Author Archive | Veronica Hallissey

The Scales Are Just. . . .


We are not  the product of one lifetime, but many lifetimes and many frameworks.  And we are a reference point to other frameworks.
The Ego which needs continual stroking becomes unwieldly and obscures divine passage.
‘I am only human’ is an excuse that has been overworked.
To dismantle another’s world demands that we stay around long enough to help build another one.
Within is the rest and without is the charm.
We need to see things as they more nearly are.
To create a reality is everyone’s business and cooperation is necessary.  It is a communal endeavor.
To build a philosophy to fit a perspective and includes our commitments has a high cost.
The highest framework we can choose is the one by which the heart is healed.
Heaven rushes to the side of our cradle to give proof that we are not abandoned.
To ask presumes the divine presence in the Other.  It is a love affair of the greatest kind.
We aim to educate the heart.   And the condition of the heart will determine the cost of tuition.
If by our presence  we signify criticism, we lecture without opening our mouths.


The Hard Work of Thought. . . .

It seems going through my head are many things connecting to all things.   Nothing stands alone.  I am not sure  where to begin, if there is a beginning.  Perhaps that is what we have to learn, that there is no beginning and no end.  It can start anywhere for me and therefore anywhere for you.  And that is a big, a huge morsel to swallow.

For me a big deal.  Because with every thought,  I am hesitating with even telling or sharing anything without a prelude.  And if I don’t explain,  then what I say has to stand alone and make some sense.  Otherwise we are reduced to groans and hums.  The question then should be, does it matter?

If you care enough to question why? then it matters.  If not,  take it from where you stand and run with what you have in hand and head.  It will be enough for now.  Later may require something more.

I read last night a scribing of June  27, 1991 (yesterday quantum time) that the purpose of life is not meant to be happy.  It was meant to be lived and learned from.  I came to Earth with that knowledge, dragging a foot from my last world. It was not meant to be a comfort ride through life.

Already there was confirmation that the twig was already bent and would continue to grow.  That’s what I mean about connections.  The Nazarene said ‘as the twig is bent, so shall it grow.’  

Too many think we are a clean slate to be written on.  Some are and they are newbies to this classroom.  Too many problems are created by thinking we all are newbies.  For those of us with histories, each lesson with  synergism, integrates.  We are the hair pulling parent claiming ‘I treat them all the same!’  And followed by ‘I don’t know where she/he learns that’!

I look at the national scenes of the insurrection against our democracy and the souls who trampled our Constitution, breaking the windows of our governmental house,  searing the eyes of the child holding the book telling us how humanity is special.  I hear the child question his mother asking why daddy is mad and what means elite? . . .

Pictures easily show what we are not part of and demand little from us.  Words demand work from us. Undeniably we have seen our devices of entertainment evolve to become weapons of war.   Devices evolve but not the human hands holding them unless the hard work of thinking be done.  

When thought has us asking heart questions, the Divine Within  already nudges us with  answers.  Our children are reading the books giving them the right words to ask the right questions. 

Please be the right parents for them.  They chose you by heart.

Family Photo



Pray the garden into a sanctuary. . . . . .

On May 14, 2021, I posted Time’s Gleanings.  It  is a collection of paradigms as a brief respite in diets of heavy lessons.  My last maxim of that post reads like this. . .

‘Like a dancer learning the discipline of a new score,  we have rehearsed minute by minute to come to this place,  this place of understanding where we are now.’

I received an email from Merideth, mother of the sisters saying . . . Emma E. told me today that she was a dancer before she was a baby.  Perhaps that is why she stands on the tip of her toes so often.  It is a habit she learned before she even arrived. . . .

I told Merideth that I am glad our girl babies have her as a mother and I am glad Mer does what she does.  Emma E. will start her formal schooling soon.  The altogether most important elements started when she chose her parents.  Safe is such a simple word and as many letters as fear.  To be able to freely connect her tip toeing as a dancer before being born as a baby told us how high she will reach.

