Archive | March, 2017

Little Mercies. . .



Little Mercies. . .


Dickens said. . . ‘I wear the chains I forged in life’

For better or worse we forge them link by link.  And I like to think they are good habits of ours that I call little mercies or the more common,  tender mercies.  I felt this many times.  I often started something I could not stop because people I loved depended on that little something.  Whether it was a fire in the fireplace when the grandchildren especially visited or I set the table a certain way with cloth napkins for them or when I make Christmas cards.

“I am going to live, Eleanor’,  George said after his heart attack.  ‘I am going to live and we will frame Ronnie’s card and put it on the dresser.’   And he did and he looked at it every day and had many long years.  And Marylouise said I set your cards on the mantel where they stay .  You have no idea how many times I look at the rose card and it gives me strength to go on.  And this is one of the reasons I was born, to stretch out a hand.

Most of us have no idea when we do a something that encourages an Other.  I was fortunate in that I learned and people have told me when they have been touched by something I have done.  How very important to do that little act of mercy.  I have heard a harrumph when I have labored over a something with someone standing nearby and succeeded to follow with a heavenward thank you.  Even as a child I understood that heaven seldom gets thank yous.  When was your thank you sent heavenward?  Send it now. . .

Thank You

My days are littered
with murmuring thank yous
for gifts unbidden. . .

for the stray thought
giving answers
to questions I did not ask. . .

for the beating heart
too tired even to stop
and glad that it did not. . .

for the quivering morning
poised to take flight
through a day hard pressed. . .

to a night, bidden
with unfaltering love
as a thank you. . .

for a day loved through. . . .


photo by
John Holmes


Think It Through. . . .

Think It Through. . .

All thought which holds the life’s crucible for an Other’s well being is prayer.  Any conversation which holds the good of Others in its heart is prayer.


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


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


Tears aside,  there is eternal life within each and for each to discover.  One cannot hand it to them already chewed.  It is theirs to do.


Wait not for death.  Be vigilant only of life in all its forms, in its entirety.  One cannot break a will which heralds its own functioning to its own existence.


It is enough that the articles of faith be hidden for as long as they have behind the façade of the mind grown into habitual lack.


It is time for even the skeptical mind to be convinced that what is seen is not necessarily all there is to be seen and what is heard is all that is being said.


You cannot know what deep is until you have fallen into a hole.


You cannot rush in and guide the cart to avoid disaster.  Disaster brings lessons which cannot be learned any other way.  Even when the extra work falls on your shoulders.  Suck it up.


We walk on cobwebs but we are cobwebs.  We are not certain what the final outcome will be.  What we are certain of is the process.


Don’t lose your grip.  Heaven is tightfisted also.


The Global House. . . running toward a truth. . . .

The Cost Of Life. . . Priceless

Some old beliefs are a security blanket that have been dragged along through centuries and already are thread bare.  The nap has been plucked off by nervous fingers tightly holding to isolation and keeping those not like us outside the circle.  Some beliefs need to be kept and cherished like family members.  Like commitment to truths and welcoming strangers because we might be entertaining angels unaware.  But always we must be open to ideas that can enlarge the frame of understanding in a world that kaleidoscopes to everything being across the street.  No longer do vast expanses of either water or land separate us.  It is time we assume to be our brothers’ keepers for we are more than our  appearance indicates.



How Not To Attach The Fabric Of The Global House. . .

They say. .

You have to keep it singular. . .
You have to keep it nuclear. . .
You have to keep it private. . . and
remembering different in any way is not good.

I tell you. . .

You have to keep out the likes
of the stable boy
who was my grandfather.
And keep out the likes of my grandmother
who could speak seven languages and
and the likes of me from being born.

For, I, in a sometime life
blazoned with the year of 1790
walked up a hill in a country called France.
As a monk in a robe of brown burlap
with a heavy cross across my shoulders
led a group of people past boarded windows
with dust flying to save human rights.
The time was the French Revolution.

We would be immigrants
vying for freedom from
a world of oppression;
seeking liberation for a chance
to breathe fresh air.
Rich with history,
making a small difference to be sure,
infected only with Earth’s virus called learning.
Our need to know life’s passions
helped to escalate human evolution.

