Archive | Excerpts

We Only Begin. . .

(I have edited this entry for space)

The entry doesn’t sound like much, but when the footwork is done,  integrated,  along with  sorting  religious dogma shouldered throughout  lifetimes,  the work is immense.   Done while raising a family and living a life with its responsibilities, was difficult at best.  It has stymied many a stronger and bolder human. 

Was  it necessary to work so hard?  For me it was or I would continue on my knees to the bridge.    When one tries with all one has to make sense out of life and only nonsense was seen,  one must do something.   When my knock was not heard,  I crashed the gates of heaven.   

If what I  learned did not work here,  it made little difference that it might elsewhere.  Heaven took me at my insistence and for most of this lifetime,  I felt shepherded.   Everything teaches, including heartbreak.

I have spoken of my Teachers previously and  in writing about this underlying intelligence of the universes,  I would also include the response from them.   It has been a difficult thing for me to speak about with all the smirk mocking  but since my years are terminus, I want my understanding of this cosmic experience to be voiced again.  

We have had lifetimes of science doctors giving their understanding about what is normal and we all know that mankind is more than psychology.   We have and are a spiritual entity.   And we are more than test tubes and litmus papers.  We are more of who we were when earth rolled into being and we were co-creators in the world nebulae. 

I do not wish to be part of a world where those who wield power do  because of street smarts.   I wish to be part of a world where our hearts  meld with the greater heart and we have each others’ well being in our hands.  And we wish to do good.

I scribed. .journal entry Jan 5, 2014 .(this is dictation, free flowing words that take form however they do impressed silently but clearly. It is like auditing class but in thought impression.)

You have those now who no longer scoff at what life presents nor prevents.

You have on these pages that beneath the life or the worlds, there is a substance or an Intelligence.   There is nothing that would stop the ever growing list of wonders to say  how did this Intelligence come into being. 

 Whether it is the big bang theory sending molecules into form but  what is known  is that intelligence and common sense are its virtues.  We know we are not incidental to life’s picture.  There are other forms and other life cycles and we participate in all of them.  

How we know of this intelligence is by observing the work of those whose business it is to improve life.  To lift the burden of existence to a tolerable level and to wave the spirit of triumph to what has been endowed to the minds that would not stop learning.   This is what it is to be alive.   This is what life is about. 

We are placed in this environment to learn.   We are given the heads with its propensities to accomplish what the heart desires.  It is up to parents of these minds to grasp their importance and for themselves to learn the consequences of their actions.  You were right when you warned people to pick up their mistakes.   Their names are attached. 

The sages will no longer say I did what I could and did I not have fun?  This is a classroom and this is what we do.  This is our work.   And we only begin . . . 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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Memory Quilt. . . in triumph warmed. . . .

 

Many of us have problems that have no resolution.   Even after doing all the things we have learned and read about and even those things we have invented, there appear no answers on the horizon.   We lose hope and we ourselves are at a loss. 

It seems strange and baffling that nothing is working.   It is then we confront the heavens and with a put up or shut up attitude, bow to a greater strength.   For if we don’t, then we must admit we are the strength for all time and all things.  And find it exhausting.  We may find ourselves powerless, unable.  Often we give up too soon,  never stretching our psychic muscles, so to speak.   And I would venture the great majority never pit themselves against the Great God and that is a pity. 

For regardless who or what it is we worship and revere, that SOMETHING  will pull strength from us when confronted over strongest arguments of whatever nature.   This is good.   For there are few times in the normal course of living where we pit ourselves against pain intentionally, be it emotional, psychological or physical.   We avoid it at all costs.   But when pushed to the wall,  there is that SOMETHING in us required, whether it is heaven’s requisition or our unconscious need to measure ourselves.

It is necessary for us to see how we measure up not only to our own estimation but against our parents and our peers.  And the latter can be so important that we look for arguments that are long and drawn out to see how well we fare in the battle.   This is not only true on a personal,  private level but think how our leaders pride themselves on the greater national and international stages.   And how many wars are fought because of this need to test mettle by those very leaders vowing that this war will end all wars.

 Some of us do this testing early on, setting a new direction and recovering in good health.  The puzzle pieces have a sought for place.   Others in despair require more time because their unresolves are more complex, but even they eventually realize their strength is a dependable strength. 

 Many lives are brought to fruition and our eventualities are all timely. 

Memory Quilt. . .

When it is time I will draw high
my memory quilt to cover shivering bones.

