Author Archive | Veronica Hallissey

In Love We Pray. . . amen and amen. . . .

As dawn breaks, my fingers of both hands curled about each other and I marveled at their slimness, their ability to elicit the feel of themselves, each digit wrapped around the other.

And I felt that nothing, no other world would ever make me feel such blessedness in my hands’ ability to do so many things over the course of a life.

To kneading bread, to winding the yarn, to smoothing the brow of my very sick child and have him telling me later that it helps him sleep.

Everything I touch holds a lesson for me. The square inch of soil I spooned with young hands yielded secrets kept from generations.

The eyes of a child as my hands embraced young shoulders tells me what went into their ancient heritage. And I grasp their hands in mine and convey my love by touch.

I would use these hands to mold and make and set trends never before thought. I see the beauty of the great god in the blending of these human genes and see the perfect Adam and perfect Eve emerging  and see the virtue in the making and the doing of the homely tasks that will start the holy process once again. And I will open my arms and spread my hands to grasp the youngest by my hip and be grateful for hands that show

how very much I can love on this planet called Earth.

Spring Prayer. . .

As we enjoin the Universal Spirit to entrust
with another spring, another resurrection, awaken
within us the desire to nurture the world
that has nurtured us.

Let our hearts lead us to that place
where we intuitively cherish the mother who feeds
and clothes us and gives sustenance.  Let us
not forsake our responsibilities to those yet unborn,
whose futures we have already mortgaged.

Blessed Spirit, enliven our curiosity about our daily world,
remind us that the bird’s song needs our acknowledgement and praise,
that the sun needs our greeting and night wishes it bid good.

As we nourish those of our commitment, speak to us of our commitment
to the home we know, our planet Earth.  Let our love guide us
to make beautiful, to make secure and to guard diligently
what has so faithfully harbored us.

In love we pray,  amen and amen.


And Sunday Comes. . .

Sometimes there sweeps over one a feeling saying ‘that’s how I always felt’ whatever prompts a memory.  It  could be a scent or sunlight or something triggering a wave awakening response long dormant.  Often one knows where it originates  but often the ‘always’ has no beginning at least  in this lifetime.

This following feeling is a comforting one and a loving one to me.  Whenever it comes upon me the memories are good and I wear them like a stretched sweater  .  We are our memories and if this day we look upon our lives as surviving triumphantly in spite of a hazardous journey, bless all memories because you have overcome and are the victory.

I started this entry years ago when waiting for guests and family to arrive for dinner.  This is as far as I got with it but coming upon it now the feeling was fresh.  You have these incidents also, perhaps never thinking them special.  But they are. . . . and so makes you special.


This is a Sunday morning at almost noon and I sit here at my window in my beloved study and look out at the snow piled on the evergreen boughs albeit like sagging angel wings.   The sun comes through the opposite window and the brightness bespeaks somehow a Sunday morning.

Why is there always a different look to the world on a Sunday?   Everything looks somehow different, almost as if there was a visible sign on the day saying, this is Sunday!

As a child on The Farm, with the inside door open, leaving only the storm door with its weeping windows and the sun streaming through, there was the smell of chicken soup or whatever the stove was cooking signifying that this, even this, smelled different because it was Sunday.

So my Sunday in this house smells like Sunday with the beef roast and baked potatoes, as I await the family and our guests.  It will be a good dinner and this is what Sundays are all about for me.

It Is Enough. . .

It is enough. . .  just breathing and feeling
the north wind coming through the night.

It is enough. . .  to stir my senses,
to lift me from my bed to get on with life.

It is enough. . . to raise the dust
out of the corners too long neglected.

It is enough. .  . to lift the dirty and sweaty labors
and point out that in these are the gifts of life.

These are the beautiful,
along with the first snow and the harvest intact and sealed.

And to find a reflection
of what I hold dear in the eyes of an Other.

It is enough.


In Memory. . . Once Upon A Time. . . .

