Put the sabers
at the foot of the evergreen.
The dove sings high;
gargles her song at times
but she knows,
she knows. . .
Put the sabers
at the foot of the evergreen.
The dove sings high;
gargles her song at times
but she knows,
she knows. . .
Do I have more minutes to finish? There was no time for answers because the little one with a dash was out of sight. In a few minutes he was back and announced, I finish. Having learned to wait while private things were finished, I waited again while he proceeded to his room.
I followed him shortly to find him in pajamas and ready to crawl into the high bed. Well, should it be a story to tell or a story to read I asked. I am ready for you to choose. Tell me what it is we should do to get you ready for sleep? And I waited. Minutes ticked away while the choice was being made. Patiently, again, what will it be?
His face took on a faraway look as if searching for a memory. I recognized the look and wondered where he would go for that memory to take shape. I knew it well. It was a look that had been on my face many times with voices telling me to stop dreaming. I needed to pay attention to what was at hand and not waste so much time dreaming. So because of those reprimanding voices, I knew to wait.
He asked if I would sing the one I singed when I singed with other voices. He knowed that song!
What song is that? I wondered. There was no time for me to sing with other voices that he would have heard. Like this, he said and in his high soprano he sang his Gllloooooooooorrrrrrriiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaa and I knew. Unbelievably I knew. The music hung on his tongue and in his throat as if he were tasting a delicate sweet.
When did you ever hear me sing that? I asked. Before I come to you, he said. Before I come. I heard you singed and my heart singed with you. I knowed I could tell you some time if I just ‘membered it. I promised I would ‘member so I could hear it again and again. I knowed that you would ‘member if I singed it. And you do! he said, you do!
And I believed him because I gave up choir when he was due to be born. I took this child into my arms and sang the song he so wondrously remembered. And when I came to the part he remembered his voice faithfully shadowed mine. And another posit was added to the Memory Bank but who would believe it? Who?????? Except the many someones who entered their place of belief every time they bent their knees.
Those are the who. . . . . .
Big guy, our Newfie, came in to get me up this morning. It was early but I said give me five. Which means I need more time. He left me to take guard outside my room until I said let’s go. I grabbed a throw since it was dark and cold. And prepared for time while he had a long drink.
The sky was red and Sailor, I thought ‘red sky in the morning take warning.’ Followed by ‘red sky at night, Sailor’s delight.’ It was a melding for me, a uniting with All That Is. And whispering to me were the words, ‘Sufficient unto itself, is the day, thereof.’
I am able to hold conference with my constituents easily. But I would have difficulty explaining how I get there and you would have difficulty believing me, except you have my words in front of you. I tell you true within the frame of reference that is mine and though criticism comes with my alibiing everyone else, I have not done so with myself. I have loved my Earth, unabashedly and am in conference with my Teachers. (I had previously posted. . .excerpt. . .)
And when we left the city to breathe clean air I marveled as a young girl going to the outdoor privy and stopped at the back door before going up to bed and dipped my heart to blend the night sky to drink of a million stars and wondered how rich could a 12 year old be with the night so private housing so many brothers? And the air circled my pajama legs and I gave thanks to the clean air and promised to be a caretaker of a place I loved. I would dip into my bucket of stars and reach for a nugget and it would translate my efforts and keep me fed.
I would teach everyone to take care of our land because it is our home and we live here. It gives us what we need to live and heals us when we ail and loves us as its children. It is our mother and we must help her. And now after a lifetime, I am hampered by bones forgetting to bend, muscles forgetting to stretch and a heart that cannot forget how I have loved this parcel of a universe so generous with this gift.
How Much Better It Would Be. . .
How much better it would be
for this noble planet
if we cherished her like a lover?
Or loved her as a mother
who adored her child and
wiped the tears away with a soft linen?
Or as a father whose arms surrounding the child
are as steel beams supporting
the frame of the tallest building?
Who would not want these for himself
if he could articulate what would heal
the dichotomy within?
Too few of us around
who love our home so fiercely
we would protect her vital organs.
The sun sometimes is hidden from man
and the moon embarrassed
to see its light dimmed with shame.
When patches of earth split
from the shock of no rain and dust rises
and rolls across open land,
we wish then not to shake dust
from our boots but to greet a sunrise in splendor.
Offer me this, the Earth Mother says,
that you will raise your arms
only to surround an Other in love.
Promise me this, again she says,
that the swords will be laid at the foot
of the evergreens, now and a boot will never
crush an Other’s right to live.
And I will forever cherish your children.
Two years ago we had word that Emma E. came to us at 1 lb 12 oz. Over 30 years ago we had similar word of her father coming early too at a similar weight. We have gone to our knees many times in these years begging for the best in all worlds. And we have been blessed in all worlds.
With great gratitude celebration was held as Emma E. had her 2nd birthday. It was appropriate that Thanksgiving was celebrated also. She busies herself with her favorite books and talks a blue streak reciting her nursery rhymes.
What we miss in hugs we get to smile at her impish grin in photos. With an appreciative audience she performs for laughs. And in that laughter we have heard angels.
We would wish all children to have such welcoming and we work in what ways we can.
Enter Ye, Cautiously. . .
‘May I enter your house?’ I asked
and you answered, ‘yes, but cautiously.
You must discard all pretense, assume the mantle
of charity and hold high the torch of love.’
‘Ahhh,’ I said, ‘but would I qualify?
‘This house I see has a green carpet
with blue ceiling, mystically supporting
poufs of cotton, shadowing and lined with sparklers.
It has spheres of light masking the dark outlines
of animation, movement in forms
different than my own.’
‘I have lived in this house and participated
in celebrations of great sorrows, have laughed in truth
and wept with joy. I have danced in funerals
and in great succession marched words through
battles of mind and spirit.’
‘I have accused myself and have hung by fingertips
grown numb and identified the faults of Others
only because I identified my own.
I loved and continued to love in the face of contradictions
because I did not know what else to do.
There is nothing left now, so I ask,
may I enter your house?’
‘What have you described?’ you chide as I stand astonished.
What else is there I wonder and
what is to be exchanged.
‘I hang a star,’ you say, ‘midst the night sky,
and in the quality of your God you will build
your world. It will not be mine but yours.
And when you leave the spot holding you hostage,
you will take your world and those becoming to it will enter.
But entering also will be the dark angels,
but with premises swept clean,
they will delay littering. But once established
the land will become familiar and they again litter
and your sights will be pinned on Me.’
‘And I will hear you ask again,
may I enter? And I will say, all ye who enter here,
discard pretense, assume the mantle of charity and
hold high the torch of love.’
‘I see,’ I said
‘and then the Father’s House will be swept clean.’
(This morning November 19, 2019, I read that Bill Gates has unveiled a solar energy project aimed at saving the planet. I am excited about this and am rerunning a post from October 28, 2017 about my dream with solar trees I saw and drew from a dream and entered in my journal September, 1991. I rest with hope now about my planet classroom.
Wandering The Galaxies. . .(posted first October 28, 2017)
Again, I am here with pictures, primitive to be sure, that I drew of what I encountered in the dream world written on September 9, 1991. Previously I had shown the pictures I had drawn of the gentle fishes in the post on this blog called Worlds I know. . .to speak of. . . which was on September 3, 2017. I wrote then that as I continued working on cross referencing my journals with other work which corroborates them, I would share the pictures and the journals.
I came across the notes I had taken when rereading the journals of the pictures you see here. I knew I had the sketches and showed them to my son John. He said I was ahead of my time. This week we activated solar panels on our home after much protocol. There obviously are worlds where other forms of energy are utilized to a greater extent. I share a part of the journal of that date. While I was not fully awake and the dream was fresh, I drew the sketches you see. My input to the dialogue taking place was
from the journal entry. . .
(The energy on the mountain. What I thought were trees in the vision, shaped like trees, were not were they? They somehow brought in energy to run houses without chimneys. And from those strange shaped trees I thought on the mountain. From a distance I thought them trees, but they were energy sources, weren’t they? I wish there were credentials to back me up, but then I wouldn’t have taken this seriously but just a powerful play . )
I could not have envisioned this on my own nor have thought one day to be living here in California where solar panels would be installed to offset the high cost of electricity. But almost 30 years ago I had sketched other worlds where gentle fishes and houses without chimneys were evidenced. I had heard Rachel Carson’s worries for this planet.
I told my sons I needed a Hazmat suit when I entered my workroom. The emotional vibes are hard on this aged frame from a life of memories relived. Memory is both joyous and painful and always entwined.
As long as you don’t mind. . . .
My mother and my sister would be saying now, there you go alibi-ing again. Why don’t you just say that you make excuses or that someone is too lazy to try, whatever they are not doing?
Because I don’t want to think they are so shortsighted or so full of themselves they think there is nothing to learn.
Yet I have watched people who cannot put themselves at the feet of someone expert to learn something. They simply cannot. What that does to them I do not know.
Whether their self esteem is shaky or they are arrogant in thinking there is nothing to learn, is beyond me. I am willing to strip the knowledge of everyone; even a newborn I ask from where did you come? I want to know what they think or wonder but when they say they know something, I want it also.
I was brought aghast when I was so excited to learn that a beloved did something I literally begged, show me how to do that! She looked at me with disdain and said but then you would know as much as I do. . .
And I recoiled with hurt. My budding intelligence and fierce desire to learn was stepped on. I was pushed outside the circle. There was no embrace to lean against.
I have been aware when an idea or conclusion I reached has been used without assigning origin. Once it bothered me greatly but even realizing that there is nothing new under the sun, I chafed. Especially when my conclusions were met with derision but now being voiced and hailed as thinking outside the box.
A dear friend reiterated time and again that a lot of work could be done in this world if one does not mind who gets the credit. True? Very. I still make excuses or alibis because I cannot make judgments on what I cannot know. A red light or green light at the corner of Main street is easy to judge. But to judge a perilous shaky self esteem could be tragic.
A lot is Given by Grace to each of us. The source we cannot know for certain. Yet we know when it is a Given. It is by Grace, a benevolence bestowed I acknowledge often. And my good friend is remembered often when I think. . .
yes, a lot of good can be done in this world if we don’t mind who gets the credit. Thank you Jan, for that gem.
Artwork by Claudia Hallissey
Emile. . . .
‘Do come in,’ she motioned to the visitor.
‘Things are not straightened, but they will be shortly.’
The large home had seen numbers of people
marching through the hall; booming voices, woman whispers,
babies’ tears baptizing the walls and christening the marble.
The gentle woman swished quietly to lead the way;
her skirt evenly hemmed and velvet ribbon
threaded through the eyelet collar.
Her hair glistened with care and was piled
neatly in waves as gentle as she was.
‘Come this way,’ she said as they moved through
a group of people murmuring importantly.
‘They will be going shortly,’ she said.
‘These people won’t be here long. We will take
the table in the corner.’
And they made their way to the table
and looked at each other for the first time.
In her eyes she hoped the pity would not be evident.
Within a moment the guest knew it was. But Emile,
true to the cut of her coat, rejected and dismissed
what she saw.
‘The people here are not for long,’ Emile said.
‘The family has so many parties I cannot keep up. The house
is hardly large enough anymore to hold them all. But soon
it will be quiet. It is getting late and time for them to go.’
The rest of the visit was not a replay of times long gone;
no memory of dreams dreamed or books discussed. No
memory of philosophical turbulence enjoyed.
The guest in time stood up to leave.
‘Emile, it has been a wonderful visit. But I must get home
and see to dinner. We will do this more often.
With so much to do each day, we seldom have time to visit.’
And Emile led the way to the door, rounding the tables
like the lady of the house seeing to everyone’s comfort.
At the curb was a car waiting with a grey haired man
standing by. ‘Hi, Emile! Hope you and Mother
had a good visit. Sure do miss Alan and John now
that they’re gone. We were good buddies.’
Emile waved her hand and puzzled to her guest.
‘He looks familiar, but who is that old man? Is he
the grandfather of one of your children’s friends?’
The old friend took Emile’s hand and said,
‘he is my youngest son, Paul. You remember Paul.’
Emile smiled blankly and withdrew her hand.
‘No ,’ she said. ‘I only know you.’
And she thanked her friend for coming and
promised a neater home for the next visit.
She then firmly closed the door.
Her friend walked down the stairs.
Emile was right for the guests soon followed.
Paul took his mother’s hand and helped her to the car.
He looked at the imposing Home and whispered,
‘I wish we could afford such a place for you.
The Largess is the best retirement home in the state.
And we can only give you a room in our house.’
Sighing, ‘where to my lady?’
And in a clear voice allowing no nonsense, she roared,
‘home, Paul, home! To where I am no guest and do not tire
from using energy to keep a dream alive. Home, Paul, home.’
And the rest of the journey was straight on through.
A moral choice. . . .the long view. . . .
Those of us who dream, have those dreams we hold tightly. And know there has never been time enough for those dreams to be fulfilled. We have made commitments and the needs of those commitments take precedence for whatever humane reason. These commitments take the energy from those dreams and apply it to their cause.
So the girl who wished to write became the mother of children she taught to write. And the girl who cooked for her brothers with creativity has children who benefit from that creativity. She teaches them to use their minds, their hands, in fields and in all weather, the glory of creation.
We are that step ahead because we see progeny encompassing what conscience insisted doing. And they see where commitments made take a portion of dreams dreamed, yet moral choices must be made if worlds are to benefit and progress. Moral choices are a long view.
Is it failure and giving up? No, I think realistic. Genetically deriving their creative heritage, children commit themselves with decision to their own causes and these causes where humans are involved, especially when they have made them, or they rest responsibly on their shoulders, because of even broader commitments.
By their dailiness they will learn even greater things than the world hands out with its glitterati and kudos. The awards will hang on their hearts and not on walls. Those intrinsic values not learned by television, not uttered from another human mouth, they learn early that their hearts teach in ways
the world cannot.
Also learned early that what is not finished here is finished elsewhere. This is the long view, is beyond earth life, whether genetically impregnated or morally ensconced or simply a dream hanging on to their soul stuffs. We will be equal to those dreams of noble quality because they demand dreamers of noble quality.
This is the groundwork, needing footwork. And when comes time for another world, another birthing, another change in the long view, it will be time for another commitment. And other worlds benefit from the dreamer’s dream.
For too long this world has been thought to be the only world. It is long past time to view our species as best with differences being not as good as us. The neighbor praying differently and we who hold diverse thoughts all come dragging feet and open heads from valid worlds.
Death is in our common future. Acceptance, tolerance, forbearance, and above all love should be alive in our humane repertoire. Lest we deliver ourselves to another round of linear Earth life without the comforts we think earned.
We kick start the stagnant evolutionary wheel because we are one within All That Is. Now.
‘Each lifetime lived adds to the cumulative sense of loss.’
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.
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.
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 milk cow in a land
of sparse grasses. To each other we are the heavy cream
poured on a dish of skyr .
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?
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.