Each One. . .Teach One. . .




. . . It always is a struggle between the correct thing and the right thing, no matter the subject or the action.  The correct thing is not always comforting nor comfortable.  And it generally is confrontational.  Too much on our plate and we already want to hit delete.   But whooooaaa!!!  We are decent people and we  need to hear the correct/right  thing. . .we need to hear once in awhile,   ‘we done good’. . . . .

That was our intention when we ask to be born to make a difference.  You can argue the point, but we ask, yeah we do. . .

With what goes on the politically  global scenes as well as our national one,  coupled with the aberrant pandemic globally, everyone can see us/our planet  going down the tube again and again and forever.

Except we have been loved into conscience and so loving our children, we also have siblings and nieces and nephews.  We are the Earthgods. . . their mothergods and fathergods and godmothers and godfathers and godaunts and goduncles.  And behold we now are their grandmothersgreat and grandfathersgreat and all who  have been loved into Conscience with a capital C, lest we forget.

And we cannot forget.   We just cannot.  We must do what we can and work and study to enlarge our picture,  widen our horizons and add depth to our being.  We must learn about ourselves and learn about each other.  We must see where we are alike,  where we agree,  especially on what we love as our democracy and whom we love and resolve to heal our difficulties and mend our rips and tears.  We must vow not to allow others to expound on our differences and make profit on us and make deep pits where there are none. 

Troublemakers feast on a diet of havoc.  And creating havoc in their best friends means the troublemakers sleep happily.  We will not give them that pleasure.

Our days make a certain shaped something of us.  Let that something teach an Other.  That we are not only civil but kind,  that we are not only decent people  but loving people, who care about each other.  Even though we disagree with someone’s arguments, we are polite and listen.  We would want them to listen with courtesy to us.

Thus we teach. No longer silent because silence has wrongfully signaled  we don’t care but care we do.   We speak to voice our conclusions to show we give thought, but our humanity still demands courtesy and  not violence.

Life is good, not easy, but good, in every dimension.  The only alternative to life everlasting is no life anywhere.  And never having the privilege to do good.  All worlds have problems.   I love my life as you do yours.  I have your back.  Thank you for having mine. 

Excerpt from Life Everlasting. . . 

Through all we slide,
like peeled comfrey, slick and smooth,
the oiled parts of a machinery;
deus in machina.  Still we slow,
the burden burdensome, noises polluting
our hearing and events boggling our eternal eye.

Out of the arena testing our mettle,
out of a life holding neutral for no man,
to a new world testing our mettle yet,

to a life in neutral only for a moment,
to a love gripping anew our pulses.

It is a universe of no retire. . . and life everlasting. . .


The Paris Incident. . . .

So now I write about the  entries and how they are verified.  When we moved from Michigan,  we were aged with health problems.  I tired quickly  accounting for sometimes sparse writings.   I now spend more time reading the journals and making notes  amazed at what was accomplished. The puzzling habit still baffles. . .why was I so disciplined in journal keeping with memos and hard copies?  David’s ongoing question till the day he left us. . . how did you know to do it?

Like the mid 1980’s when we were in Munich and a  VIP said I did not tell him when we talked in Paris last week  that I would be in Germany for the conference.  I told him he must confuse me with someone else and he became angry.  His position in the travel arm of government was important because he remembered  people and faces and where they talked.   I was to learn how important in Tourism this ability was in hiring those who are talented  in this respect.  We had a wonderful conversation in Paris he said and he did not make mistakes of that nature. 

I had never met him before and I have never been in Paris at least as this Veronica.  But I read this note in an April 11, ’19 journal entry I had as a grandmother in Paris  been invited to a granddaughter’s birthday party.  That was in reference to a dream in my Veronica head I had had in Michigan.  Is it a parallel life for me and was  I also the younger woman the VIP talked to in Paris who was part of the travel affair years before?

There is also a dream of me as a monk in the year of 1790 I wrote about carrying my cross up a hill during the French Revolution.  I wrote describing the boarded up houses and the dusty miller plantings along the dirt roads.   I understand I fought for civil rights and took issue with the church.  That dream in detail was the entry  of August 21, ’83.   There is the entry of August 25, ’85 where I awakened and sat up in bed speaking French.  My husband pulled me back down and said go back to sleep.  I  was fluent in the language.