Children come from a sacred some place to grow and teach.  When they ask that first ‘why?’ we should kneel and embrace the child and search their minds for what they remember.  And we should talk to each other freely about earliest memories. 

Memories are a good foundation to support growth and integrate new sustainable knowledge.  In this wild and wooly forest I comfort myself that memories can be our mother tree like that of the forest gods. . .with space to embrace us all.

Little Ballerina . . . 

Dance for me, little girl
Dance your dance and show the gods 
why you dance.

In the garden I see you,
toes dug into the earth, head tilted
to catch the glint of the sun filtering
through the leaves.

You nod in assent to breezes
whispering your name.
Your lips move in intonation
of the om which separates you,

You pirouette perfectly, swayed by forces
caressing you to homage of all who you are.

I long to kneel before the image of you.
At one with your own music,
when your arms grace sweepingly
in the silent moment and you take
all that is yours and

pray the garden into a sanctuary.


artwork by Claudia Hallissey 


My reason. . . Because Of Love. . . . .



Explanation Caught in Part. . .

In the beginning,
in the place where I came from,
there was a veil covering the foetus,
the skin of man.
I remember the place and the one
who sent me here.
He said it was because he loved me,
and all those who would be part of me.

I could not believe that
someone who loved me
would send me to a place
that had no running water,
no rivers to drink from,
no sky to rise to. . .

How could love hurt so much?

I am here now,
have finished my work
but found in my new world,
old loves, not new. . .

These old loves I will see
again and again.
They have made me beautiful
in this place where I am. . .

Should I go home to the place
where my heart beat so fast
that lights were lit in far away places?
Where the beat of my heart
sent souls scurrying to hide abouts
because they were afraid
I would reveal them, but lo,
here we go again. . .

I hear. . .Look always to the side
of the world that needs what you are.
It will be your home for this next time.
And you have to believe

it was only for love it was done. . ..       


PS      Two questions I must ask. . . would you
think it worth it and how certain are you
your judgment is on target?  

Especially after overhearing . . .
            All it took was some sweet talk. . . 


Each One. . .Teach One. . .




. . . It always is a struggle between the correct thing and the right thing, no matter the subject or the action.  The correct thing is not always comforting nor comfortable.  And it generally is confrontational.  Too much on our plate and we already want to hit delete.   But whooooaaa!!!  We are decent people and we  need to hear the correct/right  thing. . .we need to hear once in awhile,   ‘we done good’. . . . .

That was our intention when we ask to be born to make a difference.  You can argue the point, but we ask, yeah we do. . .

With what goes on the politically  global scenes as well as our national one,  coupled with the aberrant pandemic globally, everyone can see us/our planet  going down the tube again and again and forever.

Except we have been loved into conscience and so loving our children, we also have siblings and nieces and nephews.  We are the Earthgods. . . their mothergods and fathergods and godmothers and godfathers and godaunts and goduncles.  And behold we now are their grandmothersgreat and grandfathersgreat and all who  have been loved into Conscience with a capital C, lest we forget.

And we cannot forget.   We just cannot.  We must do what we can and work and study to enlarge our picture,  widen our horizons and add depth to our being.  We must learn about ourselves and learn about each other.  We must see where we are alike,  where we agree,  especially on what we love as our democracy and whom we love and resolve to heal our difficulties and mend our rips and tears.  We must vow not to allow others to expound on our differences and make profit on us and make deep pits where there are none. 

Troublemakers feast on a diet of havoc.  And creating havoc in their best friends means the troublemakers sleep happily.  We will not give them that pleasure.

Our days make a certain shaped something of us.  Let that something teach an Other.  That we are not only civil but kind,  that we are not only decent people  but loving people, who care about each other.  Even though we disagree with someone’s arguments, we are polite and listen.  We would want them to listen with courtesy to us.

Thus we teach. No longer silent because silence has wrongfully signaled  we don’t care but care we do.   We speak to voice our conclusions to show we give thought, but our humanity still demands courtesy and  not violence.

