A divine observation. . .
You take love
and wear as pearls.
Shiny tears they once were.
but they fell
to your breast
and now they are gems. . . .
gems. . . .
A divine observation. . .
You take love
and wear as pearls.
Shiny tears they once were.
but they fell
to your breast
and now they are gems. . . .
gems. . . .
I look upon this photo and am grateful that what my life emphasized is factual for me in this moment of time. That what was crucial to our sons’ lives is what I see in their progeny and therefore, mine.
When asked when mountains became impossible to climb how to go on, I said there were three good reasons. Tresy, David and John. They were all I needed no matter how high the mountains . Not climbed poetically, delicately, or gracefully, but lumbering mostly. With this photo, I have what I need to see.
The sisters portray exquisitely what love does. Its power and capability is evidenced. Bedded in love they will grow in love. They are loved wisely and well as their parents were so loved. And showed. Made a difference? A big difference.
Generations previous show us what poverty burglarizes. Too many generations have looked upon children as simply clones stealing what little they were given. Love and education mainly. Food, clothing and weather protection being important of course, but crucial to well being and emotional growth are nutrients for the human spirit.
To catch a moment such as this gives hope. This is a heart moment for Emma E. and a safe arrival and moment for Norah Claire.
They portray everything poignant and alive with meaning. They are a visual blessing.
photo by Merideth Hallissey . . parent
Tomorrow is Father’s Day and this is a late regret to chalk up to a life in ebbtide. But with the head on my shoulders today, I wish there had been times to talk of heart concerns. Life was to be mountains for me to climb and I could have used his hand to hold. Talk while you both are within arm’s reach.
The Strange Bequest. . .
There was a man, a slim man,
whose head was bedecked
with a white cloud and
whose eyes saw dreams
he could not articulate.
He sat one day staring into space
and when I questioned him, he said
‘I am sitting and watching the grass grow.’
I hesitated far too long and have lived to regret it.
I wish the courage had been mine
to have asked him to share his dreams with me.
For he bequeathed to me a mind
that does not rest.
I have the thought that his father and
father before him wrestled
the same misty vision which now
is mine to set in motion.
I question this strange bequest,
for I have not the staunch heart required
to lay to rest my ancestor’s anguish.
Papa, I plead now,
to replace my heart with hot ore,
inject me with a vial of celestial courage,
to fuse my spine with tempered steel.
There is so little time.
Attitudes of Gratitude . . . . .
I had been asked to make potato salad for guests because they think it special and I was delighted to do so. When I finished I thought I should have kept the times to show long it took when I was at home and said I was tired at the end of a day caring for family, home and property. I was asked what was I doing all day since I didn’t have to work?
I gave thought to love of family, for beauty I created in the home, yard and learning to do. Not just what I did with my hands but with my heart.
It took 3 ½ hours from start to finish today when I made the potato salad. No small act in time but its value was what went into it because of caring. The celery chopped thin, green pepper, angular and red pepper to add color; cucumbers angled to be crisp , eggs cooked perfectly made the difference. Particular mayonnaise balanced with sour cream made it special.
Once yard work meant I knew plants and their needs, maximized color, plus caregiving meant I studied facets of connection between us and nature. Watering was measured with empty tuna cans placed precisely. Once a week spraying with mouthwash kept bugs off the landscaping and a can of beer in the sprayer fed the lawn also. Time doing and learning? A lot. Worth it? You bet.
My presence was an added value when David came home for chemo treatment. I sat beside the bed when he had difficulty sleeping doing what I do in thought. I was not cognizant of his awareness until he thanked me for sitting. He told me that he was able to let his grip on himself relax and sleep was his relief for the guard on himself.
Important? How often everyone’s need to have a someone sit by us?
When I met my friend to go walking to relieve her tension, I said let’s put away the toys because it looks like rain. Only toys she said but you and your husband worked to buy them and you respect your work? Never thought of it that way she said. I said the lesson then is the work means nothing and there is no respect for it.
Most people do not think of children as a sacred trust with lessons carefully taught. Most think children are clones of them and a biological thrust of insignificance.
Carrying things too far am I? But this casual attitude permeates every aspect of our lives. Do I ask one more thing to do with a list of too many already?
