bring thoughtful conclusions.  You feed your mind what?
*****
It is not said that understanding behavior makes it easier to live with.
*****
Sometimes the only faith you have is that you can do it whatever needs doing.
*****
Maybe all that requires doing is you; nothing and no one else.
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The world is a canvas to our memories.
*****
Imagination is memory and memory to be executed and made manifest requires ‘hands on’ in this world.
*****
Memory becomes knowledge in this world when it is faithfully executed and applied to enhance humanity’s evolution for good.  Not to argue the word ‘good’ when we use the word  ‘enhance’.
*****
Kindness should automatically accompany action with our second breath without thought.
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Self discipline shrinks or expands to the breadth of one’s Conscience. 
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Is However Long We’ll Talk. . . Psalms of Love. . .

 

However long. . . .

Coming into a chosen family will be what someone will call a misfit.  And the label will stick.  This often is a child with a need to know everything and talk.   There will not be anyone to listen.  Because there will be other children, work to do, buses to catch, and excuses given on the spur of the moment.

I don’t have time to listen will be the mantra.  And the child grows to be adult with the need still unfulfilled.  Because in the course of life, there will be work and school, meetings and planes to catch and television.  Now of course we add hand held devices.

The need continues in those born with the desire to learn and talk but there is no matching soul with a similar need. The sweet hours of the night are filled with the best conversations, though silent they be.  No matter the fatigue of the soul, the mind conversations are filled with wonder and appreciation.

I awoke with the words, however long the night is,  and wondered perhaps I read them someplace.  Years of research never found them anywhere.  It proved to me again,  that we are not abandoned.    It is included in Psalms of Love. . .   get it for the one you love. . . .

However long. . . .

However long the night is,
is however long we’ll talk.
A tongue dismembered from its throat
is punishment too severe to be humane.

It has taken a life of silence
to filter through its members;
lessons enough for the toughest skin to break.

I have marched with your words
through endless tasks,
through nights not filled with magic.
And heard the harangue from compressed lips
tearing even the plea of forgiveness from Me.

Now I promise.
In the stillness of the life you know
I will come for you. In the light of the night
I will make my way
and no walls will bar my entry.

I will sit the night and across the table
a hand will clasp the one you call your own.
And in the magic of words spoken
I will listen to the story built
to house lives of wonder.

It has taken too long.

And we, the each, will speak and listen
and as the words flow like rivers
toward their delta, in ribbons of courage,
we will stay the night.

And however long the night is,
is however long we’ll talk.
July 1987

 

(photo by John Holmes)

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It Is A Fact. . . Know It. . .

 

Believe because it is true. . . . .

As we approach Valentine’s Day, to all who are bereft and do not or have not known love, what is missed is something you have known somewhere at some time else you would not know you miss it.

One day it will be yours again.   It will be a Given and you will know it because your name will be on that Valentine and you will be cherished for who you are .  Without conditions.  Because what is seen in you and cherished is what you do not see. 

That is what makes you so special.   Why the world does not see this obvious part of you  baffles the heavens. It is a love you have known and matches what is in your heart.  

 You will broach the heavens this night and take a walk through the Galaxy and swing through the stars.   You will see again the love you embrace in your heart and know that forever you have had arms to enfold you.   Never were you abandoned.  Never.

One day you will feel the familiar fit of those arms again.  For however long as necessary.  This poem is for you.

This Valentine Heart . . . 

I lay my heart crimson in splendor
beneath the branches on fresh fallen snow                                                     
open to my god. . . .

Here it is I am with  all that I’ve gathered;
completed to form just what you see.

The flakes have scattered in splendid ways
to carpet the floor as bed for my heart.

Pick it up if you please but handle with care.
Sorely I need, a tender touch.

Life has tested me to rare form.
I worked it all like Job and wanted not to fail.

See, this Valentine heart laid splendid on
the floor of the forest but  loved to the ultimate

by the god whose creation I am.

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My God Watches Me. . .

I had a journal entry I looked at that had hostility levied on differences in us and I thought it time to look at what unites as human beings.  It is a simple character attribute.

When we were children our parents expected we would be truth tellers.  We were asked the simple question. .  brushed your teeth?   The second question followed.. . .  why is your toothbrush dry?  We learned to tell the truth.

I was working with a lot of resentment one day unloading groceries in front of the house when a car pulled up and a young woman wanted to know where was a certain address.   She had underpaid a woman for an item at a garage sale and needed to make good on that.  She left and I continued with my task.

She returned and waved.  And thanked me and I said it was such a nice thing to do.  She said she must because My God Watches Me .  I looked at the open young face with a scarf hiding her hair and aware the hostility making heavy the air we breathe and the prejudiced perceptions circling.

While I had too many things to do and again at fault for being late,  I would have to admit my  resentment adding to the heaviness of  the air we breathe.   I did not share her belief system, but the Divine Within us both shared our humanity.  Time to make good on that.

