Archive | Prayers

Listen World, Listen. . . God In A Rock. . .

Listen world, Listen.  God In a Rock. . . .

(As we head into Earth day, I am approaching my 88th birthday and my world is iffy right now and if I could leave a letter to beloveds I would say this. )

There is a connection to all of our Earth.  From the sky to the ground, the mud , the parched soil, the flooding rivers, the oceans full of debris, of everything I breathe.  There is a connection.

The rain, the snow, the earthquakes and the tornadoes plus all that cannot be imagined by the mind that writes these words.  All of these are connected.

And if we think from this minute on that we are separate, that we are not connected, when all of these   malfunction and we cannot draw breath, we will know how connected we are.

It is our purpose in life to protect our surroundings with every means we can.  From the wrapper of our      candy or what we dismiss as garbage, to what we hold to be holy in hand and our mind.  Because it can go down the tube again as it has in our past when mankind looked upon life with common disdain  and treated our Earth as a compost heap.

It can be taken away.  Not by a grandfather god whom you may think sits in judgment but by our carelessness which assumes Earth to be a disposal to grind our refuse.  The world cannot absorb and decompose what is not natural to it.  It accumulates and kills all life.

It does not take care of itself.  Our lack of caring transfers to everything we touch.  Everything.  We have lost our respect for our laws and institutions which have sustained us because they were built on foundations of need , of prayer, of yearning for respect for our divine selves.  We knew of our cosmic  beginning,  as everything was and is and will continue to be.

But what we lose is everything with our disrespect for ourselves because this is what decimation of our earth amounts to.  Basically we have lost our respect for who we are and who we brought into life through our loins when we loved an other for the right reasons.

Not for anything we labeled other than the highest and best we could feel and give to an other because  we knew love.  But we denigrated even that to bedroom gymnastics with babies being brought into existence not because we loved wisely and well but by careless consequences.

We learned how to do that so well, haven’t we?  Our world now bursts its seams with souls we cannot feed, nor time to love the babies.  We scramble for space with fertile soil to grow food and house 8 billion people.

Listen, world, please listen.  We stand now to lose the classroom that the universe waits in line to enter.  It is  the best classroom where manifestation of the idea can be handled and utilized to the highest degree.  It is the place where love manifests in a human being with mind and body and soul.

It is a god participant in stature and thought and dreams.  This is the bedding that will send our least imagined, last imagined, unbelief into soaring magnificence because it is the sendoff for the Becoming of what cannot be envisioned.

How else to bring the mirror in front of our faces and say look at yourself?  It is you, us, me, that has the world in its hands.  The universe that we cannot yet comprehend cannot be put into the laboratory to say this is how it works.  Because that knowledge we don’t have, has not been conceived and will not ever be writ.

I pray you see god in a rock.  I pray you see god laying beneath the rock.  In all its forms.  In the air we breathe, the sky that covers us, the earth that upholds our frame that took eons to stand upright.  Listen world, listen.  Take care of this planet.  For many it is the only place that is real to them.  For me, it is a place to love into being the souls I have chosen who chose me as mother and grandmother and  grandmother great.

I loved these souls into Being.  They in turn have loved their worlds into Being.    Look about you.  To the morning that will not come to those you love.  To the day that will not harbor the ideas they have crafted into being.  To the night that will cover them with love so they will engage also in what will give birth to more dreams.  Would you deny them this?

They have your name attached to them.  They will carry what you have done, and not done.  Those ideas and thoughts of omission and commission.  Our Mother Earth.  Think how we refer to her.  Mother Earth.  There is not one of us who leaves her at the end of our lives without our thought always linking to who we refer to as Mother.  It is with love, either hoped for, missed or known.

Give your remaining days of caring onto her.  Do what is necessary to restore her well being.  She will take care of you and what you have loved into Being.  Do this for her and in so doing you will not have to pick up your mistakes which are costly.

Our names are attached and the mortgage is for eternity.  Yes, eternity is forever, starting now.

photo of Rock from
The Farm. . .Kathy Qualiani
Photo of Emma E.
by Merideth Hallissey

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In Love We Pray. . . amen and amen. . . .

As dawn breaks, my fingers of both hands curled about each other and I marveled at their slimness, their ability to elicit the feel of themselves, each digit wrapped around the other.

And I felt that nothing, no other world would ever make me feel such blessedness in my hands’ ability to do so many things over the course of a life.

To kneading bread, to winding the yarn, to smoothing the brow of my very sick child and have him telling me later that it helps him sleep.

Everything I touch holds a lesson for me. The square inch of soil I spooned with young hands yielded secrets kept from generations.

