How Much Is For Real. . . . or Illusion?


As I Watched. . .

Part of a whole, yet wholly here.
Slowly as I watched
the silence was encompassing.

Piece by blessed piece,
each tree, each entity slowly folded
upon itself and laid itself down.

The screen protecting vanished
as it bent itself into nothing,
a wisp of an idea no longer useful.

Trees, one by one, bent over themselves
and laid themselves down
and disappeared onto the forest floor.

And I thought how neat!
No evidence, no residue of debris
to litter the surroundings.

I murmured his name
as I watched the scene disappear
and he said to me, don’t move.

And time collapsed for me
and events catapulted me again
into the frame of reference I know as mine. . . .

And again the journey continued
and I sit and wonder and marvel

at this multifaceted existence I know as life.

In October of 2016, I went into cardiac dysfunction and was on the way out of this life.  On multilevels  life was playing itself out.  I was on the patio and watched as I let loose my hold on life and watched as the trees lay down themselves, as did everything else in my view.  That we create our reality I read  many times and I was seeing this world of mine dismiss itself neatly.  Not a crumb  left on the table.  My son John had already called the ambulance and we waited.

More than a half century ago I had begun an independent study program on a daily basis.  One’s passionate choice will reveal in time its path and destiny.  Footwork is determined by ones’ cut of cloth.  And how deep the passion will yield some light on the length of study.

Are we our brother’s keeper?  Are we our brother’s brother?  Are we one family and what is for real?  We open pandora’s box and the butter/flies. . . .

I throw cold water on the idea of romance or secrets or magic.  Heavy boots are the order for the hard work of evolution.  It all will become mundane and tiresome with lack of progress for which we all are responsible.

The I am sorries  have to be more than perfunctory to gain sympathy.  We may find remedial classes awaiting and also surprise to find our names attached to gargantuan faults besides  the wayside progeny on whom we have granted no attention as history has shown.

How to convert the human psyche from one expecting entertainment to one pursued by the need to know and learn?  Except to show the results that our passion has fashioned us  into persons we are happy to meet for the very first time.  And want to know better.  We wish also for our sons and daughters introductions to these selves they have not met.  And we hope they come to love.




A Very Hard Road. . . .


I  speak of psychic phenomena as it is known  and why.  The why is simple because it cannot be legislated to testing and not an across the board human endeavor.  And to explain what Jesus meant when he said gather talents that moth and rust do not destroy; not so easy sometimes when one is clueless.  Those talents are ours forever and we take them from world to world.  What do you think life everlasting means?

Phenomena cannot be legislated because the work of learning to live with the present world and its accommodation require an earnest desire to learn.  And these talents because they are seldom book learned or detailed, become an inner knowledge that make it impossible to teach.  It is more of a knowing than information.

 We try to explain reasons why seventy five percent of the world believe in many lives and many loves and  we in the western sphere drag our feet.  If we went to the ancient shelves of the library, we would  find ourselves immersed with the worlds’ fine minds in grappling with  phenomena that is as common as breathing to most of the world.  And see case studies verified with present day data.

I have kept journals, poetry, memos and manuscripts I have written,  created and also scribed.  Focusing inward was necessary for what I am able to do.  I have kept accounts of dreams that have backed up poetry and scribed lessons that had teachers quiz on what I connected.  And why it is necessary for honesty in one’s character when attempting a journey of this magnitude.

Because we are more than what we present, it is good to have substantiation with back up.  I have written about the VIP who came across the room in Germany and asked why did I not mention I would be here when we met in Paris last week?  I wrote of this incident recently on my blog.  I wrongly thought I had had the most recent dream of me as a  French Grandmother who was going to a granddaughter’s birthday party.  I thought it was a Michigan dream before we moved but alas,  it was a March 21, 2018 journal entry here in California. 

I had even mentioned in the dream being unfamiliar preparing the French food.  It also brought to mind  finding me upright in bed speaking fluent French a mile a minute.  My husband pulled me down and said go back to sleep. 

There is feedback in dreams and a good feeling when something syncs with an entry or poem or memo.  There is what is called bleed through from  other realms though sometimes  mundane.  But often it is important enough to hope that my input is of quality,  the highest and best of what I can offer. 