I  limit my post words and yet hope to alert interest in the reader.  This being one incident I am detailing  research limited only because readers skim quickly. There are other incidents noted that corroborate each other.   The term alternate realities is not new but I first came upon them in the late 60’s with the Seth books of Jane Roberts.  Much was written about unknown worlds.  It was like gulping water  because I was dying of thirst.  With no one to talk to and shunned because of the Salem, Massachusetts’ fears connected with whirling dervishes and dancing with devils,  the Jane Roberts printed word saved me.

 A psychic at a friend’s party in July of  1985  read cards  and asked me whether I worked in civil rights.   I did not but he  detailed the monk incident and my arguments with the church.  I rushed home to scour the journals and found the August of 1983 entry.  Working, being a community worker’s  wife, parent on premises of 3 sons and home and yard maintenance  took all my time.  Only when the house  slept,  had there been time for research and study.

I try to show where my studies have taken me with my ‘need to know’ as an ordinary person wanting not to be an inadequate parent to our children. When you feel that special  commitment of conscience your whole world changes. Yours will too.


All Who I Am . . . Our Coats Of Many Colors. . .

I write again of my coats of many colors.  Because I love and care for those in my life and love life itself, I will repeat those of my posts I feel urgent about.  Since I have memories and dreams of lives lived and have written of them, apologetically lacking  times, I  rightfully attest to some knowledge.  If it is so for me, then I assume for others it may be also.

 My poetry is evidence and memory serves me partially.  Perhaps only the humanity of them, but solidly enough.  It answers my ‘why’ of who I  am with an answer to how life is everlasting. 

 Only partially but Jesus said my father’s house has many rooms.  My understanding now of simultaneous times is that parallel lives are lived and I have had dreams and experiences of those.   And gives rise to thought of the Biblical Jacob giving the coat of many colors to his son Joseph because Joseph perhaps had memories of many lifetimes?  And spoke of them?

My understanding has been broadened to how perspectives define dimensions which house our lives and give substance to our slim knowledge of who we are.  It is said that some philosophers believe that human nature cannot grasp  reality at all.  Some parts of the world have a greater grasp of these concepts, but western civilization has been slow to even give  it houseroom.

Planets discovered may support life that we yet cannot identify.  There are many who flagrantly deny the intelligence of sentient life even when shown evidence.  Evolution requires certain steps taken in understanding and integrating knowledge  before entering a  world necessary for more precise work. In essence you have to know what to look for.  

 Our world needs for our mind, body and spirit to integrate all we have learned.  We will regret wasting valuable time our planet sorely needs before we replace her resources we take for granted..      

 I harbor the woman in the Arctic, the black woman with a basket on my head, the Arab man who is harvest for the flies, and the Polish woman kneading her bread.  My gnarled fingers are on the hands knitting with smooth sticks in the tent house circling the firepit drinking a sour brew to keep warm. 

I have to keep my focus right here and right now else I walk into a beloved time frame of who I am.  It becomes a problem for those like me and harder for those who love me to find me.


‘Each lifetime lived adds to the cumulative sense of loss.’
                                                                                                the teacher

All Who I Am. . .

I feel the pull of the Polish one bent over her bread board,
pounding, kneading, smoothing the egg dough
into a satiny mound.  Raisins, like eyes, half buried
in the fleshy loaf, stare at me, daring me to absorb
her rhythm into my blood.

Her aching restlessness I breathe already. 
Her utter frustration to make new whips me to
a working frenzy, a woman possessed.  She delivers me
to my bed in agony.  With memory splintered, glinting
off the corners of my eyes, I find me.  And awake again
to a morning promising me no relief from her visions.


My brow furrows, forming ledges to shield my eyes
from a sun that beats unmercifully.  Sweat pours to drench
my body and nausea routes its way flooding
an overloaded circuitry.

The wandering tribesman leading the camel favors one foot.
Calluses shoot pain into the moon calf of his leg and I limp.
The tart taste of yogurt in his mouth washes clean
the sand out of mine.

Each step becomes a mile in length and his laborious effort
throbs in my temples.  I will be harvest for the flies. 
I cannot bear the heat anymore.


The air, sharp as a cut lemon, washes me.  The children race in
their overlarge sweaters with roses painted on their
faces smooth as milk legs.  Lace fringe curtains entertain
the visitors agape at the starkness, the simplicity,
the square picture.  I am at home.

