There are others who have experience in matters not common. I have kept notes on dreams and researched my experiences. I could not speak openly and was cautioned much because of public circumstances. Times are different and I speak for the children who are different. There are babies now being born who have been mentored and if they are fortunate and have support they will teach the lot of us from where they come.
In the Dead Sea Scrolls a disciple asked Jesus where we go when we die and Jesus answered, why do you ask when you never wondered where you came from? He also said the ‘the twig is bent’ and religions don’t mention apriori, before we are born. Most assume that all is formed after birth but every parent knows each child comes already predisposed. My exasperated mother would gladly have told you about me.
As I look back on things, as we are apt to do when we wish to make sense out of a life that at times held little, I find more things connect. Yet small incidents were crucial for the larger events to play out. When I think back on the arguments that have taken my energy, I still have difficulty understanding where sacrificing one life so that another can live is fair or rational. Religions have been based on this principle.
No Place To Go. . .
Your words are strong my eldest says. . . and the road made accessible for the rest of us. No need I say, no need. You will do what is yours to do in your own way.
The road is closed with wooden horses barring the way, not for repair but because a new road is laid.
My mentor said what is done for one is done for all. . .so the heavens made bet it would never be done but it seems I was the surprise. It is done.
They say they give an inch and I take a mile. My verbiage is clear. My focus enables focus in boundary-less places as I weave in and out of black holes and wind drifts to find myself welcomed.
I have friends all over who wait except where I am. Here I am different and in this place to be different puts one outside looking in. They do not know where I am coming from. My vernacular is not theirs and
There comes to mind that time warp where events leave their linear places and congregate in the place where we know that thunderous motions occur with the simplest actions. Or even with no action. Like the times my brother Stanley and I discussed what he saw along the road but knew immediately I knew the song. And he just resorted to, but you know, you know. . .
It was simply a matter of realizing we shared a history, with a weight to language which we worshiped. We knew that the words we used the other used also and respected. We were not loose with words but used them with sacred dispensation.
It was a relationship we shared with his wife also. And both of them were an important part of these particular visits we had and where the poem above was born. It holds great meaning for me because of the tender feelings we shared. It made the visits to the Farm a recreation of who we were and continued to be.
That the children shared in this family in their own ways I was not fully aware until long after they became adult. In talking about who we as their parents wanted as guardians in case of our demise (and often argued) while they needed family, our eldest asked why did we not ask them?
I said because we wanted to agree on the ones we asked. And he continued, ‘well you should have asked because we had already decided that Uncle Stan was the one we would go to.’ When did you decide all this I asked. ‘Oh long ago, he said. We already knew who we wanted.’
It was all decided within the sanctity of that relationship. And I never asked, but probably they had already researched the Court and who was the approachable judge. I just never asked.
If We Sing To The Children. . .
I wear these memories as a cloak to ward off the chill. Emotions forgotten, but like new now ripping along my arms, settling bumps in straight rows to my heart.
Kindred hearts, matching my own heartbeat, with eyes like mine and reflecting our souls. Music in voices saying, ‘and when I look at weeds beside the road. . . . but you know, you know. . . .’ And I do, I do and we look with eyes that see and ears that hear the song of the bird before his sounds have escaped his throat. . . . and the music rumbles in our blood, coursing through our hearts and gives life only to those who are ready to listen.
Not many to be sure, not many, but if we sing to the children perhaps, just perhaps, the earth’s cacophony will one day be in harmony.
It is our heritage; from where it is we come. From the farm country I was given a substance that does not spoil, that does not turn sour even in the residue of life. It is not dregs that I drink. It is the cream rising to the top of the milk.
I needed to see a skyline with no obstruction and with no words
On May 14, 2021, I posted Time’s Gleanings. It is a collection of paradigms as a brief respite in diets of heavy lessons. My last maxim of that post reads like this. . .
‘Like a dancer learning the discipline of a new score, we have rehearsed minute by minute to come to this place, this place of understanding where we are now.’
I received an email from Merideth, mother of the sisters saying . . . Emma E. told me today that she was a dancer before she was a baby. Perhaps that is why she stands on the tip of her toes so often. It is a habit she learned before she even arrived. . . .