We are more than what we appear.  We often spook others out and seem weird and different.  The reasons are many, mostly because of our history of many lifetimes.  But Jesus said that when he mentioned  the twig is bent and so grows.  Did you not think you came from a somewhere?

Some of us are newbies, and some of us ancient history.   And being the forever student,  I chalked up many lifetimes learning as much as I could.  Being a teacher at heart, I wish for those whose talents are many like our great grand 3 year old  who made the connection when  shown a drawing of a dancer on my blog and said to her parents,  ‘the reason I walk on my toes is that I was a dancer before I was a baby.’ 

My cup runneth over.    I am glad I did not know the wait to hear myself affirmed would be almost a hundred years.  It is a hard road to go.                                                                                                                                             


Observations. . . .

I live in a neat house.  On the day I set out the trash, garbage pickers drive by to look for good things.  They drive away when they realize my garbage is like everyone else’s.  They soon realize I don’t throw away good stuff.

For too many people life is a closed circuit TV.  But the channels to other  realities are open.  In what was once a quiet head, one wonders who left the gym door open at the end of the hall.

Do we care about the other’s survival?  Only to a point because we think we cannot survive without the other.  To insure our own survival, we try to mold the Other to the likeness of what we value.

We tire eventually of depending on sheer endurance.

Man should give his reasoning mind a chance because his heart has already instructed it.

Homilies may get to be boring but they are the tie that binds.  They are the moorings that keep us from floating without direction.

Too much is left undone by man’s cliché used as his out. . if God be willing.  The truth is, man is not willing.

Physical boundaries allow us to function in a physical world.  But our glimpses into other realities let it be known we are of sound mind and not boundaried in all worlds.

It is our God Within with glimpsed promises of life everlasting.  To dismiss these is to dismiss a gift of spirit that physical life cannot express.


artwork by
Claudia Hallissey


We are what we know . . .and cannot pretend. . .

(sometimes I need to repeat a post simply because I cannot improve upon what I learned.  And I want to say to the parents of youngers,  listen to them and see from where your kinders come.  I want to plant what this younger said at 7 into those who sit in power and ask what happened to the knowledge you were born with?  And I weep with the same words I cried out loud at the same age. . .you don’t know what you are doing to one another!) 


Owning the experience. . .

He was just seven years old and hurt and  upset because his brothers and his dad questioned his knowledge. How do you know, they asked him, how do you know?  He stormed past the dining room table and shouted at them.  I know that I know! 

And I heard an ancient head saying the same words and was amazed at this younger of mine.  Of course you do, I said, of course.  And I hugged him because when you know something and do not question yourself, you hold the oldest and first keys.  You had the best mentor and metaphysician and were loved greatly.

A reader wrote to me and said there is a great distinction between knowing and information. She was right and few people would be able to differentiate between the two words. 

Many gather information and can quote others profusely.  They can say what others have said and use the same words.  But they cannot use their own words because the experience is not theirs.  It makes all the difference.

As long as the experience misses them they have not the words to describe it.  Only their God Within knows the footwork not done. Their language  consists of information and not their knowledge. 

My seven year old spoke from an ancient knowledge.  To know you know means you own the knowledge.    

And only you and your God Within knows of your footwork to own the experience. 

And the cost of how many lifetimes. . .sweet Jesus, how many? . . . 




we do what we can. . . . .

Researching  a topic  in spite of all the good intentions, its  purpose is they say constructively, to criticize.  Make no mistake, criticism  in fancy dress still means  you are wrong.   They want to set you right.

In this case, I realized that all my life I talked to animals and they to me.  Trouble only started when I said out loud that I knew something because I understood them.  Others feel the same as I do but most say nothing out loud. 

The blue jay when I mimicked him tried to take me down and missed.  Maudie the dove, allowed me to watch her and when I had to move her and her eggs,   let me and even pick up her hesitating chicks to give a boost to their first flight.

Like the bird who rested for a second on my back while I sat on the patio.  When in grief we were ready to put Prince down, I hesitated somehow hoping something would save me and my heart would not break.

 As if printed in bas relief were the words above his head staring straight at me, . .you would not make me do this alone?  I said out loud of course not and followed him out.

