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I Take Your Hand. . .

 

0bservations from an almost 50 year old mother to 3 sons in their late twenties. . . Journaled in June of 1980—— now an aged, almost 91 mother with a very tired head and a compromised immune system sporting a half dozen conditions ready for a nap . . . May, 2022

As a mother, it never occurred to me to ask them if their homework was done.  That was their responsibility.

They never asked if the laundry was done.  That was my responsibility.

Clothes were never a priory with me.  The boys wore long or short sleeve jerseys with khaki pants.  So if they went missing and the police were called, I would not appear dim but could tell them what they wore.  Not the colors,  but the cut of the cloth.

I remember always their joys, their agonies and their laughter and talks.  Memories are the bridge to the futures of progeny.  Best we clean up memories before they begin to leak into futures.

Of recent times  we shy away from pulling up a chair to listen  to a  friend’s or beloveds concerns lest we be practicing medicine without a license.  Mostly it is because we are at a loss because of time or just don’t want the involvement.  And it costs to become emotionally involved with an Other.  Not only does one share the agonies, but one must confront oneself. ( ( true then, sounds  like work?  It is. . ))

There is a superficial comfort to be gained by psychologically labeling a loved one’s problems.  It relieves one of responsibility to help solve the problem.  Or just pretending it does not exist. 

A time before television came into our homes and stole our prime time evenings,  we had  time to sit and chat with a beloved and share ourselves which helped alleviate the explosion of a problem and contained  it within the concerns of two who shared hearts. 

Because the burden was halved it did not erupt and was virtue of love salved with its healing ointment.  A differing perspective was heeded and shown an avenue that shared concerns absolved.  Such was the healing proffered by neighbors and beloveds before the technology invaded lives and took from humans the responsibilities and privileges of being humane.

The pendulum of progress will find its balance but we must seek it.  ((I do not wish to give up my library at hand always with my computer.  Nor do I wish to whiteout the typos my numbing fingers display with earnest and sincere desire for professional work.  Each must draw the lines for ourselves.))  Our respect and love for humanity must be our first concern. 

With rising costs for counseling and medical services,  it behooves all of us to render what we once considered our blessed obligation, to serve one another.  Isolation compounds problems into catastrophes.  We are wise to know which ones we cannot handle.  But drama is what families are about and as life complicates itself and us,  we must again protect prime time for people whose needs are prime.

I Take Your Hand . . . 

Come, I take your hand.
We go to places where
our hearts share dreams.

Sometime back, in histories
having no years,
we trod places where paths
had not been worn.

It was a good time,
seeing how we formed lives
with no lesson plans,
loved with no time
and lived fully aware.

We remember now
when the hands of the clocks
tell us we have only so much time;
only so much to check emails,
to see bank statements,
and to note how many Likes
from those we don’t know.

And only so much time
before the next commercial break
and then we might have time

to love one another?

September 2016

 

 

artwork by 
Claudia Hallissey

 

((comments edited by VRH))

Because of Love and Balance, not Fear. . .

On December 30, 2017 I wrote the following.  I edit only for space and my comments in the writing since then . . .

I sat with my coffee and thought vengeance is mine saith the lord and took
it to say with my vision, ahhh yeah.  There is balance and I will write it.
Vengeance is mine.  And the need for a greater than who I am god was
necessary   because man was where he was in growth and time.  And to
teach this was a necessity  to have an outside intelligence greater than the
knowledge man felt at the time.

When we take into consideration this balance, a growth commensurate with  the intelligence sparking within, all things will be compensated.  I need to go back to Emerson again to find the words to refresh.  That all things will be balanced. 

And what is taken illegally, unequally, taken and acknowledged as one’s own,  will be consequential  because  the internal balance is weighed and known.   There are consequences because no one gets away scot free.

Mentally cognizant or not, there is a measuring up at some point.  There is no getting away with anything.  Vengeance is mine, sayeth LIFE in total.  There has to be this dictum or life in any form would no longer Be.

