Archive | Excerpts

Now Another December. . .

 

It was another December at the end of 1987.  I had brought my in law mother back to her residence and she collapsed in bed.  She borrowed courage from everyone to get through the holidays in  Chicago.  We were in a blizzard and I ached to get home.  And unpacking I realized I could not leave her in her apartment and the weather worsened and I had noticed cars were not stopping at lights anywhere.  I would walk to get her  and somehow we would get back here.

We walked the blizzard streets and in great relief she slept upon getting into bed after a hot bath.  I wished to stretch out my hand to gain strength but an other  already reached for mine.  What do people do when there is no one to help? She asked.  The best they can Sarah, the best they can I say.

The journal entry continues  that December 30, 1987, and I scribed the following, ‘but we sit here and already your mind moves to the grandchild in the crib with not knowing that the son of your heart had already retired for the night in the room.  You watched the child in sickness and he watched his mother with her magic chants as they drew from his son the illness causing such heartbreak.  You can do it, he was saying, you can do it.

 And he was in awe as he watched this atheist profoundly calling on a benign force that would move the sickness from the body of his son.  He watched you move those  hands in air that was vibrant with the power pouring through you.  And he said that this is my mother and  this woman I don’t even know.

And he knew that in all that had transpired, in all that he watched, he would take to his writing and pour out what was observed and you think that if not observed, he would have known anyway. 

Let the power move through me and make me an instrument of thy peace, he said.  Just like her.’

In the morning a wiped out toddler recovered enough to stand and shout his demands to rattle the crib.

I have learned there is an undergirding of our Universes  of an ethical premise that supports life and demands of each of us the highest and best we can be.  It may be benign but it is a spiritual power we may call God or Allah or Jehovah  or Christ or simply Good.  It demands that we aspire to our Best.  We welcome obstacles before meeting  the greatest  of our challenges however different for each of us.

I Hear. . .

Look beyond the Light
into the face of the morning sun
to see that the Light beckons and extends. . . .

It would grant you peace
should you let it.
It will grant you life
should you welcome it.

Amen and amen.

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Freedom’s Work. . .

Freedom Is Not Free. . .

Time nears for elections and we wonder  how can our aged bodies contribute to this magnificent  country  we live in so that our democracy does not die.  We  plead with the heavens.  And thoughts are given to match what can be done.  The healing begins and life  takes off with wings and we do more than we thought possible.

July 18, 1987 journal entry I scribed. . .

Life does present many problems now that must be confronted philosophically simply because one’s reputation is on the line.  You are doing a superb piece of reading enmeshed in the spiritual and moral qualities given by an unbiased person as the times had.  You have terms such as conscientious objector, moral judgment, secular world, triumphant and church militant.  All these and you cannot stop to sleep without scribing.  I must tell them you say.  I must tell them.

Who and what must you tell?  You do not fool yourself.  It has all been said before.  And unless you put  yourself in the front of the line, you will only impress who comes to your door. If becoming public, you might be noted in posterity.  But not without a taint of malice, a taint of mental ill health.  She was crazy they will say.  Smart, capable, a worker of good things and talented but a bit crazy.  Dependable too and a good writer.  A little doty, odd.   A good poet who walked among the great teachers but strange.  She talked to  the heavens and thought they answered her.

And others will say, the work is inspired.  But NO ONE WILL DARE SAY  and question, how inspired, what inspired, Who inspired and from Where?  What is this inspiration? 

Last   night as you heard the man talking about Muriza, the Hungarian shepherd’s poem, you ached with knowledge of   where they came from.  When I disappear the shepherd said to his sheep, tell them I married the moon, that I went to the place where the apple trees  bear pears and fleas  wear boots 99 tons each on feet.

It Grows Dark, Love. . . .

You say. . . So much to be said.
To take a hammer to a word and splinter it,
what’s to be gained?

I say. . . Where is the meaning if you don’t?

You say. . . .Let everyone take what is theirs and build on it.
That is the way of the world and
the way illusions are granted a solid state.
And darling woman, it is all right.

I say. . . They say that life is too hard just to be illusions.
The people will say of me that she was off the wall!

You say. . . .There will be those who say
you have a fine imagination.
And others will say you took an impossible life
and created a philosophy to sustain it.
Does not everyone?

I say. . . Not every child is shown tender mercies.
And without them, there is a long sleep when transiting.
Remedial help is needed.

You say. . . . You shored up when fault
was found within your system.
You continue to love, and lady, continue.

And I ask. . . Where will you be?

You say. . . Until the day you can no longer do it,
walk to the fields and lie down and say no more. . .