The arctic terrain beats my blood to a froth with exuberance.
My sturdy body matches my earth.  My love shields me,
woos me and I am as cherished as a milch cow in a land
of sparse grasses.  To each other we are the heavy cream
poured on a dish of skyr .


How far back do I dare reach to uncover all who I am? 
Is part of me racing, black skinned and hot, basket overflowing,
precariously balanced on my head and heart beating
outside my skin?  My loose breasts clap-clap in pain 
against my rib cage as I hurry to make up time spent chatting
with my sisters, fearful of the masculine outrage brewing?

I sit at my desk, surrounded by the present essences of
today’s people, today’s commitments.  The air is spicy with
fomenting earth.  My brow does not furrow from the heat yet. 
Summer’s dog days will arrive too soon.

I ‘ve reached backwards and sideways and tasted portions of lives
both palatable and unpalatable.  But altogether rich.  Is my
fatigue of genetic empathy, perhaps imagination gone wild
or an accumulation of too many lives lived, too many
sorrows sorrowed, too many dreams dreamed?


The answer will be mine.  With my departure I will take
the sum of my days, the loves loved, the dreams unfulfilled
and all who I am and walk again the cosmos.
And because of my love for me I will create another world.
Due to my cumulative sense of loss. . . . 

 There will be no more loves aborted.


photo by John Hallissey
artwork by veronica




Beneath the Wings. . . . .



You have often thought if it was written, it was  meant to be understood.  Only you know now that it is the hardest thing to do.  If the frame of reference is not large enough for the topic,  then no understanding ever will come from the words even when the desire is there.  The footwork  has to be done.  The boundaries of knowledge must be broadened  and then the reading will have meaning because the frame of reference will have been enlarged.



We will talk of philosophy
and we will talk of poetry.
We will talk of people and Beings
and we will again
grace the lovely work
of the Great God and say
we walk beneath the wings of him

who holds us together.


photo by John Holmes


just for you. . .you are worth it to me!. . . . . .

I guess one could call me legitimately broken as a human being this morning.  I sit here with my headband made of 1 inch elastic stretched to the measurement of my head covered with a casing of fabric to look a bit fashionable. It helps a head that hurts with no side effects like pharmaceuticals.

With a neck support with Velcro closures to keep a head upright and not collapsing.  And I just found a box the right height to elevate my leg.  In their right mind the patient should head for bed?  Certainly.

But in me is a story about recycling.  And how when television came into our homes with a promise of showing us how to do creative things, what it did too many times was to give leverage to the envious to murder the creative impulse in the young at heart. 

The first attempts were not professional as the viewed painters and sewers and builders.  But the dreamers had the burgeoning desires to do and all that was needed was a ‘good try!’  or keep doing!

Too often the words heard were leave the work to the professionals who are paid to do it.  And the desire dies with the young and they are relegated to the growing list of spectators who are entertained. 

Or the desire dies with the adults who never attempt and never know the deep satisfaction of creating something out of a raw idea.

I do not know how to inject the desire, or how to infect one with a virus for learning.  I sit on the edge of the bed and urge my body to begin the day for there are things to be done.  I want to try them before my name is called with an offer I cannot refuse. 

I recently learned how to make useful yardage with bits of fabric fused onto web and cut into shapes such as the flowers in the vase.  Exciting!  Nothing wasted!  Useful as  it for me to do that.  Just for you.well as beautiful!  And fun.  I can make fun quilts and pretty wall hangings to catch the sun and bring smiles to the children as they race to catch up to the mornings. 

And they in turn will see possibilities that will take courage and perseverance to try and in the face of the Do Nothings who discourage them go ahead and make a difference and the classroom goes forward another day.  And maybe that is all that is required.

Holding it all together just for another day.  You would be worth it for me to do that.  Just for you.


Time’s Gleanings. . .

All knowledge is applicable to the self.  If it is used to manipulate and maneuver Others  it then becomes a game.
Insight implies sight to be applied inward.
Genuine laughter cleanses the toxic waste from swollen glands.
Only the secure one can afford to laugh at oneself.
To laugh at oneself displays a growth not to be measured in local currency.
The individual who has gone the route and places things in their proper perspective, knows that life is not a death matter.
Selfhood does not depend on the trends of the moment and our lives do not depend on what the world currently deems, but on personal premises.
Faith is blind of necessity.  The individual chooses an immunity necessary to quiet the questions which might delay other imperative lessons.
The framework we choose to inhabit is the security blanket covering emergencies that need to comfort the mind.
The treasure chest within each individual opens with the word ‘why?’
The word ‘why?’ will either start the journey or close it.
The camouflage system we use serves us well.  When a crack appears in the walls of mind where a stray thought might enter,  we run for the emotional plaster or caulking to seal the crevasses.
Like a dancer learning the discipline of a new score, we have rehearsed minute by minute to come to this place, this place of understanding where we are now.  If limited, time yet to change limited to broad.


