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The Spoken Moment. . .

The Spoken Moment . . .

There are moments rare in our shared history that are so special that they must be spoken aloud.  I have too often not spoken them, and I regret that.  Now I speak and they may inspire you to speak yours out loud.

We were sitting at the island between the kitchen and family room and chatting at dinner.  Grandson Josh was chef and ably slicing what he had just grilled.  He is our chef and just plain good.

We had come through some difficult times and I was grateful to be among family.  In my gratitude I blurted out I feel so at home!  And Joshua caught my words immediately with chin lifted and carving knife in air responded, you are home, Gram.  You are home!

And I knew we were on the same wavelength.  It happens and if we are swift to catch these moments, they are ours forever.

When they happen, it behooves us to be aware of them.  We know the child or children born to us who are more of one parent than the other.  Biology teaches though there is more of the grandparents in the grandchildren than parents, whether human or fruit fly.

So, when everything is in sync, working as it was and I felt at home, Josh responded from the same source as mine.  There have been other times in my life when I failed to exclaim my joy fearing to be embarrassing.

My gratitude goes out when feelings sweep over me for shared times.  My thank yous are profuse and not expected I am told but regrets are too burdensome for me.

A heart will respond in like manner when it speaks in truth, either in joy or sorrow.  It must.  The consequences are dire, truly dire, if it does not.  Because our names are attached, we must pick up our mistakes.

Owning them, we must repair, however long it takes.  Eternity is a long time, so consider it.

To Savor the Minute . . .

Could we take the time to savor
this minute and hold it close?

There will be more minutes but none
more special than this one.

It tells me that you treasure our friendship
to show our true feelings

that connect us, one to the other.
I will remember the marks on my life

you put there when you took time
to rescue the self I thought I lost.

Today I am whole.  Forever drawn as a heart
beating steadily as if with an inserted pacemaker,

but with gratitude transcending its beat.


artwork by Claudia Hallissey


Its Own Amen. . . .


In The Quiet Of This Night . . .

In the quiet of this night,
come to me and we will hold hands
and talk and I will show you
from high up you jumped.

The night will love you
and envelop you
and you will find
that in the cold moon
there is a heat that sustains
to show you where your home is.

Within the skirts of who you are,
you will gather
the children around you
and we will love each other.

The heart knows its own Amen. . . . .


Sometimes it takes awhile and then the words pick their own photo to illustrate their intention.  And I cannot find argument just awe.  VRH


The Jenny Genes. . . .this Mother’s Day. . .

She was a formidable woman with a bundle of energy having the potential to create another world.  She wielded this energy with considerable force.  That said, the heavens took note of Jenny and decided that this creature would not be wasted.

And she wasn’t.  Hand in glove she pushed her progeny.  Told them all what to do and how to do it if they stumbled.

And marched them to church, whatever one was closest because her god lived everywhere, in the barnyard, in the fields, in the orchards and in the house.

She feared the health department would hang a contagious sign on her door unless we were brushed dry with a stiff brush.  Altogether, she was a force to contend with.

There were no hugs, no I love you in my childhood.  She believed the movie star as I read to her from a magazine that I bought with school milk money when he said he only kissed his children when asleep.  He’s right she said.  Let other people praise you.

She was in the orphanage at five and did not know of love.  She knew of work at eight years because that’s when the foster family took her into their house and barroom to be a live-in helper.  She knew that no one feeds you for nothing as she often said.

But memories are built with the security of the aroma of cinnamon breads and mince pies and angel wings with powdered sugar like the dust of stars.  She manifested love in the good work of her hands. Home and children squeaked clean of her caring.

The warmth of newly polished stove pipes was sent throughout the house.  Everything was fragrant including us children with the scent of Sweetheart soap.  Holidays brought the pungent sharpness of evergreen and unbridled excitement of eight siblings.

What the parents didn’t know of love, we siblings brought our histories to teach each other and even our parents.  They knew to care for what they brought into the world, best as they could.  The public-school nurse marveled at us with our white starched clothes and wondered how our mother managed.

The last days she knew I walked with one foot in other worlds so was able to share openly her departure.  It eased closure for us both.  I now watch the jenny genes in all her progeny as they reveal themselves.

Not a walk in the park but I hope they find as I have because life demanded it, that she gave to us an unbelievable strength.  With gratitude,  I am your daughter, Veronica


artwork by
Claudia Hallissey


Let Your Light So Shine. . . .