MY GOD WATCHES ME. . . 

Over and over I create and recreate
situations and ordeals, arguments and wars
with symbolic enemies, but sometimes not.
I must of need watch my responses,
my actions and motives lest my
God think less of me.

So I spare my God further
annoyance by monitoring myself.
The situations and ordeals are best kept in mind.
I articulate my position to establish myself
several times in the course of a day.

The wars and arguments are pacified, only after
words become too tiresome to continue.
Peace becomes the only option.
I work toward perfection and a hard work it is.
As anyone who knows me would agree.
It is necessary though, you see,
for my God watches me.

I watch-dog my actions and harness my tongue
and change hurtful thoughts with labored caring.
It means I reconsider my earnest evaluations
of mine enemies and present the other cheek.

I prepare myself for sainthood
while I breathe the rarified air of my benign earth.
And watch myself as my God watches me.
Not so easy to do, this monumental work
of sanctification.

Of my internal warts and
grievous errors,  I am deeply conscious.
But perhaps I prevent them
from penetrating my soul
as long as I keep close the knowledge

that my God watches me.

 

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey

 

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In Conference. . . .when the world sleeps. . . .

 

In Conference. . . .with the Sages.  . .

From a journal entry of January 1993 where I had been in the midst of researching Jesus . .the teacher asked me to put my thoughts down. . . (It was a stressful time in our lives.  I wrote the following)

Jesus took on a monumental task.  From a god who was seen as unmerciful, all attributes people found in themselves,   Jesus translated this new spirit, this universal nimbus of benevolence, maybe benign, into a god of magnificent parental concern and love which took a great deal of courage.

The god of the people at the time was what they were, mean and unmerciful, jealous, vengeful while the god of Jesus was exactly what  man   could become.  Kind, thoughtful, loving,   qualities still to be uncovered within the human heart.

The original premise at the time was not what we consider mankind today, in a majority of cases.  It has been a matter of example, of education, a primer on earth or elsewhere in thought.  And that goes in the face of all men are created equal.

That also puts one squarely to think how many lifetimes to get to the place where love for one’s own begins to show.

The Jesus of the New Testament took upon himself or contracted with full knowledge, to change concepts.  Would we have had fewer religious wars if he had been revered with no argument?  Considering the times and the Romans?

The testimony was enough to stand on its own.  It was a philosophy of merit but also logic.  I say that even when heads of religions have argued the point.

I was told I was crazy and who did I think I was when I grappled aloud questions like these.  Better heads than yours was argued  and are paid big dollars.  Obviously, yet we fight wars and kill and wound and maim and rape.

So where are the better heads?  I have grappled with the nitty gritties of caregiving  and even sweated  in the sun at hard jobs while I worked just as hard with these questions.  I hear. . . you know when you hold a hot wire. . . .and was asked to explain my ‘nimbus’. . .

(I see it not as a cloud or halo  but an essence.  Something circling and permeating at the same time from which all manner of things are evident.  A touching, a hearing, a tasting of ultimate knowledge.  It changes as I change. 

Today I am the ultimate knowledge of who I am this minute, this fraction of a second but in the next concern I am another ultimate. 

The ultimate god would be the sum total of knowledge held, plus all the equations coming from that knowledge that would blend, qualify and direct toward a becoming of something different.

God is change.  From where did Jesus come where this knowledge was evident?  And from where did I come to think this and participate in life to chafe as I do?)

The Teacher said and I scribed the following: [ You ask the questions you do and the answers come when the footwork is done. The first premise ever put forth was that by the time the question is asked the answer already is known.  Else how to form the question?]

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A Time In The Heart. . .

 

(A grandson wanted me to start blogging and set me up in 2011 and designed the blog.    I posted the foreword from Kiss The Moon in September of 2012 because he thought it was important that readers know how and why I write.

There are new readers not familiar with my writing so I repeat this to answer the question how I keep my faith in Life in the light of chaos.  It has not been a walk in the park but a horrendous journey at times but when the dark times lifted it was with a renewed sense of  I was not abandoned.

With the coming of my century mark in little more than a decade,  I live with a philosophy mended with extra yarn to cover the rips in my life.  It has worked for now.  I will demand broader horizons in my next address. This time required my very best efforts.  I apologize for being no fun but it was what it was.)

Foreword from Kiss The Moon . . . 

 The sun  was bright coming in  through the  high  windows  on  that  first  day of English Lit at the University.  (I was 18.)  The professor was introducing  herself  to  us  and  I   don’t  know when my attention wavered, but when I looked down at my paper I found I had written these words, ‘Fear death, ahh I do because I love life so much’!  I did not know where these words came from but it was an affirmation and I realized that those words had always been true.     

Even today there would be argument as to the source of them. My thoughts mix smoothly with what I consider a given and myself the instrument through which it comes.  I know when the work is mine.  I also know when a thought is inserted or given.  And when one is given, there is a giver.                               