Still with talk across the dinner table I asked this philosopher-legal how my philosophy sounded to his professional ear.  Well, he said, it is not new and I have heard it before,  Plato, for instance.  Uncredentialed and unbelieving, I still gulp.  In memory, this day, of his leaving this Earth, we consider ourselves forever privileged to have known him as David Hallissey.

Once upon a time. . . .

As before, this is going to start out once upon a time when humans took form, there was an openness about them that we say was almost biblical.  Until the fig leaf was needed.

When man first walked he knew from where he came.  It was a large picture he held.  In the classic Iliad, the gods involved with the physical characters were in various stages of growth.  Both gods and angels created.

What is considered myth by the educated was really an openness that was not a something everyone enjoyed.  There was a time when it was but came the nemesis of dis-ease, of fear, of flight and of desire and the brain’s doors were closed.

To this day a handful of mavericks with open heads are employed, scattered among the populace wearing the costumes of the day.  They are depended on heavily.

What should have been a rapid rate of growth is a snail’s pace.   The grinding of the mills is studious, well intentioned not to upset those who cannot handle the subject at all.

Survival has become the prime reason for being.  Just to breathe and keep living being goal for both animal and human.  One does not change horses in the middle of the stream unless the horse becomes too painful to ride and rides the rider.  Change is then necessary.

Genetic manipulation has the strongest surviving.  The how must answer in the head of the one needing to know.  The picture of this planet must be a priority when negotiating for changes.  This is the school for learning the rudiments of behavior for universal existence.

We broaden the premise from earth life to life elsewhere, other worlds.  If a closed physical system is preferred and we all transit, more thought must be given to where.

If nothing but clouds are in mind, we must consider harp lessons since heaven is waitlisted with guitar players.

Overheard . . .                                                                                    

I hear them say. . .

I cannot follow
what she says all the time.

And you say. . . 

I don’t either all the time,
so don’t blame yourself. . .

But then I hear. . .

But she says things I know are true
and I think I only
could know them. . .

And you say. . .

that is why she can say
what only you know to be true,
because she has been
to all these places
we don’t understand . . .

And you say. . .

I can only wonder how long
it took all those doors

to open for her. . .





The Bread of Life. . .

Books, Learning. . . . Bread of Life. . . .

If asked if the journey was worth it, seeing how many dreams found not their time, what would I say?  Looking at these two photos that came within two or so weeks of each other,  I would have to say the legacy is priceless.

The mountains climbed, the roads thrashed out and the bulrushes piled and ready for pickup, I would have to say it took every bit of what I did plus everyone else’s journey, all who have been a part of this little person’s history, to create this Being to get to this day.

No one’s input is diminished nor history dismissed in the genetic ingredients creating Emma E.  Other members will have their faiths and abilities to claim.  There are many with reason, who do not view as crucial, the children of this world.  Yet the cosmic sages view the four walls of the natal chambers as determining the futures of all worlds.

Emma E. is Hope personified.  She is reason to keep this Earth classroom alive and thriving so the soul of who she is and who she will grow to Be has a chance to become what she destines.

This has to be the bigger picture we have in mind all the time.  That each child in each generation is given the welcome with love and time as their birthright.  And the means to be fed both body and mind for not only sustenance to survive but to thrive and expand their focus.

Beyond expectation because we don’t know yet what we are to become.  The last chapter is not writ ever.  And no laboratory nor scientist has the final word.  For there is no final anything.

Emma E. already has opened the way to abundant life.                     
Her love of books, of learning has made her purpose clear.

The purpose of life is to learn.   But we always knew
that, didn’t we?

Why did we forget?


Photos by
Claudia and Joseph Hallissey


In The Mirror Is The Answer. . .

In The Mirror Is The Answer. . . .

THE TEACHER SPEAKS. . . .It is useless to say that we can be non judgmental when we make judgments of necessity all day long.  What we must not judge are the places an Other comes from when we look upon cultural ways. 

When we understand the cultures of other people, we then begin to understand ourselves.  But we know too, just as the decisions concerning our personal behavior are a matter of conscious choice when we reach the age of discernment, then we know too, to hide behind cultural practices is begging the question.

