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The Evolution Revolution. . .the boot is lifting. . .


And the children shall lead them he said.  And we will listen to the children.  There will be stories about where they came from and who they saw.

And  I asked the four year old, did you have a good time with Annie?  Her name isn’t Annie he said , it is Olivia.  And where did you meet her and he said in ennuway and where is that I asked.  You know, you know, he said it is where dead people go and wait to be born.

Oh, I said, I forgot.  And gave him a big hug.  And I have been hearing from readers who are grandmothers who tell me similar things.  Because they have been listening with open hearts and the children trust the safe ones.

And the women who are speaking now after generations of being daughters of those who were sung to stand by your man now have voice.  While their mothers were left to protect the children because they knew to educate the children they could not earn enough so they would be silent.  The contradictions were large enough to choke a horse.

We know what we find despicable; the sexual predators of the least able because of race  or gender or simply youth.  The greedy who learned to game the system and wish not only the food off the tables of the poor but to take their work also?

We may be guilt free in this life but perhaps Joseph’s coat of many colors literally means that we wear through lifetimes not only skins of many colors but genders?

The Talmud teaches that the purpose of life is to learn.  And as we learn we must dislodge the log out of our eyes before attempting removal of the splinter from the eye of whomever else.  In the learning we find the taste of salt in the water on our tongues and wonder how come and from where?

Maybe the straight and narrow this time but why the dark holes in memory?   Maybe sensitive enough to feel others’ plights this time because we live long enough to think it through? Or perhaps a nudge to get the wheel of Evolution out of a rut?

When we fail to remember our encounters where we hurt and maimed others, we are a sick people.  Long ago wounded, deeply wounded.  But who is not?

Who picks up the rock to throw it through the window?  Because he is without sin?  Without sickness?

It is a relief to note the lifting of the boot so evolution can breathe freely again.  I see the signs and hear the children.  Please. . . you be the role model to encourage them to make a difference.


First, It Was a Dialogue. . .(they did not know. . . )

How do you do it?  I barrel down into my center and listen with my inner ear and hear what my heart says.  It is within that I have my world.  This is what and where I am at home.  And this is not something that can be taught.  It is how the twig is bent.  And what world we appear in is where we do our work.

Then the Teacher asks. . . You say you listen to your heart.  How does a heart speak?

There is a murmur within that tells you things and it is with the heart that one moves.  I can see where the child who is maimed right from the beginning and embarrassed because of his openness can dismiss this avenue and close it up.

And the world suffers and evolution is held up and we have one who is in trouble.  It is always the children with me.  I would protect them.  The sophisticates I would tongue lash and say grow up.  Stop using childish tactics to be cute.

When you have an old face and childish mannerisms, you are not cute.  Cute is for under 5 years.

The Teacher continues. . .we can only send out what we bring in.  And long after you are gone there will be those who will wonder about this grandmother who sat before her two monitors and wrote her heart out and left memos floating about.

Who comes to the conclusion that mistakes will continue to be made and thinks the temptations will keep the inner motor humming and the ones who did not allow their heads to be closed up will jump start another phase of evolution and we will see growth again.

And I say, . . . there comes a time for intervention.  We begin again.  And with the each will come the difference.  And ancient anguish will be shrugged and the inner motor will hum.

Salvation or evolution?  Why not both?  One and the same.  It is only a long drink of water that will satiate the Earth’s thirst.  My mentor, the Nazarene said, you give me a drink of water and the world’s thirst will be quenched.  Don’t you remember?

(and then it was a poem . . . )


The Last Illusion. . . .Privacy. . .



It seems our heads should be our bastion of privacy.   At least we thought so except we think now it is also the last illusion we hold.  For among us walk those whose heads are like magnets.  Picking up thoughts lying profusely about, without an anchor.

But there they sit ready for the picking from the audience about and wondering why nothing seems to shock anymore.

Not what we are seeing, not especially what we are hearing.  Not from the young in years and not from those who sit in heads of government, companies or families.

What is going on? Coming out of mouths are words we might have had in mind but manners being taught since kindergarten, have kept them silent.  Now we have in power people who voice things long  kept at bay.

