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With A Little Bit Of Practice. . . .



I was very young and just married  facing much doubt by the new family as to whether I would be equal to being the good wife required of my time and so I worked very hard at being good.  And good meant doing all those things I read in all the women’s journals of the times.

Looking back at my youth and being hard wired my eldest tells me now to working hard (I passed those jenny genes on to our sons) I learned to knit argyle socks for my husband because they were in style.

And he having the Scottish genes of the tailors and seamstresses and rag people as ancients called them,  yarns and fabrics were their livelihood and in earlier times they took the name of Taylor.  Those talents were not passed on but the love of good material was.

I came from a large depression family and learned to do without, so being tightly budgeted in marriage I knew how to carefully shop.  I remember using double pointed needles to knit argyles which I did by the drawerful,  (they also required hand washing and steel stretchers to dry)  now I use those same bobbins for these hats.

I had leftover bits of yarns which I have used through the years to make colorful hats on circular needles but I wanted to do something different when I thought of the argyles.  And with a little bit of practice, these are what resulted.

They are a fun project and good therapy and are unusual.  You will be limited only by your color sense.  Or non sense.  But with arthritic hands I wanted to not measure my time by spasms so have used straight needles to make knitting with bobbins easier.

I will also in another post show my good fortune in finding larger circular needles and super bulky yarn to make fisherman hats which are great fun.  I already have a request for three of them.

I was told by a teacher long ago in my journey that the work of my hands would be an anchor for me in my last years.  It was a wise counselor to make that observation and a puzzlement to me at the time.  But it is the work of our hands that ease the last times as the physical body begins to close shop.  I am ever grateful to have been born yearning to learn.


In Good Hands. . .


Many times I have said that this is a classroom and recently I was made to understand it will always be a classroom.  This is what is its purpose.  And my heart hit the floor when I realized it.  Our purpose here is to learn and to change ourselves into what we need to be.  Any fallout on an Other is from our abundance and by example, we teach.

That was the kicker.  All the effort, all the work, no matter how hard, was not for others as I thought, but for me.   Any good from me was because my cup runneth over.  Good that came from abundance was good, from duty, resentment clouded the issue.

Coming to mind again was the vacuuming I was doing when my grandson saw how tired I was and asked why was I doing it.  I shouted because I love your mother!  And his head swiveled and to this day I remember his look of surprise.  He does so much for others gratis because he is multi talented that I knew he didn’t realize that he, too, worked this way.  He was loved and what spilled over he gave from abundancy. His good given would be everlasting good.

We feed our belief system to build ourselves into what we need to be.  The good benefits us first.

It is a small hope that I harbor that the purpose will be for this planet to be simply united peoples.  With learning being our prime purpose of life, to learn of cultures and languages and what unites us all.  The only requirement is that we love life and think we can make a difference and Being is worth the work.  In all worlds, all worlds.

In Good Hands. . .

I will invite you to sit beside me
on my couch. . .
to lean into my arms to wrest
the fatigue from a body
grown weary with age. . .

It will come to nothing, this fatigue
with aging because the heart of you
is alive and well though failing. . .
Alive for the world you have prepared yourself
with work, with love, with patience. . .

How do I know this?

You invited me in to have a time
of repair of Spirit when I needed. . .
to sup at your table full of good talk
with laughter,

at the fire with corn in the one bowl
I shared with your sons. . .
to have sat to converse with topics
scraping the souls of their transparency. . .

These were the times I knew
my choices were good ones
and the futures of my worlds

in good hands. . . .




Have A Heart . . . Ours. . . .

In my life I have seen much damage done when people have been deeply wounded by emotions  that could not be handled or words that cut and sliced the heart.

Is it for us to walk untouched but acknowledging the emotions that devastate us and continue to live our lives with no further ado?

Emotions become a burden needing to be understood before they are shrugged.  Once understood they become integrated and no longer need to be carried as excess weights.

Emotions belong to Earth life and here they are learned.  There are worlds where emotions are an unknown, where to love has to be learned and compassion is an unknown.  Where caring must be learned for those of less kind circumstances and must be attended to.

Those of us who have read the Doris Lessing’s Shikasta series or Frank Herbert’s books of Dune know intimately and identify worlds  with emotional innocence and sterility.  They are a shock to the sensitivities but even harder to live with such persons.

We cannot write a check to feed the world nor bandage its wounds, but we can walk into the mud to lift our brother up.  That to me is what emotional understanding does.

The Counselor. . .

She sat across the desk, crisp and sharp
and in charge of who she was.
Emotion is not fact, she said, so separate
what you feel from what is happening.

