Author Archive | Veronica Hallissey

Camelot Moment. . . .eternity practicing. . . .

 

When given and we are present in heart and mind, it is a rare gift.  I call it a Camelot Moment because it was perfect in itself and yet a confirmation to a philosophy in process.  It met with great appreciation when first published and now approaching Valentine’s Day,  for new readers, I wish you a Camelot Moment.

Camelot Moment. . .

The words we chose to speak
could not be construed to be words
of great love, but they were.
It was with gaiety that we chatted
about the commonplace and laughed a lot.
We were happy.

I sat in my chair at the dining room table
and watched with joy a moment rare in our shared history.
My coffee cup had been refilled so many times.
Its taste was cutting sweet.

You had risen from the table and in the space
that was the middle of the kitchen,
were moved by some unnamed force to do a jig.

In the fragmented second it took to blink away
a laughing tear, your form transformed and
there we were and yet not.

With feet doing your ancestral dance in mid-air,
your solid body was no longer solid.
A maze of dancing atoms and molecules took your shape.
Your color took on their transparency
and I thought how fragile you are!

It was just a moment but eternity practicing and
you were back into the time frame
we both knew as you.  I could not tell you what I saw.
The rules of this let’s pretend world are hard to break.

I sit at this desk with magically moving molecules,
drinking coffee from a supposedly solid white cup and saucer
and holding tight to a yellow pencil at a time
when the rest of the world sleeps and weeps.

Knowing the mountain is only a thought form
and with a little faith in my ability to move it, I could.
With our prejudices we mightily construct a world
to please or not, as our self image directs.

But in this brief Camelot moment,
I know that in that sacred space
I saw you so utterly defenseless,

I never loved you more, nor me.

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It Is Hard Being Human. . . but a privilege. . . . .

                                                                                                          Love her, she is ours. . . .

 

I am grateful for my readers who follow my work though they may not agree and sometimes not understand what I talk about.  I overheard  one talking to my son and he said he gave up because he had to look up every other word I used.   I use words that come to mind and when I backtrack I often have to use the thesaurus to verify.  That is the way my head works.  I  try to  write in the vernacular and think I do.  Then when I reread or hear a comment like above,  I wonder.

I inwardly focus and have written about the deep place I enter to confer.  I say this and there are silent others who read these words and they know of what I speak.   I speak out now at the ending of my life so that there will be some understanding about the differences among us.  We cannot continue to stagnate and have no progress in our humanity else we continue to decimate cultures and bury our children.

My squabbles with beloveds stem mostly with speaking on things that are outside the frame of reference.  The following is dictation from a recent journal entry about my inability to fully appreciate how one can not understand something that is confronting one.  It is a stumbling block for me when understanding is not commensurate with education.  Another time for that, but here is the entry.

“when it is outside the frame of reference, that circle, that boundary, one cannot relate.  Each piece of information must root to push the frame of reference a bit farther out.  Each piece of information that makes sense, that roots, that finds reason will establish that piece firmly.  And when something similar comes to mind there is a magnetic action.  Growth happens, maybe no more than a micro, but growth.  Each new piece then fuses and we have a macro something.

Faster paced is the growth for awhile.  Enough so that it is noticeable and we have another human in evolution again.  Keep this in mind.  When there is nothing in the frame of reference that you give away for free, it is worth nothing.  If it clicks and has them saying it makes sense, or is reasonable and roots,  then we teach.  We expand our knowledge  and give grace expeditiously.  Grande feeling, really grande.  The lightbulb goes on. 

Even when just one understands and the action roots,  then all will progress.  When the second one relates,  we have a committee. The Master said that when you give me a drink,  all thirst will be satiated.  That is human progress in evolution.”

It is simple?  May takes centuries for change to occur.  When a new concept is adopted the brain opens chambers not used before and mankind prospers.  There is truth in the maxim that we become what we feed our minds.  I know, it is hard being human.

(excerpt from poem)
The Uncovering. .. . .