Pictured will be events richly patterned
and pleasing to the soul.

Astonishing not to recall emotions
pressed beyond belief, battles fought
to frightful finishes.

Left like barnacles clinging
to a disabled craft, slippery in substance,
suitable only for discard.

When it is time, the memory quilt drawn
will show kaleidoscoped events
lending warmth to fragile skin,

haunting in their beauty remembered,
while I take flight

in triumph warmed.

 

(The photo is of  my granddaughter’s treasure
of her shirts collected for me to make this quilt
of her young life.)

 

 

         

                   

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And This Is What He ‘Membered. . .’cause It Is True. . . .

 

And I heard the young one say,  and I know this true, he said,  that this lady likes to work with blue cloths is ‘cause he said,  that she said this is what heaven is like.   And I want to know he said,   how does she know?  

And I told him that some people just know things,  not guess or they believe,   but they know.   What do you think heaven is like I asked him.   What do you think?  

And he said I ‘membered ‘cause I only 5 fingers old,   and she was right.   What he ‘membered was that the colors of everything was so bright,  even brighter he said than the sun or even,  he said,  the moon in the night sky when everything else is black.  

Then you know,   I said to him,  you know.  

And he said then that there were lots of things he knowed,  but he did not like to say ‘cause other kids said it was baby stuff.   But he knowed,  he said,  he knowed and this lady also knowed he said. 

Do you like the colors she uses, I asked.   And he said this is what he ‘membered and they are true.

 

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Saints Standing. . .

Saints Standing. . .

When I try to explain what track my thinking has taken in my life,  even as a child or a teenager when a peer said that I talk as if I am reading out of a book,  I am at a loss.  In the following excerpt from The Last Bird Sings,  Marshall,  the student is explaining to his mentor,  Felix,  a feeling he needs explanation for.  He is at the point in the story where having found the brothers  and Felix he feels finally at home, wondering why he feels as he does. I have edited the segment.

Marshall thought for a moment.  His feelings needed some sorting.  He looked at Felix with intensity.

‘I cannot see it, but I can feel it.  I cannot put a name to it but it is real. When I talk to the brothers,  each and together, I get the feeling that I am not just talking to them.  By themselves or altogether.  I get the feeling that there are great ones standing about listening.  I have the feeling in the midst of saints standing, that we are  even now,  I have the sense that we are not alone.’

‘You are right, Marshall.  We are not alone.  And it is good that you sense this.

For too many people talk as if what they profess to believe has substance and presence and yet act as if it does not.  We would have you act in the knowledge that even the invisible has substance and intelligence.  And to act accordingly.  It would  help man to act to his best capacities and to elevate himself.  He would clean himself of the corrosion that hampers growth, his and all men.

He would open  himself to what is highest and best and be its reflection.  He would be able to judge behavior according to what is highest and best and want nothing less for himself or his brother.  But he must first know who and what he is.  And only in the silence,  Marshall, will man be taught.  He must go into the closet of who he is and listen.

You are right to sense the presence of others.  They are about and we are never alone.  We have not been abandoned.  We have chosen seclusion to accelerate our learning.’

Marshall listened, and tilted his head to catch all of Felix’s words.  Felix knew it took courage for Marshall to choose the route taken and his antennae were pointed to the heavens.

Marshall stood and then spoke.  ‘It has all been written, hasn’t it? It was all put down somewhere, sometime.  That is what the brothers read and listen to, isn’t it?’

Felix shook his head yes.  He waited in silence..  There was something going on in this boy and would come forward.

‘There is some thinking I must do,’ Marshall said.  ‘There are questions I must put into words.  For some I know the answers and others I must feel out my answers.’  He turned and was gone.  Felix seated himself and closed his eyes and prayed the prayer of the select few who knew the power of words.

‘To the best and highest within me, help me to choose the best and highest.  Amen and amen.’

I was fortunate to have a handful of friends in my life who loved me.    One in particular came to my home because she said she loved the feeling she had of being in a crowd of invisible saints. We were 5 in number of regular people  but she saw a roomful of saints.  We do entertain angels unaware and she, Helen, was one of them.    

 

Book Cover by Claudia Hallissey

(There are copies still available of Last Bird for $20.00 shipping included.)

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To Search The Why. . . .

All Time Is Now. . . .

In May of 1993 when I was coming to in Recovery, standing by was a female physician I recognized from OR.  I am cold and I am clammy I said and through gritted teeth she said you are not the only one!  And  I wondered what had happened in the OR.  I was to understand that no two doctors had identical memories.  Directions had been given for resuscitation and all complied, but whose voice?