I will pick you up and we will again
set fire to hearts which do not flicker yet and
create that world where love abounds.
And commitments and priorities take proper place.
Time is limited and it grows dark. 

We work, we work and with love, lady, with love. . . .

poem written Jan 28,  2018

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Galactic Wanderer. . .

It has been awhile since I posted, being unsure of a topic when this world is inundated with so many problems.  My last thoughts of the night were of  solar trees I had drawn from a dream and I wish to share again.

On November 19, 2019 I read  that Bill Gates had unveiled a project  aimed at saving our planet.  Immediately coming to mind was this drawing entered in my journal in September 9, 1991.  I had already  posted the gentle fishes I drew from a dream in 2017.  Understand my family was uninterested in my journals or my dreams and thought them boring.  But I continued and spoke whenever there was an open ear. 

Life jars us awake when least expected with events unthought.  Moving to California and installing solar panels, I showed the sketches to son John.  Ahead of your time, Ma, he said, ahead of your time.  There obviously are worlds where other forms of energy are utilized.

I wrote in the journal. . . (What I thought were trees in the vision, shaped like trees were not, were they?  They somehow brought energy to run houses without chimneys.  I wish  I had credentials to back me up, but I probably would not have taken this seriously.)

I could not have envisioned this on my own nor have thought one day to be living here in California where solar panels would  offset the high cost of electricity.  But I had  sketched other worlds where gentle fishes and houses without chimneys were evidenced.  I had heard of Rachel Carson and her worries for this planet.  I had other immediate concerns needing attention and prioritized.

(the following quotes are scribed from August 12, 1987 concerning the worlds I know. . .)  we are using what you do to the fullest extent and you will be remembering more and more of where you have been. . .  The worlds you inhabit are worlds most avoid because they are unfamiliar and cause discontent and frighten.  You appear where you are needed and the one looking for you appears where you are.

They are not just one world.  There are places of beauty that still the heart.  Places of poverty that touch the living heart and strum with songs of despair that cannot but help but be heard.  There are barren places, lush places and places that speak of the mind.)

And other worlds watch with eagle sight what we do in our handling of issues that have direct effect on their welfare as evidenced by our compassion or lack of.  The moment presents a full plate for us and we plead only one world to handle at a time. 

But I must inject this.  Often we use kindergarten ways to solve problems best suited to gravity dimensions, large, cumbersome and sometimes we think sleek.  To broaden and enhance life of many forms in worlds unknown (to us) requires fine minds and characters vetted to degrees still unmeasured.  Think on it.  Vetted characters unmeasured coupled with undisputed fine minds would be necessary to relate to matched worlds. Who qualifies?

But transition from physical life involves us eventually.    For beloveds we utterly hope for what heaven we envision and for ourselves we hope the night is kind.   

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the morning sun on time. . begin again. . .

The lines from  Tom Atkins Quarry House website from the Poem Making Rope stopped my heart the moment I read the lines  . . . . . history . . . .
that does not die because a few care enough to remember
and live the old ways, sure as faith, and twice as strong
as a soul that has done the work, day after slow day,
of restoration, a painful maintenance to save
what matters more than perfection.

At what point is it that one breaks with what goes for the norm where we are and with no conscious thought begins anew?  It seems subliminal but what it is animating who we are says the profound, enough already!

And we then are of One Mind and begin.  We don’t know for what, but begin we do. 

And history does not die and we begin to learn and remember.  We choose what is real and  works and the value system attached  has significance. 

It is not easy ever and for some it is gut wrenching.  The painful work of disentangling the memories attached to those we wish to cherish, takes an enormous amount of courage.  It has stopped many an able bodied man. 

Is it worth the struggle?  All the time?  When I see adult bodies running rough shod over children’s hearts, I remember my Mentor’s words. . (you) Suffer the children to come unto me, for  such is the kingdom. . . and I want to shout at the big bodies in didies, Grow up!  Already is past the time for long pants.  Already,  I see the children showing more maturity than the ones who borned them.

And heaven can only send out what comes in.  No better.  So when I wrote pour me a cup of solace. . . I was ready to throw in the towel.  It was time to pull in the sidewalk and close the shutters.  There were no woods to shelter me this time.  But with a new morning  sun on time, we begin again.  And again.  Hope springs eternal and life prevails.

If not, who would teach the children?  

REFRESHMENT

Pour for me a cup of solace
and serve a generous slice of mercy
and perhaps, just perhaps. . .
I will choose to live again.

A meagre portion
of passion dissolved in multitude
can no longer satiate
an appetite grown ravenous.