The idea will find its home in the minds of all men
and the revolution begins.  The learned ones
will marvel at the evolution in thinking
and peace with brotherhood will slowly mark
its beginning in the house of one man. . . . . .

(written 1960’s. . .before I knew that all time
is simultaneous. . .quantum physics)

 

photo by Joe Hallissey, Sr.

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The Heart Knows Its Own Amen. . . .

 

Oftentimes I have written about the cosmic importance of families and homes and many take this as opposition to the seeming greater importance of worldly concerns.  The reality lists toward the impossible harnessing of worldly affairs by adults with hungers left unfed as children when they could have been directed toward  good,  toward universal harmony.    Those hungers  are fed when they arise in children by adults who understand the importance of parenting. 

The obvious spiritual wounds are evident in today’s world by behavior which should be mature in adult bodies.  It is childish in no uncertain terms but now called boyish or youthful or darling or cute or even charismatic.  Once we were called brats with no apology. 

The universe, both visible and invisible, suffers when babies continue to make babies.  And the scars are eternal. It takes a long time for undesirable behavior to be weeded out of the gene fields of humanity.  It will be done sooner if we make a concerted effort to grow up.

 

In The Quiet Of This Night. . .

In the quiet of this night,
come to me and we will hold hands
and talk and I will show you
from high up you jumped.

The night will love you
and envelop you and you will find
that in the cold moon,
there is a heat that sustains
to show you where your home is.

Within the skirts of who you are,
you will gather
the children around you
and we will love each other.

The heart knows its own Amen. . . . .

 

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Only Said A Hat Was Required!!!. . . .

It didn’t say exactly what kind was the implied accusation!  And I laughed out loud to the silence surrounding and know that the great grandfather on the other side of the veil  was harrumphing that she is another like you with no fashion sense!

And I said to Emma E. more like me, please love, more like me. . .

But coming to mind I wanted to tell Emma E. that once at a function an out of breath congressman’s wife asked me how do you appear so well put together every time I see you Ronnie,  with all you have to do?  Such good taste!

And when I told that lifetime mate of mine what she said he did not believe me!!  Emma E.  I want to tell you,  this grandmother great only speaks of what is true.  And this photo of you tells me you are mine.

I can hear you say to your Grumps,  this son of mine who is your adoring grandfather,  he sees you in your unbelievable honesty.  And probably like me,  cannot believe even yet that he is the recipient of this gift that has landed squarely on his heart.

I have lamented many times my one regret is that we did not laugh enough in my lifetime,  and especially when  our boys were growing up.  Circumstances were not often kind and time was limited.  But there were many occasions where laughter would have made the lessons less difficult.

And the heavens heard me and said we will send you a package of laughter to be opened daily and her name will be Emma E.

So the fun began once the footing was secure.  You have been a good teacher of laughter and have caused your families hilarious moments.  You not only have taught tightly crafted psyches to break a little into whoops and hollers but also have opened arms to much love.

Your great, great grandfather, my father in law, paid me the highest compliment ever when  he said he  finally knew what real love was when I married into the Hallissey family and became the mother of his beloved grandsons.  Your Grumps was his first grandson and you the gift cementing and laying yardage to connections on the mend.

It takes time and though generations may lag, eventually steps are taken and again we progress.  It takes an Emma E. to come
with a full package of love and laughter.  And directions with photos, how to slurp spaghetti the proper way to enjoy it fully!

(photo by Tresy Hallissey, grandfather of Emma E.)

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Coming To The Sainted Day of Heart. . . .

They are such simple words but for some people to say the words will cost them dearly they think.  And yet to another,  their lives hang precariously they know if they don’t hear the words soon.    

When one speaks from one’s heart,  the Other intuitively must answer from one’s own, or not answer at all.     It takes courage to confront one’s vulnerabilities, or else one takes refuge with the dismissal  that it is all worthless drama.

As we approach the Sainted day of Heart,  this poem is for you.   I agree that you open yourself to some possible hurt but the greater possibility would be to close oneself to unbelievable happiness and pure joy.