Unsure of what I would say to a roommate and to avoid hysterics, I was given a private room.  The cardiologist’s first question was were you always spiritual or just since the cardiac arrest?  I was puzzled because I had not ever even been asked if I was spiritual.  I was always working I thought like everyone else.  Only by quarter inches did my life begin to unfold.

In June of 1984 I was sitting and reading the paper at the dining room table and saw our house painter pull up out front in his green truck and I yelled while I put our German Shepherd in the basement.  He was standing looking at the paint job done and he came in for a minute drinking his water from a peanut butter jar.

His daughter called for him to come home and he walked to the back gate.  I yelled that his truck was out front and he said he knows where he parks his truck!  I followed him to the back gate and his blue, blue truck, new flatbed was there.

I heard in mind the words simultaneous worlds.  And knew for every aspect of my world here, there is another impinging in identity on it.  Though sometimes not up to date as with Michael’s blue truck  only 2 weeks old.  I did see him pull up in his green truck, heard the gate slam, and talked to him.  But his blue truck was out back.

Not until 2015 did I read Michael Talbot’s Holographic Universe and knew then all my life I walked with a foot in other worlds.   There was always a  barrage of criticism because when I tried to explain myself from the time I learned to speak, I was silenced.  I was easy to dismiss.  My quiet brother I remember saying so many times, Ma, she’s crying again.

( I scribed then in ’84. . . the teacher’s explanation. . . we will discuss later what transpired with the impinging world when the Michael worker arrived.  It is not easy we know to live in many worlds.  But to hold to the one in which the physical body finds itself is important.  To be able to recognize the other worlds and still maintain a line of communication with the hereness of where you are is doubly important.  We take pride in your abilities.  Man blossoms under such guidance.)

Not much comfort when there is not a hand to hold who understands.  Hard row to go. I am glad for over a half century of journals and all manuscripts with dates and times.  Who would believe?     Amen and amen.

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In Conference. . . .when the world sleeps. . . .

 

In Conference. . . .with the Sages.  . .

From a journal entry of January 1993 where I had been in the midst of researching Jesus . .the teacher asked me to put my thoughts down. . . (It was a stressful time in our lives.  I wrote the following)

Jesus took on a monumental task.  From a god who was seen as unmerciful, all attributes people found in themselves,   Jesus translated this new spirit, this universal nimbus of benevolence, maybe benign, into a god of magnificent parental concern and love which took a great deal of courage.

The god of the people at the time was what they were, mean and unmerciful, jealous, vengeful while the god of Jesus was exactly what  man   could become.  Kind, thoughtful, loving,   qualities still to be uncovered within the human heart.

The original premise at the time was not what we consider mankind today, in a majority of cases.  It has been a matter of example, of education, a primer on earth or elsewhere in thought.  And that goes in the face of all men are created equal.

That also puts one squarely to think how many lifetimes to get to the place where love for one’s own begins to show.

The Jesus of the New Testament took upon himself or contracted with full knowledge, to change concepts.  Would we have had fewer religious wars if he had been revered with no argument?  Considering the times and the Romans?

The testimony was enough to stand on its own.  It was a philosophy of merit but also logic.  I say that even when heads of religions have argued the point.

I was told I was crazy and who did I think I was when I grappled aloud questions like these.  Better heads than yours was argued  and are paid big dollars.  Obviously, yet we fight wars and kill and wound and maim and rape.

So where are the better heads?  I have grappled with the nitty gritties of caregiving  and even sweated  in the sun at hard jobs while I worked just as hard with these questions.  I hear. . . you know when you hold a hot wire. . . .and was asked to explain my ‘nimbus’. . .

(I see it not as a cloud or halo  but an essence.  Something circling and permeating at the same time from which all manner of things are evident.  A touching, a hearing, a tasting of ultimate knowledge.  It changes as I change. 

Today I am the ultimate knowledge of who I am this minute, this fraction of a second but in the next concern I am another ultimate. 

The ultimate god would be the sum total of knowledge held, plus all the equations coming from that knowledge that would blend, qualify and direct toward a becoming of something different.

God is change.  From where did Jesus come where this knowledge was evident?  And from where did I come to think this and participate in life to chafe as I do?)

The Teacher said and I scribed the following: [ You ask the questions you do and the answers come when the footwork is done. The first premise ever put forth was that by the time the question is asked the answer already is known.  Else how to form the question?]

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I Cherish A Good Hope. . .

 

Machiavelli’s letter to Vettori. . . .

In the Vettori letter, Machiavelli had written the following,  “The evening being come, I return home and go to my study; at the entrance I pull off my peasant clothes, covered with dust and dirt and put on my noble court dress and thus becomingly reclothed,  I pass into ancient courts of the men of old, where being lovingly received by them, I am fed with that food which is mine alone; where I do not hesitate to speak with them and to ask for the reason of their actions and they in their benignity answer me and for four hours I feel no weariness, I forget every trouble, poverty does not dismay, death does not terrify me; I am possessed entirely by those great men.”

(I have said so often to those who care about me, that when my evening comes and my world sleeps, I get a second wind and take to my books.  And it is within the solitude of my self,  I have the conversations and learn of great things that I, in this very humble human body,  have not been able to afford either the lessons or time  to dedicate my life to.  It is only within the dark ending hours of the day that time is mine and my advocates take me into their charmed circle and from them come the arguments and chants of lifetimes of learning.  These are served to me on dishes of great beauty and is the food which feeds the starving mind.  It is a charmed circle I enter and I am a cherished participant.  I could not write these words and mean them if they were not true and if this had not been my life. It would be impossible for me to conjure this scene unless I was part of it.

There will be those who ask what is it she smokes?  And I only smoked the legal stuff when I smoked until my heart stopped twice and then I stopped.  I do not drink so my writing is sober.  But when I write it is with a heart beating to full capacity and words spilling onto the paper that I find compelling.  They have been faithful friends through my years and here I am at the closing hours of a lifetime grateful for so many good things.  And with gratitude that lessons were taught that have stood me in good stead when things were not good to my thinking.  I pause and let the poetry speak.)

(excerpted from The Ancestor . . )

Mine (world) is shadowed by memories,
searching for a haunting place.
I make room for memories. They will live and move
and have their being in me.
They may forget my name but somewhere in time,
a memory will rise and a child will make room for me.
I will welcome her and assure her that I live

and that life is everlasting.

(excerpted from We Can Go Home Again. .)

I’ve taken the long way home and
nearing the gate, please catch me, I say
and pull me on through.
I will answer c’est moi, it is I,

to prove we can go home again and again.

Plato pronounced two thousand years ago,  the reply he puts into the mouth of Socrates while waiting to drink the Hemlock.   “I would not positively assert that I shall join the company of those good men who have already departed from this life; but I cherish a good hope.”

I cherish a good hope that I will be allowed to sit and listen and learn.  I cherish a good hope. veronica                                                                                             

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We Are The Holder Of Memories. . . .

 

In researching I came across these two entries and I found them mirroring quantum physics that all time is simultaneous.  And surprisingly found the original poem in my files.  All surprises since memory falters and am glad hard files keep .

Journal entry April 6, ’92. . (.Edited only for length) Vault of God. . . .

Mentally I was  expounding in front of a blackboard.  With concentric circles I say that I am the inside of the outside of the inside of God.  I am the spirit of the extension or the separateness yet united to the father or to the mother.  Or I am the spirit of the expression of the Father or Mother.  God put out an arm to sample the air and I took form and am the spirit of him who made me.  We walked and talked and had our being and because of our need for expression we became man.   Sweet Jesus, what a route.  How did I get here after so many years?

I use this vehicle, but this Veronica is spirit.  Separate yet part of the great god.  And when Jesus said I am the son of the loving father, this is what he meant.  We live and move and have our being in God.  Paul Tillich.  Beingness.  Paul Tillich, I haven’t thought of you in a long time.

October 4, 2015. . . journal entry. . .

In scribing I lost my train of thought but capturing with. . . (gaining access to a vault of memories.  That was what I was thinking yesterday when reading.  That somehow the more active the brain or more access different portions of the brain had to centuries of memories, or archtypes, or cultures of humankind or possibly other are the differences in us.

The larger access one has the more painful is the human life.  Because like me, for whatever reason I chose to come, or whatever reason my  head had access to humanities’ memory vault, was what makes me the way I am.  This goes for what is happening in the world, as we access humanities’ memory vaults.

We in evolution with the brains that are ours, either when we come in or as we evolve or are traumatized by what shocks our system,  is why we behave as we do.  And we have a history as the Nazarene said, as the twig is bent. . . )

Original Vault of God    (journal entry April 6, 1992)

And the inside is the outside
of the inside of god.
And I am he.
I am the holder
of my mother’s memories.
I am the vault of her
who had me as an expression.
I am the vault of god
who expressed himself
through me and I am
the holder of memories.
God put out an arm to sample the air
and I took form and am
the spirit of him who made me.

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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Painful Perspectives. . .

The tablet is yellowed and the typed pages, crisped with age.  The year is 1979 and I had to use my calculator to see that it is now 40 years old.  But yesterday I read in a brochure for a health magazine that one of its articles states that the brain does not know how old you are and nor does it care.

All it wants from you is stimulation to keep dementia at bay.  Well, since I have been told that I know not how to play like others but I consider it a luxury and play to do what I do when commitments no longer command, I can help out my brain.

I had just walked Princess, my German Shepherd and was doing an entry.

I felt I had mucked out my head by confronting problems but wondering from which perspective the confrontation comes.  Was it a pitying pearl or an honest one by excusing others and justifying myself?  I was 48 at the time, mother of three 20 something  sons in varying stages of crises with a part time job that had become 10 and 12 hour days.

And I had made a gargantuan decision to defy an arguing mate to leave the family business at the end of the year.  Whatever happened would and I would meet it best as possible.  With the kind of head sitting on my shoulders, a job dealing with other people’s money was not good for me.  I read the following. . .

(As I walked my steps ate up the sidewalk.  I looked at the tree shaded street and thought it was not the street I had walked hundreds of times before.  In the shadows the houses were not familiar and the street lights spatial and I wondered if Princess and I were walking in another dimension.  Could we be focused elsewhere?

The legs were walking and counting off steps with familiarity, yet the brain had difficulty identifying the street segment.  It wasn’t with relief that we reached the intersection with things familiar because somehow I knew we were correct in direction.  It felt truly that we had briefly catapulted elsewhere yet sweetly focused.

Or possibly a bridge I walked with a foot on either side?  Legs walking but much aware that all is not what appears to be.  And marvelously comfortable with these perceptions.)

This entry was the first I have come across with a description of how my head works in words to be read.  I may have written so previously, but these words jumped out.  Other times now come to mind and I wonder the survival and painful coping techniques of differing perspectives.

Couched Memories. . .

Memories couched in images
struggle to be freed
of the encumbrances that
stressful generations had chained in irons.

So glad for the mind eager
to struggle also, but for the knowledge
to set free the life of fear.

Reading into all chambers
the ultimate on freedom,
the mind of its own volition

listens to its own teacher.

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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Every Day Is A Beginning. . .

 

 

I was asked to go back to the first journals to throw some light onto the path I had taken.  When approaching the last decade of almost a century it is hard to imagine me ever being young.  Coming into the world with an open head, meaning one with vivid memories, it was an old head to begin with.

So when I speak of how it was, I kept journals and speak from my written word.  Lost somewhere was the first journal handwritten in 1963.  The poetry survived two floods and I began the 1973 journal with the following poem written in the 60’s.  I was a mother of three sons and in my late 20’s.

The mist that sustains me
sustains my images also.
Perhaps I am the illusion.
Perhaps I will find myself
greater than my images
.

How many of me are there?  I always knew this intuitively but when I wrote the entry, I knew intellectually the meaning.  I edit for space concerns the following written in January 1973:

‘Would it be possible to meet another me somewhere in this time?  I know I am ‘locked in time’ and nothing is ever lost.  We are so attuned to linear measure with past, present and future, and yet everything is in the NOW.  There is nothing in eternity that is not contained in this present instant.’

Since I started blogging in 2011, I have mentioned many incidents and experiences to introduce my readers to why my thinking is perhaps unorthodox.  I have related that in a convention held in Europe I was confronted by a man who worked for the Government of the host country with why I did not mention I would be coming to Munich when we talked the previous week in Paris?

I have never been to Paris as I wrote and he was incensed that I would question his veracity because he was upheld as excellent in his ability to remember people and where he saw them last. It was a high level position because tourism was becoming important to the economy.   And our talk was a delight to him.

It was in 2015 that I read The Holographic Universe by Michael Talbot.  I learned that I lived the quantum theory all my life.  The premise of quantum physics is the past is still happening, the future has already happened and we in the present are racing to catch up.  All time is simultaneous.

Every day is a beginning.  We don’t necessarily need to throw the baby out with the bathwater.  Some things are meant to be saved.  It is up to us to know the difference.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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