Life is good, not easy, but good, in every dimension.  The only alternative to life everlasting is no life anywhere.  And never having the privilege to do good.  All worlds have problems.   I love my life as you do yours.  I have your back.  Thank you for having mine. 

Excerpt from Life Everlasting. . . 

Through all we slide,
like peeled comfrey, slick and smooth,
the oiled parts of a machinery;
deus in machina.  Still we slow,
the burden burdensome, noises polluting
our hearing and events boggling our eternal eye.

Out of the arena testing our mettle,
out of a life holding neutral for no man,
to a new world testing our mettle yet,

to a life in neutral only for a moment,
to a love gripping anew our pulses.

It is a universe of no retire. . . and life everlasting. . .


The Paris Incident. . . .

So now I write about the  entries and how they are verified.  When we moved from Michigan,  we were aged with health problems.  I tired quickly  accounting for sometimes sparse writings.   I now spend more time reading the journals and making notes  amazed at what was accomplished. The puzzling habit still baffles. . .why was I so disciplined in journal keeping with memos and hard copies?  David’s ongoing question till the day he left us. . . how did you know to do it?

Like the mid 1980’s when we were in Munich and a  VIP said I did not tell him when we talked in Paris last week  that I would be in Germany for the conference.  I told him he must confuse me with someone else and he became angry.  His position in the travel arm of government was important because he remembered  people and faces and where they talked.   I was to learn how important in Tourism this ability was in hiring those who are talented  in this respect.  We had a wonderful conversation in Paris he said and he did not make mistakes of that nature. 

I had never met him before and I have never been in Paris at least as this Veronica.  But I read this note in an April 11, ’19 journal entry I had as a grandmother in Paris  been invited to a granddaughter’s birthday party.  That was in reference to a dream in my Veronica head I had had in Michigan.  Is it a parallel life for me and was  I also the younger woman the VIP talked to in Paris who was part of the travel affair years before?

There is also a dream of me as a monk in the year of 1790 I wrote about carrying my cross up a hill during the French Revolution.  I wrote describing the boarded up houses and the dusty miller plantings along the dirt roads.   I understand I fought for civil rights and took issue with the church.  That dream in detail was the entry  of August 21, ’83.   There is the entry of August 25, ’85 where I awakened and sat up in bed speaking French.  My husband pulled me back down and said go back to sleep.  I  was fluent in the language.

I  limit my post words and yet hope to alert interest in the reader.  This being one incident I am detailing  research limited only because readers skim quickly. There are other incidents noted that corroborate each other.   The term alternate realities is not new but I first came upon them in the late 60’s with the Seth books of Jane Roberts.  Much was written about unknown worlds.  It was like gulping water  because I was dying of thirst.  With no one to talk to and shunned because of the Salem, Massachusetts’ fears connected with whirling dervishes and dancing with devils,  the Jane Roberts printed word saved me.

 A psychic at a friend’s party in July of  1985  read cards  and asked me whether I worked in civil rights.   I did not but he  detailed the monk incident and my arguments with the church.  I rushed home to scour the journals and found the August of 1983 entry.  Working, being a community worker’s  wife, parent on premises of 3 sons and home and yard maintenance  took all my time.  Only when the house  slept,  had there been time for research and study.

I try to show where my studies have taken me with my ‘need to know’ as an ordinary person wanting not to be an inadequate parent to our children. When you feel that special  commitment of conscience your whole world changes. Yours will too.


All Who I Am . . . Our Coats Of Many Colors. . .

I write again of my coats of many colors.  Because I love and care for those in my life and love life itself, I will repeat those of my posts I feel urgent about.  Since I have memories and dreams of lives lived and have written of them, apologetically lacking  times, I  rightfully attest to some knowledge.  If it is so for me, then I assume for others it may be also.