I learn.  I know.
But when the menu is designed
with child in mind, I bellow, not fair!

I have used the energies
to fulfil the wants
of those who made them their needs,
while my own went hungering.
So now. . . .

Brew a cup of solace
and anoint my head.
Serve mercy to garnish and appease
a heart grown turgid.

Perhaps the convalescence
will heal nerves made raw
by my passion to breath
the sanctimonious air
of sheltered existence.

And perhaps. . . just perhaps
I will forget enough and decide

to choose the green earth again.

 written  January 23, 1987

photo by Jon Katz

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Cancel Culture Leaves a God Vacuum. . .

 Journal entry March 11, 2021. . . My thoughts this morning when watching Morning Joe as  reported in The Atlantic.  Discussed what is happening to Christian Belief or Religious Belief with the then emerging cultural canceling and caretaking of the ex -president  Trump.  He gained popularity by saying he will take care of you but meaning he would not allow anyone else take  your whatever belief and abscond with it.

If there was any truth in such a statement, HE would abscond with your belief and you would have a new one and that would be a Trumpism.  We seem to let loose of the mythological god and are woke so to speak.  Lots of things to fill this space, and one of them is political.  Whatever party is chosen, we fill it in depth by how much energy we have.  We can fill it with learning whatever makes us curious.  I gave chase to books and religious dogma and hoped what knowledge I  gained would  make it work for me.

I started with building a philosophy  to understand the enigmatic behaviors of my parental family.   Growing up with siblings put a path in front of me.  Marrying early, commitments played a conscientious role.   Because of circumstances,  children were my primary commitment determining my choices.  In the current era, much does enter one’s vacant space giving rise to behavior which is violent in many ways. 

With what troubles our world and our country, we see the fragility of our democracy in peril.  The health of the world constantly  deserves our concern with epidemics like the  Covid one we still face.  Putin’s  invasion of Ukraine, democracies  shattered with autocratic convulsions with power at play.  And we all know the unrest with high prices, vacant shelves,  and gun violence leaving catastrophic carnage every week in our lives.

In that space where a previous life had a god or many to worship, this empty space has emptiness that waits for a name.  Have we made a difference in this life by depth, kindness in relationships, determination to do good  in actions  that makes our contribution  an enhancement of humankind? I wish for partnership  to the undergirding of ethical structure that holds the Universes in mythological hands but Magnificent Heart.  To call it Magnificent Heart is inadequate, but we have no words I know of so this will have to do with open potential.

You  also make independent study a daily habit because to parent  one needs to do one’s very best.  To accompany you in this venture, you  choose a mentor, visible or invisible as you contribute to life as best you can.  This is life in the vernacular, being woke as you must be.  Your progeny will push against you,  the Goad, and you will not run away. It may take a hundred years to do this but you will do this and you will  be proud.

I scribed the teacher’s ending to the entry paraphrasing  March 11, 2021. .  ‘it was so hard going.  We knew you hoped one of the children would be sick to stay home from school, because you had no energy to continue the study.  Yet you did  when the door closed and went to the desk to begin again.  And to hold yourself together because you were filling the vacuum that already was a hole deep in your heart.  We still talk  of the world you wanted to fill with meaning that would keep mankind warm when the night came knocking on his soul and asked, who is home?’

((and I will answer  (I wrote)  a God Participant, whose potential is undetermined.  I have secured the children and now we begin.  Building a world on loam and soil whose bedrock will be the foundation whose housing will not shift.  We are guided and give good guidance to our commitments.  And do what we must.  Thank you for the guidance.  And trust.’ ))

Amen and amen.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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a mountain top experience. . . .

I had intended to send an email to a friend and instead with this quirk of a mind which is mine, it took to be an essay.  When finished I thought better than to send it.  The reason being another trip to the hospital last weekend in dire straits.

An early cardiologist appointment on Friday morning the 7 th, had him saying you need hospital care and the feeling was imminent.  So a weekend in the care of my Mentor’s Caregivers had them releasing me to my family on Sunday, January 9 th.

And time to give some thought to what I need to write.  The finding (stumbled) and reading of an early journal entry, (almost to the day plus 50 years) had this to say about the road being traveled.  I edit only for space.

January 17, 1973
Wednesday

Been busy at work all day.  Read for a while last night and was interested in the excerpt of Paul Tillich when he talked of the Cosmic Consciousness experience as a State of Grace.  It is interesting how much I understand what was not clear a decade earlier.   Does time do it or growth?

Tillich states that Grace cannot be wished for (how can you wish for something outside your experience?)  Yet when it comes you know that something outside your experience has happened;  not by various names but a something, happened. 