Throw A Kiss To The Stars. . .



Younger sisters should play by the rules and allow the elder to leave first.  But my sister stayed as long as she was able and left us this week abruptly.

This poem is personal in that love abounds.  I whispered it in reading again with great love in our coming together as adults after a tumultuous adolescence.  What were to be fun times in dotage never materialized. 

There will be times to recall because life is everlasting.  Her mantra was always to do ‘something constructive’ which she did all her life.  I will remind her of the times we laughed together.  Those were memorable.  I will withdraw those times often from my Memory Bank to refresh myself.  And to remind our progeny what really makes us rich even though we cry.


Throw a kiss to the stars. . . .

Take a moment . . . .
and inhale deeply the night,
so that you will remember
the freshness that comes
with the beckoning dark.

And the stars leading you
to a place of warm retreat.

Go and begone into the night
where the heart rests.
Melancholy soul, even the heavens
pale beneath your fatigue. . .

Before you call it a day,
step out the door into the night
and say  hello to the moon and
ask its secrets for the night. 

Breathe your thank you for the day
and your part in it and in passing

throw a kiss to the stars.




Where The Bread Knows. . . the perfect kitchen. .

The Perfect Kitchen. . . cook’s heaven. . .

(where the bread knows the feel of my hands. .)  I have been in  cook’s heaven and I need to get my fill of it.   Son John and in law daughter Lori have given me a taste of that paradisal place every cook knows exists but never to have; a kitchen with enough space to make Thanksgiving dinner all the time and a place to put every washed plate and pan afterwards. 

It has been my contention that people shy from preparing food simply because of the cleanup.  Enthusiasm will have us begin and put together exciting dishes but to think of clean up is dismaying.  It will undo every good intention when picturing  putting everything back.   

When I was pulled into kitchen duty on the Farm because of my inability to withstand the sun and heat,  it put my mother in the field to help and me in her kitchen to feed the farm workers.  My quiet brother gave me an encyclopedic cookbook and at 12 years my passion for cooking erupted.  My heavy as lead cakes were loved by my brothers and my quick breakfast scones were indeed my sister’s favorites. 

And as I grew in experience with every aspect, even the cleaning up, I still loved the art  requiring passion.  Experimenting was crucial to learning and fortunately there were appetites without worries about weight that only came with city life, not farmers.

I learned to love the kneading of breads and eventually the no knead bread of my dotage.  And the English muffin bread  and the baking of dog biscuits that dogs crave by their waving  tails. 

I found a  love of Lorna Doone cookies  followed by my own version of pretend Doones that truthfully I love more.  Because I can make them myself when I crave them and it takes little time and 4 ingredients. 

Right now the bread making, the spice cookies I call windmills without the molds, and my pretend Doones have me happy with my specialties.  But satisfied  because the kitchen is a dream for me with a place for everything. 

Lori’s vision planned the kitchen and John’s love of craftmanship with his hands, made it.  I never thought talent for feeding who I loved to be taken to such a height by a well planned kitchen.  I wonder how many meals are thrown together by our lack of prioritizing what should be prime for all families, a solidifying and celebration of times together every day. 

The last time I saw my mother she apologized for not knowing how to show love.  Being an orphan, she said no one ever taught her how.   Thoughtfully she did every day with putting  love into every meal she cooked.  Her kitchens were not state of the art, but the results in the kitchen were.    I remember.

My kitchen times are love conscious and I wish those remembered.


The Sages Kick Start. . .


( when afraid the boot comes down.)

I keep on hand stenographer tablets  to jot down notes I think important in rereading the journal entries.  I came across this  poem thoughts.  I do not know when I wrote it nor what entry prompted it.  I may have been deeply focused in thought with someone.  I remember the first line glimpse I had, but not the rest of the poem.  I share this with you who do some serious work on yourselves wondering your place in the skein of things. 