Now they speak and in public say what comes to mind, lawless, unkind, prurient, vile, defiant and demeaning of humanity and sacredness.  Yet we are not shocked.  Why not?

Because they simply say out loud what has taken centuries to civilize humanity, to make us mannerly and to live communally in peace as we could.

We know all the words and thoughts that are now shouted from the stages to roaring crowds who agree.  And know without doubt we cannot look our young in face and tell them to behave when we in the stadiums throughout the world are without manners.  Without civility.  Without shame.

So all those who have walked lifetimes nearing a century with their antenna up and have heard their fellows’ thoughts and cringed with belly whoppers to the solar plexus, now see in visual discordance the behaviors kept in abeyance because we loved life enough to work hard and guard it zealously.

We see and grind our teeth because we see defamation to the work of lives dedicated to the sacredness of this planet.  The best classroom in the universes Earth has always been.  The most desirable school because the classes are of caliber; mountains are high but we are tested.

The barn and barnyard are too clean for the vile behavior in practice whether in private or in the public offices of presidencies in countries or companies; whether in boardrooms or congresses.

I am an old woman now who has learned that to be human is the excuse only for those who do not know where their god resides.  Think on it and think it through.


Just For You. . . You Are Worth It. . . .


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 but 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 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 earth 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.


For Sitting On The Porch. . . .

Few of us have means to hire out the prep work necessary to maintain our homes.  And getting the porch stained and ready to enjoy the summer is ours to do.

To sit at night, to wrap up the day, is such a simple thing and yet it is food for our souls we are perhaps too embarrassed to mention.

Necessary it is if we are to engage in what calls us to do the daily work which siphons our energies to get on with the ongoing life.  These are the times that unite us one to the other as well as our Source.

Early morning and dusk were for me the best times for sitting.  Early morning for the greeting of the birds ready to acknowledge, by a brief halt in their singing, my good morning.

But evening when I sat in the oncoming dark with my mind’s work in progress, I was haunted by memories which kept me company.  Never feeling alone but accompanied by centuries of companions who stood and looked with wonder with similar eyes fastened on the sky.

Seeing perhaps what my eyes did now.  These are your thoughts too?  This is how we lock into our humanity.

For Sitting On The Porch. . . 

It is a night
for sitting on the porch.
The night is soft and
there is a breeze about.
Soft.  A love night. . . .
How could it be better?

Only to share with an Other
whose eyes see as mine do;
the shapes of the trees
against the darkening sky.

The maples are round like balloons;
the irregular Tamarac whose wispy needles
look like bare branches.
The feel of the night like a caress,
a loving touch, a whisper.

I was the night and all my Self in it.


Even The Inanimate. . . God Participants All. . .

With my coffee I sat and read the entry stating vengeance is mine saith the Lord.  And to me it meant balance.  Man was at the place of growth at the time, with the concept of balance needing to be introduced.  And for man the concept had to come from that greater something man worshiped.

A growth commensurate with the intelligence sparking would be compensated.  Meaning that what is taken illegally, (stolen) unequally, (cheated) taken as usurping an Other, that there was an internal set of scales judging but yet undisclosed.

In other words, mentally cognizant or not, there is a balance weighed and known.  All these must be understood as concepts that had to be learned.  They were not born in man yet.

And no one gets away scot free.  There is a measuring up at some point.  What is taken is given back or compensated mightily.  There is no getting away with anything.  Vengeance is mine saith life in total.  It is such or life in any form would no longer be.

Throughout the universes, throughout, there is balance.  There is an intelligence that directs and dictates within the freedom of free choice.  Hoping against hope, life in any form will choose what is good for the ALL.  No halfway measures.  There is no it don’t matter dictum.  For it all matters and there are individual consequences to be attached and paid.

The reason is growth.  There is nothing junked.  All is itemized and noted, and all is destined for good.  It has to be, or we would be no more.

I have not the words, so I am not saying it right.  There is balance dictated by the underlying intelligence as I wrote in the June 7, 2015, We Only Begin post.  Intelligence is the primary factor of all Universes.