Mine came with the knowledge that I was one with the universe and the words, ‘He Lives!’
Whether that meant Christ because of my upbringing, or because a friend died and was alive without a doubt.  His wife was impressed to call me on the day he made his transition and the only thing I could say to her was that he lives,  over and over.

This was the 3 day period when I felt as if the top of my head had been taken off and I indeed felt one with the universe.  This must be what it is like when you die to this world.  The physical boundaries are no longer and you become part of the surrounding. 

I seemed to flow into the Ethers.  I felt part and parcel of it, a oneness unbelievable.  It was exhilarating while it lasted.  I did not know of new intellectual stirrings, except no doubt about the foreverness of life on a gut level.  And the words over and over ‘He Lives!’

Tillich said that all that is necessary in this experience is that you know you are accepted.  It also comes out of grief and despair.  To this day I don’t know why I was so devasted by this friend’s illness and death.  Except I remember our first meeting of recognition from a someplace and sometime.

How deep can grief go?  It flows through the very core of you and out to join the suffering of ‘All That Is’ . . .

And  the core of you is ‘All That Is’  . . . .

(I have been encouraged to enter the early journals into my blog.  One already through conversation, that few know even scattered religious history.  I have mentioned my crashing world with the doctor asking me to speak to some student wannabe psychiatrists.  I agreed and found a roomful waiting.  And only one had an idea, an idea of maybe this is what I was talking about, the Rosicrucian.    

There may be no description given that matches the experience, but as Paul Tillich said, one knows a something happened, a big something.  It was an authentic experience and in discussion with a Protestant minister, he called it a mountain top experience and wished it had been his.)

This wall quilt surprised me and I am fond of this artistic side of me.  Knowing how difficult it is to stay with a body intent on laying down,  the jenny genes triumphed.  Probably never again.  I negotiate with my teachers for a bit more time to try another evergreen.  

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Observations. . .from my lifetimes. . .

If you do not intend to look back,  it’s best to remember to lift the plow.
*****
Wishes are as potent a force as fishes swimming in live water.
***** 
Under adverse conditions, we become more of what we are.
***** 
To think is a holy obligation.  And to be held accountable should follow.  We would then be responsible human beings?  Imagine that!
*****
The world no longer tolerates the thinker.  He has become a recluse in the ribbon of concrete. 
*****
The world hails the activist, the doer.  The attention and kudos are granted no matter the consequences, constructive or not.  And we live in those consequences.
***** 
Curbside decisions belong to the white charger.  The smooth phrase, the quick retort are only newsworthy.  And both fade rapidly in memory to be recalled only by the video screen.
*****
The thoughtful person cannot find a place to be asked a question requiring the time to raise their eyes to the hills and back for a reflective answer.
*****
The visionary has the look of one used to focusing on the horizon.  I have time for the visionary.  They have substance for the long haul as a participant in the vision.  And strangely, human events still take time no matter how we wish otherwise. 
***** 
The immediate situation may be alleviated with a curbside decision but the progression of humankind may never be affected.  There is always that hope. 
*****  
Where is safe?  Safe is only in your head because no place is safe.  And I would have to argue your head.
*****                                                    
Nothing gets done in this world unless somebody’s back breaks, a somebody’s legs ache and at least a somebody’s mind splinters and a heart rips apart.
*****  

 

photo by
Kathy Rybacki Qualiana

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Take Me Home Jason, Take Me Home. . .it is time.

 

 

I have been trying to catch up with myself for a very long time now.  Putting up with the old timer’s disease of trying to make a body work like I remember it doing.  But of course, it does not.  At better than 90 it will not conjure the energy it did at 50.  Or even 75.  And I did pretty well at 75! 

But still a couple of things pulsing my perimeters and causing me to reflect.  Having no talent for memorizing,  I do recall almost word for word the first poem introduced to my inner hearing called Courage.  That I could almost remember word for word surprised me.  I remember sharing it with my husband and sons and of course they guffawed and did not believe I just wrote it.  But I did and I am a truth teller.  I have researched it and it had no history.  And keep looking.  It goes like this. . .

Courage. .

How often have we stood
in water, ankle deep,
daring not to take a plunge
or do a running leap?

How often have we said
the water is too cold,
in truth we know our lack
is courage pure and bold.

There is hope for those of us
who’ve stood too long at bay.
There’s time to grab onto the reins
and steer through just one day.

It would be so much easier now
had we been taught before
that courage is acquired
and practiced evermore.

Our characters will toughen up,
our hides grow thicker skins
and surprise ourselves in water cold
to find we’ve sprouted fins!

