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Differing Perspectives. . .

By on June 24, 2019 in Observations, Paradigm

There are those who close their eyes to what it is they see because they know what they see will contradict what they choose to believe.
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The look of innocence is the state of shock.  That level where the soul has rested, the mind has
stopped pursuing and spirit dares not delve deeper.
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When it is given because it was asked for, love becomes a duty and a chore.
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Regardless of what is done to you, your choices are limited the higher you reach for enlightenment.  The more given, the more that is required.
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We do not tread lightly where a heavy foot is needed.
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We are before we be something else or we were before we are.
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Individually and collectively man’s thirst for power and what it can do is such a long drink of water that there is not enough Perrier in the world to satiate his thirst.
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Time now for psychology of the divine to become Course Divine 101.
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As long as the eye beholds and another heart beats to receive, there will be reason to keep breathing and not giving up.
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The unfed spirit is just as hungry as the unfed body.
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A one sided effort does bring results.  Even when it appears to be a lost cause, it is not.
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When someone cares enough to do what needs to be done, it is never a lost cause.
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There cannot be lost effort to do good in the Universes.  That would be an oxymoron, a contradiction.  There is only limited understanding for the moment in who or what we are.

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When Words Wound. . .Evolution Halts. . . .

By on May 30, 2019 in Essays, Observations

                                                                             Words Wound. . . Evolution Halts. . .

Children are wounded when they first tell a truth that is uncomfortable or embarrassing to their audience.  And no doubt it is a much loved parent the child is excitedly telling something.

But realizing they are saying something hurtful or worse laughable when the child speaks his truth, the next time the child is careful to doctor his words.  And each time it becomes easier and finally stories  change with each telling.

So is born a compulsive liar.  Knowing the present version of what they are saying is met with no hostility and is okay, the practice continues.

That they are never believed is a small price to pay compared to the remembered pain of truth telling, which they eventually put to sleep.

I have long thought that to call lying sinful was harsh because lies are told to avoid pain.  Lies are a learned behavior to give what information is wanted or more acceptable.

Misdemeanors are different than sins.  Sins are different than psychological impairments.  And impairments of judgments are not dismissed because lessons must be learned.

It is the deeply wounded child stunted in the adult who continues with the outright lies and dismisses these with a no big deal attitude.

It becomes a way of life and credibility has no meaning since they have never known it.  And what you don’t know you cannot relate to and what you don’t know you do not miss.

Children tell truth with no premeditation.  It is when they are punished for truth telling which generally is first a verbatim account of where they came from and what they remember.  That they learn to whitewash the truth and stories seem more fanciful is no surprise.

What was thought would be ways to alleviate the pain but too often learned was to stay away from the place where the pain was inflicted.  Sometimes that is home for the child and therefore becomes a place to run from.

Sometimes people, often parents, are causes and then they too are avoided.  Often it is school and the child becomes a dropout.  Often also, one does not learn new ways of speaking, but one learns how not to open oneself to more pain.

Evolution grinds to a halt and the adult in his dotage clutches the inner child to his grave.  Wars continue and peace becomes a nebulous promise.  But it is a work and it begins here, with us.

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A Divine Surprise. . .

By on May 21, 2019 in Observations, Poetry

 

You know what I was thinking I asked my younger this morning.  He grinned at me and one arm  with hand out flat swooped over his head and then bent to the floor palm out.  It meant to me that my explanations are hard to understand.  I laughed.

I was only going to say that we have found the right foods for our bear Newfoundland because he is smooth and silky and shiny and his eyes clear and bright.  Leroy is one beautiful dog who loves his buddy and is fond of his food lady too.

I am ponderous at times it seems but my humor follows the pattern of my explanations.  It takes work I guess to appreciate my puns.  But I try, really do.

I came across this poem this morning as a change of pace.  I laugh when I read it and hope you do too.  It was after I read a journal entry noting that one of my readers said she doesn’t even know the language I use nor the words and thoughts.

She reads and rereads until she feels the weight.  I am grateful.  She is close to the kingdom because she learns and therefore teaches.  I am the perennial student and worship learning.  Truly grateful I am for my readers.

Physically Unfit or a Divine Surprise. . .

I muse that a derrick would be useful
for lifting an aging body from a chair
to legs that buckle.

My heart catapults out of its
protective cavity and I observe it
resting carefully in my hand.
Only to feel it pound against the ribs
Adam had broken.

I remember answering a phone with a voice
breathless and sexy  as the once famous
Jean Arthur of my youth whom I imitated
by sleeping in front of an open window
in weather forty below.

On flat surfaces which children vacated
I play musical beds to silence
bones that creak.

Darwin is puzzled.
I should not be alive this day complaining
but rather quite dead.