I told Merideth that I am glad our girl babies have her as a mother and I am glad Mer does what she does. Emma E. will start her formal schooling soon. The altogether most important elements started when she chose her parents. Safe is such a simple word and as many letters as fear. To be able to freely connect her tip toeing as a dancer before being born as a baby told us how high she will reach.
Children come from a sacred some place to grow and teach. When they ask that first ‘why?’ we should kneel and embrace the child and search their minds for what they remember. And we should talk to each other freely about earliest memories.
Memories are a good foundation to support growth and integrate new sustainable knowledge. In this wild and wooly forest I comfort myself that memories can be our mother tree like that of the forest gods. . .with space to embrace us all.
Little Ballerina . . .
Dance for me, little girl Dance your dance and show the gods why you dance.
In the garden I see you, toes dug into the earth, head tilted to catch the glint of the sun filtering through the leaves.
You nod in assent to breezes whispering your name. Your lips move in intonation of the om which separates you, momentarily.
You pirouette perfectly, swayed by forces caressing you to homage of all who you are.
I long to kneel before the image of you. At one with your own music, when your arms grace sweepingly in the silent moment and you take all that is yours and
I write again of my coats of many colors. Because I love and care for those in my life and love life itself, I will repeat those of my posts I feel urgent about. Since I have memories and dreams of lives lived and have written of them, apologetically lacking times, I rightfully attest to some knowledge. If it is so for me, then I assume for others it may be also.
My poetry is evidence and memory serves me partially. Perhaps only the humanity of them, but solidly enough. It answers my ‘why’ of who I am with an answer to how life is everlasting.
Only partially but Jesus said my father’s house has many rooms. My understanding now of simultaneous times is that parallel lives are lived and I have had dreams and experiences of those. And gives rise to thought of the Biblical Jacob giving the coat of many colors to his son Joseph because Joseph perhaps had memories of many lifetimes? And spoke of them?
My understanding has been broadened to how perspectives define dimensions which house our lives and give substance to our slim knowledge of who we are. It is said that some philosophers believe that human nature cannot grasp reality at all. Some parts of the world have a greater grasp of these concepts, but western civilization has been slow to even give it houseroom.
Planets discovered may support life that we yet cannot identify. There are many who flagrantly deny the intelligence of sentient life even when shown evidence. Evolution requires certain steps taken in understanding and integrating knowledge before entering a world necessary for more precise work. In essence you have to know what to look for.
Our world needs for our mind, body and spirit to integrate all we have learned. We will regret wasting valuable time our planet sorely needs before we replace her resources we take for granted..
I harbor the woman in the Arctic, 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 on the hands knitting with smooth sticks in the tent house circling the firepit drinking a sour brew to keep warm.
I have to keep my focus right here and right now else I walk into a beloved time frame of who I am. It becomes a problem for those like me and harder for those who love me to find 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. . . .
I keep on hand stenographer tablets to jot down notes I think important in rereading the journal entries. I came across this poem thoughts. I do not know when I wrote it nor what entry prompted it. I may have been deeply focused in thought with someone. I remember the first line glimpse I had, but not the rest of the poem. I share this with you who do some serious work on yourselves wondering your place in the skein of things.
It is good to keep a tablet for quiet times also. Noting always what you remember of your journey in thought. Thinking is the hardest work we do. It is why it is avoided. It will be an interesting resume to read one day and with whom you cavort. It will be noted how much fragile handling one gives oneself.
The Sages Kick Start. . .
I caught a glimpse of one I thought lecturing except a black robe and cap she wore and then disappeared.
Only once, a glimpse, except the wonder of why it stays. I wish to bury it and rest. . .please.
I find the lessons I repeat over and over and I tire of them. Why can they not sleep? I have gleaned what this brain can accommodate and it is not pretty.
The Sages ask the teachers to continue teaching because they do not remember the passion this Earth requires to make real the lessons..
The passion was mine as it rumbled the belly of me through almost a hundred years of family and friends and values.
What better way to present life’s reasons to kick start the wheel of progress called Evolution from stagnant ruts?
We leave it to you, they say, to tell them to not step on their kinders’ heads and take their knees off the necks of the different ones because they are afraid often only because. . . because . . .
The different ones make them afraid when the world thinks of the different ones, as having courage.
Many of us when we find that our life is not working for us, no matter what we try and even invent, take ourselves to the doctor. And when all the protocols still do not work, if we give it thought, we take ourselves to school or wherever we find quiet space and open the books, whatever our persuasion.