To approach my ninth decade I say truthfully that pain does devastate but time softens it, but with happiness the Divine Within compounds with interest the joy remembered forever.  With what do you wish to be remembered?  Think it through.  Eternity is a long time.

She Says, He Says. . . .

She says,
speak to me!

He says,
I have nothing to say. . . . .

She says,
you can say I love you. . .

He says,
I look out for you, don’t I?
And help others every chance I can. . . .

And she says,
and everyone loves you but
what good to save the world when
your own house is falling apart?
We were told that, were we not?

Words mean a lot.
It is all we have
that connect us, one to the other.

He says,
no one ever said the words
out loud to me and I grew up.
So how important can they be?

And she says,
don’t I count?  Your heart is heavy like a rock.
Only by seeing what the past has done to us
can we change its direction.  And I see
your life long and worth the change.
But change direction only if you see your Self
deserving of this chance.  I say work it!

He says,
you think I will see a difference?

And she says,
you may really be surprised.  Really be surprised.

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Choice Goods Are The Children. . . .

I was asked by a grandchild when I would start talking about how I write.  It was important that people understood the connection between worlds and they the youngest ones came with more open heads. The first work was almost 5 years ago and I will reprint some.  Because my readers now are familiar with my work and know what has been my experience,  I hope you read again with knowledge and your experience to see what is verified.  I see the stagnation of evolution being jettisoned  and maybe Peace on Earth can be a promise instead of a hope.

Choice Goods

I want to live long enough to see the children  born with more than the usual five senses come out of the closet of mind so they will be asked what they see and what they hear and what they think, especially what they remember.   And be looked upon as someone highly gifted and of high caliber.

And there will be a time when being however different will be accepted and not to be shucked away as an embarrassment.

To be held up as an example of ridicule from the time one becomes a subject of reason is not easy.   To need to monitor oneself from the time of kindergarten, always told to watch what one says destroys any spontaneity.   To be different than one’s siblings already puts the different child on the outside looking in.  The isolation of such a one is abhorrent.

We in the western world have a history of brutal force to show what dancing with spirits was all about.   In this country we have a sordid past from the time in Salem, Massachusetts which is still alive in many, many people.   They make circles with their fingers in the air when showing their unmerciful disdain for those who walk with one foot in other worlds.

Their palpable fear is employed dramatically in the removal of those who harbor any form of uncommon thought.   The devil for them is at their heels when one of these differences happens in their family. They become stone faced and do not stop at whatever means necessary to remove the offending behavior or even the person.

With a hundred billion planets floating about, how long will it take for people to yield to the fact that intelligence also lives on a planet or two or maybe all surrounding us?   That maybe we can exchange hello’s, just maybe?  And perhaps those about who have more than the usual five senses and whose heads and hearts are open to unknown worlds may teach us something?

We ask the question when a beloved hovers near their final breath and we hope there is a something beyond.   We should have been researching the first question which was from where do we come?

Even in the Nag Hammadi texts Jesus is asked by a disciple where it is we go when we die and he answered why worry where you go when you never asked from where you come.  A bit slow we are it seems.

Look to the child who asks the why’s and has invisible friends as he plays on the floor with his legos.   Or the daughter who serves tea to her dolls with significant names and converses with them in grown up language.   These children are choice goods.   They will one day create the world we hoped we would inherit.   They deserve our support.

And it is our sacred obligation to do so.

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You Laid Your Heart On Me. . . .

 

There are more than a hundred of us who share in what I call the ‘jenny genes.’  I am neither boasting nor complaining because we all share faults as well as some victories,  though the latter have come with a price paid dearly.  And the faults have had a dear price also.

One of the maxims we were reared with was that if you see something that needs doing, (meaning work)  do it because you will not pass this way again.  Some ignored this, but most of my siblings lived with this.  It stopped my  heart  twice with cardiac arrest,  and nearing ninety, it prods me on not to just try like Yoda says, but do.

It is a hard way to live because it gives an excuse for others not to work because ‘you like to do that’ whatever the menial task is.  You are told they don’t want to spoil your fun by insisting on helping, not understanding you’re working toward a different horizon. Others are quick to take advantage.