When I saw a credit card tossed on the counter with disdain for the checkout person I wanted to slap that hand who did it and apologize to the cashier. The attitude said to me I am bigger than this small purchase or it’s only dirty money. I wanted to ask if he had so little respect for his work that gave him credit to buy or the cashier not worth simple courtesy? I was ashamed of what I saw.
Ain’t nothin’ much? But it is a whole lot of much this casual attitude. With Covid 19 I worry a lot about attitudes. I do not relate to souls bartering for rights to sit on the beach or go to the malls in droves. You have a value you have not discovered. Please, take precautions, wear your mask.
Because I want Others to value you, I wear my face mask, to keep our planet afloat until they do. We are in precarious waters.
photo by John S. Hallissey
Knowing the comics section as I do, it appears that she’s studying Doonesbury, which thrills my heart! Of course she’s already read Dilbert (on the front page)…
Love, Emma E’s grandfather
I never knew the supreme abilities of the comics to educate. I remember when our two eldest, Tresy and David first took upon themselves to convince me that I should avail myself to the benefits of the education which life could not give me. I listened over the weeks and months I am sure, though I have no journal entry to verify that fact.
But I did listen and with trepidation, no doubt, began to look upon the comics in the morning to fill in what I inevitably lacked according to the two eldest. And I became hooked. It did not take long and my favorite soon became because I could relate with the myriad home crises, For Better and Worse by Lynn Johnston.
I have a couple of the celebrated anniversary books, the first one given to me by the son of Tresy, the fourth Joseph Harrison. I have loved these vestiges of another time and I think I will request the weekend edition of Chicago Tribune as a birthday gift. I miss reading the comics and realize that a diet of hard lessons with no relief in pictures, is a diet with little flavor.
This photo of our Emma E. reading the comics during this time of self quarantine of the family is a lifting of Spirit for me. Her grandfather Tresy takes great pleasure in sending this photo from her parents. Bless them all. It is a heart lifter!
Oftentimes we wish for words to say the wonderful phrase, that gives motive or impetus to a frame of mind that catapults our committed to things of highest value. Yet there may be no words to say what needs be said. What is upfront is already between the eyes.
I remember looking in the mirror angrily because it was not the girl I saw yesterday, but my mother. And the mate looks at himself when shaving one morning or swiping his beard and he says to the image in the mirror, I am my father. And with anger, hopefully not the same morning, sitting across from each other you both concur your irritating premises.
On further thought the day yields to brighter things and sitting again at the table there is a comfortable presence. The presence says to us that we have shared a number of years and have come through bruised and slightly jaded but agile still.
With the number of things needing time these days, each day is a victory, however small. I remember the times I prayed to pick up someone’s discarded victory. My need for one even discarded was so great, I would chase a throwaway.
We change into faded sweats and sandals and sit and do what the old folks did when we were young. Now since we are them, the fit of it all when shared says we are good, aren’t we lucky? And our hands touch.
As I Am. . . in faded sweats . . .
Love me as I am
for I can be no other.
It is not that talk is unwanted, but
have not all our allotted words been said?
Time now just for silence, a shared one, for
the years add up and there is no time for Others. . .
It is time for Being. . .
There is a time to accept
all that we have become
through years of arduous labor.
Not time for keeping up nor caring to . .
to someone’s elusive measure.
A time not to apologize for
our faded sweats and sandals.
We dress for the street to be seen
but this time now is private.
And being shared, are we not fortunate?
So much the better to love each other
and find us more than all right.
To say I’m good with no apology
. . . because we are.
I have not posted this past week because of some impediment in my desk computer, but thanks to my grandson who found the wrong and corrected it. I am grateful. I felt I had lost my voice.
But what I did was work to get some knitting done and the articles will be on their way. It will free up time for other things to get done and prepare for a visit from my first born and his illustrator wife Claudia. Both Tres and Claudia are generous with help for this blog.
The knitting this week had me sweaty because of health issues arising again due to hand spasms. Aging is a factor when hands lose feeling and become numb. Yarn is hard to handle and keeps slipping off the needles. And when the articles are small and require 4 double pointed needles, hell breaks loose. I think I forced other parts of my brain to work when synapses broke. Sweaty business.