The eyes of a child as my hands embraced young shoulders tells me what went into their ancient heritage. And I grasp their hands in mine and convey my love by touch.

I would use these hands to mold and make and set trends never before thought. I see the beauty of the great god in the blending of these human genes and see the perfect Adam and perfect Eve emerging  and see the virtue in the making and the doing of the homely tasks that will start the holy process once again. And I will open my arms and spread my hands to grasp the youngest by my hip and be grateful for hands that show

how very much I can love on this planet called Earth.

Spring Prayer. . .

As we enjoin the Universal Spirit to entrust
with another spring, another resurrection, awaken
within us the desire to nurture the world
that has nurtured us.

Let our hearts lead us to that place
where we intuitively cherish the mother who feeds
and clothes us and gives sustenance.  Let us
not forsake our responsibilities to those yet unborn,
whose futures we have already mortgaged.

Blessed Spirit, enliven our curiosity about our daily world,
remind us that the bird’s song needs our acknowledgement and praise,
that the sun needs our greeting and night wishes it bid good.

As we nourish those of our commitment, speak to us of our commitment
to the home we know, our planet Earth.  Let our love guide us
to make beautiful, to make secure and to guard diligently
what has so faithfully harbored us.

In love we pray,  amen and amen.

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As It Was. . . .

Paraphrasing the Teacher in a journal entry of a December past. . . .

‘She quietly opens the door and slips to the crib, not knowing the child’s father has already retired for the night in the room.  She watches the child in sickness and the son watches his mother with her magic chants as they drew from his son the illness causing such heartbreak. 

You can do it, he was thinking.  You can do it.  And he was in awe as he watched this woman 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 if not observed, he would have known anyway.  Let the power move through me and make me an instrument of thy peace, he said.  

Touched were those hearts needing to be touched.  There will be a respite and a growing and a power to make whole.’

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

In the following years I learned that the undergirding of our Universes is 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 and it does not matter what we call this power, God or Allah or Jehovah or Christ.  It is ethical and demands us to aspire to our best.  We know intuitively and welcome obstacles that require we test our courage before meeting the greatest of our challenges however different for each of us.

I Pray. . .

Let this pass, if it is thy will.

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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Ripped, severed, broken. . .

The day looms with fierce emotions which will lay its colors upon the hearts of mourners forever.  It is with little thought given by some that words have great power over the course of our lives.  It is we who must teach the children the choice of words must be with care.  And we adults who must alter our behavior when our words are met with misunderstanding.  Words are the tools of our relationships and must be treated with great respect. The costly consequences are human lives.

The Word Is God. . .

In the beginning was the word
destined to touch the mind of man.
But the prevailing Spirit in its wisdom saw fit
to encumber each with the power to discern.

Meanings floated into space,
shaping themselves to fit the receiving mind.
Reaching their destination,
their shape changed to fit the owner.

Such turbulence!  Such uneasiness!
Albeit because the word had taken life and
risen to meet the heart’s need.
The speaker’s heart had taken its intent

and placed upon the Ethers the heart’s desire.
It gathered cadence as it rode
to meet the receiver’s prejudices.
The sender’s intent lay silent, lost.

The heavens only acknowledged
its primordial meaning.
Can it be said in truth that the word be god?
It is.

For within its power to create
it moves with desperation to voice feelings,
to give breath to visions and to heal.
The word created creatures and dynasties,

wars and rebellions, held peace in abeyance
and brought us to life.
So speak softly when speaking.
Words carry the weight of the heart

with intent to topple empires
and worlds and men.  In the catalytic movement
of the word,  the world’s heart beats,
years are gifted and man’s future secured.

It is all we have.                                                                              

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To The Table Of Thought. . . Beggar’s Prayer. . . again

To The Table Of Thought. . .

I talk of the Essence of God because in Quantum Physics becoming is the key word for all of us in the present stages of Is, Am, Are.  Some of us freshly wrought,  others centuries in the harvest.

I plead to my god within to see the way to go, because I stutter my way with words and thoughts and do not dismantle but perhaps nudge into some evolutionary progress that my mentor, the Nazarene spoke.  What we do for one, he said, we do for all. 

We need help for this planet.  And for worlds watching what happens with us that we do not contaminate the rest of the planetary systems.  It is more than just us.  Or we will be walking the Cosmos again and soon finding ourselves with boots on in dry ash.

Beggar’s Prayer. . .

I come with the Grace
of all those I beseech, quietly.
In all names holy.