 My poetry is evidence and memory serves me partially.  Perhaps only the humanity of them, but solidly enough.  It answers my ‘why’ of who I  am with an answer to how life is everlasting. 

 Only partially but Jesus said my father’s house has many rooms.  My understanding now of simultaneous times is that parallel lives are lived and I have had dreams and experiences of those.   And gives rise to thought of the Biblical Jacob giving the coat of many colors to his son Joseph because Joseph perhaps had memories of many lifetimes?  And spoke of them?

My understanding has been broadened to how perspectives define dimensions which house our lives and give substance to our slim knowledge of who we are.  It is said that some philosophers believe that human nature cannot grasp  reality at all.  Some parts of the world have a greater grasp of these concepts, but western civilization has been slow to even give  it houseroom.

Planets discovered may support life that we yet cannot identify.  There are many who flagrantly deny the intelligence of sentient life even when shown evidence.  Evolution requires certain steps taken in understanding and integrating knowledge  before entering a  world necessary for more precise work. In essence you have to know what to look for.  

 Our world needs for our mind, body and spirit to integrate all we have learned.  We will regret wasting valuable time our planet sorely needs before we replace her resources we take for granted..      

 I harbor the woman in the Arctic, the black woman with a basket on my head, the Arab man who is harvest for the flies, and the Polish woman kneading her bread.  My gnarled fingers are on the hands knitting with smooth sticks in the tent house circling the firepit drinking a sour brew to keep warm. 

I have to keep my focus right here and right now else I walk into a beloved time frame of who I am.  It becomes a problem for those like me and harder for those who love me to find me.


‘Each lifetime lived adds to the cumulative sense of loss.’
                                                                                                the teacher

All Who I Am. . .

I feel the pull of the Polish one bent over her bread board,
pounding, kneading, smoothing the egg dough
into a satiny mound.  Raisins, like eyes, half buried
in the fleshy loaf, stare at me, daring me to absorb
her rhythm into my blood.

Her aching restlessness I breathe already. 
Her utter frustration to make new whips me to
a working frenzy, a woman possessed.  She delivers me
to my bed in agony.  With memory splintered, glinting
off the corners of my eyes, I find me.  And awake again
to a morning promising me no relief from her visions.


My brow furrows, forming ledges to shield my eyes
from a sun that beats unmercifully.  Sweat pours to drench
my body and nausea routes its way flooding
an overloaded circuitry.

The wandering tribesman leading the camel favors one foot.
Calluses shoot pain into the moon calf of his leg and I limp.
The tart taste of yogurt in his mouth washes clean
the sand out of mine.

Each step becomes a mile in length and his laborious effort
throbs in my temples.  I will be harvest for the flies. 
I cannot bear the heat anymore.


The air, sharp as a cut lemon, washes me.  The children race in
their overlarge sweaters with roses painted on their
faces smooth as milk legs.  Lace fringe curtains entertain
the visitors agape at the starkness, the simplicity,
the square picture.  I am at home.

The arctic terrain beats my blood to a froth with exuberance.
My sturdy body matches my earth.  My love shields me,
woos me and I am as cherished as a milch cow in a land
of sparse grasses.  To each other we are the heavy cream
poured on a dish of skyr .


How far back do I dare reach to uncover all who I am? 
Is part of me racing, black skinned and hot, basket overflowing,
precariously balanced on my head and heart beating
outside my skin?  My loose breasts clap-clap in pain 
against my rib cage as I hurry to make up time spent chatting
with my sisters, fearful of the masculine outrage brewing?

I sit at my desk, surrounded by the present essences of
today’s people, today’s commitments.  The air is spicy with
fomenting earth.  My brow does not furrow from the heat yet. 
Summer’s dog days will arrive too soon.

I ‘ve reached backwards and sideways and tasted portions of lives
both palatable and unpalatable.  But altogether rich.  Is my
fatigue of genetic empathy, perhaps imagination gone wild
or an accumulation of too many lives lived, too many
sorrows sorrowed, too many dreams dreamed?