When we learn that Dante took Virgil as his mentor-guide we should wonder why. And find our reasons to look for own guide-mentor.
I chose the Nazarene as my Mentor after much study and have never regretted my choice. It was not a reason based on faith for I had none. But it was a reason based on knowledge and for me the right one.
For you whose Faith has meaning, I share with you this poem. It was written long ago and has great meaning for me.
It has meant a life of hard work, study and some lovely sparklers.
The Invited Guest. . .
I once knew a good carpenter who, with hammer and saw and wood and file showed me how to build a chair.
I did and sat on it and then decided I needed a table. With hammer and saw and wood and file, I built a table and sat at it.
I knew I needed another chair for an Other to sit on. So with hammer and saw and wood and file, I built it.
I then invited the carpenter to join me at the table. We lit a candle and talked and a new world was born. How did I know
We have those close to us disturbing our righteousness when we shout ‘enough already!’ when the going is hard in our lives. They utter words like we make choices to suffer. For good, Fundamentalist friends no longer are so quick to speak their knowledge saying God must love you very much to send such burdens.
I scribed and edited (for space) the following journal entry of January 16, 1990. . . Who would pit themselves against situations that would force a do or die attitude? Who would force themselves to grow despite attitudes about stress that cause illnesses, except by a soul who knows a something that escapes the knowledge of others?
Escapes the knowledge of others. It is an ancient thought that has propelled man to prove himself capable of better and higher things. And not necessarily in physical life. It is an innate something and when pressed, will utter some saying like who knows? He will say he works for position, family, health and whatever. But he wants to be qualified. Qualified to pass higher judgment for a world unlike this one.
It is something learned and felt deeply from someplace else. When questioned he truly doesn’t know up here between the eyes, but knows heartwise. And with hand to heart unthinkingly. Just knows.
So you work and study and learn and gather information and make connections because your facts speak your logic. In the face of obstinacy and obtuseness your knowledge stands. And you alibi and excuse everyone else. . . . .
So to my readers who wonder why the ongoing days are so difficult, when you give your highest and best in the dailyness to everyone. Your caregiving attitude is one you wear like a second skin. It holds you securely with love. Your light shines with cosmic force and is noted. Life is matching the power you exhibit for ongoing work.
This poem is for you. . . rest well Sailor, rest well.
Rest Well Sailor. Rest Well. . .
So in this night when you lie still and listen for the rain, listen for the wind, listen for the stars moving about the sky. Listen also for your heartbeat. It is steady and it is sure.
It beats for all of your commitments, both loving and lovable. You are an important adjunct to this world and your good you cannot estimate.
Rest well, sailor, rest well. The seas have been rocky but now we come to the inlet that will take us to port. There will be no tug to bring in the ship.
(please keep in mind my understanding that all time is simultaneous . )
In the April 10th 1992 journal entry I wrote of a prior conversation our second son David and I had before he left our Earth, (a philosophy major first before becoming a lawyer) about the benign nature of the Universe, being neither good nor bad. Floating through my brain was Robert Frost’s ‘forgive me lord my little jokes on thee . . . and I will forgive thy great big one on me.’ He knew of what he spoke. It made me weep once but now I think that is the way it is.
Susan Howatch , one of my favorite authors on her Church of England series, writes that some philosophers believe that human nature cannot grasp the concept of reality at all. Charles Schulz said that it was ‘so futile’ as the reason he stopped cartooning.
I think all is eventually universally good. Otherwise and I still know it deep down, we could not go on. But how far out does one go for universally good?
I scribed the edited paragraph answer. . . Your lament of how far out is universally good is not valid. Because for you to see it where you are, the last chapter would be writ. No pages turning over or flying by with the taste of exuberance never to know again. Imagine a life without it, any life?
There are those who do not know exuberance. The dailyness numbs one’s creativity. But there are books to reread, knitting to pick up or something to give another go at the morrow.
This entry ended with telling me to pack up my few illusions and get some sleep. And why I had so few illusions baffled the teachers. I scribed the following poem from that entry.
Nighttime Conversation . . .
I say. . . That spring will be a long one and
the summer will be a cool one.
You say. . .
It is amusing to hear your pronouncements
on the weather. You feel its feel upon your face
and monitor your response with some rare things.