Was this to be called a criminal act and we the criminals?


Sculpture by
Stanley Rybacki



New Glimpses and Compensation. . .


Compensation. . .

There was a time when summer was upon us that I was scurrying to order wood so that it would have a full season to dry.  I was also then listening intently for the cicadas to start their mating call because I knew that the first frost was due 6 weeks from when they started singing.  It was a time of close neighbors, Dennis on one side and Don on the other,  who knew my love of winters and called me when they heard them.  And I counted carefully and reminded the summer addicts when the first frost was imminent.  It was a fun time.

I ordered the wood and stacked the logs.  I loved doing it.  I gathered the twigs on my morning walks with the dog and had a pile of kindling ready.  City living needs must be adjusted to conditions.  Kindling was at a premium.  In my ability to do,  I did not give houseroom to the thought that I might not always do this.  It is a surprise when it happens.   But life compensates in all things.  What is given to replace may seem a substitute,  but with declining physical abilities perceptual gleanings are enhanced.  Some call it wisdom.

New Glimpses. . .

There is no scent engulfing
the place where I sit
with apple wood or pine or oak,
but the fire continues to warm me,
not as hot perhaps as I remember,
but sufficient.

I put the scents,
the crackling flames
into a time frame of memories,
and take refuge in the devices
that greedily gather
the diminishing energy that old age
requires simply to keep breathing.

The others, the memories
that relished the youthful exuberance,
I remember belong to a time
when life was taken
with no thought ever ending
because it was an unknown. . .

But known now is
the passage of time
and with it new glimpses
of a world yet to be entered

and lived in with reverence.


Back Talk. . .



Back Talk. . .


I say. . .

Give me time. . .

You say. . .

I already have.
How much time
do you need?

I say. . .

Just a little more.
I never had time to do
what my soul yearned to do.

You say. . .

But you did what
you saw to do. . .

And I say. . .

That took all my time. . .

You say. . .

Was it yours to do?

I say. . .

But you said if you saw it to do,
you do it because the chance
will pass you by and
it will never be done. . .
Evolution would stagnate. . .

You say. . .

There was no one else to see it.
Life says thank you.

I say. . .

My pleasure,  you are welcome.
Now a little more time for me
just to do the frivolous you think. . .

You say. . .

The frivolous would have
enhanced the necessary
and made it less of a burden. . .

I say. . .

Why didn’t you tell that to my mother? .



photo by John Holmes


Connections. . . everything teaches. . .



The Dinner Table . . . Everything Teaches. . .

There was a little boy who sat at the holiday table with all the family and their friends.  The table was set with the white cloth and the numbers of gathered friends were many.  The little boy sat high on his chair and when the little hand shot out uncontrollably and the cranberry juice spread its stain over the white linen,  the face of the little boy crumpled and he said,  ‘I can’t do anything right!’

And the mother of the little boy said everyone has accidents and we can make it right.  So the paper towel sopped up the juice and another white napkin was placed over the stain and the little boy never remembered the incident.  It was an incident but the mother remembered and the little boy was more important than anything at the moment.

The dinner, one of many, would be forgotten and so would the incident.  That scar never formed except in the mother when she remembered the face and wondered who told him he couldn’t do anything right?  He has done many things right in his life and some things in error.  But that incident he never remembered and it formed no keloid because there was no scar.

The rest of mankind will also wash out.  The stain will be bleached and man will not hang in the sun and wonder how he can possibly get that stain out of his soul.  Too many centuries in the process and no nearer now than when he first catapulted into waiting arms,  if he was lucky enough to have those arms waiting.

A son wondered if he should drop Philosophy.  He was told that there was no other class worth taking.  Except History.  And Humanities.  And maybe a couple of others like Biology and Literature and the Religions of Man.

Excerpt from . . .

Philip Framed The Mystery. . .

Our tears filled the rivers with fatigue
which filled the oceans with frustration
as the fruits of our fields were dispersed.
All the while we continued to labor
for redemption.