Not a thing to be taken for granted, as a nothing or non- life because we have as its center, life, the smallest particle, which one day grows into its full capacity of intelligence.  To whatever end that particle succeeds will be another meeting of parts where in its composition will again grow toward other forms of intelligence, other forms of life.

Like God in a Rock.  Because the inanimate, the least seemingly alive particle has within its substance the desire to unite with and ultimately grow. (God Participants all) The vengeance is mine concept is life begetting life, not out of anger or fear or desire to best the impossible but to allow growth and its ultimate life in the best capacity.  And what that capacity will be, we simply do not know.

The Great God has always been for me the Michael Talbot’s holographic universe, rolling thunderous boulders down and up bulrushes, because that is what I have lived lumbering in heavy boots, with one foot still in my last world.  The intensity has ruled and moved planets and suns.   Science will give us cold facts with the how for the worlds born.

But not until the connection is seen where the impassioned Spirits of Beings required expansion to manifest creative thought, will the why of it all be understood.  We had it, knew it and sold it for a handful of dry ash.  Why?  Since we are in such a holy place. . . .


The Why of a Life. . . .

She was a young friend and unable to see the many aspects of ‘why did I settle for so little?’ with the direction my life took.  When the full impact of the time of her birth with the battle for equal rights and the still emerging weight of the question she asked  connected, she would know.

It took a lifetime for me to see these aspects of a life making sense.  I drew from journals the events that started the journey from the first breath into a family of brothers who hovered and worried about this creature in dresses.  And had a mother who if she could would have sent me back to wherever with an ‘I don’t know where she learned that!’ as her mantra.

But circumstances alter cases and turning sour after the birth of my youngest,  the hand extended to say it was all right to leave, but I could not take it.  I asked who will take care of the children?  They grew beneath my heart, so they were mine to care for.  And became the jewels of my life, priceless, irreplaceable and with joy.

Unforeseen circumstances demanded constant attention.  Heard were the words, I won’t, not mine, I’m late already, you do it, or I can’t with surprised vomiting  or alas, pleading the fifth!  With a running out the door.  I ask again, who will take care of the children?  I already knew they were clutched within the hiding places in the big bodies.

We see only a small segment of this linear life.  It appears complete but it is vast.  In a teaching dream my brother Stanley said to me, look, let’s get this part of life done right!  So let’s and as Dr. Heinz my dear doctor said,  Veronique!  All I can handle is one life at a time!

So we work with this life and try to get it right.  Some of us just have more thrown at us that we have to deal with alone.  So be it.

The following poem was written in February of 2017.  The above mini introduction I hope explains a little the life leading to the poetry.

Old Friends Breaking Bread. . .

What’s the harm in it?
one asks, sitting in the sun,
wind lifting tired hair.

She answers, no harm at all,
with two old friends breaking bread.
It is good to recall once fresh dreams.

Everything gained they agree.
Lives lived splendidly according to script.
Lives mortgaged knowingly so the Other
could know their moment in the sun.

They needed to learn they were worthy.
For us it seemed we chose it to be
a time out for us.  We raise our cups
in tribute to the great plan enfolding us.

Evolution. . . choosing to make this difference.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey


When Words Wound. . .Evolution Halts. . . .

                                                                             Words Wound. . . Evolution Halts. . .

Children are wounded when they first tell a truth that is uncomfortable or embarrassing to their audience.  And no doubt it is a much loved parent the child is excitedly telling something.

But realizing they are saying something hurtful or worse laughable when the child speaks his truth, the next time the child is careful to doctor his words.  And each time it becomes easier and finally stories  change with each telling.

So is born a compulsive liar.  Knowing the present version of what they are saying is met with no hostility and is okay, the practice continues.

That they are never believed is a small price to pay compared to the remembered pain of truth telling, which they eventually put to sleep.

I have long thought that to call lying sinful was harsh because lies are told to avoid pain.  Lies are a learned behavior to give what information is wanted or more acceptable.

Misdemeanors are different than sins.  Sins are different than psychological impairments.  And impairments of judgments are not dismissed because lessons must be learned.

It is the deeply wounded child stunted in the adult who continues with the outright lies and dismisses these with a no big deal attitude.

It becomes a way of life and credibility has no meaning since they have never known it.  And what you don’t know you cannot relate to and what you don’t know you do not miss.

Children tell truth with no premeditation.  It is when they are punished for truth telling which generally is first a verbatim account of where they came from and what they remember.  That they learn to whitewash the truth and stories seem more fanciful is no surprise.

What was thought would be ways to alleviate the pain but too often learned was to stay away from the place where the pain was inflicted.  Sometimes that is home for the child and therefore becomes a place to run from.

Sometimes people, often parents, are causes and then they too are avoided.  Often it is school and the child becomes a dropout.  Often also, one does not learn new ways of speaking, but one learns how not to open oneself to more pain.

Evolution grinds to a halt and the adult in his dotage clutches the inner child to his grave.  Wars continue and peace becomes a nebulous promise.  But it is a work and it begins here, with us.


By Whose Authority? . .I Am My Own Authority! .

When this photo came the other day I could see a young woman of stature and maturity in answer to the question ‘By whose authority?. . . whatever the problem. . . .  saying firmly that ‘I am my own authority!. . . . ‘ because her ancestry endows her.  I give a brief synopsis. . .

Her great great grandmother
the Jenny. . .

to the question by whose authority?    ‘Because I said so, that’s why!’
I heard it often enough.

Great Grandmother Veronica when
over 60 years old answered the Literature
Professor. . . .

Not being a member of the Church how do you know what is right to do?
Grandmother great answers. .‘I have a heart and knowledge.  I know what is right.’

Grandfather a retired Teacher
of English and Drama and
Grandmother an artist and retired
Teacher of Art

In love with this ongoing surprise of a granddaughter 2 days a week after 3 sons,
enriching her life with words and art and laughing with fun always.

Both parents working to maintain a home and lives of meaning and enrichment for a new family.  Hoping also for some rest.  This is only half of the picture  that is mine to see.  This is my side of Emma E.  The maternal side I surmise and hope to meet one day is as rich because I know Emma E.’s mother.

Life always holds the sparklers and is balanced.  And if in this world plans go askew, in another world they come to fruition.  To the question at the top By Whose Authority Do You Speak?. . . Emma E. will answer with a curt,  I Am My Own Authority! And she will silence the critic.  With this Grandmother Great’s blessing,  I assure you.


Honed Beliefs Made Manifest. . .purpose of lives lived. . . .

A value system is what is honed by a lifetime or many lifetimes lived as beings,  and not necessarily only as the human that we know.  It can reflect lifetimes of worlds not visible to the human system of values or cognizance of them.  What the value system will show is what has been driven through the heart of one to become what it is they are, who it is they are.

A value system cannot be measured by words, nor can it be described by words.  We can say  we hold this  to be of worth but the meaning to each will differ.  What it cannot convey is what the individual’s heart holds as value.

When the values of one are betrayed by someone of worth to the individual, either by words or actions,  the eyes will tell you of the hurt the wrong has done.  Here again, that hurt to be felt by another, can be understood only when it is within the frame of cognizance, of reference.

Otherwise it will be a matter with little meaning and as easily dismissed as a flick of the wrist.  Or a shrug. Aaahhhh they will say, a nothing.  No big deal.  But a big deal it will be to the one afflicted.  It will be a devastation and it will tumble worlds that have taken lifetimes to construct.

Values are gifts we shoulder from one generation to another.  The thoughtful ones gather the cores of the worthwhile that enhances the growth of humanity.  It begins always within the four walls of where cognizance emerges.  It is a responsibility; it is a sacrament.

It is long past the time we treat it as such.

A Belief System. . . .

It is a belief system designed
to hold together an idea.
It floats, this idea,
in the Sea of Tranquility
where the I of me resides.

Someday I will suspend my belief
that holds me to this place
hiding my jewels.

It is a beautiful spot I have made
to hide those jewels and no one
will find them.

They will be forever hidden
in a place no one chooses to look;
the hearts and minds of those who love
this Earth with passion.
Surprised they will be to see
in the palm of their hand

the keys of the kingdom.                                                       


The Farm by
Kathy Rybacki Qualiani

The Brothers by Artist
Claudia Hallissey


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