Archive | Essays

Compensation. . .


There comes a time when even the simplest body language speaks to one and one has to listen.  It is not an easy thing to do, this confrontation, but it requires some thought.  It is easy to anger, but a dumb thing to do.  And I try hard not to be dumb.  But looking with an attitude of gratitude, I have nothing but awe to grant to this body that has served me so well.

Spending almost a year and a half when I was 10-12 years old in a sanatorium with a spinal problem  had me on a curved steel Bradford frame on my back for most of that time.  Children were kept immobile in straight jackets on these frames because that was how they treated chronic bone problems before antibiotics.   When I was discharged my mother asked the doctor would I be able to have children and the doctor with exasperation I remember saying madam be grateful your daughter is walking.  And walk I did, with difficulty and able to have three wonderful children but also to fall in love with my beautiful Earth and take care of the small plot of land for almost a half century.  I took my commitments seriously and found virtue in labor and beauty in the doing of it.

So struggling with a continuing spinal and cervical stenosis coupled with a spastic heart that went into cardiac arrest twice have made things more difficult as I age.  I learn new things and there will be new ways of doing things.   My hours over the worktable lessen but I am grateful for the ways I can contribute to maintenance of our home that keep me mobile.   My love of learning has continued to this late date and though my hands are shaky and my body and eye coordination lessens by the day I still do the things I love best.

My eye/hand coordination is not good but I learned this past week how to use the computer to print on fabric and I will be printing my poetry with a new idea in mind.  The example I put before you.

For one  who misses the old exuberance of my feet hitting the floor as my eyes open,  the change to a more sedentary beginning of the day means that my body balks.  The Lazy Boy chair beckons more often and I am inclined to rest my eyes, (so to speak).  Naps are what the family calls them.  Compensation is what Emerson called the balance of Life, God,  or Spirit.  He calls it the duality in life.  For everything you lose,  you gain a something else.  There is an ancient maxim that says that the dice of God are always loaded.  It may seem that there is an imbalance,  but the balance is there.  It must be so or the Universes would have long ago ceased to be.  And I continue with those things that moth and rust do not destroy.

I forgot that I had written In Closing Times this past summer.  I find it to have great meaning now.

In The Closing Times

Often there comes a time
to ponder great gifts
when a life has been lived diligently
for them to come forth. . . .

Yet oftentimes they come
in the closing times
when energy fails us
and the eyes dim. . . .

But no harm done,
for magnificent things
instead were accomplished
with greater meaning

and everlasting life.



When The Real Money Is Counted. . . .

20150628_123339(1)The Teacher Continues. . . .

When it comes to memory,  how do we separate what is currently ours?  Yet the question should be, what is not ours when we are part of humankind?  What can we separate from since we do not know what it is we have participated in since time began?

Have we lived before?  What is called reincarnation can also be memory banks filled to overflowing.  Yet are there not new souls on this planet who do not have practiced ways of behaving that can only be the result of centuries of living?

Can we say we have lived before when we fumble much in elemental situations? If we are asking these questions, it means the footwork has already been done to bring us to this place.  And since talk shows and self help books have people eager to speak,  what can be brought forth? 

Can this incarnation be one of many?  Can we not be walking in many worlds relying only on custom for this one?  For some, one answer is sufficient.  And for others, if thoroughly understood,  would have worlds spinning into oblivion. 

There are those who have been open to such a degree that worlds have impinged uncalled for.  Understanding can only come when there is a frame of reference to assimilate the information.  There is no mind that can understand everything.  All expressions are needed in every world to begin to uncover the Essence of the Spirit that rules and loves.

In the frame of reference that use the word God in its religious life or spiritual life,  everyone and everything is allowed to express the many faces of God.  There is no mind that completely understands nor completely accepts  all the expressions of Being.  Whether in this world we inhabit or in worlds we give space to in thought.

The Why Of Mine

In me are my mother’s memories.
She still lives with all
of the memories in her and many in me.
Her anguish for rights violated
is felt in me . . . .gut feeling overriding
injustices in my life.

Her family, long dead, live in her
and in me, commingling.
I do not know their faces,
but one day I will wander into
a Memory Bank and withdraw my assets
to settle debits and I will know
for whom I do this.

In me, my father nods his head
and studies grasses neatly clipped
to a measured stance.
His dragging feet refuse to note
the hands on my clock as they did on his.
In me, his glance becomes
a studied look ferreting out a truth
in a lie,  only to be numbed by indecision.