Ahhhh. . . .the mystery?

Who first told us we were no good?


Where Are You Going Absalom? . . . .

I’ve Been Before To Paradise. . .

I was told that you cannot wait for anyone else to do what is yours to do.  They do not have your particular understanding nor your vision.  The future  will be turned one page at a time and you will find your name on it.  But do not scythe every blade of grass with one fell swoop.  It cannot be done.  You will do those things closest to your heart.  This is all the universe requires.

This time in March memory appoints itself guardian of a time that forever changed us years ago.  This was the quickening time for our David’s departure toward the month’s end.  I don’t  need journals to freshen conversations because I do not forget those.  By rote I did the maintenance of body and house and mercifully have forgotten the dailyness of driving to the hospital and the visual encumbrances.

There were hot months preceding and the cold months succeeding.  On the way to the hospital in the  city,  Michigan Ave. separated the poor, the destitute and those with no hope on either side.  Nothing to ease  their days and not a fresh towel to dry themselves.  Not a bath of water to ease the hurt body nor a clean pair of underwear.  Such was the poverty.  Not a hot meal in the winter nor a glass of cold something because the refrigerator did not make cubes.  It bogged down my thinking and there was no separation between what surrounded me and the even bigger loss awaiting me.    It leaked through my skin and my blood circulated my misery.

The skyline with its new buildings and skyscrapers seem no more than makeup on an aged skin filled with lines and creases.  There was not a time lapse but a raging against what pushed us all.  It was the quest for immortality that one expects from one’s children.  What I was then involved with on a daily basis as a parent should not have been in my frame of reference.

I do not function alone.  I am privy to the minds who have linked history of man to his future.  But I am mother to those sons who considered themselves a triumvirate.  When one sneezed, another withdrew his handkerchief and the third said God Bless no matter what part of the world they were in.  To watch this dis-rupture in this union was to watch this union disrupt.  It should never be part of a mother’s bank of memories.

Yet never were there those who were far enough into the perplexities of modern times where the questions arose, even subliminally.  And where I know now that there are no answers anywhere , except in our Self.  I make my peace with that.

Where Are You Going Absalom?. . .

‘to where the moon
can melt the sun,
the cactus blooms at high noon
and the darkness bids good morning. . .

where cowled thoughts
and taut skin need never cover
hot bones and the cactus
no longer pricks. . .

to fly wingless to the mind’s ankh,
taking only me, only me,
and find that I suffice. . .

I’ve been before to Paradise,
but forgot.
Reaching in, I reach out,
touching my own nimbus.
I’ll not be gone long.’

David wept.


Photo by
John Holmes


Bread With Some Butter. . .


Bread With Some Butter. . .

Drive as though your life depended on your driving.  Because many drive as though they never give life thought,  least of all yours.
We know that empty promises still carry the hint of hope.  Because who knows for sure.
Man has made his bed and he sleeps in it and takes everyone into it.  (what should be done by choice and commitment.)
They have eaten the whole apple and complain there is no pie.
The Divine is already in residence Within.  Let your behavior reflect him/her/ them.
Heaven is as plural as God Is.
When hurt has no outlet, we marinate our hearts in our own tears.
To be gullible is the same as trusting?  You should blanch. . . .
Ahhhh well,  illusions grace the day.  They keep the feelings warm and the heart beating.  Gives us a bit more time to learn what is ours to learn.
Bless and may the night welcome you and the angels make haste for your calling.
There is a moon this night, love, there is a moon.   Let loose your hold on your Earth and make way for your Spirit to dance. . . .
Knowledge is not the easiest bedfellow and not the most comforting pillow to lean against.


Because I Chose You. . .



Thank You For Choosing Me As Your Parent. . . . .

For those who think Eve was an afterthought of Adam, give some time to this disclosure as to her purpose for humanity.  Perhaps this should be included in our thinking when we discuss the competition and jealousies which plague the genders.

The following came to light with a reading of the journal entries that I had scribed.  Why I did not pick it out long before now I can only guess.  Mothers in particular have special relationships with children in that they carried them, and they look upon them as extensions of mind and heart.  Not all do. but many.  This extension was the primary intent.