It is good to keep a tablet for quiet times also.  Noting always what you remember of your journey in thought.  Thinking is the hardest work we do.  It is why it is avoided.  It will be an interesting resume to read one day and with whom you cavort.  It will be noted how much fragile handling one gives oneself.

The Sages Kick Start. . .

I caught a glimpse of one
I thought lecturing except
a black robe and cap she wore
and then disappeared.

Only once, a glimpse,
except the wonder of why it stays.
I wish to bury it and rest. .  .please.

I find the lessons I repeat
over and over and I tire of them.
Why can they not sleep?
I have gleaned what this brain
can accommodate and it is not pretty.

The Sages ask the teachers
to continue teaching because
they do not remember the passion
this Earth requires to make real
the lessons..

The passion was mine
as it rumbled the belly of me
through almost a hundred years
of family and friends and values.

What better way to  present
life’s reasons to kick start
the wheel of progress called Evolution
from stagnant ruts?

We leave it to you, they say,
to tell them to not step
on their kinders’ heads and
take their knees off the necks
of the different ones because they are afraid
often only because. . . because  . . .

The different ones make them afraid
when the world thinks of the different ones,
as having courage. 


An Open Forum . . it takes courage. . . .

Today I realized that when I watch certain  television programs,  I audit the class.   It is fatiguing with my hearing  problem,  but with certain programs, I work it so that I use television as class time.

I realize my head is open, and by that I mean doors are open letting in activity of sound I am conscious of.  I know this state because when it is absent,  there is no fatigue, no sense of tired.   Like now, it is an open forum with my  consent, classtime.

When my world broke into pieces  when I was 35,   it was traumatic because in my head, there was a tsunami loosed, crashing against both sides of my skull.  It was devastating.  

The doctor when questioning what I saw when I walked down the street, whistled between his teeth when I was done and said you realize others do not see what you see.   I was speechless, and he said, you don’t know that. 

I mention this again because it is important to understand some real unseen differences.  Some people actually see more than we do and  hear often what is not said.    

Not only our cultures are different in this world which contribute to our uniqueness.   Our histories have contributed to each of us to form a definite lesson plan, a blueprint; also ancient agonies propel us into behaviors that are of genetic origins. 

In many ways the oracles spoken in tribes tell of myths and gods and various habits of early mankind.  These were links for us that told us we connect in various ways.  When written word came to be, we then had printed stories which were proof that those oracles  had a basis that were to guide our thinking to ferret out from where we came. 

All religions speak of life previous to our thinking.  If we are fortunate in having ancestors of good health,  we come completely sealed so to speak with heads closed.  One life at a time to deal with was sufficient work for man.  But when religions took upon themselves in many ways to help man in his quest for good as he deemed it to be,  they also took upon themselves the perpetuation of power that told mankind to go forth and multiply and they would  take care of their souls. 

The trade off began and today we are the result of that edict and also so is the Earth.  In many ways man evolved in thought but stymied because of the toys of his thinking.  Evolution was halted.  And the hard work of thought, of thinking was dismissed and we are in the midst of where evolution transfers into  devices and man has become the automaton of the devices which evolve.

It seems digression yet needs telling of this path taken.  For the oracles were verbal, the printed word was real evidence of those stories of more than truth,  where we were told that the twig is bent and continues to grow upon birth.  It is bent because of a history.  And that history if mankind is completely sealed and  the birth  normal has the one life to live and die. 

If not completely sealed, and the doors are open to activity of  worlds  where sound vibrates, we have memories of previous times.  Whether they are genetically banked in memory or our constitutions are the memory banks  for  each of us, is ours to uncover or unearth.  And what we are courageous enough to face. 

Completely sealed in good health demands an empathy, a compassion delivered to others regardless of condition or inabilities of their physical bodies. Incompletely sealed demands from us an acceptance of life within its structures rarely understood but of needs respected. 

Acknowledging differences and making peace with what is recognized are steps and halting places  in the process of evolution.  Everyone is still a creature of potential growth and this we must honor.

We must reconcile the beliefs we carry with what our growth has shown by our sciences in all directions.  And we must peace them.

We must be equal to the courage they will demand from each of us.  If we are to want that acknowledgment of our acceptance when we appear in the world we consider our right to Be, but for which we may be incomplete.     


artwork by
Lucinda Cathcart    




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