The Teachers Speak. . . . .

When you nurture love into being, when you expand the limitations of one and not labeled them insufficient or stupid, you have prodded a self concept into using strength and innate ability to understand something used and feared all of a lifetime.   They may not remember who taught this about love.   With a long ingrained habit of a heritage and a penchant for not remembering, they may not ever know except with a memory of a someone who loved them enough to press them forward into acquiring something of substance for themselves.

It is work, no doubt about it.   But someone taught us about the value of love, of honor, of commitment and the holy meaning of the weight of words.   It is an astounding venture of the correctness of things, of the meaning of life and of total commitment to the value of the soul and person.  No one is irredeemable.  No matter what.

The muscles may rebel at the work and the feet tire of dancing on a hot griddle.   Muse on the foibles of man in his understanding of what life is all about.   For he believes that today is born immaculate without the impact of yesterday.   If one does not understand the lessons of yesterday, today indeed will be sordid.

It is a difficult lesson to learn that one’s premises are not the premises of an Other, no matter how logical nor sound they may be.   An Other’s own observations are colored by the substance of ancient genetic heritage of which we can only surmise and try to comprehend.   The abuse inflicted by centuries of barbaric behavior on the human being cannot be estimated except when viewed with the eyes and ears and emotions of those who have gone the route and done the mind work.   It is not easy but what we do is reinforce the magnitude of what is being accomplished within the circle of where one moves. It takes a war of words, a lifetime of study of oneself and also the stripping of one’s self estimate to see that the work begins at home.   

In fact what it takes is a Solomon, ready to make whole and not divide.

Love Beckons

To what heights has love been lifted
and dropped, nay pushed,
to the bottomless pit
from which no heaven could be seen?

To what lengths has love been stretched
and allowed to fall back onto itself
to where no life was left
to renew itself?

To what heights has love been lifted
by love returned
and scorned when trust was added,
as if the weight was unbearable?

How many times can hope for love returned
be dashed upon the rocks like waves
their passion spent?
And tramped as flowers by unseeing feet?

There is no limit,
for time again love has crept upward
to where a path of heaven,
like a beacon, beckons.
Where life has renewed itself
when vital signs could not be seen.

When hope, by faith has found the love returned.

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey