Archive | Touchstone

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 . . . )

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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.

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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.

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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. . . .

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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.

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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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Later Comes Too Late. . . .

 

Not now!  Later! . . . .

It is time to be reminded not to spend recklessly what we cannot recover.  It was a late night comedian we were watching and he was interviewing a married couple who were both American song stylists.  Already you know it was  some time ago.

 Asked how they stayed married for so long (over 25 years and had grown sons) she said,  we have never had an indepth conversation!  That was my generation’s lifestyle though not everyone’s choice.

This poem has words for those who would like sufficient time to put thoughts on the table to be picked up one by one and allowed to be heard to completion. But what is heard going out the door is, not now! Later! 

But later comes too late.

However long the night is. . . .

However long the night is,
is however long we’ll talk.
A tongue dismembered from its throat
is punishment too severe to be humane.

It has taken a life of silence
to filter through its members,
lessons enough for the toughest skin to break.

I have marched with your words
through endless tasks, through nights
not filled with magic.
And heard the harangue from compressed lips
tearing even the plea of forgiveness from Me.

Now I promise.

In the stillness of the life you know
I will come for you.  In the light of the night
I will make my way and no walls
will bar my entry.  I will sit the night and
across the table a hand will clasp
the one you call your own.

And in the magic of words spoken,
I will listen to the story
built to house lives of wonder.
It has taken too long.

And we the each will speak and listen
and as the words flow like rivers
toward their delta in ribbons of courage,
we will stay the night.  And
however long the night is,

is however long we’ll talk.

 

(haunted forever by a photo such as this when time and place to talk were held sacred.  Where and when memory does not reveal.)

photo by John Holmes

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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

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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

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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

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