And my eyes hold others’ eyes,
when they meet mine so I can
uncover their treasures.
In me, the textures of my brothers
are bolts of fabric laid straight
and bias to life.

I note the patterns and the places
that fit me me and those that cannot.
The places we meet are enough for now.
In me my sister’s wrath
lays bare my own.
Altogether we meet in several times
but in her  our father roams,

looking for himself in her labor
and in her, our mother stirs derision
concerning old memories kept alive
by today’s unresolves.
I have children who have children,
strengthened by others’ memories
and shaken by habits long thought
to be dead.

Wondrous to see the Refiner’s fire
culling the wooden nickels
crowding the silver and gold
in the Memory Bank.

One day the real money will be counted.



Painting by
Claudia Hallissey





To Use These Hands. . . .


To Use These Hands. . . .

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

And I think that nothing, no other world will ever make me feel such blessedness as my hands’ ability to do so many things over the course of this life.   To kneading bread,   to winding the yarn,  to smoothing the brow of my very sick child and have him tell me later that it helped 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 embrace 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  love on this planet called Earth.

art by Claudia Hallissey


The Significance Of The Common Search


The Teacher speaks and the scribe takes dictation. . . .

As long as the desire to accomplish is within us, there will be sufficient time to do what needs be done.  As long as what it is we wish to do is for others and for ourselves,  there will be sufficient time.  Time being a space in this dimension, has its own terrible cost.  It is a tyrant.  It is also a whip that has beaten its own inhabitants to a pulp.  Never intending to be used in such a way, man has made it his master.  Never stretching it to cover his wants as well as his needs, he has filled it more tightly with things to do and when taken out of context without his personality imprint, is simply just busy work.

We can give meaning to our work when it is filled with love.  We can give meaning when in our own desire to make a difference, we stretch ourselves to fill in the holes in the work when left to itself means little.  It is our own imprint, ourselves, that give meaning to what we find to fill our days.  The other, the work that cleans the premises, that gives beauty to the eye,  takes the heartbeat of who we are also.  It behooves us to make our space shine for those who come by and who also follow.

There is much that could be done within the confines of our premises.  There is much work to be done with those of our commitments.  What we do with them is of importance when it is done from the heart and with our own best motives.  All else simply becomes work.

It seems there is within us, all the knowledge of longstanding, but with the passage of time loses its impact.  There comes the time when in viewing what others simply let drop, the feeling that it hardly is worth the effort.  Yet the perseverance and the sticking to it is most necessary for others to gain entry into the sacred place of the heart.  It is most necessary to keep the circle intact and the other pursuing, even when our own pursuits are fulfilled.  Our least dropping away will soon discourage others from their own even little effort.  And they in turn will think they are not worth the effort.

What this presents to the efforts of the earth classroom is failure ensured.  We cannot allow this to happen without repercussions, even to the babes.  The whole depends on the integrated pursuit of the aims of those  who go the route and tire.  We watch the entire procedure with calmness at times and then we border on hysteria.  For the workers are few.  They are not in great number.  They work with no conscious memory and when the lack of memories and efforts become too much, they fade from the picture with work still to be done and leave the majority who cannot get out of their own way, to themselves.

This in itself is of no great import singly.  But when taken to the extent that the lights are extinguished in the group and the hibernation begins in numbers, then we know there is little that will give meaning and direction to the majority.  The effort required to keep the lamp burning in those of influence and not necessarily to mean world importance, but by singular effort, is immense and sometimes so overwhelming that further work is impossible.  We then use what we can to keep the process intact and start the individuals moving again.

Even when the track record is evident, aging precludes the sustained interest.  But we adjure and constantly encourage prolonged effort.  We must.  For we have so few in the fields.  In the vineyards.  The larger scope must always be employed.  We cannot let not even one be lost to the place of darkness and mist.  We count on our people of light.  We must for we have no other support in a world of closed circuitry.  We employ every means we can to keep the interest high.  The personal input is of major importance.  The aging body works against us.  And the feedback for this work is nil.  There is no one who bestows the kudos on the heads of the menial workers.  The words of comfort and encouragement no longer are heard and the larger picture fades from view and what we have are the nuclear boundaries.  So what we ask seems impossible.  To keep on keeping on when there is arid territory to plant and feed and urge into production seems a monumental task.  Yet we ask it again and again, keeping the worker in the field in the face of obstacles that a high jumper cannot navigate.

They cannot measure their impact nor fathom their influence.  This is of the individual we speak.  Not only the producer of works that gain attention but also of the cogs in the wheel that keep things balanced.  ‘Only’ seems to be a very little word,  yet to the cosmic populace, the word becomes holy.  The ‘only’ includes all those on whom the workload falls, the ones who balance the entire lot of worlds precariously swimming.  We hold to be of importance the ‘only.’  They are the ones who are shunned as the so called movers of the world and cast into the place of no importance.  They are not called to the summit for conferences where the world’s conflicts are discussed.  Only called to Mount Olympus where the holy work of the worlds is parceled out.  There is the word again, ‘only’ in conjunction with holy. 

No mail of worth comes to the door begging one’s presence.  No telephone call summoning one to the world’s conferences.  But neither is there the residue of regret, nor the hidden head in the sand hiding embarrassment.  There are, in fact, words hanging in midair of encouragement and those now willing to give it another try.  Another try and another try is what we ask our workers to give to others and to themselves.  We need the workers.  We need the ones whose vision contains elements not seen by the majority; the majority who yearn for role models of caliber.

We do not paint the pretty picture.  What we do paint is our need, the cosmic need.  The need to keep the classroom operative.  To give meaning to the dailyness of the population struggling with stress to find meaning of their own.  We know this and unfair as it seems, with no awards to hang one’s hat near, it is a work requiring doing and few know about.  When it seems futile, we ask again the workers to think again.  Instill within the neophyte the desire to improve one’s self,  one’s place,  one’s world.  The least effort is not wasted.  The smallest encouragement may be the encouragement that prevents total disaster.

The beds indeed must be changed to prevent contamination in a world of great numbers.  The babies must indeed know of those who love them and care.  The lonely soul trudging the inward path to procure meaning keeps another off the streets with the contact of one who has gone the route.  The beautifying of a relationship, the word to the lonely, the hand to grasp, the eye to contact is all the encouragement sometimes needed.  We cannot fathom the depths of life, of god. 

Life, god, renews himself, itself.  Summoning all of himself, herself, to the work involved, he reveals himself to himself.  And learns of the depths of who he is.  Always in the process of revealing,  of revelation, of learning, we struggle as god struggles, as life struggles to give meaning and to ensure the depth of it all.

There is a depth still to be probed.  There is a deep still to be revealed.  And the human body is a marked probe waiting and seeking its own depth.  Nowhere can we begin the excursion into the meaning of what surrounds us and to what we cover except by the dailyness of the common search.   It is of no use to think that we can cover distances in a leap of profound understanding.  The elements of discovery are step by step.  It is a work and one of excruciating pain.  It never was said to be easy nor light  but what was said was that it was going to be deeply satisfying for one who struggles with it all.  No one comes through but with some store of experience which translates into knowledge.  Somewhere.  And here it is that what the individual learns is applied to the group as a species and then is integrated into the whole.

Man was told that what is done for one is done for all.  The lesson is profound when taken seriously and applied to everything.  Not just to the case in hand but to all cases and to all hands.  Keep it always forefront.  The individual effort is noted and the heavens are not deaf nor are they blind.  And the homecoming is worth it all.

We ask the blessing on this day and allow all things their space, for the simplest and most menial task is only so when glimpsed within the structures of the day.  When taken to its completion, it becomes a sacred work of art.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey


We Are The Reflection. . . .


We  Are The Reflection . . . .

of what we worship.  We may not think in those terms,  but our actions reflect what we think to be highest and best within us.  For some seem to  have come a long way and they mean to go even further.  And push to extremes the psyche of man to the point where he will indeed proceed with the amelioration of his acts that only serve to propound the problems of the children, his children.  And we take them and give them a what for and say get on with it.  Stop taking your heritage as god given and sacred when your eyes tell you that problems will result that will only continue through the ages.

That within their crusty skins is the divine.  That within all that they are for this moment in their thinking is all that there is.  And if they demand more, then they make more.  For the god who shines in them is the reflection of what and who it is they worship.  And if they are not pleased with what they present, then they better get on with it.