Then why I ask is my heart breaking?
And with composure she assures me
my heart is whole.  She does not see that my world
is built on feelings that shape my days.

I was born to paint my life
with the wide brush of emotion,  to teach me to love,
to see, to care and learn to Be.  When love
withdrew from me and left me barren,

I knew I would not forget its power to lift
me high enough to touch the heavens
and care enough for this Earth I walked
to sweep the debris where others might walk.

To see the opening of the crocus in the covering
of snow to tell of Spring arriving and of days becoming
longer with light and caressing me with breezes
as soft as baby kisses.  She did not know of worlds

where emotions were not born yet,
where facts dealt the cards to be played,
where feelings did not lay color on days and nights
and where learning to live with feelings were reasons

why we asked to be born of Earth. . . . .she did not know. . .


Balanced Judgment. . . .

When appearance is all that reality is for some, that is all that counts.  It is a common reality.  Illusion is part of the game.

Jesus said that seeing you will not see and hearing you will not hear.  There is a world out there  they are not aware of and it would take a two by four between the eyes to make them aware, if then.

By their inability to see and hear, they put the responsibility on others and even that they do not see.

There is a physical limit, a mental and emotional one too that frames the question of how much can a body bear.

To maintain an infection free household,  the work falls on unsuspecting shoulders.   What good to have another sense and a responsibility to make a difference in this world if others can not or want not to share it?

How does one remove oneself and not be pained by inconsideration, obtuseness and senselessness of others?  Gaining another sense does not mean separation from self consciousness.

It means you are saddled with what you have been and then given another view of what you can become.  The dichotomy is excruciating.

But a gift of supreme value has been given to the seeker,  a gift of true contentment in being no matter the condition one finds oneself.  The word gift means something of value has been given by a giver.

And hopefully with it will be a sturdy constitution with sufficient self esteem.  And also held determinedly close will be the desire to continue to still make a difference in physical life because the dream was worth dreaming.

In the midst of sophisticated personal relations of knowing what buttons to push in this world,  the knowledge of ways of sophisticates can make one wash one’s hands of their supposed innocence.  Life continues its weights and measures and there is a consequential balance. 

If we learn nothing else, that lesson should bring us up smartly.

It Is Time. . .

It is time to call a halt
to the fatigue already overwhelming
and laying icy fingers upon your blood
and calling for your breath. . .

Too little now and too late,
but soon enough for meaning to come
pilfering through.  Lessons learned,
lives are lived without the intensity

concerning the air you breathe,
and bound only by their desire
fed by their anger and what life has denied them.
Life is a balanced judgment.

Next time conscience will lay heavy
on their unsuspecting shoulders.




Seeing, you will not see. . . .



These events have become connected in my life and documented, they stand.  I have no credentials attached to my name but because I have been involved in an independent study on a daily basis for over a half century, if I dismiss them I would negate a substantial life.

To say these events never happened is to say I conjure them.  I am of 87 years and I ask you to consider the following.  I have kept journals when I had no reference books to back my experiences.

I lived quantum theory when it was still an idea.  I lived a private life and partnered a public life with all challenges.

This particular experience I share because I have not found in the now voluminous information an experience quite like this, documented.  These are related entries to what I call the Ann Arbor Dream.

October 16, 1993
6:20 a.m.

I dreamed all night, interspersed with breaks.  The Ann Arbor segment that stays with me but is not the A.A. of today.  It was barbaric with points of sophistication.  It was uncouth, one of simple inhabitants and it was very dirty.

There were disruptive events happening and people so disreputable that I cringed.  I knew I was being discussed and the gossip was personal and painful. (at no point did I feel I looked other than what I knew as me.  Possibly I looked like everyone else.)

Some women in a dilapidated building served me some busha  (sounded like that) a wonderful gingerbread.  I asked for the recipe and was handed a bill for 75.00.  I said you did not give me the recipe and they said just pay 44.00.  This made no sense so I turned to leave but couldn’t find my way out of the building.  Doors were leading nowhere.

Somebody pointed to a door which opened onto a dusty white flour sifted room.  I was lost.  I would not go in and frantically found my way to the street.  I wanted to call my husband but no one would make the call. (were telephones invented?)  And I had only a dime on me.

I saw him finally parking his car.  I shouted at him but he already was walking toward another car to meet someone else.  He did not hear me, I then woke up.  What had I wandered into?