(written 1963)

Also in all this research and malaise and introspection that exhausts such meager surplus of  energy, somehow also coming to mind was a simple nugget that goes and brings up the little girl Veronica who held onto Papa’s hand. . .

The night is silent                          
and the air is very cold,
I wish I were a child again
with a hand to hold. . .

And after looking at what I thought was in the files and did not find,  I think it was written by author Marcia Willett’s  sister whose name I don’t know.  The poem was simple enough but meaningful to what I was reading at the time.

And the last thing I looked at were recipes in a scrapbook taken from when I was a 12 and intolerant of heat and sun and relegated to the kitchen.  My mother took my place in the fields on the Farm.  I took the scrapbook when I left home and used forever when housekeeping.   But this was in the scrapbook of recipes cut from Woman’s Day magazine but this column uncertain.  Clipped from a magazine and  titled Household 1954.  Written by Barbara Nelson because her little son complained  that the prayer his mother said at night with him made him fearful because he did not want to die.  The prayer was Now I lay me down to sleep and every child was taught that.  She wrote instead the following which was calming and with a foot in the future of religious evolution. 

God in me and God in you,
in everything of good we do.
We thank you Lord that this is so,
we thank you that we live and grow.

I must spend more time doing what I love to do because ideas fall all over themselves and run down the front of my shirt. I want to snatch them up before they disappear into thin air and no longer be visible.  That is how I know I am in my dotage.  When younger the ideas flew and clung together in a synergistic manner.  They gathered upon themselves like matters that embellished and enhanced their basic meaning.  And the topics grew and became legends and we had something to consider.  And our knowledge as mankind, as humankind was enhanced.

And what then.  See.  I can put myself back there and relive the ancient times and know I am not far from the truth.  Take me home, Jason, take me home.  It is time.

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The Bigger Picture is Always More. . . .

 

  (I happened upon these scanned items in a file and was near tears.  I have read them many times but in this form, cannot remember doing them.  In reviewing my life,  what brought tears was the fact that everything I write about is backed up.  And learning for me is integrating what is taught and becomes part of my reference.  I came upon something I  just recently posted about psychic phenomena being not magic but simply what is learned through lifetimes that moth and rust do not destroy.  The Nazarene taught that and called them talents.  He assumed people would grow up and not be childish forever.  And these talents would go from world to world with us.  What is common knowledge to some of us, is magic still  to some and worse, spooked people  and put innocents to death as in Salem, Massachusetts, in our shameful history.)

Mar 11, 1989———–Authority

I cannot deny what my eyes are telling me about my physical self.  And I could not be so cruel  to ask a child or tell a child that what he sees is not so.  If that were the case, I would deny to him his own authority which are his senses and by which he must live.  If he had extra senses of which I was or was not aware,  I could not deny those even though they may be outside my frame of reference.  It would be cruel to the child for then his own authority, his own self would be forever doubted and his common sense would not serve him in even the simplest situations.  I would have no one else to blame for that but me.

Mar 16, 1989—-History—Genetic

It takes one to know one.  The maxim is as old and still stands.  If feeling runs deep about a subject and a person finds no parallel in this life,  we must go deeper.

It may not be feeling connected to this person but feelings connected to this history, genetically written.  Shall we toss out the genetic history, but then in favor of what?  Man would then have to face his source, his beginning to gain footing, else we would be like Adam and Eve.  Again.  One must of needs supply a history to give meaning to the day for when there is no history, there is also no now and certainly no future.  It is only with a history does the uniqueness begin to show and the ability to clarify that uniqueness and to be a positive influence must be because the peace has already been made with the history.

 Mar 28, 1989—-Earth, ,Prayer, Eternity

The Earth will cherish the soul who cherishes the Earth.
Nature will revere the one who reveres Nature.
And the God will rest securely within the heart of one who reveres the All in All they do.  Life is God and God is Life.  There is no distinction.  We sit within the lap of God.

 Apr 06. 1989—-Bent of the Tree

What we have are the results of looking inward to find a basis for the way people are.  And the way they are has been the best of the tree.  Man has been in error assuming the newborn a blank, clean slate.  And what we have is the tree already bent previously or apriori.  And because the coping mechanism has always been in direct proportion to the disillusionment is the way the bigger body will lead the life.

And when you view the sulking small child,  you already know in the making is the bigger child whose silent sulk will be used to arouse guilt.  To assure vengeance,  you can be sure. (Pray that in the child’s life will be someone who is admired, loved and respected to be the role model that child emulates.  Only with personal intent and desire and yearning to be like the role model,  will the direction be changed.)

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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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