 ‘Such had been the intent of the birthing process.  That through the mother there would flow the process which would unite man to the each and give to the each a feeling of brotherhood. 

 It was not intended to be a divisive process and without feeling.  The caring, the uniting, the intention of belonging to the greater humanity was what being human was all about.

Parenting in all of its ramifications is not a lark’s song.  It is a mean job, not without its joy but work it is.  We cannot hope to fulfill all needs but a good beginning is crucial.  When we elevate the act of creation of the new human to its highest level possible, heaven will no longer lament that we can only send out what we take in.’

You may not know because of lack of memory when you say ‘thank you to your children for choosing me as your parent because I chose you’ but somehow in the full scheme of things,  you know it couldn’t be otherwise.

Three Sons. .

Bone of my bone,
blood of my blood,
born of desire
filtered through my heart.

You stand tall,
you men of proper mean,
with hearts fired
and found not wanting.

You’ve yielded to a sun
that has boiled your blood
and found the moons of your soul,
half frozen.

Vitality sapped,
stone cold,
you rise
resurrected and unafraid.

Bruises, welts and wounds,
seen and unseen,
are kissed
by a benevolent universe

and healed in love.


artwork by
Claudia Hallissey


Observation Expert. . .


The only thing I am an expert on is being an old lady.  I am not a vet nor a dog trainer, nor a whisperer.  What I am is an expert in observing;  people as well as sentient life,  or not sentient.  I have seen God in a Rock.  So be it.  What I have observed are animals, mostly dogs because I have been dog sitting quite a lot over the years.

And what I have observed is this.  We have created a companion animal with our dogs and cats and we have to come to terms with how we are going to treat them.  I am not into sentimentalizing animals, but here is my observation.

When television came into our homes and people stopped going to the fence to talk to their neighbors or on their balconies or porches to watch life go by or talk to it,  or even answer their doors for fear someone would disrupt their evening programs,  they brought their dogs and cats to the couch to have a warm body next to them.

And their animals became their companions.  They began talking to them and giving them treats and it wasn’t long before dogs realized people food was better than what they got on the floor.  Some would even say that when the wolf was brought to the cave entrance and fed in exchange for guarding the humans in the caves, it all started then.  It was then just a technicality to when the guard wolves came inside the entrance for warmth.

Television became the entertainment and animals with the family, became companions.  Over 50 years ago I read where Seth, the channeling guide in the  Jane Roberts’ books said in passing,  that often a soul fragment to experience  a segment of physical life will take residence in a dog or cat body.  That statement gave premise to the observations over the years and I watched avidly the evolution of companion animals.  With some dogs having a vocabulary in many cases larger than a 3 or 4 year toddler,  one must come to terms with how it is we treat these sentient beings.

Of course we would not leave children in the cold to fend for themselves.  Can we now leave our animals who have evolved in terms no longer just dogs and cats to fend for themselves?  We can and do at great cost.  We have introduced them to aspects of human life and they tell us in behavior that they prefer it.  They want our presence,  are comfortable and content with us,  and respond to quick commands that have us in awe.  With a 1500 word vocabulary in some dogs can we dismiss this being as ‘it is just a dog’ when we have as humans created this companion animal?

For the past two weeks I have had 3 dogs to care for.  A lame Rottweiler,  a  Newfoundland, both residents and a Shih Tzu,  all  treasures in themselves.  The Shih Tzu is the guest and  has me in awe with his intelligence.  If he had the throat,  he would form his answers in words to me.  He simply knows what I say and I wish I knew his desires.  To say he is just a dog is to dismiss the intelligence we have nurtured in these companions over the centuries.  Intelligence requires a dignity that we simply have to make peace with in beings that are different.

Dogs don’t play games nearly as much as people for self aggrandizement.  I say that if another life is required,  I will be in an ivory tower doing research and on the ground just  raising dogs.  I would need a grounding if there is then still an earth life and conscience would tell me to make a difference,  dogs would do it.


photo by
Joe Hallissey Jr.



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