I was a young girl when the priest came to our home and my mother saying. ‘I don’t know who teaches her because I don’t. I don’t know where she gets her ideas.’ Years of criticism for my different ideas but my work habits were praised. I was diligent, thorough and needing praise for a starving heart.
On my road to Damascus experiences when my world crashed in my mid thirties, I could not believe good intentions and love were so easily crushed. With the help of a good doctor and my belief that I was still choice goods, rebuilding began. Not easy to do when one’s only bastion of strength was in thought and thinking. And one’s reason for being were three young sons who needed their mother at home.
Some call it prayer, others call it meditation. I called it duelogues because oh my I argued. I seldom carried it out loud because of setting off unrest in others I learned, hence the duelogues. I crashed the gates of heaven because how could what was taught in church school and on Sundays be so wrong when I worked so hard to do everything right by the church, by the book, by heart and even invented.
If it could not work where I was, then it was a lie and I wanted no part of it. Heaven convinced me that it could work and did and then we began our work. And work it has been. 24/7.
Then over the years dialogues and then In Conference. The poetry was continuing along with the journals when I found myself scribing. I typed hard copy because of my need to see in print what I heard was psychologically sound and philosophically palatable. It had to make sense. And my life had to show it. It has and I continue to work it.
To make my work understandable, the small voice within, god within, comforter, or the smooth pipe that Emerson called it that the angels or the muses speak through, works at one with me. I hope this post makes my work easier to understand. I am unable to explain the thought processes. But it has been a lifetime of mutual trust. (I enclose an excerpt from July 1, 2015 journal and also a poem for that day. Sometimes they coincide and this day is one. It will make the poem easier to understand. Some editing was done as I pick up the words)
From the Teachers . . .much will jar the houseboats of peoples and they will look again at the justice and injustices of partnerships whether in the same house or not. We know the intricacy of such matters. We know your penchant to keep words to a minimum. The aim is to get as many as possible to the table and to think. Eat and think. One and the same. What is being fed will make its way to the minds of men and there will be growth and there will be a road that has been scythed for travel. We will have a striving for peace. People will realize that the difference they make within themselves will be the greatest difference they can possibly make.
Prayer In Concert. . . from the other side. . .
It was prayer you held in concert
with the Great One who marked
your presence on his counter of beads.
Talks, mostly dialogues, it seems,
and held court with sages long asleep
on couches too soft for too long. . .
Rise! You shouted and they, appalled
at the sight of woman,
rose and were rightly chastised.
They had forgotten the bread lines
and the penniless people and
children’s bellies bloated from hunger.
You brought them to shame and now
they remember how the ivory towers
separated their lives from the
grime in the streets below.
Now you tell them in languages understood
how deep the hunger for knowledge
can be as if for bread; to keep alive
a mind from sleep; (like scourge
it contaminates all minds of men).
We wake them up and put to work
the fathers of the children forever seeded