When we decide how it is we are going to approach the questions of life, we then begin to know where it is we are coming from.  If we sidestep ‘just this one time’ we are already setting the basis for future behavior.

Matters of character are personal decisions.  They are not based on anything except as we view ourselves.  And character is the basis for everyone.  And character is formed early, within the safety net of the family.  What is let go ‘just this time’ with no comment, is not to be viewed later with the question ‘how did this happen?’  when confronted with the larger implications. 

This implies that we are going to grow up, that we are going to mature at some point.  What is being said is that the process is never ending, never finished.  For along all junctions we will be pressed with character questions.  We will be expected to make character decisions.  And the final questions will always reside within the individual, ‘what will this say of me?’

 In the process we know that we can fool no one.  Especially the one whom we look at in the bathroom mirror first thing in the day.

 We know, know deep within us that we cannot be a better anything than we can be a person.

Small Bear or Large Cub. . .

We can interchange our adjectives
and the words take on different meanings,
depending on our frame of reference.

We may find that bigotry is the same as
prejudiced preferences and my color
may be other than what you are.

It is quite right for where you are, if that is
all right with you.  But I ask will you clean house
and set straight your attitudes

so you can say gay with no malice?


art by Claudia Hallissey


You Were Wondering. . . Mystic in Today’s World?. . .

I am often asked where ideas come from.  In reviewing my life with journals (why was I so detailed about feelings?) I see where poetry came to life.  I seem to have lived a life in conference, in conversation on a level understood with matched souls.

The photo is of our home for 45 years and I tried to explain to my oldest brother my feelings.  I wrote ‘the walls hold the sounds of my beloveds.  The hurts, the laughter, the tears and whoops of joy, the secrets and not so secrets;  all the living and dying of feelings and thoughts proving nothing is lost.

There is a vibrancy of life that is eternal.  The energies of all who walked within these walls stay contained within them.  Much alone, why I am never lonely.  When I think that I have been part of it, I realize that this is immortality for those sensitive enough to recognize it. ( the entry continued with)

Ophelia, I will say, do you think I am dead?
I sit on the very breath you breathe.

I will waft an orange fragrance o’er your head
and you will see me take form.  I will crash
the air with cymbals and you will hear me enter.

A cat cries in the night and you will hear the infant.
The moon will send its shaft of light through the north window
and you will be plagued with memories
you will scarce remember.

You will warm yourself with the sun from
the south window and it will nudge a time and place
on the edge of those same memories and
you will know and still not know.

I have taken you to my bosom, held you and
pushed you away.  And at once tightened my hold
so you will never be free.  You think I am dead?

I ask you, Ophelia, who indeed is dead?

And Ed said that he has never felt that tie to a house.  A mystic you are, he says.  Am I indeed?  Is a portion of my brain activated or aware or is it pain in the moving away?  A cutting of the umbilical cord or am I my phoenix, consumed by fire of my making to arise again with the freshness of the pubescent and the agony of acne?

(another time I will write of the breeze coming in the south window then with the promise of Fall.  All this was part of the entry, with the poem lifted from the entry I titled Listen, Ophelia…which I put into format.  One mind or a concert of compatriots?  And in the meantime the clock told me of schedules to keep and children to tend who said their childhoods were enchanted.  The only permanent fixture of life to me was the everlasting laundry and exhausting pressing and ironing that had to be done.  Such is life for today’s mystic. )


In Memory of a Good Friend. . .

It is written that if you can count good friends on one hand, you are rich.  I was right to count myself as a very rich lady.  All have already transited, and another one or two still far younger than I, will follow long after me.

I want to write what is a good friend to me.  What I had in a friendship with Jan.  I met her at a crucial time of my life and we meshed upon meeting.  The following is from a journal entry edited for space.

I was then about to enter my fiftieth year.  This will tell my young readers that we do not appear full feathered just because we age.   It is a process and encompasses commitments  made even while the inner house churns about.

Less than three years after we met, my world fell apart.  And putting it back together was difficult.  One
never thinks about losing one’s ability to trust one’s Self, but simply stated,  it is a hard road back.

