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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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Simple sums. . .Bread for the Day. . .

By on December 29, 2018 in Observations

 

Simple Sums. . . Bread for the Day. . . .

It seems the length of our lives is directly connected to our unresolves.

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To find beauty in the doing, puts even the most menial task in the position of praising life.

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Skirmishes, both large and small, are always grist for someone’s mill.

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We look for the next Messiah and when one appears, we will ask for credentials.

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Too many unresolves without resolve will either be blocked from memory or tie up the individual to render immobility.

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With no memory, the motion of the man is one in search for his god.

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Being justified is not the same as being accountable.  The difference is the same as liquid and non liquid assets.  The difference between liquid and non liquid assets is time.  The bird in the hand is worth two in the bush if we are hungry.

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Justification and accountability are on par with rights and responsibility.  We can  have rights and be justified but if we are accountable we are responsible.

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Jesus said ’Ye are gods’ meaning Man is Divine, god within.  But the business of godhood is not all that great.  It means being responsible every minute and man proves minute by minute that he’s not buying the concept.  It is no fun.

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Whoever is in charge of this world has a thankless job and their fatigue too often is apparent.

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All of humankind is in need of professional counseling.  But who is going to counsel the counselors?

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

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Shared Silence

By on December 5, 2018 in Observations, Poetry

Shared Silence

In rereading a journal entry of many years ago I wrote with little editing, ‘that my husband of more than a half century went out the door this morning with little communication.  Though there was little talk, there was a communion of shared history in the house.

I think that has replaced talking, being more a feeling than anything.  Not preferable, but the status.

The feeling is that we are what we are and there is no changing at this time.   It was a matter of love me as I am for I can be no other.

It is not that communication would not be welcome.  But even that I really don’t know.  Growth is singular and individual, depending on the soul’s need and intent.

There comes a time that is past communication.  There is a time for silence.  Silence , I would suppose is a time for Being.’

(I add this thought today,  ‘a time for Being, not like in closing shop, but Out Of Time, meaning outside of Time.  Elsewhere.  A soon time.)

Shared Silence

It is a time
past the time of talk,
past the time of argues.

There is a time of silence,
a shared silence,
a time to accept,
a time to simply
slip into old slippers and Be.

No matter the world,
this time is ours.
Maybe not to fill
all the empty spaces
but given time, blends them

into a communion of shared silences.

 

artwork unknown

 

 

 

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In Thanksgiving. . .Because it is. . .

By on November 16, 2018 in Observations, Poetry

Sometimes I look upon past work and see a new perspective, a new meaning.  And sometimes I cannot remember the person I was who wrote the poem or prose.  It is someone who has made up a portion of who I am and I bring her to the work I read today.  And I am all who I am, what I was and who I am becoming.  That someone I become will surprise me I am sure.

There will be more differences noted not only the physical ones all see.  The subtle changes may seem minute but large to me.  Glimpses are given embracing memories long faded but now gaining form.  Life lived with dedication to commitments leaves few regrets.  And what were considered obstacles now become mountains that have been climbed successfully. 

We are in the midst of a vast universe.  Vast.  And we are more than what we appear.  Our connection to All That Is is real and wondrous.  I bend at the knees easily.  In Thanksgiving.

Because It Is. . .

You cannot dream things that never were
for in a sometime and a somewhere
they’ve taken place and left their indelible memory
on your mind.

Only to be remembered when a slim shadow
casts its spell across your life
and causes you to bring forth a relic,
a piece of the dream that had its substance
in a far time when love was pocketed
near your heart and brought forth to heal
a wound, to make life complete.

Never to question why or why not.
Simply because it is.

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With Knees Bent. . . .

By on November 7, 2018 in Observations, Paradigm

 

With Knees Bent. . . .

There are those who  have learned the ways of the world but neglected to learn the lessons that might  have led to the same conclusions with understanding.

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In the midst of agonies, there is the absurdity.  But to carry the absurdity past its point, belabors it.

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The lessons have been taught over and over and now the students will either come to class on their own or continue recess.

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Today’s man only allows 30 seconds to capsule our thoughts.  Anything more smacks of lecturing and lecturing brings back a harness that mandatory education is.  Strange that he has forgotten ordinary conversation which once we engaged in happily.

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To be less than compassionate is to befoul the learning.  To be less than one’s best is to compromise.

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The mind set to turn a particular direction is already bent.

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Only as we observe that life is everlasting and neverending,  and the challenge is in the journey with hope,  mankind will tolerate the fact that destiny is in his hands.

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The greatest lessons are those that require digesting but man prefers it all to be done while he sleeps.  The most meaningful are those of length that he must trudge with footwork and those wrought in the places of ablution.

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We are out to lunch when an Other deals with what we are not aware of.

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We can take events and make good porridge from fermented oats.  Sometimes it is grain gone wild.

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There will be change simply because there will be shame.

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When what is done is done in good Grace and a full heart,  there will be knees bent at the bed’s edge.

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Let the music in my heart be heard in the spheres.  And let the heart interpret correctly.

 

photo by Joe Hallissey Sr.

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Mind Benders. . . .

By on October 11, 2018 in Uncategorized

I consider it fun doing research and often I come upon something that deserves more thought.  With the quote comes more research about what the author meant.  I call them mind benders.  It is about discovering what meaning it has given to my life.  The following are simple but a storehouse of depth within. 

Mind Benders. . .

A house needs a Grandma in it.                      Louisa May Alcott

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That which is not good for the beehive cannot be good for the bees.
                                                                    Marcus Aurelius  C161AD

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The battle for conservation is part of the eternal conflict between right and wrong.                                                                                                                            John Muir

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Sometimes I wonder whether the world is being run by smart people who are putting us on or imbeciles who really mean it.                                                                                                                           Mark Twain

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The intellect of the wise is like glass; it admits the light of heaven and reflects it.          Augustus Hare

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To believe what is true for you is true for all men.                                                           Ralph Waldo Emerson

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We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark;  the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the Light.                                                                                                                                               Plato

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You become what you feed your mind.                                                                           Veronica Hallissey

 

photo of Northern Michigan
by Joe Hallissey Sr.

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