 …. That layered beneath everything, there are levels in growth.  Beneath the beloved AA everyone thinks they know are levels of life still barbaric, still uncivilized, some even advanced.  Even portions of the town show vestiges of this; unkempt hair, bare feet or sandals in all weather, living in places shunning what civilization declares the mode of the day.

There are people whose memory bank opens on the sub AA and who wish for life to remain simple and uncomplicated.  They adopt manners for civilities sake but yearn for what the old memories hold.  If left to their own devices would easily slip back to the time traveled in the dream to be at home.

I straddled worlds.  My husband did not hear me because he was not open to where I was. (he may not even have been born.)  That AA did not exist for him.

In the June 2017 entry upon rereading the teachers made reference to the 1993 dream and said :    The fact that the stomach rolled upon rereading was due to the fact that the details were well remembered and the way you understand the holographic universe you are privy to.  Understand it and live it. 

In the past we have said that what you were seeing in the backyard on Nona  you created was only what you worked at could see. (Our house  lot was 50’ by 100’.  Postage stamp size) .

You did not see the ghetto and the sewers and the jungle mats that we saw when we looked at the same parcel.  That we could see what you could see was no surprise but you could not see further than what you created and focused on. 

Just as you could see the mate parking his car and greeting the other.  We thought it interesting that you asked if you were part of the world he was in.  You were not.  You would not be because of the flavor you were.  Different.

The levels of the reality seething beneath the AA that you saw are real with every city and place of habitation.  There is life beneath all life and realities seething with anger, love, breath and vigor in all realms.

People in AA still walk with segments of fashion belonging to a portion of reality that sings its song beneath the parts that roll along the streets of today.  This is its charm.  For it is accepted and tolerated and loved for its diversity. 

It is what makes it rich with meaning and of course it will change in degree at some point but still retain its originality.  It is what makes it an ideal college town and why many flock to live in retirement.  Rich in meaning.  Less is spent on what most consider essentials to be able to spend on indulging the psyche. 

People would get indigestion sitting in your head.  (Sometimes even me.)

It was decades ago that the teachers mentioned the sewers and jungle mats that were beneath the yard I tended with precision and love as homeowner.  I was aware of none of this.  The reality we create is what we focus on.  We learn what we need to learn.

When I had the Ann Arbor dream in 1993 I had no putting place in my philosophy for that dream.  I chalked it up to the bizarre but journaled  it.  Just as the dream I drew 30 years ago of what I saw as trees but came to realize years later were collecting solar energy.   I could not foresee the home in 2018 with solar panels on the roof in California that I live in.

The Nazarene, my mentor,  said that seeing you shall not see and hearing you shall not hear.  Learning recently that we only see half of what is out there to see,  what are we not seeing?

Yet when my world crashed and the psychiatrist asked me what I see when I go down Michigan Ave and I told him, he whistled through his teeth and  said you realize that others do not see what you see?  I was too frightened to ask him what they saw.

The teachers said that people would get indigestion sitting in my head?  Sometimes what I see makes me sick to my stomach.  And sometimes my earth is so excruciatingly beautiful I weep.


This Old House. . . consider this. . .


This Old House. . . .

I am like this old house.  I have windows that are broken or have shifted in the space designed for them.  I have appendages that were once new rooms added on to make space for new dreams or for widening the premises for old forms expanding.

There were so many things added to make space, to make room for adding new thoughts.  I felt so full.

Like a banquet dinner, overeating because the taste of the new sent me reeling into ecstasy with renewed energy,  exuberance to make new what now was seemingly out of date.

Excited,  couldn’t wait for the construction to begin.  This is what motivated me to move the furniture to new places in the original rooms.  And I did for what seemed like centuries, moved three cushion couches up and down flights of stairs.

Moved  furniture around curved staircases and did not sweat and with magic collapsed a wayward desk stuck hard within the frame of a doorjamb to regain its form on the other side of the door.

When the furniture had tried all the corners,  all the different positions,  we went with the room additions to accommodate the children’s dreams.  Eventually the children grew up and left and the funds ran out and now began  the simplifying.

Do we need?  Whatever we held in our hands the answer was no.  We did not need.  Just headroom to organize the memories of a lifetime so they wouldn’t decay amid the premises that began to fall apart.

The landscaping was the first to go because there was no energy to care for the feeding and pruning of what went unrestrained.  There was no greening of the lawns.

The funds were pared to essentials.  The wall paper peeled and the paint faded and then the bare boards loomed in their nakedness.  The house once held dreams and saw centuries pass.  My dreams inexhaustible, need new frames.