St. Paul and those who had their road to Damascus experience could take a year off and have their groupies care for them.   The times now have us blessed if we have a friend.

‘She has given me so much over the years.  She has pointed out how good and unique I am and has helped build my self esteem bit by bit.   From the first she had an open ear to what was said as well as unsaid.  She pointed a possible direction but never once said I was making a wrong decision. 

She understood from where I was coming.  And rejoices where I am today.  Everything teaches she says.  You are where you are today and go on from there.  She teaches.  You do not spend energy on regrets, but learn from them.  And she praises.

My parenting the boys she said had her and her friends wanting to throw in the towel.  They actually talked to me she said.  And we knew you thought we all were like you.’ 

We were best friends for over 3 decades.  It is now 25 years that she is gone from Earth.  It took a long time for me to stop reaching for the phone to call Jan.  Laughingly when there was static on the line, we said that obviously there was cosmic monitoring.

We matched minds on many issues and ‘all time is simultaneous’ we accepted.  She often said that what we learn is more a matter of remembering for those like us.  I am grateful she was in my life.  She was a good teacher.

From a line in another poem, I will say,  ‘ces’t moi, it is I,  pull me over.’

We Break Bread. . .

I have broken bread with old friends
for what seems to be many centuries.

We continue our conversations
begun when yet we were in other times
and were other people.

But it has been, you see, only a minute.
We bring to mind all things old and
some things new.

It was but a quirk of Nature, so that our hearts
would grow and become one heart.
It all has a familiar fit.  Don’t you think?

All things will be new again
when we break bread in the next of times.
But you knew that, didn’t you?

All things new are really all things old.
Even some of us.


photo by John Holmes


Now, More Than Just Dogs. . .

 I came across something in my metaphysical research years ago that has guided my relationship with animals, mainly dogs.  It was written that when souls wish to taste  Earth life again, but do not want to take on human bodies, they send a fragment of their soul into an animal.

It is a belief of many cultures and societies.

On The Farm I observed my mother’s relationship with the cows.  She thought they were sensitive and much smarter than dogs.  In fact she had a symbiotic relationship with them  and was a marvel  to watch.

Since reading the text on fragments  incarnating, it explained much about human behavior .  Haunting it is when I find our Newfie seeking me out to share my solitude and my wondering in mental wandering,  who are you and why do we love each other so?

He takes my diminishing agility into account and knows when not to nudge nor lean against me.  I slowly get up and down and he respects that.  He is a patient one but alert and swift when something unexpected appears.  I watch him watching what appears empty space and yet unblinking.  Just a dumb dog?  Not so.

Just as when we needed to put Prince down because cancer was virulent and I stood at the window and thought I just can’t, just can’t do it again having had too many heartbreaks.  Yet turning to him found him watching me with the words as if printed above him ‘you’re not going to make me do this alone?’  I found myself saying out loud, of course not.

And followed him out of the house one last time.

We assume they see what we see but their perspective of the world differs.  Just as it does for all species.  We see only what we see.  I cannot see what you see.  Nor you hear what I hear.  Do you wonder why your partner of so many years does not enter in your longing nor understand why you do?

And yet the furry companion looks and sees and is at your side in a flash.

When there are dogs with a vocabulary of hundreds of words,  like a 3 year old toddler,  who know the difference between a red ball and a blue ball,  one does not in good conscience leave them to the elements.  They have become a companion species, looking like dogs or wolves but acting more like pre-schoolers.

They know our emotional states so well is because we share ourselves with them.

Prince 05/02/04

They don’t say we are silly and reading things into events nor do we ignore their
needs when the clock tells us it is suppertime and they sit expectantly
waiting for us to get a move on.

We know there is something different from years ago when
these sensitivities were not so well honed.  Technological changes in our lives
have affected all our rituals and habits.  Our history has shown our growth
in technology with pride as well as our decline in manners.   We mourn that loss.

Hopefully we will be open to what will always require heart and conscience
when we live with conscious beings, no matter where or what world.
Like when I told the Rottie to go to the front door and she turned and
went to the front door and I wanted to drop to my knees.

My god, what have we done here because we are responsible?  Do you see?