Defeating?  What are now the options?  For centuries man has worshipped a god outside himself and it would not require a first rate intelligence to see what the morning papers blare out every day.  This is the god man worships and it would dismay them to think that they represent their god?  What is it about themselves that they do not like?  Is this all there  is or am I all there is?  Yes, pure and simple because until the understanding is broadened until the larger perspective is gained that encompasses all others,  this is all there is and they will be right back in the stew pot and not scot free for eternity.

What is there about themselves that shames them?  Time to clean up then, isn’t it?   Time now for a housecleaning with confessions and restorations to be done wholesale.  There is no time for mousing about.  We have babies with memories.  And the ability to see what is in the hearts of men.  And adults are now on the defensive.  And should be.

The larger, broader perspective deserves its time.  The grandfather image in the sky, outside of man, no longer serves.  We have listened to the laments for too long and our hearts also cringe when the prayers reach the hilt with the wailing.  These are souls in travail, having given birth and now reap the whirlwind. They feel abandoned and frightened.  That they were to assume accountability did not cross their minds.  That to simply get through life was not all that was required.  But to add to the physical dimension somehow escaped them.  Failure falls on all of our heads.  And ‘not knowing’ is no longer a tenable tenet.  The wail will not be heard but the mistakes will be picked up by those whose names are on them.

Simply traversing the schism separating man from his heaven does not necessarily bring enlightenment.  The process of housecleaning is painful and our nursing homes  are proof that this knowledge is innate and to be avoided at all costs.  What was not done while the doing could be remedial must be done at some time with the added burden of physical infirmity.  The shift to childishness is premeditated, thinking that avoidance would be whole scale.  The  god of their childhood would welcome them in their childish state.

What is not understood is this childlike faith, the utter knowledge of the child who enters the world complete with his memories  weaves his destiny through all worlds until the desire to focus comes.  Then decisions are made and oftentimes because of survival.   But if survival is the main ingredient of life, the options to learn are presented in all things.  The choice not to learn is a conscious choice, chosen because of ease.  Inserted within each life is the prime time for the option of learning and not necessarily in the formal classroom.  Time and again the inner voice is dismissed for various reasons.  And then old age is upon the person and what we have is a reversal, a conscious turning to the childish state so that the separation will not be painful.

And it works for many.  But what is involved is a lack of no insight, no enlightenment and the souls find themselves back in the frying pan so to speak, none the wiser for the journey.  The problems compound themselves and the cycle is incomplete.  What to do?

We study the ancients and this means ourselves.  What is asked, with intensity and motive discerned, will be granted.  But when work is involved, the individual too often opts for diversion from his primary task.  Or the long way around the barn is taken, thinking that good works justify the person.  Good works coupled with intent and motive, do.  But the union with the invisible self is imperative.  For only then will the good be transmuted into stable conditions with long lasting improvement.  Otherwise the measures are like a bandaid when the body is bleeding.

The conclusions reached when this journey begins are simply on the surface.  They must be applied to the greater picture and not limited to persons.  The suffering begins but the habits are now attacked with persistence.  It defies the thinking brain that what was sufficient at one time and brought awards is no longer sufficient.  But the depth of man is being penetrated and the work just begins.   The  time is now.


Coming To The Altar

20151017_181546The Teachers Speak. . . .

What is suppressed is what we are most afraid of and fear carries a sub label of secretive which must go along with the word afraid. Even in today’s world of reality shows,  there are still those who carry their fears close to the chest.  And often do not think of solitude as safe;  reason enough when some enter their home all manner of noises are pressed into being.  Anything to combat the silence where thoughts arise.  Silence becomes the enemy to master and not one of comfort.

And we wish not to remember.  Dismissing memories is to lock the vault only to have it burglarized and be called to remember without those whose presence would have made the memories bearable.  Whether in joy or sorrow.   They can be dismissed and put on the shelf for another time but confronted they will demand to be.  A life can be one of choice concerning memories as well as other commodities.  But to put memories into a vault and to tightly lid them is to crowd the emotions into a body with no death as a release  and death has a place in man as well as in nature. 

Indeed man is natural and belongs to nature because he should be at home in this physical world.  Death in nature is acceptable but in man seldom, except as he makes himself so undesirable that others wish his demise.  Yet death is always with us and its purpose is to release from the physical what can no longer be housed comfortably.

The body must also be part of mind’s growth.   The body cannot be left in the cold while the head does its intellectualizing.  It is all part of the whole.  Our head could say  I am handling this well but the body knows better if it has not caught up with the intellectual growth.  Until the work is done within,  where the strength of the body is built up,  we will have a condition needing remedial work.  When there is a cohesiveness within the mind body factor, there is also  a peaceful coexistence.