What brought me to this was Leroy, our Newfie, who yodeled and told me how happy he was and feeling good.  I kissed his bushy head and when in the kitchen realized that I knew he felt good because he had transferred a picture of me massaging him with lotion the day before and it helped his itchiness. 

Coming to mind was Temple Grandin, who even with a handicap was able to communicate with animals, making  a life helping them.

Not as grand a scale of course,  but in my way, in my frame of reference,  this is what I do and I would suppose, lots of people.  We have animals we love who love us.  In our way we take care of each other.

If we approach our commitments in such manner,  life will be magnificent in all aspects and evolution will be enjoined across the board for human enrichment.  The timing for this will be prime because how could goodness however small in scope, not be used?  If it was not, we would not be.

And we will find what we think is a small effort, is in effect, magnificent.  There is nothing this world can give to reward your heart’s offering.  Only the Greater Heart understands its value.                                                                   


the immigrant. . . .


Immigrant. . . 

I watched as you worked
a mind through endless turmoil,
sifting and sorting truth and fantasy
and arriving. . . 

You opened eyes and unblinkingly stated,
‘you have always known, haven’t you?
How did you do it?’

I knew I could not take
even a moment of self revelation away, 
answered, ‘in my way.  I loved and
raised babies and painted
roses on their cheeks and
planted evergreens in their hearts.’

And in a way I had not known,
closed a part of memory so I could do it
all for real, so I would use the same rules
you did and everyone else.

But you did not play by the rules.
They were changed so quickly for you
that you could not switch tracks.

So now I write why.
I compose odes and melodies
and tie my feelings in knots
and look for entry into a world
I know by heart.

It is one I never left, even to come here.
I carried it around like a money belt
all the days of my life.
And I know now that when I go

it will be to the old country.


July18, 1987

We are all immigrants and have worn our coats of many colors.  We  participate in this magnificent experiment of these United States.  . . sharing similar features and wondrous histories with life everlasting wearing our coats of many colors.  Go to the quiet place and look at who you are with heart. 




we laugh to hide our hurt. . . .


They were just children with a love offering.  It glinted in the ground and when picked up it glittered as a star in the sky.  Of course it would be given to the one loved most!  And with grimy hand and full heart it was.  With words accompanying the gift,  they spilled as starbeams through fingers. 

It was met with laughter at the pieces of broken bottle swept in by the now polluted waters, with the love words washed with even more laughter.  And the child ran and hid and forever found words choked in throat too tight to speak.  And chatter found its way into conversation during lifetimes of too many words, none spoken ever with truth. 

Devices soon replaced the human voice in pillow talk and words were shouted in derision, in hostility,  in raucous laughter but seldom in measured voice which would take counsel with the sages. 

Humans soon counted on one syllable words,  incomplete thoughts and reverted to gestures when language which had taken thousands of centuries to master came to a halt.  Even though in the beginning we were told that the  word is god. . . . we took away the child’s most important tool for growth and smashed it with our jealousy at his innocence as ours had been smashed.   And evolution stagnates.

once again we will dance,
through the night sky
and gather moonbeams
for our baskets. . . .

we will strew them
onto the paths of the children
who will pick them up and throw them
with joy to the night sky.

they will be stars again
to be gathered by a one
who recognizes stars
as beams of light. . .




As I See It. . .


As I See It . . . .

There are no more answers anywhere except those written within the individual on his heart.  It is all there for him to discover and what he discovers will be adequate for this time.  It works to cover tracks and to discover just one more truth which will enlighten what has already been learned.  For one it will be fine.  For another, it is not.

Everyone has a piece of the rock.  A piece of the truth.  This is correct.  To be able to ensnare the entirety in one fell swoop would be to discourage and dismantle the psyche.  It can be done but it would undo the Pilgrim.  The psychological trauma would put the psyche on the shelf forever.  For who would have the courage to attempt another try?

Our need determines our intent.  And the caliber of teacher we require.  The divine within is called into conference and the work begins.  The journey only begins when the present becomes unbearable and the future unthinkable. 

We Lift Our Heads . . . .

We lift our heads as we face our Source.
We give thanks for these gifts
beginning our day;
a body without pain
and heart that beats steadily
and ears that hear clearly.
For these gifts we are grateful.

Open us and allow not one bird
to miss our thank you for his song and
allow not the breeze to be without
gratitude for its breath.