Let Your Light So Shine. . .

There are some souls who are among us that simply light up our lives.  We often cannot say exactly why but they bring a feeling of it’s okay now, or now we can begin, or simply bring together parts of us that have no putting place.

It’s as if they are sealing together what may fragment at any moment.

They may not be the most beautiful, or the best dressed, or picture what is the most popular in the main stream today.  They may smell of baby powder or motor oil or bleach.  They may be wearing overalls with rips from what they work on, or flour from what they are cooking or frazzled clothes from a day with teaching a classroom of children.

They may be old and crotchety and disheveled, or they may be well dressed this moment or newly hatched as Emma E. is in this photo.  But their eyes are wide and filled with awe at the day’s beginning or end.

They have this air about them as I have stated that fill one with an it is an okay world.

And they smile with a secret you hope they will share with you.  They have a knowledge that has escaped you though you have purged the pages of all books searching for words that will be the answer you search for.  They have that peace that passes understanding sought by all the religious in the world and their congregations.

Dressed fashionably or disheveled, mussed up or combed, this bundle of love called Emma E. is a welcome addition every time she appears.  With her comes hope that the world is okay for this moment and tomorrow will come also with sunshine somewhere.  And it will still be a good world.

There are answers for all of us should we take the time and do the footwork.  It is our longest journey.  Some are freshly minted and young, but come with a history nevertheless.  From where, it is up to us to figure out.  It is our job, our work, our purpose to learn, while we make a life and a living.

We are god participants in this world.  The Divine shines within and our lives must match this inner Light.  Some are here to remind us and give hope that we too, can find it.


photo by
Tresy Hallissey, grandfather


Work? . . Are we god-enough to do it?. . .

When we are plagued with a problem and have tried everything we can think of and those things we invent and the problem is still with us, we then conclude there is no answer.  If there was an answer, the problem would be solvable.

There would be circumscribed ways of doing things and we could impart excitement. With unsolved problems comes hope that somehow, someone, some way will come up with something to solve a situation that has not been thought of, has not been tried.

That is why hope springs eternal.  Not because a god will step in but that man with his many ways and histories, will bring together thinking that may yet save a people, a species, a planet.

Hope that what has not been tried before or tried before with no results, a someone will come forth to overcome a barrier and the unthinkable, the impossible and the unlikely this time will work.

When it is a person problem, we will forgive and all will be forgiven.   We will have unlocked  the door that bars entry for the pilgrim and we will be hailed the miracle.

To create peace within chaos will bring diverse peoples together.  If only within our house and that would be all that is necessary.  For if just one place has peace within its walls, all places would eventually have peace.

But we must do the footwork, be the ones to do this work as if fatigue is no problem.  For the ones who have used all psychological devices and reasons know if they see it to do, it is theirs to do.   Others may walk by and see nothing.     What to lose?  Nothing.   What to gain?  Everything.

We  may feel we are carrying the whole load but we know if we have been given sight,  we must use it.   Others may be handicapped in ways not visible.  If we continue to think that it is somebody else’s job, we are the loser.

If we see it to do, and it is not getting done, it is ours to do.   Simple as that.  This is our world.  It is our present.

We will not be tired for long because we know the why of what we do.  When we do for one, we do for all and we are another step closer to brotherhood.

But we were told that.  Ours to do because we see it.  Are we god-enough to do it?

Hardest Lesson. . .

They don’t know  yet,
the ones closest to me, friends and all. . .
why I do things the way I do.

It is because I know the good
in the work and the beauty in the body
doing what mind tells it to do.

It is a dance, a mind and body ballet.
It has taken centuries of many lives
to learn and it was no simple matter.

The hardest thing to purge was thinking
I was above doing such menial work.
While all the time I had to learn

how to be god-enough to do it.


photo by Kathy Qualiana


Roses and Evergreens. . . what happened to the dream?

  We Are The God Participants and We Carry the Dream. . . .

My stamina is low or nil.  I think I can do something because my head envisions,  but my body does not follow.  I spend time now waiting for this national nightmare  to end and find others adding to the nightmare.  I had such good hope for our officials and find that they are less, less than what they portrayed.

I seem to be not a good judge of character in this life.  What should be ethical and lawful behavior is not the official frame of reference.

Am I gullible and naïve and unrealistic as to what keeps this world turning?  Hopelessly out of step as I was called?  But I still hold that what I consider good and ethical behavior on my part is what I expect of others also.