My artist brother and I  in our later years bonded tightly in phone conversations nightly as sleep evaded each of us.  He took the Nazarene as his God and  I took him as Friend.  We agreed on principles, especially the one, ‘hearing you will hear and not understand and seeing you will not see.’  Our conversations often were shorthand script like, you know when you look at the gulley??  answered with oh yeah, you see it too, I know. . . . I know. . . .the birdsong?

He worked his art into the night after the farm  chores were done and I, my studies and writing long after my world slept.  He sculpted  with iron and metals of sorts and used a blow torch.  We worked to show a world where all was sacred because All was connected.  And love was the solder welding The All.  It had to begin with us and the children we hoped were the best of who we were.

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 heart on me.

 

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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good and faithful servant, Thou Art. . . .

The Roses Are For You. . .

It was a new friend Jan who remarked that she knew I didn’t know we were different.   And I remember feeling hurt that again I was on the outside looking in and now my children were also outside the circle.  But as she continued to be my friend and my trust strengthened she pointed out things that were different.

One thing continually amazed her was that we talked; the boys and I talked.  She pointed out that most  young people did not talk to their parents.  But she said you actually sat at the table and talked to each other.  But since the husband and father was out in public doing what he did, I was the parent on premises.  And our conversations were enlightening to me.  They were good teachers.

I remember when a grandmother visited and I was on the phone to our eldest living away, when I hung up she asked what I found to talk about  since she and her son did not converse except tersely.  I was astonished at the question for there was never enough time to finish a conversation.  When I mentioned this to the eldest, he said  we have been practicing for over 30 years!  In a nutshell,  all the time, practice.

Individually the separation from peers began in kindergarten, with invisible friends we think  was what everybody had.  New insight, new knowledge, new subjects to pursue.  Trying this, trying that,  giving everything a try.  Making do with what was on hand was a prerequisite when money is scarce but ideas profuse.  Questions such as how did you know to do that?  Or how could you?. . .whatever you did.  Who showed you and where did you learn to? . . .whatever.

Some results were met with derision.  Some were met unbelievingly.  He was four when he looked up at the sky and saw contrails splitting and said with awe.. . like a zipper opening the sky!!!. . .the one with a pen.

He was only three when I saw him on the floor with the newspaper open to the stock page and asked him what on earth he was doing at six a.m.   He said I am checking my stock to see how I do. . .meaning he had been going to the mailbox on the road also in the dark to get the paper which frightened me more.

And the younger was hardly past a year with his father’s belt wrapped around him with tools from the kitchen as he climbed a tree.  A spatula, a serrated bread knife for a saw and some kitchen shears pointed down as tools should be in the belt of course and tongs for heaven knows what.    He was wedged securely in a Y branch.  I know-ed he said, I know-ed.

I had wished for a mother who understood what I did when I was an eight year old on the grass and willed the clouds to form mind patterns.  She could not understand this daughter who wasted time doing nothing she said.  When the boys were born I knew the kind of mother I wanted to be.  Enchanted years the writer son said.  Enchanted.

Embrace the differences I later wrote.  Embrace the differences and give evolution a run for the roses. This is what will clean up the detritus and keep the classroom alive.   And the responses have me on knees that bow to the Divine in us all that has continued to serve in spite, despite the inhumanity that threatened these differences;  good and faithful servant Thou Art.

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Embrace The Differences. . .

Sometimes there is a need to repeat what one has already written because of new interest or new readers.  Because for some there is no access to already printed essays, I ask you to bear with me this time to accommodate new readers.  It will also help to refresh our memories of what we filed to be remembered.

 

Journal entry March 12, 1990. . . . .

I can remember thinking and finally saying out loud though I happened to be in the basement, I could tell who came in from outdoors by what swept over me.  It could have been their vibes or their energy blanket or it could have been something else that I filed into my brain since time began.