A leap must be taken when the truth of that statement is faced.  It is the reason people go to church on Sunday or to the synagogue on their Sabbath.  As a friend said to me it is what we hope is true.  Yet when faced day after day with significant events or thoughts, it is a puzzle as to why the evidence does not speak to the person.  It will eventually and when it does, it will be the right time. 

For me the beginning was in the classroom but took possession of a corner of my mind and stayed there while other things were happening.  Though I was always alert to the thoughts that seemed to come from nowhere, there was this portion of me that tested the limits of what was my history

And then one night, while sitting at the desk I found words tumbling over themselves and when I was finished, a poem had been born.  I  found myself wondering exactly how this all came about.  Surely I must have memorized this some long ago.  But nowhere could I find this poem.  And it was not the kind of work I would have done on my own. 

So I read it to the family and they laughed because it was comical but philosophical.   And we let it go at that.  Nobody of course believed me as to how it came about.

It took a letter to my mother to convince me that there was a Presence in my life.  I  started the letter and suddenly the words were writing themselves and the missive was one of good thinking and good psychology.  And from that point on, the muses,  or the Teachers as I often call them, were my companions.          

There are those who say that within the layers of the human being there is knowledge and this knowledge rises when stresses demand answers or directions.  This could very well be, and I would not argue this point at all.

But when a grateful heart murmurs a  thank you and the response in mind is you’re welcome, followed by a sense of rightness and companionship and love, then one knows there is a Presence.

It has been a war of words over a lifetime.  A philosophy has been hammered out and though it may not rest comfortably with organized religion, still I have woven a philosophical blanket with mended holes that has managed to keep me warm.  It has taken all the years of my life and it has been a hard work.

But I would not have missed a day of it.

 

(artwork by Claudia Hallissey)

                                                                                               

                                                                                                  

 

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Lest We Forget . . .

I was sick to my stomach.  I had trouble breathing .   I had to stop before I had another cardiac arrest.  Hearing of the harsh brutality inflicted upon the Jews made me vomit when I was ten.    Studying the holocaust nearing a lifetime of ninety years had the question continuing,   why one man with such an evil idea of hatred started a war of blood and extermination only with the power of thought.

And a world of people praying for peace, desired peace and yearning  brotherhood  could not bring power to their idea.  Yet the power of one man’s thought to destroy cannot be overcome by worlds of
love for brotherhood?  Not one man nor group of theologians, officials, countries, institutions, not one religion to stop this evil course to destroy civilization?

We must question our belief systems.  We must look at what indeed gives impetus to our lives so that when we are against the wall and cannot move an inch, we buckle.  Why our judgment is so faulty as to allow power and greed to destroy and maim not only those who are living, but by trauma, Loves, trauma, where the psychological damage to our genetic heritage is irreversible.

It is passed through the genes and what we have are those of us whose memory is so deeply etched that living again will be those who will demand an eye for an eye.  No matter how far down the line we go.  No matter how far down.

It is through education that we reach the heart of man.  We must teach the children and be the example we wish to teach.  Only when we exhibit and are a living testament to love and tender mercies,  can we reach the hearts that waver.  The warm hand of the father on the brow  of the child, and the beating  heart in the breast of the mother in time with the child, will teach where words do not reach.

It must be done before exiting the front door to kindergarten.  Hold their hands while you can. Yet.  Still.

A sorrow hushed. ..the holocaust. . 

 My ears cleaved to the door frame
of the dining room. Her whisper was hoarse,
were there many?
Lots, he said, lots, as he held the letter
that told him what they saw.
They pushed for space, women and children
and their men. They wanted to see. 
My people saw he said.

Their words burned my brain
as I strained to listen, afraid I wouldn’t
catch a sorrow hushed.  It didn’t last long
he said, because they fell.  Matko Bosko she said.

Remember our history he said.   
As if that could explain what I heard.
And I knew the god they called
upon to save them from whatever they feared.
He whispered again, somehow trying to
make this horrid time an all right matter.
My people saw them, he kept saying.

And I loved those parents who made things
seem right yet what my heart knew was evil
and my head fought them and argued
till I would vomit.  We would go
into holy week and pray just as
my cousins across the waters who saw
what was done went back to their tables
and supped as if nothing had happened.

These were friends and relatives
whose prayers were different and
they said that made them different than us.
And the us that I was born into made me
ashamed and sick to my stomach and kneeled
in front of the toilet and emptied my shame
washed with the tears of I am so sorry
and threw up all of my ten years

and so went my trust.    

(How could it happen, how?  It is such a gentle culture,  so soft and warm.  Weronika, moya serce, Weronika,  ja cie  kocham. . . Veronica, my heart, Veronica, I you love. . .a girl, at ten and she weeps still.  The Polish culture is love embraced and so vivid was Winter Journey and Mosaic by Diane Armstrong that they will companion me and forever haunt. . )

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