We Give No Thought

We give no thought
to the end of breathing
for in the midst of things
we are satiated.

But when the void deepens
and all things pall,
in the privacy of our night,
we sweat.

We are drenched
with fear,
drowning in our panic
for we have no anchor.

We are a people
with no spirit. . . .
full of ourselves,
devoid of the good, we think,

necessary for immortality.
Too bad we are so late
in coming to the altar

of our own divinity.





Staff Of Life

20151009_115805Staff Of Life

Unsteady on his legs, I watched my then toddler grandson bend down and pick up his book.  In one motion, he touched the book to his lips.

In another time, when I was young, I saw his great grandfather move with just such a motion to pick up a piece of bread from the floor and touch his lips.

“Papa,” I asked, “why did you do that?”    “It is the staff of life,” he said.  “All bread is holy.  I am sorry I was not more careful.”

And the great grandson connected with his great grandfather and for me, a moment where the gesture knotted more securely the past with that present.  I did not seek out the memory.  I did not know it was stored anywhere.  But in a moment of recognition and more  quickly  than  it takes  to scribe the motion, it was there.  In the act of one was the continuing presence of the other.

The source of reverence for both was what each considered holy.  To my father it was what was taught to him by generations of tradition.  To our grandson, still unsteady on his legs, one must wonder from where the reverence toward books was learned.  Was this bred into the genes at some time but  chooses when to show itself?

Or family habits observed carefully to shape attitudes?  If the latter, then we teach even when we don’t know we teach, which should put us all on guard.  We do not know who is watching or what is taken to be followed to the letter.

If attitudes also are bred into us, how much of what we are will be passed on to the next generation?   There are those who now say that while carrying the child, the mother should follow her inclinations and expose herself to good music, quiet thoughts and a welcoming attitude for the child yet to be born.  Fathers are encouraged to be present in the birthing rooms.  The welcoming committee should be on hand for mental and moral support of not only the new parents, but for the child to come.  Is it a bit far fetched or is there some truth in what was once considered old wives’ tales?

A cursory glance into the nursery will convince one that there is communication even in the newborn.  The infant demanding food disrupts the composure of the entire group.  A colicky baby oftentimes is discharged to the loving attention of the family rather than allowed to upset the “good” babies.  The response to a cry from one is a commiserating reply from all the others.  And the offender is soon labeled as such.

How far back do we dare go to understand the behavior patterns of each of us?  The parents who throw up their hands and announce in unison “he didn’t learn that from me!” are the same ones who say, “that is my father all over again”, but this time with pride.  How much of anything are we responsible for?

When we are aware that what we contribute is non constructive to a situation, the responsibility to change is ours.   Awareness demands responsibility.  We cannot fault another for not seeing what is evident to us.  But we can change ourselves and with compassion help to rewrite what we consider to be an unchanging destiny.

The loving gesture is noted.  By a someone.  The homely task must be completed.  By a someone.  The brow must be sponged.  By a someone.  The book unread remains unread.  By a someone.  The song unsung, remains unsung.  By a someone.

The needs of the elderly are close at hand.  And the needs of the very young are close at heart.  But each generation is privileged.  At no other time has the view been so clear.  And at no other time have the responsibilities been so sharply defined in so many areas.  I did not beckon the memory out of its hiding place to whip across my visual screen.  It was a simultaneous response, the one invoking the other.  And into the present a depth was reached that connected the great grandson to his great grandfather.

How much are we responsible for?  We teach even when we don’t know we teach.  A loving gesture with bread.  A loving gesture with a book.  Both with reverence, a source of food.  One for the body and one for the mind, yet both soul food.  These were good lessons, but what of the others that do not make us proud?   I pray, let me begin now.


Intensity Of Purpose

20151006_081213Intensity of Purpose

One of the first unhappy side effects of the medications taken for my cardiac problem was that it took away my morning exuberance that had me thrusting my feet to the floor all the days of my life till then.  (yes,  I am grateful they have kept me breathing!)  But without my inner motivation it was difficult to find the world I was in love with.