I too, have questioned when entire species
have disappeared and I remain to complain.
But I have learned while he did not,
that the unfit do survive
while heaven still holds the sparklers.

Even to me, I am I find, a divine surprise.                                                                 

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The Mind’s Residual. . . .

By on May 2, 2019 in Observations, Paradigm

The Heavens open momentarily and close but the glimpses from the views linger and haunt one forever.

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The Self wills but the human spirit cannot be legislated.  Statistics are meant to sell beer.

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It is not the Mystery of Life which stunts man and does not beguile him to further thought.  It is the work involved.

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It is not easy for Wendy to become Tinkerbell in one fell swoop.  Not without destroying Peter Pan in that one fell swoop.

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The long face of gloom does not become the human at all in the face of so many small victories, but the constant smile bespeaks an empty head too.

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Those who claim good mental health have it only as long as they keep themselves wrapped in their illusions free from self examination.

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Considering the condition of the world and considering who we confine to psychiatric wards, the question should arise how does one define who is mad in a mad society?

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For one to see with eyes that wrench the closet full of tears open to view is to others an invasion of privacy

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Speak the heart and in like silence the heart will respond.  In matters of the heart, doubt not.

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Bless the elements of design for they are all inclusive.

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What seems like a tragedy in the absurd and obscure indeed is a well thought out and prescribed drama.

 

photo by John S. Hallissey

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Rituals and Habits, A Practice of Life. . . . .

By on April 28, 2019 in Observations, Poetry

Habits. . .

The thud of the back door
as it swings shut, the sound of keys
clinking to their place on the stairs,
tell me even in my sleep, that you are home.

Small things noted,
giving rise to habits observed,
a sense of ritual to a life filled with them.

We continue rituals,
for without them is lost our practice of life.
We continue  to do those things over and over,
for if we miss once, we may lose us
whom only we know.

And we do not trust ourselves enough
to know when a thing is good.

 

People differ in thought about rituals.  Many, who lean toward independence, prefer the spontaneity of their lives.  For me, whose head wanders worlds uncharted with no clock or linear times to claim my intentions, rituals are necessary to navigate a particular world.  It is good for me to note the changing seasons,  as it is to follow what the inhabitants are doing as the saying goes, in whatever world.

For some, rituals are compulsive and for those, they are an anchor. Habits show customs and rules for where I am.  Rituals begin my day and close it.  And allows my head the freedom to explore what piques my interest without boundaries.   Rituals have helped me be at home where I find myself.  And by adhering to them, I find myself welcomed.   

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What Keeps Us Awake. . . .

By on April 12, 2019 in Observations, Paradigm

To stand straight need not be at the expense of an other’s fall.  It can be because of one’s need to reach higher than one knows.
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Facing one’s self in one’s declining years is a task best left to those who point to the kudos on the walls.  They have something to point to and their sights rest on accomplishments.  Others wonder if they failed the mark.
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God is a word most people stop at because the mind balks at its meager knowledge to proceed.
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To not remember is to lock the vault only to have it burglarized.  One is then called to remember without those whose presence would  have made the memories bearable either in joy or sorrow.
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But to put memories into a vault and to tightly lid them is to crowd the emotions into a body with sometimes a mind bending escape as a respite.
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Justification is a personal thing.  It is what keeps us going when all about point the finger of accusation at us.
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In the work is the beauty and once translated, the beauty is in the work.
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All dreams are for sale.  They cost a lifetime and by then you realize it wasn’t quite what you wanted, more perhaps what was needed.
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A cure based on someone else’s faith is a tenuous cure at best.
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The ability to recognize what another does not want to do for himself is also the ability to know when the effort is wasted.  Wasted because to use another is the easiest way to go.
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When one has the knowledge, one also has the obligation.

 

photo by John Holmes

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And Sunday Comes. . .

By on March 28, 2019 in Introduction, Observations

Sometimes there sweeps over one a feeling saying ‘that’s how I always felt’ whatever prompts a memory.  It  could be a scent or sunlight or something triggering a wave awakening response long dormant.  Often one knows where it originates  but often the ‘always’ has no beginning at least  in this lifetime.

This following feeling is a comforting one and a loving one to me.  Whenever it comes upon me the memories are good and I wear them like a stretched sweater  .  We are our memories and if this day we look upon our lives as surviving triumphantly in spite of a hazardous journey, bless all memories because you have overcome and are the victory.

I started this entry years ago when waiting for guests and family to arrive for dinner.  This is as far as I got with it but coming upon it now the feeling was fresh.  You have these incidents also, perhaps never thinking them special.  But they are. . . . and so makes you special.

 

This is a Sunday morning at almost noon and I sit here at my window in my beloved study and look out at the snow piled on the evergreen boughs albeit like sagging angel wings.   The sun comes through the opposite window and the brightness bespeaks somehow a Sunday morning.