The answer will be mine.  With my departure I will take
the sum of my days, the loves loved, the dreams unfulfilled
and all who I am and walk again the cosmos.
And because of my love for me I will create another world.
Due to my cumulative sense of loss. . . . 

 There will be no more loves aborted.


photo by John Hallissey
artwork by veronica




Beneath the Wings. . . . .



You have often thought if it was written, it was  meant to be understood.  Only you know now that it is the hardest thing to do.  If the frame of reference is not large enough for the topic,  then no understanding ever will come from the words even when the desire is there.  The footwork  has to be done.  The boundaries of knowledge must be broadened  and then the reading will have meaning because the frame of reference will have been enlarged.



We will talk of philosophy
and we will talk of poetry.
We will talk of people and Beings
and we will again
grace the lovely work
of the Great God and say
we walk beneath the wings of him

who holds us together.


photo by John Holmes


just for you. . .you are worth it to me!. . . . . .

I guess one could call me legitimately broken as a human being this morning.  I sit here with my headband made of 1 inch elastic stretched to the measurement of my head covered with a casing of fabric to look a bit fashionable. It helps a head that hurts with no side effects like pharmaceuticals.

With a neck support with Velcro closures to keep a head upright and not collapsing.  And I just found a box the right height to elevate my leg.  In their right mind the patient should head for bed?  Certainly.

But in me is a story about recycling.  And how when television came into our homes with a promise of showing us how to do creative things, what it did too many times was to give leverage to the envious to murder the creative impulse in the young at heart. 

The first attempts were not professional as the viewed painters and sewers and builders.  But the dreamers had the burgeoning desires to do and all that was needed was a ‘good try!’  or keep doing!

Too often the words heard were leave the work to the professionals who are paid to do it.  And the desire dies with the young and they are relegated to the growing list of spectators who are entertained. 

Or the desire dies with the adults who never attempt and never know the deep satisfaction of creating something out of a raw idea.

I do not know how to inject the desire, or how to infect one with a virus for learning.  I sit on the edge of the bed and urge my body to begin the day for there are things to be done.  I want to try them before my name is called with an offer I cannot refuse. 

I recently learned how to make useful yardage with bits of fabric fused onto web and cut into shapes such as the flowers in the vase.  Exciting!  Nothing wasted!  Useful as  it for me to do that.  Just for you.well as beautiful!  And fun.  I can make fun quilts and pretty wall hangings to catch the sun and bring smiles to the children as they race to catch up to the mornings. 

And they in turn will see possibilities that will take courage and perseverance to try and in the face of the Do Nothings who discourage them go ahead and make a difference and the classroom goes forward another day.  And maybe that is all that is required.

Holding it all together just for another day.  You would be worth it for me to do that.  Just for you.


Time’s Gleanings. . .

All knowledge is applicable to the self.  If it is used to manipulate and maneuver Others  it then becomes a game.
Insight implies sight to be applied inward.
Genuine laughter cleanses the toxic waste from swollen glands.
Only the secure one can afford to laugh at oneself.
To laugh at oneself displays a growth not to be measured in local currency.
The individual who has gone the route and places things in their proper perspective, knows that life is not a death matter.
Selfhood does not depend on the trends of the moment and our lives do not depend on what the world currently deems, but on personal premises.
Faith is blind of necessity.  The individual chooses an immunity necessary to quiet the questions which might delay other imperative lessons.
The framework we choose to inhabit is the security blanket covering emergencies that need to comfort the mind.
The treasure chest within each individual opens with the word ‘why?’
The word ‘why?’ will either start the journey or close it.
The camouflage system we use serves us well.  When a crack appears in the walls of mind where a stray thought might enter,  we run for the emotional plaster or caulking to seal the crevasses.
Like a dancer learning the discipline of a new score, we have rehearsed minute by minute to come to this place, this place of understanding where we are now.  If limited, time yet to change limited to broad.


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