It is the intensity of purpose within, which gave me the desire to manifest, to make real the ideas I gave birth to.  This is the way of all of us; the inner motivation that demands expression.  It is by far the most desirable of gifts, inspiration.  It allows us to delve into the many mysteries of life and bring light to them.  When quantum theories talk of time being simultaneous, all of a piece, it is telling us that nothing is lost in this world or any world, but is enfolded into the implicit core of experience, of values waiting for the ones with desire, inner motivation, to create.

Many time we discover ways to explain experience or explain past events only to realize we are creating new ways to explain with accumulated knowledge, these events.  Inspiration comes from within. . . in-spirit,  ours.  It is time for all of us to follow our wonder, to where we will enhance life.  And to encourage our children to make space for this wonder to be joyfully used and guarded well.

It is the divine in us seeking a voice.

(Excerpt from A Pearl Of Great Price)

I gather my roses, split upon a fence rail,
blooming profusely.  In bunches
I gather them, first one, then another,
an armful and they are mine.
Thorns do not a rose make,
but intensity of purpose yields the bud.

Many roads lead to the place of many rooms.
The roads are diverse and
great the number of rooms.
But so you were told.
The rooms reflect the sun of many days,
and the nights of many moons,
the heart’s intent and the mind’s purpose.
You live in them now.

Do not try to delineate the rooms
with structural perimeters.
They move and breathe and are created
and recreated moment by moment.
Their reality is your creation.
Their occupancy will be determined
by your intent.



Times Such As These


We are told that hearing you will hear and not understand and seeing you will see and not perceive.  Simple words meaning simple things?  But of course you see and of course you hear unless physical impairments prevent us.  But it is even more than that.  In the process there are the cries in crisis and there are the tears that are not seen.

The father asked his son at breakfast,  ‘are you not speaking?’  And  the son answered ‘I  spoke yesterday.’  They were across the table from each other but worlds apart.  The father was asking why are you silent.  And the son was already mentally in school and  gave his oral report yesterday.

The daughter was hurting and gathered courage to tell her emotionally distant mother why she ached inside only to find later her brother coming  into the house mimicking her talk with her mother, laughing.  The daughter shared her heart and her mother not knowing the place her daughter was speaking from, dismissed it as a nothing.

Neither parent heard nor saw what the child’s body language, words or eyes were conveying.  The Master said, ‘hearing you shall hear and not understand and seeing you shall see and not perceive.’  How much are we missing?  We should at least be wondering.  What is more to hear than what we hear or see what we see?   When the process begins, the pain will be poignant but welcome it.  It will mean that you and your god are in conference.

Times Such As These

I lock up the room
and pocket the last remnants
of words laying about

Fearful that pieces
of my heart may be found
scattered among them.
And why not?

Times such as these
leave us with little salve
to heal the open wounds
which once were hearts.

For whom do we weep?
The children whose siblings
will no longer come to the table
to covey with no doubt
the events which took their innocence?

Or the parents
whose hearts were transplanted
when word came
that these unspent stars
were already breathing the rarified air
as heaven’s most blessed?

Look at us here.
Pleading that our children
will be safe as they try to understand
what we in our dotage have not learned.

To resort to arms means death in any country.


Photo by
John Hallissey



To Regain Our Knowledge (that we are safe)


One of my reader’s comment on a poem of mine was that it gave her a safe feeling. And after much thought, I came to some conclusions. The first being to educate ourselves to broaden our premises so that the unknown will become a known. The narrower our premises the more outside our frame of reference will raise concerns. The more we learn, the more at home we become with things outside our focus.

Not all babies of course, fall into arms ready for them. We are born with a cry and clenched fists and need those arms to quiet a fierce pain of separation. Life presents many obstacles not to mention a peer group only too happy to help the child lose the feeling that the world is a safe place.  Parents  need to nurture the feeling of safety.   It is only then we begin to lose our fear.

It seems a lifetime is spent talking to ourselves about fear. If we reacquaint ourselves with the knowledge that we are always safe, the who that we are, no matter the condition of our environment, we lose our fear of the world and can begin to work good for ourselves and our Earth. Too much time is spent trying to lose our fears from the first step outside the playpen to our final fear of death. From beginning to the end, we are one mass of fears.   The media and architectures of business, the things that run our lives designed to sell us what we don’t need are all designed to feed our fears. Fear is between the ears for this is where it originates.

Regaining the knowledge that we are always safe, will help us lose our fears.  We then will know that life is everlasting, through this world and those still to come.

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.

‘Twas 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




Powered by WordPress. Designed by WooThemes