Is it so out of thought in this day?  When it makes my mouth gape open stupidly and I am without words, does it show ignorance or shock at what I view?

Whose world is it I mirror?  What do I hold highest and best and ethical?  Am I so out of step?  Yet because I frame the question, I know the answer.  And I am in shock.  I cannot believe what my eyes are seeing and what I am hearing.  Do you not see it also?  I ask you, do you not hear it also?

Why is it I cringe with open mouth?  Why am I aghast?  I am almost a hundred years old minus a bit over a decade.  Yet appalled and embarrassed  because I see  a lack of character and cannot see a future for my progeny without a country whose constructs are honesty, courage, truth with love for its genesis that conceived its birth.  Do I not speak clearly?

It goes against who I am born into this life with a head that had memory of some places elsewhere.  And yet knowing this country would be a paradise for me because nowhere was there such a place of lush growth, evergreens and roses, and such high hopes with my word being my truth, my honor and my bond.

Yet watching what goes on within my government and listening to officials answering questions with whatever is convenient in the moment, makes me see once again my Mentor sparking blue with anger and turning over the money tables shouting Liars, ye are all Liars!

What happened to the dream?  This has been such a hard time.  That I am disheartened would be a mild statement.  When I know we are the god participants of this Earth and the reason it either works or does not.  And we might be the reason it goes down the tube again.

What do I want to hear?  I am not sure I am equal to anything at the moment.  Not sure at all.


A Heart’s Commitments. . . .



A Given . . .

There comes to mind
in the space of time a leverage. . .
gaining for one a semblance of peace.

Silly, it sometimes is when the purpose
of life is to regain and reclaim this right.
It is of no consequence now in the sleeping hours

of a lifetime that knowledge becomes loose.
Here we sit and wait for life to be infused
but what is needed is simply to release

and be released.  For this time now. . . .
look to  the weaving of a lifetime’s pattern
and see the beautiful results

of a heart’s commitments. . .


artwork by Claudia Hallissey

. .


Our Connection To All That Is. . . .

                                                                                                              We Honor Your Life


(Sometimes there is a need to be reminded of the good the best of Mankind does and this is one of those times.  This essay was one of the first I did for my blog and there may be new readers who missed this. In these times when we have been stressed in ways not known before,  we offer our gratitude to those who have dedicated their lives to better the greater life.  Our lives have benefited  and our gratitude extends to the families for generously sharing what was theirs.)

I received an e mail with photos of several large elephants making their way to the home of a man who had befriended them.  This person was Lawrence Anthony who spent his life caring for elephants in South Africa.  His death occurred on March 7, 2012.

Two days after he died, elephants showed up at his home led by 2 large matriarchs.  Up to 31 of them walked over 12 miles to pay homage to his family. The question was asked how did they know of the death of this friend and how did the word spread.

Growing up on The Farm I saw old farmers in the area in direct communication with their animals not only verbally but with body language.  There was a symbiotic relationship between them and they were of one heart.

This is how word spreads in the wild or anywhere when the relationship is of heart and is understood.  Our vocabulary has no word for this.

Having read where some dogs have the intelligence of a 2 or 3 year old toddler, I am in awe.  As one who has talked to animals, mostly dogs, and listens to them,  they tune me out as often as children do when they see no evidence of need.

Elephants paying homage to their friend, is not surprising.  We are all connected.  There is a common thread that unites all to all.  Most of the world believes that souls can participate in physical life by sending a fragment of their souls to inhabit life at some level.  Western culture is a small segment that does not hold this belief.

Elephants, most jungle life, dolphins, whales and others, have long been known to have language and systems of thought.  We cannot close out whole systems of life simply because we do not understand them.  Those who spend their lives in service to an assembly of creatures have learned to understand them.

Lawrence Anthony communicated at a level that went deeper than most people’s understanding of deep.  This connection to all life, to All That Is, is in everything.  I have written to say God in a Rock and beneath it also.

Earth day is upon us.  Every day has too many of us shaking our heads and saying it is a mystery when something happens when we should be framing the questions and looking for explanations to why or how.  You are worthy of answers.  Do you have courage to ask the questions?  I know it is hard work.  I know.


Everlasting Life: caterpillar to butterfly. . . .

In this spiritual week for us so inclined, memory is mine of those who have transited from my  life.  All my beloveds come to mind, but one incident from the children’s younger days stays with me with more clarity because of my path.