You and Mother Nature have something going on.
Or is it you listen to the birds singing their song or the earth whispering to the sun that its arthritis is
not healing? Or perhaps the night song is the one that the sun hears in the morning and in the night you listen in and eavesdrop? Perhaps that is all
there is to your murmurings on the condition of the weather? But in your arthritic state why is it you revel in the cold and dark, drawing up your gown
closer to your neck and whispering how old you get because you love your comforts? Is it too much just to say my bed is the most comfortable and my tub
long enough for this creaky body to lie down? And why the guilt? Asceticism went out with the hair shirt, you know. There is nothing decadent about wanting
to stay warm nor relieving one’s congestion. Ahhhhh . . . . you civilians. . . when will you learn?
(sometimes in the midst of memories, I need to be reminded of what mattered most. And if I need this, perhaps a reader does also. The memory is now fresh for me. I appreciate the chance for reprinting a favorite one.)
After having been told a zillion times that no one would want my head, I have decided that I truly would not want anyone else’s head either. Because then I would not see the world that I love the way I do. I would not see the pine trickle of a branch pulling itself courageously out of the trunk of the tree amidst a half dozen other twigs and marvel at the beauty of it. Or hear the young grandmother puzzle at the toddler wondering why is this child so angry? And another placid? And see the connections in all bornings from their source already bent. Chance, you think? My head tells me of no coincidences.
Understandably there are some who prefer to think everything is newly chaste. But each of us has a history and life is a gift given. It is with hope that we uncover its gems. And profit from its lessons.
If You Can Bear The Truth. . .
If they should ever ask you
from where comes this knowledge
and you can bear the truth, tell them.
It was written in the stars that I saw
with inner vision, shining exuberantly
with a vitality that bears description.
It was hung and dried by a sun that had
dried my ancestor’s tears
for a million centuries.
The lyrics have pressed my ears
in moans that I find unbearable.
Does not everyone hear the cries?
If they should ask you,
tell them this.
It is the music of celebration,
when one, even one is freed from
a lifetime of servitude to anguish
clogging the throat.
This music is heard down long lines
of generations and will be mated
in their genes. They will glory in
their freedom and they will live forever.
So if they ask you and you can
bear the truth, tell them.
It was taught by my Spirit
spilling into my heart with no reprieve
and into my mind with no relief.
It is a lifetime of no alibis and
a coping system diffused.
My teacher has no name,
still the imprint is within my genes,
implanted within my ancestor’s memories,
resting within me.
They do not rest while I cannot.
My songs continue, if only for me.
In reviewing this poem, I was surprised to see the journal entry so I read it anew. And the last paragraph of the two pages typed was the lament that I had a head with so much to say I felt I was going to die. And I wrote the words of St. Paul, ‘it is I who do it, yet not I, but Spirit within’, when I listened with tears running down my cheeks as Gladys Cooley Nicholson read my poetry on npr’s WDET, in a deep voice powerful with meaning. She honored my work.
To strike a balance with the desire to create and overwhelmed with what it takes to submit and follow a prescribed path to publish, my need to create won. So I independently studied and created at night and the need to maintain property and people took the work long days. Commitments made options unavailable. One of the non negotiables in life is sometimes there are no options.
And you are given with grace, in time, a wise granddaughter saying, you just suck it up Gram, just suck it up. She is mine.
Perhaps a bit boring, but nice to leave with no regrets and commitments intact. Amen.
Time To Go On . . .
Is it time to go on?
Just one more garden in blossom,
I think, just one more winter.
And I wonder if I could
appreciate them anymore or
berate the ones who cannot see. . .
Will I be able to look at snow
and see as a depth to remove
before I can move or will I
see a feathering dust of density
and walk through it
like the man on water?
Will I ever be able to look
at this evergreen outside
my study window and not see it
as a thought form?
Or will I take its trunk
in my hands one day and like
paper mache bend it out of existence?
It is sturdy and it grows.
It takes space and cools
this room I sit in and
is a haven for the birds that
trust its branches will hold their nests
and the spidery tines will hold them.
Will I never mow the lawn
because I will by a thought,
landscape the Earth? Am I
a dreamer in motion . . .
like speech, aahhh. . . my thoughts stutter. . . . .
July 01, 1982 journal entry Poem Written April 01, 2016
