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No Place To Go . . . .

There are others who have experience in matters not common.  I have kept notes on dreams and researched my experiences.  I could not speak openly and was cautioned much because of public circumstances.  Times are different and I speak for the children who are different. There are babies now being born who have been mentored and if they are fortunate and have support they will teach the lot of us from where they come.

In the Dead Sea Scrolls a disciple asked Jesus where we go when we die and Jesus answered, why do you ask when you never wondered where you came from?  He also said the ‘the twig is bent’  and religions don’t mention apriori, before we are born. Most assume that all is formed after birth but every parent knows each child comes already predisposed.   My exasperated mother would gladly have told you about me.

As I look back on things,  as we are apt to do when we wish to make sense out of a life that at times held little,  I find more things connect.  Yet small incidents were crucial  for the larger events to play out.  When I think back on the arguments that have taken my energy,  I still have difficulty understanding where sacrificing one life so that another can live is fair or rational. Religions have been based on this principle.

No Place To Go. . . 

Your words are strong
my eldest says. . .
and the road made accessible
for the rest of us.
No need I say, no need.
You will do what is yours to do
in your own way.

The road is closed
with wooden horses barring the way,
not for repair but because
a new road is laid.

My mentor said what is done for one
is done for all. . .so the heavens made bet
it would never be done but it seems
I was the surprise.  It is done.

They say they give an inch
and I take a mile.
My verbiage is clear.
My focus enables focus
in boundary-less places as I weave
in and out of black holes and wind  drifts
to find myself welcomed.

I have friends all over
who wait except where I am.
Here I am different and in this place
to be different puts one outside looking in.
They do not know
where I am coming from.
My vernacular is not theirs and

I have no place to go with what I know.

 

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If We Sing To The Children. . but you know. . . .

 

There comes to mind that time warp where events leave their linear places and congregate in the place where we know that thunderous motions occur with the simplest actions.  Or even with no action.  Like the times my brother Stanley and I discussed what he saw along the road but knew immediately I knew the song.  And he just  resorted to, but you know, you know. . .

It was simply a matter of realizing we shared a history, with a weight to language which we worshiped.  We knew that the words we used the other used also and respected.  We were not loose with words but used them with sacred dispensation. 

It was a relationship we shared with his wife also.  And both of them were an important part of these particular visits we had and where the poem above was born.  It holds great meaning for me because of the tender feelings we shared.  It made the visits to the Farm a recreation of who we were and continued to be. 

That the children shared in this family in their own ways I was not fully aware until long after they became adult.  In talking about who we as their parents wanted as guardians in case of our demise (and often argued) while they needed family, our eldest asked why did we not ask them? 

I said because we wanted to agree on the ones we asked.  And he continued, ‘well you should have asked because we had already decided that Uncle Stan was the one we would go to.’  When did you decide all this I asked.  ‘Oh long ago, he said.  We already knew who we wanted.’

It was all decided within the sanctity of that relationship.  And I never asked, but probably they had already researched the Court and who was the approachable judge.  I just never aske
d.

 

If We Sing To The Children. . .

I wear these memories
as a cloak to ward off the chill.
Emotions forgotten, but like new now
ripping along my arms,
settling bumps in straight rows
to my heart.

Kindred hearts, matching
my own heartbeat, 
with eyes like mine and
reflecting our souls.
Music in voices saying,
‘and when I look at weeds beside the road. . . .
but you know,  you know. . . .’
And I do, I do and we look with eyes
that see and ears that hear the song
of the bird before his sounds
have escaped his throat. . . .
and the music rumbles in our blood,
coursing through our hearts
and gives life only
to those who are ready to listen.

Not many to be sure, not many,
but if we sing to the children
perhaps,  just perhaps, 
the earth’s cacophony
will one day be in harmony.

It is our heritage;
from where it is we come.
From the farm country I was given
a substance that does not spoil,
that does not turn sour
even in the residue of life.
It is not dregs that I drink.
It is the cream rising to the top of the milk.

I needed to see a skyline
with no obstruction and with no words

you laid your hearts on me.

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the heart will shout its validity. . . . . .

July 8, 2021  . . I need to put this down before it goes into the forget pile.  As most things do nowadays.  But this I think is most important because we as a nation are becoming most distrustful as well as unforgiving about differences within even our  families.  It is a despairing situation, and I worry about the children growing up within families that don’t allow even for the genetic mayhem happening randomly.

My favorite philosopher, Ashleigh Brilliant, would no doubt label my perspective and me as God’s Mistake.  And the psychiatrist whispers that I am lucky to be alive.  But you see, I think this country is the most magnificent Rehab Unit in the world.  We are all here because of courage to vacate situations which were the death of all of us.  Whether the conditions were familial, or country, or monetary or healthwise; no matter.  They were not life giving but life taking.

I read I had awakened from a teaching dream taking most of the night and written down all the memorable elements.  And ended with these last words  my brother Stanley saying ‘it is enough for here and now.  Let’s just get this life, this world,  right.’

And following that segment, I wrote. . . (there were faces that passed by me, from handsome and beautiful to strange and weird and then to beautiful again.  It was a most fluid scene.  Now the thought occurs that this is what it is about.  That fluidity, the ability to see change and not be averse to it, not be repulsed by what life is in all of its worlds.)

I scribed the teachers  April 17, 2018. . . It would seem that repulsion should be part and parcel of what you saw.  Yet the introduction is given where you are and the majority of people have their favorite prejudices.  They avoid what it is that is not like them.  Whether color or patterns of behavior, etc.  Yet we realize that for civil life to go on unobstructed there must be a mean behavior attended to.  There must be a behavior which will not obstruct human justice or civil life, mannerly life.  Else as you say, civilization goes down the tube.  What must be allowed in civil life must also be accepted within the individual. 

Because there are more problems  adherent to the new norms  one will encounter in other dimensions.  Whether burn victims, handicapped or malformed individuals  can be seen as spirits and soul on a pilgrimage, will commend the viewer to a better understanding when the other dimensions come into view.  It seems a small way to begin, but begin we must at all levels.

So simple yet it seems like arguing by the high church as to how many angels can dance on the head of a pin!  Pointless yet similar to the descriptions by Frank Herbert of the Dune Face Dancers.  And the world dimensions of the Shikasta by Doris Lessing. 

Yet looking at the haunting videos of the January 6 Insurrectionists of our Capitol Building, revealing the aged faces and bodies not having learned the respect nor knowledge for the nobility of the building housing the revered character of our Constitution, devastates the thinking mind.

I still write the truth that what we teach within the walls  of our homes to the first years of our young, will determine the sacredness of the prophet’s peace on earth and  what will be eaten at mankind’s tables.  Whatever language we speak,

the heart will shout its validity.                                                                               

 

                                                                                                                                                              

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The Hard Work of Thought. . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Family Photo

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little Ballerina . . . 

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

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

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

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

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

pray the garden into a sanctuary.

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey 

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

 

 

Explanation Caught in Part. . .

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

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

How could love hurt so much?

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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Each One. . .Teach One. . .

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Excerpt from Life Everlasting. . . 

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

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

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

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

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The Paris Incident. . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

All Who I Am. . .

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

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

                                             II

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

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

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

                                            III

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

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

                                        IV

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

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

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

                                               V

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

 There will be no more loves aborted.

 

photo by John Hallissey
artwork by veronica

 

 

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Beneath the Wings. . . . .

 

                                                                                                             

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

 

 

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

who holds us together.

 

photo by John Holmes

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