But I would know before they took a step in just who it was; even as a child I knew when my brothers or sister or parents came in.  It was only when our children were born that I realized that not all people were this way.  When I met someone, sometimes for the first time, sweeping over me would be the feeling of them.  I learned I was reacting to their emotional climate.

It is traumatic for the young child, the sensitive one, who complains of a stomach ache at the thought of school, to be away from the safe environs of home,  afraid of being laughed at or throwing up, or the washroom being too far.  How to explain this to parents?  They cannot and unless there is a divergent path taken, they will simply say  they have stomach problems and spend time in the bathroom.   Never realizing they have become the emotional pit stop for the world’s ills.

Sometimes the sensitive one must simply vacate the room to protect himself from the slings of emotional flagrancy. They have to leave when emotions rampage or they will throw up. There is seldom a someone who understands to protect the child or the child in the adult body. There is no protection for others’ emotions crashing onto them.  Even contained violent emotions can be deadly to the vulnerable.

The triggers for these occasions can be anything.  When I was a child in grade school the sound of a siren going by would find me running home from school certain that calamity had befallen my family.  Certain I was my mother would be dead or the house burned to the ground.

We were not spawned in a ditch.  We are a holy beginning.  We were before we are and we have a history.  We are a history.

To the one who said I draw conclusions all over the place  (it was not meant as a compliment)  and make connections no one else does,  I say to see all life connected is what Ancients did.  And I do this here and now because of those who cavort on Olympus.  But they worked their days on Earth as I now work mine.

(I was almost Sixty when the above was written.  I am now almost Ninety.  After years of therapy to accept the fact that my head was different but not mentally ill,  the doctors and I formed relationships that supported me.  I learned that there are those like me who are out of place in a world that has difficulty with ideals that work elsewhere.  And the Elsewhere has many worlds.  We embrace to different degrees values that can work here but at a very high cost.  If we are fortunate our families gather to protect what soon becomes the isolated child.  What is not realized is that  mavericks contribute in ways necessary for human progress but not noted until they are absent.  Embrace the obstinate child.  They chose you as parents for special reasons.)

 

Photo by John Stanley Hallissey

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Who First Told Us?. . . .

 

It was my favorite holiday of gratitude.  Family friends were visiting so on the day we were seated at the linen covered table with an extension to accommodate everyone.  The children this year wanted to be at the same table.

Close elbow to elbow for this gala occasion.  Excitement was high as the turkey was carved.  To my left was our youngest seated on a stool to accommodate his seven years.  He loved what he called the dressed up table with white linen and best silver.

In the midst of the jubilation a hand swung out in excitement and over went the goblet with the cranberry juice spilling its brilliancy against the white linen.  Panic and horror swept the young face and tears spilled as well as the juice.  I can’t do anything right! he cried.

I immediately hugged him and said it was an accident love, just an accident.  We mopped up the excess with paper towels and see?  We will cover the stain with another linen napkin.  And we did and refilled the goblet and dried the tears.

We learned that the word accident was made especially for these kinds of incidents.  We learned also that when things happen with no malice aforethought they can be called accidents.  And we deal with them.

Talk immediately resumed with enthusiasm and the incident was not remembered by him.  No keloid tissue formed for there was no scar of a moment that might have destroyed his growing abilities in his hands’ craftsmanship.

The words of recrimination had no business being in the mind of this beloved child and they made me angry.  Who would have cursed a child to burden a sensitive aware psyche?

My anger took the form of a lifelong journey into the heart of me having aroused hidden anguish propelling me from childhood with the same agonies of why I could never please the people I loved most.  There were the admonitions always, called constructive criticisms now, to improve who I was.  Even when I was doing my best and working as hard as I could.

It drove me to the world of books and study that never dimmed for me.  I learned and keep learning  why we cry as my youngest did,  why can’t I do anything right!  What propels us in this best of all classrooms to keep trying and doing as Yoda said.  Don’t just try, do!

Worlds await to accommodate what we learn.  We become what we feed our minds.

(excerpt from
Phillip 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.

Aaahhhhh. . . the mystery?

Who first told us we were not good?

(primitive art by Veronica)

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