Why is there always a different look to the world on a Sunday?   Everything looks somehow different, almost as if there was a visible sign on the day saying, this is Sunday!

As a child on The Farm, with the inside door open, leaving only the storm door with its weeping windows and the sun streaming through, there was the smell of chicken soup or whatever the stove was cooking signifying that this, even this, smelled different because it was Sunday.

So my Sunday in this house smells like Sunday with the beef roast and baked potatoes, as I await the family and our guests.  It will be a good dinner and this is what Sundays are all about for me.

It Is Enough. . .

It is enough. . .  just breathing and feeling
the north wind coming through the night.

It is enough. . .  to stir my senses,
to lift me from my bed to get on with life.

It is enough. . . to raise the dust
out of the corners too long neglected.

It is enough. .  . to lift the dirty and sweaty labors
and point out that in these are the gifts of life.

These are the beautiful,
along with the first snow and the harvest intact and sealed.

And to find a reflection
of what I hold dear in the eyes of an Other.

It is enough.

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A Cosmic Hug. . .

By on March 8, 2019 in Observations

A Cosmic Hug. .

I had a dear brother in law who said he liked asking me questions because he knew I researched everything I opinioned.  Unless I had either experience or knowledge,  I refrained expression.  I considered his a high compliment.

So when I learned of gravity or weighted blankets,  I began the long sit in at the computer.  And I read  and reviewed the reviews from ancient corners of the universe.  And decided to make a small throw to cover restless legs.

I thought plastic beads too pricey and searched out possibilities and then finally settled on rice for a try out.  I took 34 inch by 43 inch muslin and decided on 5 inch pockets.  I will spare the details because if you know of the blankets, you already know how to make them.  I also made a cover like a large pillow case for it and ties at the end.  In case I spilled something or the dog drooled effusively.

I used almost 3 pounds of rice.  I laid it crosswise on my bed and slept the sleep of the righteous.  It worked fine and still does and I love it.  3 pounds of rice is right for me for this size.  For restless legs it truly works also.

It is a like a cosmic hug.   Enough of a weight to anchor me lest I float away.

When I first learned of the blankets I was surprised at the number of teachers and parents, mothers mostly reported, of children with autism.  The teachers lamented because there were not enough blankets and children were timed for use of them.  Parents were enthused but funds were limited and plastic beads high in cost.

With children the beads were necessary because of laundering.  Rice does not allow laundering which was why I made a cover.  Chances for adults to drag the blanket around are slim but an occasional spill is possible.

The photo is one my niece made for a grandson.  I think the result is super.  It is not the answer for every problem but oftentimes it helps soothe the light sleeper.

Perhaps it would have helped the child I was to become more likable and less irritating if I had been  able to sleep beneath a cosmic hug.  It is only a perhaps, but we must remember that many children cope with memories still fresh of the world they came from.

Sometimes a reminder to get their blanket for a cuddle is all they need.  They walk a high wire and when a parent is unavailable  they need a hug more than a lecture.

photo by Jody Simons

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Challenging the Ethers. . .

By on February 26, 2019 in Observations

Challenging the Ethers. . .

with today’s vernacular is a noble attempt.  Hard to find an ancient mind not colored by the passing centuries.)

If man is the result of the whim of the Potter,  how dependable is the Potter?

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Or is the lump of clay thrown willy nilly at the whim of the elements and molded?

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And how great should man’s efforts be and how much energy expended to remake what we did not control?

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Throwing the kid out of the house and using ‘tough love’ would never be a factor in today’s world or any world if the twig was not already bent upon arrival.

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Can any constructive change be considered not worthwhile and worth the effort?  When does ‘at what cost’ enter into the argument?

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Process is All and discipline is part of the process if you are a disciple.

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God is a Process and therefore a verb.

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Tears are what we use to rinse out our brains if we give life any thought at all.

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Tears are also what we use to rinse out our memories.

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The purpose of life is to lift our brother up.  And then to ask how high.  We will then know how high and for what reason.  The footwork then begins.

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The Fairyland Was Real. . . .

By on February 4, 2019 in Observations, Poetry

This time you will mentally shape the thoughts for this poem.  You will remember the child you were at heart and the times when the world became a fairyland.  We all have these memories and we take them out when the world becomes brittle and sharp.  With these memories,  few that they are,  it becomes malleable again and softer.  Wear with splendor these memories.  They warm you when nothing else can. 

You Washed The World . . .

You washed the world
with my love
and took it and made
a valentine of my heart.

You washed the world
with a blanket of snow
and lace formed on my eyebrows
and made my lashes
heavy with snow.

You threw me down
and I made an angel
with wings outstretched
and I stood in my finery

and it never faded nor melted.

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