My work done with love,
in prayerful attendance to Life,
to acknowledge the birdsong
extolling the morning and awakening
the sun in triumph over night.

Sending the mist to dissipate
over the Mount, to nudge
the sleeping sages into activity,
to secure the earth’s roving
in this sea of tranquility.

I acknowledge my blessings where I am,
but I beg,

extinguish the desires of the old who miss
their spoils of war, and if allowed would
set fire to the hearts of the young
to do their bidding, negating the work
of the parents who taught their children
to love one another from the first time
a sibling invaded their space.

I beg for lives to be spared
so families can again sup together,
that children will again
have parents on the premises.
Begging you again to hone the values
that would have us carrying one another.

I beg this beggar’s prayer that man
who denies his own godliness will one day see

the common ground of his divinity.

 

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Emma E . . .the best of blends. . . .

She said wait and I will get my hat on and be ready to go!  And her hat is on and she has her bag and is ready for fun!  For our little one who is the best of blends. . . like good coffee or fine wine, she is a sparkler.  Weighing in early last Thanksgiving time at one pound 12 ounces, she is holding her own bottle and her grandfather said that driver training is next!

I am fortunate to be her grandmother great though I have not seen her in this world.  I need escorts to the car in the driveway because my legs are as wobbly as Emma E.’s are yet.  Her legs will grow sturdier and mine not, to be sure.  Her life will be filled with awe, as mine continues to be.  Her complaints will loom large in irritation to restriction, as surely mine do.  Both of our heads know what we desire to accomplish, though the surroundings differ.  We both will do what we need to do for the greater good.

Thank you all for your good wishes, thoughts and prayers.  Good has no boundaries and we have been grateful to see our Emma E. responding magnificently.  Your wishes have been a salve for our hearts.

 

photo by Merideth,  mom
of Emma E.

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Dear Emma E. . .

Dear Emma E.. . .

We know each other although we haven’t put our arms around each other yet.  But we know the shape of our hearts.  And that is most important no matter what world we are in.

I am a big person,  but if I were little like you,  I would want a teddy bear  who sings from her heart.  I would put the bear nearby and before I would go to sleep,  I would wind up her tummy and listen to the music that came from her heart.  And in the music, my heart would answer and we both would be happy.

It would be a party in my most secret place and when I was lonely or unhappy,  I would remember this music.  That would make me happy again.

I hope you get to know this teddy bear as a warm friend.  She is sent with much love and a happy heart.  We are never too big for a heart that sings.  We both know that.

I have loved you since before the world ever was and will continue to love you forever.

Your Grandmother Great. . . . .

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A sorrow hushed. . . the holocaust. . .

 

 

A sorrow hushed. . . the holocaust. . .

My ears cleaved to the door frame
of the dining room. Her whisper was hoarse,
were there many?
Lots, he said, lots, as he held the letter
that told him what they saw.  Speaking
in broken English, he continued.
They pushed for space, women and children
and their men. They wanted to see.
My people saw he said.

Their words burned my brain
as I strained to listen, afraid I wouldn’t
catch a sorrow hushed.  It didn’t last long
he said, because they fell.  Matko Bosko she said.
Remember our history he said.
As if that could explain what I heard.

And I knew the god they called
upon to save them from whatever they feared.
He whispered again, somehow trying to
make this horrid time an all right matter.
My people saw them, he kept saying.

And I loved those parents who made things
seem right yet what my heart knew was evil
and my head fought them and argued
till I would vomit.  We would go
into holy week and pray just as
my cousins across the waters who saw
what was done went back to their tables
and supped as if nothing had happened.

These were friends and relatives
whose prayers were different and
they said that made them different than us.
And the us that I was born into made me
ashamed and sick to my stomach and I kneeled
in front of the toilet and emptied my shame
washed with the tears of I am so sorry
and threw up all of my ten years

and so went my trust.

 

(Much of what was happening at that time was what I overheard to be Poland’s part in the holocaust.  Relatives wrote what was happening there.  Being an ailing child at home led me to listen carefully to everything.   The whispered conversations were fewer and not fully understood until as an adult I happened upon Winter Journey by Diane Armstrong. The impact on me was visceral.  The memories connected with family at that time rushed to surface.  These events were deep in the knowledgeable ten year old I was who was frightened and ashamed.  How does one live with shame?  )

 

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Love and Beauty. . .right to life. . .

Emma E. has been promoted to a step down to less intensive care.  She is at 37 weeks and two days ago was at 3 lbs 13 oz.  The camera could only catch what was in the heart of the photographer.  The love and beauty of both are palpable.  They should be every child’s right to life.

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