I was standing at the door of the room shared by the two older boys.  The eldest was working at the desk which was a veneer door on wrought iron legs to serve both. (memory details stay)  Our David was lying on his bed and his legs walking the wall which I have seen him do many times.

He was lecturing to us of his dreams.  I wish, he said, to be a star in the sky in some future where I can shine down and give energy to whoever needs it to live.  He was about thirteen or so at the time and I stood there absorbing this idea and wondering at this child.  I see the time vividly inked on my mind.

His was a different head on his shoulders.  Coming to mind also is a psychic friend in her seventies when she and I discussed again life after death.  She wanted to be whoever she was then forever because her identity was locked into who she was.  But then I said the caterpillar would never be a butterfly.

If a mushroom and a daffodil come up blooming life after life could she be right?  Or perhaps the mushroom one day becomes the daffodil?  Like the caterpillar becomes the butterfly?  I like to think I graduate after giving what I hope is my very best to these times.

There is time and space for all thought and life is kind to grant dearest wishes.  And fairly balanced for consequences to redo our calculated and unwitting behaviors.  That, too.

Taking the Nazarene as my Mentor through this life, I have pulled everything through my heart.  Which probably explains two cardiac arrests.  It has not been a walk in the park.

But I wonder if faith had been in my carpetbag would life been easier this time and then I think of a beloved whose life with heavy burdens and her faith been more bearable with a head like mine.

The Teacher said only my head would frame the question.

A Truth. . .

I was told
that life is everlasting,
everlasting and everlasting.

And when my mind and my heart
and the fabric of who I am accepted this statement,
I found I was very tired.

I am reminded that still to come
are worlds of promise
whose substance I have only glimpsed.

I, too, remember the eagerness to taste of the apple.



The Morning Will Rise Triumphant. . .

What to do when there is no one to talk to.  We often escape in old age I fear into madness that we call  Alzheimer’s or dementia, still, a madness by whatever clean name we now give it.  We once called it hardening of the arteries it seems.

Where to go and who to talk to?  Understandably there is only conjecture and science forever studies the subject.  And how often we hear of the brave ones who keep their troubles to themselves?  We think we should be one of those.

I think it goes back to our origin as children when we asked the first why.  And the exasperated and hopelessly uncurious parent said because I said so that’s why!  Then we spend an entire life with questing the eternal why.

And when it becomes too much, especially when we have a near death experience and we look for someone to talk to, there is no one around.  The religious professional admits to no answers.  The partner of a lifetime wants no part of this serious stuff and should you venture into it they call it pontificating.

And do not want to hear you say your nights and days have at their root what you pursue.  It is your eternal why for whatever reason you cannot fathom and hit the wall.   You bang your hard head and crash the ethers finally.

To end up with the millions in no man’s land with what they say is a brain malfunction but it is with relief so you don’t face the final agonizing times alert but still with no answer to the why.  You offer a heart and love and your Self with questions and it is too much of a burden for an Other to carry.

The father cannot listen because his father could not listen and the mother cannot listen because her mother was told to always be cheerful and positive and look at the bright side.  There was no advice as to how to cope with the questions as she stood helpless before children born with memories with no putting place.

So what to do. Study.  Go to the library and find the books on the metaphysical.  Go back to school.  There are counselors exploring broader histories.  Confront the memories and learn about lifetimes with different images .  Search and embrace the ancient civilizations that know there are lifetimes hidden in the crevices of who we are whose secrets can be uncovered.

We are more than what we appear to be.  Everything we have been,  the good and the not so good have created the who we are today.  And as we look upon our progeny with love that we could not have imagined,  know also that hidden within their selves may be the ones who did unsavory acts that caused grief.  Forgiveness takes on a new meaning in Holy Week.

But because of who we are today we take them into arms that have known a love so grand that we transfer that love this minute.  That love we have known may not have been in our present life but rises out of the ashes of who we have been and kept alive in memory.  And we live to show it, to have it guide us and make it work in this time.

To be called gullible, not knowing the real world and naïve to believe that love conquers all is a lot to handle.  But as the world teeters on the brink of an edge that has an abyss awaiting, and still with hope celebrates the resurrection of the Spirit within believer and unbeliever alike, we are grateful there are those who have memory and perseverance to pursue the command  to love one another.

Simple?  Never.  It is a reality we cannot dismiss because its power is unfathomable.  And the morning will rise triumphant because of the dark night.


photo by Jon Katz


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