The teachers say that we stay until we use up all the changes, all the additions and all the new houses.  Then come the new worlds.  And worlds they are because one  world cannot contain all the ideas needing to be born.

There are places waiting for the itinerant and exuberant teacher who has in her carpetbag tiles from the Pewabic Natives whose art formed the skyline,  solar trees to grow on mountainsides to furnish heat in frigid places and books with magic words that show the love grown in unknown regions.  I understand the school stands ready.

Consider This. . .

What makes you think we do not use
a worker who thinks and injects
new thought in old ways?

What makes you think we would
let loose the likes of you in a world
for frolic, for nothing more than waste?

We look for farmers for the vineyards,
for the fields needing seeds for food. . .
for thought, for starving minds as well as bodies.

Where we put you is in a place of value,
of your talents, of your loves,  of your sweet thoughts
feeding the children of all ages. . .

How else to sweep clean the Father’s House?

                                                the teachers


photo by Tresy Hallissey


Papa, I Plead Now. . . or the dream will go begging. . . .

It is long past the time for all people to stand and demand of themselves to be infused with a steel core to uphold their wobbly selves.

We have stood by and watched the principles upon which we have built our lives and our children’s heritage broken and by pieces swept away.  It is long past the time now for all to take stock and question ourselves and ask upon what is it we stand.

All of us can go far back and some new ones, not so far, to see that we all come from distant shores.  We became Americans no matter our beginnings.  So many nations, so many cultures have formed what we consider to be these United States.  How long can we be satisfied to be less than we once were, faults and all?

Lest we expect less from ourselves, we must all work in what ways we can to restore our respect for our heritage which includes all peoples.  There is no partisanship when it comes to bestowing honor and trust and courtesies upon those who differ from us.

Less is demeaning what we are; lowering ourselves to what has taken centuries to build to make our country a leader among  people whose ambitions were to emulate what the United States symbolized.

It took dreams that took hard work and thought toward becoming a haven that the statue of liberty was gifted.  The world watched us and marveled.  And we became the heaven possible upon which people built their lives in this country.

We work now to restore those dreams not only for those seeking to flee despotism but for ourselves now to guard what we have known to be our country.  Or our dream will go begging.

The Strange Bequest. . .

There was a man, a slim man,
whose head was bedecked with a white cloud,
and whose eyes saw dreams
he could not articulate.

He sat one day staring into space and
when I questioned him, he said,
‘I am sitting and watching the grass grow.’
I hesitated far too long and have lived to regret it.

I wish the courage had been mine
to have asked him to share his dreams with me.
For he bequeathed to me a mind that does not rest.
I have the thought that his father and father before him

wrestled the same misty vision
which now is mine to set in motion.
I question this strange bequest for I have not
the staunch heart required to lay to rest

my ancestor’s  anguish.  Papa, I plead now,
to replace my heart with hot ore, inject me with a vial
of celestial courage  and fuse my spine with
with tempered steel. . . .

There is so little time. . . .                                                        



Found Courage. . . .

There came a  time when man decided to forget his Source and do life on his own.  Since then it has been a game of catch up.  Our progress has been nothing to shout about but there would be those who would argue with me about that.

But for me it has been a matter of chasing down the first ‘why’ ever uttered by the child in search of a palatable reason for someone insisting he do something.  I don’t think it ever is a matter of courage though in retrospect it certainly is.  No one knows who will pursue that first ‘why’ and where the  journey leads.  And I tell you this, sometimes it is not pretty.

Those who observe know that it is a something, but they don’t know what.  They realize awesomely,  that it takes courage, a kind not familiar.  I say it mostly becomes a stubbornness to not falter and be a stumbling block.

Courage is not garnered overnight nor is it stored for all time.  It is fought for every morning in bathrooms and bushes around the world.  It is worn, with conviction man hopes, into  breakfast.  I know this and everyone who nurtures and is responsible for others know this.  We hope to present ourselves to the new day and convince our loves it is a day worth the living.

The following poem was written in 2013 and is a favorite of mine realizing that courage takes practice.

Found Courage. . .

I ask,

where did you find your courage?

On what tree was it hanging
that you could reach up
and pluck it from its hiding place
to wear as epaulettes
on your shoulders?

The children whisper during the night,
saying their Ave’s to each other,
hoping they will grow into courage
with a red badge to wear.

You say,

they are blinded.

They cannot see their milky courage
like cream rising to the top;
one day to merge
through alerted senses
that call for unthinkable strength.

They have been practicing every day
since they were born.
They will learn that courage
comes with each breath taken
and like the freedom they take for granted
must be won every day.
One day they will find it wears

like a second coat of paint.