All Children: Righteously Entitled. . . my need to see. . . .

This weekend the grandparents of Emma E. came to visit and brought with them a book.  This book is a creative endeavor of the artist Claudia who has graciously illustrated so much of my work.  This time the grandfather of this child has charmingly caught both granddaughter and grandmother reading.

When Emma E. comes to their home ten minutes away they go through an entrance ritual.  Touching, looking, identifying, naming all the favorite things Emma E. loves.

Emma has cupboards in every place she visits it seems.  She knows these are hers with safe things to bang and wallop.  Books are favorites and bookcases are treasure troves she frequents and positions herself as her grandparents do with the morning paper.

This book  is one Claudia put together for Emma with her favorite things at the grandparents’ that have meaning and delight.  It is an awesome endeavor and seeing the artwork and portraits of Emma embracing these events at their home has me wanting all children righteously entitled.

In a more perfect world it would be so and I wish it were.  That circumstances endow all involved with  talents honed making the arrival of each child a welcome addition but also a promise.   Not only would the body be fed but also the mind and play would be the obvious joy in learning.

Years ago friends visited and in discussing my latest manuscript that they liked, the visiting husband  said, it took courage to public autopsy oneself while still breathing.  He then said the unforgettable  and that was ‘it was easier to be philosophical on a full stomach.’

It applies to all endeavors and connects all, you see.   In an equitable world as children we would be born and welcomed with a promise to be fed mind, body and spirit.  Our talents would multiply and all worlds would benefit because our abundance of good would spill over.

The large animals like elephants and the wild jungle friends would not be lost in time and bees and butterflies would be profuse.

On a full stomach the mind can stretch to cover esoteric lives we may not touch but hunger for knowledge we would about all life.  It is difficult to feign interest when hunger pains beg for sleep.  The friend’s comment was apt.

If Emma E. needs art for her development, she made a good choice in parents.  And we needed some laughter and joy in our lives.   Hats and slurping pasta are such fun things to do!  And we the appreciative audience.

Ahhh. . .  you see and we know. . . .there is balance when there is patience.  It is just that the mills grind slowly.



A Cosmic Hug. . .

A Cosmic Hug. .

I had a dear brother in law who said he liked asking me questions because he knew I researched everything I opinioned.  Unless I had either experience or knowledge,  I refrained expression.  I considered his a high compliment.

So when I learned of gravity or weighted blankets,  I began the long sit in at the computer.  And I read  and reviewed the reviews from ancient corners of the universe.  And decided to make a small throw to cover restless legs.

I thought plastic beads too pricey and searched out possibilities and then finally settled on rice for a try out.  I took 34 inch by 43 inch muslin and decided on 5 inch pockets.  I will spare the details because if you know of the blankets, you already know how to make them.  I also made a cover like a large pillow case for it and ties at the end.  In case I spilled something or the dog drooled effusively.

I used almost 3 pounds of rice.  I laid it crosswise on my bed and slept the sleep of the righteous.  It worked fine and still does and I love it.  3 pounds of rice is right for me for this size.  For restless legs it truly works also.

It is a like a cosmic hug.   Enough of a weight to anchor me lest I float away.

When I first learned of the blankets I was surprised at the number of teachers and parents, mothers mostly reported, of children with autism.  The teachers lamented because there were not enough blankets and children were timed for use of them.  Parents were enthused but funds were limited and plastic beads high in cost.

With children the beads were necessary because of laundering.  Rice does not allow laundering which was why I made a cover.  Chances for adults to drag the blanket around are slim but an occasional spill is possible.

The photo is one my niece made for a grandson.  I think the result is super.  It is not the answer for every problem but oftentimes it helps soothe the light sleeper.

Perhaps it would have helped the child I was to become more likable and less irritating if I had been  able to sleep beneath a cosmic hug.  It is only a perhaps, but we must remember that many children cope with memories still fresh of the world they came from.

Sometimes a reminder to get their blanket for a cuddle is all they need.  They walk a high wire and when a parent is unavailable  they need a hug more than a lecture.

photo by Jody Simons


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