Take this day
and use us for Thy purpose
for we will be at a loss when time in space
cannot be breached by thought
and the abyss cannot be spanned by a leap.

Let our thoughts be more than a footnote
in the story of this day

and our lives lived with compassion.



No Place To Go . . . .

There are others who have experience in matters not common.  I have kept notes on dreams and researched my experiences.  I could not speak openly and was cautioned much because of public circumstances.  Times are different and I speak for the children who are different. There are babies now being born who have been mentored and if they are fortunate and have support they will teach the lot of us from where they come.

In the Dead Sea Scrolls a disciple asked Jesus where we go when we die and Jesus answered, why do you ask when you never wondered where you came from?  He also said the ‘the twig is bent’  and religions don’t mention apriori, before we are born. Most assume that all is formed after birth but every parent knows each child comes already predisposed.   My exasperated mother would gladly have told you about me.

As I look back on things,  as we are apt to do when we wish to make sense out of a life that at times held little,  I find more things connect.  Yet small incidents were crucial  for the larger events to play out.  When I think back on the arguments that have taken my energy,  I still have difficulty understanding where sacrificing one life so that another can live is fair or rational. Religions have been based on this principle.

No Place To Go. . . 

Your words are strong
my eldest says. . .
and the road made accessible
for the rest of us.
No need I say, no need.
You will do what is yours to do
in your own way.

The road is closed
with wooden horses barring the way,
not for repair but because
a new road is laid.

My mentor said what is done for one
is done for all. . .so the heavens made bet
it would never be done but it seems
I was the surprise.  It is done.

They say they give an inch
and I take a mile.
My verbiage is clear.
My focus enables focus
in boundary-less places as I weave
in and out of black holes and wind  drifts
to find myself welcomed.

I have friends all over
who wait except where I am.
Here I am different and in this place
to be different puts one outside looking in.
They do not know
where I am coming from.
My vernacular is not theirs and

I have no place to go with what I know.



If We Sing To The Children. . but you know. . . .


There comes to mind that time warp where events leave their linear places and congregate in the place where we know that thunderous motions occur with the simplest actions.  Or even with no action.  Like the times my brother Stanley and I discussed what he saw along the road but knew immediately I knew the song.  And he just  resorted to, but you know, you know. . .

It was simply a matter of realizing we shared a history, with a weight to language which we worshiped.  We knew that the words we used the other used also and respected.  We were not loose with words but used them with sacred dispensation. 

It was a relationship we shared with his wife also.  And both of them were an important part of these particular visits we had and where the poem above was born.  It holds great meaning for me because of the tender feelings we shared.  It made the visits to the Farm a recreation of who we were and continued to be. 

That the children shared in this family in their own ways I was not fully aware until long after they became adult.  In talking about who we as their parents wanted as guardians in case of our demise (and often argued) while they needed family, our eldest asked why did we not ask them? 

I said because we wanted to agree on the ones we asked.  And he continued, ‘well you should have asked because we had already decided that Uncle Stan was the one we would go to.’  When did you decide all this I asked.  ‘Oh long ago, he said.  We already knew who we wanted.’

It was all decided within the sanctity of that relationship.  And I never asked, but probably they had already researched the Court and who was the approachable judge.  I just never aske


If We Sing To The Children. . .

I wear these memories
as a cloak to ward off the chill.
Emotions forgotten, but like new now
ripping along my arms,
settling bumps in straight rows
to my heart.

Kindred hearts, matching
my own heartbeat, 
with eyes like mine and
reflecting our souls.
Music in voices saying,
‘and when I look at weeds beside the road. . . .
but you know,  you know. . . .’
And I do, I do and we look with eyes
that see and ears that hear the song
of the bird before his sounds
have escaped his throat. . . .
and the music rumbles in our blood,
coursing through our hearts
and gives life only
to those who are ready to listen.

Not many to be sure, not many,
but if we sing to the children
perhaps,  just perhaps, 
the earth’s cacophony
will one day be in harmony.

It is our heritage;
from where it is we come.
From the farm country I was given
a substance that does not spoil,
that does not turn sour
even in the residue of life.
It is not dregs that I drink.
It is the cream rising to the top of the milk.

I needed to see a skyline
with no obstruction and with no words

you laid your hearts on me.


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