Guess Who Came To Dinner???. . . .

Guess who came to dinner. . . .

She was in the neighborhood and stopped by she hoped in time for dinner.  She heard there would be pot roast.  This angel in disguise wearing a different costume than what we are used to angels wearing!

Emma E. came in smiling and gave me the biggest grin.   My heart needed to be warmed by her and my arms were hungry to hold her.  Which she obliged doing for a very short time.  Cuddled she was and nestled nicely.

After a night’s sleep she was anxious to be up and doing.  She likes being in an upright position.  And is determined to stand as much as the adult holding her has energy.  But soon she will be pulling herself up and if I am correct in sighting the jenny gene syndrome,  she will be out the door as fast as her legs will carry her.

Her parents are active and the lines on our side of the family, except for me, have been walkers and runners.  The fun thing about being old, and still with fairly good eyesight and a memory that does not quit,  is to see what genetically is passed along with each generation.  From my side of the family I spot the jenny gene syndrome which is perseverance.

Those things which puzzled and perplexed and gave me heartburn and dyspepsia throughout my life with the question looming always with ‘how could they????’ whatever it was,  now seems obvious with the explanation, ‘they really cannot help it’.  It is in the genes and time now to accept and laugh.

And Emma E. has a smile that is infectious.  I have a feeling she laughs at all of us with a knowledge close to her Source yet.  Fun and games ahead for the joyous parents.   I remember questioning her father when he became an arguing preschooler and asked,  what happened to the happy boy I knew?  Tersely he answered ‘he left.’

I have great gratitude for doctors who devoted lifetimes to learning and  keeping those like Emma E. striving and thriving and those like me breathing long enough to see and hold once again new life.  It is with hope I look to the future that much will be gained and lives benefit.  Her beginning was fraught with worry, but today she brings great promise.  I am indeed grateful.



Gods Searching For an Enduring Peace. . . .

Life:  a many faceted phenomenon. . .

It is possible that what is called hardening of the arteries is given the dreaded name of Alzheimers or dementia is the brain’s evolution brought about by aging or psychological trauma.  Either of those would be reason enough for portions of the brain closing.  But what happens should portions open?

If there has been no thought or education in the possibility of other worlds and times, what happens when inserted in the processes are unfamiliar sounds and glimpses?  And behavior not commensurate with these incidences that now are perceived as abnormal?  Can confinement now be not only a possibility but a surety?

There is science saying that we use only five percent of our brains.  One or two percent more puts us in the category of the question ‘why are you different?’  Just 2 percent.

It has people whispering about you as an adult and your peers shunning you as a child.  Yet being born with more of one’s brain opened means you will be seeing life differently than anyone else.

We focus on a narrow band of self created reality.  How much other is there to see?  I am really not certain.  I have lived with my view of the world, so it is what I know.  My details are not what others see the doctor said.  What do you see?  Only you know.

Oftentimes psychological shock will spring open doors that bring sounds into one’s consciousness never before experienced.  Yet the science doctors have stormed us with the information that only what is measurable in the laboratories is what is normal.

When one is presented with these sounds they have us off and running to the medics to reassure us that we are not going mad and are not crazy.  Yet when I asked a beloved why she went to church she told me that she hoped that what Jesus said is true.  That life is everlasting and seeing we will see and hearing we will hear.

And yet, yet, when presented by experience (she was a nurse) almost daily with evidence of it, she questioned what she was observing.

Her experience with spontaneous remission and unexpected deaths were not enough to convince her innate knowledge that all was not tied up in the pills and protocol.

When the tsunami broke through the sea wall of my skull and the sounds of moral outrage reigned in my head I shouted to the heavens to close up my head whatever that was supposed to mean.  Those were my shouted words.  Close up my head because  I was wide open to universal consciousness.  Psychological trauma was reason enough for my diminished self esteem to crumble.

Worlds penetrate and overlap boundaries with levels below and above what we focus on.  Earth is the classroom for learning.  Linear measures make learning easier.  Evolution is a many faceted phenomenon and we must broaden our premise to be able to deal with it effectively.

Otherwise all will eventually be running down the street  in our altogether being chased by white coats.

(excerpt from Universal Watch)

Worlds looming as non entities,
not proven by the laboratories
of the Science Gods, is life in other forms;
as intelligent, viable, thoughtful,
as intent on living within the realm
of their possibilities as we on Earth. . .

Searching as we do as gods for an enduring Peace..

artwork by Claudia Hallissey



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