Archive | Excerpts

I held your heart in my hand . . . it is whole . . . .

We need to come to a place now and again when it is necessary to find a mind matched to ours so we can for all purposes say all that is heavy on our hearts.  With no explanation necessary because our route has been followed step by step;  to hear the words,  I held your heart in my hand for safekeeping and here it is, whole. 

And in a whisper would come the words,  I thought it fractured beyond repair!   We are embraced knowing instantly that we were not abandoned to do it alone. 

We prepare then to venture another time to come with the sweet knowledge that great songs will be sung again.

 

Great  Songs Will Be Sung. . . 

Should you find the need
to tell your story in words,
think mightily on them
and they will be caught up
in the air’s currents
and carried on the birds’ wings.
They will reach the ears
they were designed for.

You will find
you are not alone 
and in this infinite universe
you will be heard.

And when the thoughts
reach the places 
in the heart of an Other

great songs will be sung again.  . . . 

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To Speak With Heart . . .

(Because I feel iffy and at 6’s and 7’s, weighing in on me is where do I go.  I scribed this journal entry December 26, 2020 and edited it for space. )   

Sit a spell and listen.  If we could enlighten you we would.  If we had knowledge of this world to which you aspire, we would give a hand and tell you.  But you again will find the same feelings facing you and wonder where did you go astray. 

But there is no answer.  You understand that.  Take a listen right now and  look at what it is you ask.  Where you fit in and where is it you are going?  We don’t have a clue, you know we don’t.  Because you don’t have a clue or a blueprint that you follow.  And so what can we surmise? 

Now you wish to know where you head to.   Could be anywhere.  Could be  you take a sidecar to play awhile and think a time out for sure.  It would be a breather of sorts for everyone.   Us, too.

When the Science Gods worked to contain this Covid -19 with simple measures like wearing a mask and distancing until the miracle vaccines take effect, until they knew  in their private thoughts they worked on what they could surmise and hoped it was true,  there were things they could not  identify until they knew what to look for.  They worked toward that Eureka moment to tell them a something they worked was valid. 

The vaccine of the Covid was only accomplished by the footwork of all who have gone the route in their prescribed ministry.  This ministry vaccinated decades of people wanting to keep breathing amidst all the virulence threatening them.   

They have cared for the multitudes as a godparent for his children.  As a healer would from the times he carried a skin with a handful of home remedies only the shamans knew about.  Only the farmer knew from pulling the calf from the cow in the cold night in a cold barn.  And the midwife knew as young girls gave birth from the first times to a houseful of babies.  

You cannot wonder who did the footwork anymore.  Miracles?  Ahh yes,  the miracle of man, in his nascent wanderings among his fellows trying to be of help.   A ministry, of course. 

One thinks of religious acumen, but in this case it is the discipline of Science lifting itself with dedicated purpose to ease the route of the fellow traveler. 

Listening, studying, trying unheard of remedies with the likes of disputed therapies to uncover a maybe that turns into a miracle.  Like a religious order granting discipleship, the Science ministry itself becomes one of service.

So what is the good news of Medical Science?  To learn how best to serve mankind and to teach how best in this complicated time with all creatures determined on breathing the same air, to comingle in good health.  It is a new world every day and we don’t know where we go.

It is as confusing for the invisible world as the visible.  As feasible as the question of where was the beginning.   Perhaps the answer and the one most cognizant would be when mankind’s mental capacity is equal to understanding where was his beginning.

To deny as mankind does, what is ever present, pushes conceptual information further away.   That would mean of course, there would be significant growth in the brain’s capacity to understand why he even jumped ship.

And with no capacity to understand his beginning, there is no ability to envision future potential and no vocabulary to speak should we even attempt description.

Who else says this?  The philosophical bards shouted them equal and one and the same;  Evolution and the Divine!   You have a compatriot that counsels?  

Until you offer us introduction,  we know our offerings depend a great deal on concerted efforts.  We appreciate yours. 

Evergreen and roses
family gift from John Holmes

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It Takes A Solomon. . . .a war of words. .

  August 30, 1990–I scribed Teacher observation. . . .

When we speak of values we talk of those things making a difference in the single understanding.  We do not talk en masse but of individuals and when one does that, one’s footwork begins at home with oneself.

It takes a war of words to begin a lifelong analytical study of oneself.  It is not for the timid of heart.  It takes a Solomon not to divide but to make whole.

Identify the problem and reveal yourself. . . 

When you have identified a problem because you have revealed yours in duplicate, you wonder whether your effort in helping an other’s problem has been worth it.  From where we are in all honesty, it cannot.

When you have given of what you value, your thought and energy and time, what you have done is encouraged, prodded and shamed into growth.  You have shown a caring that did not yield to pity or sympathy.  Both would have deleted the growth.

Your caretaking did not stop at the fears of the one but by high expectations more was done than thought possible.  Too often when we identify a problem we think we can fix it.  Too often the one to do that has already departed the scene.  We can only ameliorate the problem and instill the ability for the individual to find inner strength to overcome the poor self concept feeding the fear.  It is no small work that is done on both parts.

What the caring one has done is teach and though the teacher is forgotten the lesson will sustain lifetimes in the making.  They will know that a someone sometime loved them enough to press them forward into acquiring something of substance  for themselves.

There was a someone in our lives who taught us the value of love, of honor, of commitment and the holy meaning of the weight of words.  My memory dims as to who and where but the lessons have been my legacy.

It is an astounding venture of the correctness of things, the meaning of life and the total commitment of the value of the soul and person.  No one is irredeemable.  No matter what.

With Gratitude. . . 

As in all things,
let there be light.
As in all tides
let there be depth,
and in all wind,
let there be motion
that sways us in
thy direction.   

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Everlasting Life. . we are already in Eternity. . . .

Life Everlasting. . . we are already in Eternity. . . .

 I scribed you cannot list the world’s disorders without revealing yours in duplicate.  If one cannot relate to the ills surrounding, can we expect something to be done with what is not seen?  Is life to be lived for others or for self gratification?  Is one’s pursuit for happiness the meaning of it all?

When your mind travels to strange places and then you’re dumped unceremoniously amidst daily deposits of crud, how to make peace with it all?   I found my experiences unsettling in  kind words, but requiring years of shoe leather to gain a semblance of calm. 

I truly had miles to walk before I sleep as my winter’s poet said.  I made many oceans.

 

I scribed February 19, 1989. . . .edited for space only. . .

When you have tramped the world and know other worlds deserve consideration, you have already opened yourself to what a universe of good can bring about.

We are an experiment in time with our fledgling democracy when other countries have prided themselves on their longstanding existence and smugly reminding us of it.   Noting  our now struggle  to re-establish prior goals and regain footing, we take pride in our immigrant status as preparation for universal life.

When one assumes a good, an attainment one recognizes just beyond reach, is where the challenge is, where the purpose is.  To make manifest that good in whatever existence one is, then that purpose is one’s own purpose to continue to the betterment of universal life.  Everyone prospers, everyone benefits.  We hold onto the bigger picture.

Religions  have tried through centuries to show that ‘as above, so below.’  We are the reenactment of other world  trials and when we succeed, universal and cosmic life succeeds.  Life in every dimension is enhanced.  When we vet  each other by critical standards we adhere to in our most public and private encounters,  we then adjudge with compassion.  Science finds new planets circling to show life in forms not known yet to common thought.

We then as children are colorblind and compassionate in character, to see the absolute efforts engaged by others to then be ourselves judged.  The God Within or our uncommon Spirit  employed by us, will demand an honesty not to be compromised.

As a country we strive to see not color nor handicaps, not differences in appearance but a steadfast gaze in eyes striving to connect, to see not mishaps in appendages, in lacks of the common attributes,  but in arms and hands reaching out to us.  

Everything striving to accommodate the newly portioned lives while trying hard to hold onto what cultures give for stability.  We know we are a motley crew of stewards in a new land looking to being a friend in a place once designed to welcome us.

Maturity with empathy and compassion are required to relate instead of how to confront.  What greater good is there?  We then contribute to the Allness of the Father,  the Allness of Life, the life sustaining Spirit giving life,  (however we chance to call it) so all may live and grow and prosper.

In the most selfish sense we do the best  we can to make it easier on ourselves.  Because life is everlasting and we the God participants partake in it over and over and over again.  That is what evolution is all about.  And one day we find ourselves not on the outside looking in but finally on the inside, home.

One has to learn to walk in all shoes to know how heavy the burden.  We are already in Eternity.

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Our Coat of Many Colors. . .

 

 

July 9, 2020
Thursday 4:40 a.m.  (excerpt from journal entry)

And the thought again is to write of my coat of many colors, and should title it our coat of many colors.  Since I have memories, of who I portrayed over the centuries, and have written of my dreams, seeing who I was through some of them and have had the emotions of them, but no verification as to when I can only assume a knowledge of them.  But my poetry depicts them and memory serves me partially.  Perhaps only the humanity of them, but it is enough for me.  It answers my why of who am I also.  A big answer for me to life is everlasting.  Only partially but Jesus said my father’s house has many rooms.

And where those rooms are is conjecture at this point but will be knowledge again.  Planets are found all the time having suspected life as we know it.  But perhaps many support life as we do not know of it.  Jesus said seeing we will not see and hearing we will not hear.  We see variations of that all the time on this planet.  I wonder all the time did I really hear that?  Or did I really see that?  Does he listen to the words he is saying?  And when you see behavior that mystifies or cannot be understood,  did I really see that?

Everyone is at different stages of understanding.  It all eventually makes sense where we are in growth and maturity.  Technically we can be savvy but emotionally or psychologically immature.  Different aspects of who we are.  We can speak the words but meaning eludes us.  We simply do not know what we say.  Jesus said, father forgive them.  They simply do not know.

I harbor the woman in the cold, the black woman with a basket on my head, the Arab man who is harvest for the flies, and the Polish woman kneading her bread.  My gnarled fingers are the hands knitting with smooth sticks in the tent house circled in the firepit drinking some kind of brew to keep warm.  I have to keep my focus right here and right now else I walk into that time frame of who I am.  It becomes a problem for those like me.

 

 

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

All Who I Am. . .

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

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

                                             II

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

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

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

                                                    III

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

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

                                                         IV

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

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

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

                                                            V

The answer will be mine.  With my departure I will take
the sum of my days, the loves loved, the dreams unfulfilled
and all who I am and walk again the cosmos.

And because of my love for me I will create another world.
Due to my cumulative sense of loss. . . . 

There will be no more loves aborted.

 

photo by John S. Hallissey
of art by veronica

 

 

 

 

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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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