But I wanted to master the spiral pattern and did. I hope now I can do it on a number of things simply by changing yarn thickness and needle size. It is amazing to me carrying this idea to a larger concept, that all things are connected in these universes. These are the talents mastered that my Mentor, the Nazarene spoke of that we should multiply. That are in Mind where moth and rust do not destroy.
I see the connection in all things. That all things are utilized and nothing is lost or forgotten. Simply, all things thought through, are connected. It is a concept that takes us to our knees because there is no place else to go.
I am pleased with the outcome of the spiral knitting and took photos. The other photos are colorful and were just plain fun to do. It was an addiction of sorts that the only overdose with the substance did not require me to take care with heavy machinery or driving!
I was not required to seek medical help as often with overdoses is suggested. I guess I am no fun at all.
‘Each lifetime lived adds to the cumulative sense of loss.’
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.
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.
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 milk cow in a land
of sparse grasses. To each other we are the heavy cream
poured on a dish of skyr .
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?
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.
This bouquet is for you. . .
Tish, Marylouise, and Dorothy, Jan, and Joy, heart friends gone but always upfront; now some cyber friends distanced including (few) males attesting publicly to science, but attending silently to problems not to be tested by science gods in their pristine laboratories.
All friends of caliber, all honorable characters with huge depth, with problems in the confines of earth habitats; the streets of cities and living rooms in homes. My gender confronted mostly in the kitchens, midst getting dinner on the table or cleaning up afterward.
These are the laboratories where reality lives, while the one buying food for the table with the currency of the day sails out the door with a you take care of it dictum, (with an I have bigger fish to fry, like maybe world peace?)
But in today’s world drama, the difference is the one left also needs to get to a paying job because two salaries are required to maintain the premises or a trained talent wants their fair share of today’s kudos or currency. For particular reasons, that is the drama.
Since questions loom in many corners, what bears leverage on the troubled soul? Is it visible to be handled or invisible with an I could not help it attitude? The latter must be dealt with kid gloves or at best a saintly demeanor else we have worlds collapsing in quarters unable to be rebuilt.
Do we need religious or professional help or can we work it out with agencies designed just for this kind of thing? A conundrum, to be sure.
If invisible, is it genetic, inherited, meaning other members of the family have had this problem? Or a new one that deals with unmentionables, or drugs, from alcohol all the way to end of the alphabet, or something best left to experts?
Known is that no one ‘s upbringing prepares them for parenting in today’s world. This is what is known as OJT. On the Job Training. This is how recruits are assigned jobs in the Military, no matter one’s background.
Good friends of caliber are required in life, someone or a handful to inspire or calm when crises loom. Someone in Congress? Today, hard to believe. Or a lawyer? (I called for a friend) Or an ear to listen to heart hurts? (too many times to count).
Or a nurse/friend like Cati who held our fractured family together when David was leaving us, or young neighbor Cherl, who became like a daughter, or friend John, magically appearing in crises.
These are godfriends (correct word) who hold the leaky boat afloat when water rises and family cannot or is unable. I wrote that heaven does not play favorites. They don’t. Everyone is cherished. I was not spared the mountains to climb but had godfriends to journey with. They gave the supreme gift of heart needed.
What can I say when language has no adequate thank you? I call them godfriends.
Grampa says . . Grandma created first homemade meatballs in eggplant/ tomato sauce over polenta with a salad of romaine, cherry tomatoes and kohlrabi with olive oil and balsamic. . .
and then crafts with grandma Claudia, the talented artist. . . .
And then a story to close the day. . . .
It is a simple story but such a big hurdle for mankind . . . that is
to treat new life with an act of devotion to prepare for the challenges
we face in preparation of our potential.
Where we are now, is the place for us to start. So we can then speak with
truth in our search for brotherhood. Not a pipe dream but a fact.
Not just a wish but a promise if we use what is ours within us to
help make perfect peace on earth in our time.
A lot to ask when life has not been exactly fair with us? Yes, but we
have help if we seek it out. It takes courage to even ask I know.
But that too is within us. To find we are courageous is a welcome
surprise. Sometimes invisible arms hold us up.