Throughout the universes, throughout , there is balance.  There is intelligence that directs and dictates within the freedom of choice.  Hoping against hope, life in any form will choose what is good for the All.  There is no ‘it don’t matter’ dictum.  It all matters and  consequences are attached, individually and collectively.

The reason is growth and there is nothing junked.  Everything is itemized and noted and destined for good. Or we would no longer Be.

I am not credentialed and do not have the proper words.  In January, 2014 I wrote that Intelligence was the primary factor of all Universes.  Nothing taken for granted as a non life because the least seemingly alive has what is still an unknown to look for. It holds desire within to unite with Life and ultimately grow to other forms of intelligence, other forms of life.  I wrote of God In A Rock.

((I see the vengeance is mine concept as life begetting life, not out of anger or fear or desire to best the impossible.  But to allow growth and ultimate life in the best capacity.  And what that capacity will be, we do not know. 

Having ventured onto this particular journey’s path, this step was the eventual one to be taken.  It is not the only path nor only journey, but just as history has shown man’s footwork,  nothing new seemingly is changed, just costumes and language. 

Though physically unfit for this journey,  hopefully please, my intent  articulate.))

 

 

 

The Cost Of War. . .don’t get me started. . .

The Cost Of War. . .Knotted Family Ties. . .

She was little more than a toddler.  She was plain, even mousy by standards of beauty deemed for the very few.  Stringy hair, hazel eyes with poor sight even and not the porcelain English complexion esteemed by her heritage.  Left with her brother in Scotland while her mother set out for Canada to set up housekeeping for a husband wounded in the first world war and sent to a Toronto hospital for care. Left too long for the toddler, for when she and her brother were sent to travel the ocean with hired friends, she arrived to find herself no longer the center of interest.

Arriving to find a new sister, with blue eyes, curly blond locks and a porcelain skin already called ‘doll’ because of her exquisite English heritage.  Welcomed the first sister was with acknowledgment that she was a big sister to look out for the ‘doll’.  Her cry was ‘I’m little, too!’ and would be for almost a hundred years.

Heartbreaking, but pathetic also, to the generations listening powerless to untie the knots that were tied by circumstances only those who tied them could untie.  To hear an octogenarian  begin every explanation of her life with those words, ‘I’m little, too!’ and need to be parented by everyone regardless of age was an uncomfortable position for everyone.   Requiring always to be center, even when birthing her only child and stealing from his father the parental love and caring necessary for his growth.

The girl toddler grown aged never made peace even with her own son.  Always displaced she was, shunted aside for every newly minted child coming into the family.  Hers was a life of pampering the aging psyche forever the child by a husband who could care for only one.  He learned too late for him with no time left, the unhealthy conditions for everyone.  And how what was not done left the shouldering of burdens on the unsuspecting coming into the family.

We learn ‘suffer the little children’ with the words taking root and no one thinking that the conditions of the beatitude would take forever to unearth.  No one thought we would perpetrate upon our progeny burdens that would make leaden their feet and prevent growth.  We would fertilize beliefs that we must assuage the anguish of the ancestors and give them what was owed.  Hence we prepare the ground for more bloodshed.

Do circumstances of our lives provide the fodder for weapons of war and peace and goodwill are the two weeks of grace given as reward at the end of the year?  I don’t think that was the intent when the prophecy was fulfilled.  We have to grow up sometime.  Else the stagnation persists and evolution is halted.  Think on it.  This small instance of one little girl is multiplied forever anon.  The cost of war?  Don’t get me started.. . .

Excerpt from the
Knotted Family Ties. . .

I close the shutters and pull up the steps.
I learn to live in my own house.
I stay my time and do what is mine.

Jesus, it hurts to watch and be able to do nothing.

Fun With An Idea. . . .

I remember walking from the garage to the house and  wondering if my mate would see the work  I did in the yard that had taken me till dark to do.  And I was thinking of the Christmas tree I had once put up, sawing off the trunk to fit the holder,  stringing blue lights and also the decorating everything had required.  All this and even the latter was thought walking the path to the house.  The blue lights of the tree in the new room window were vivid in the dark.

And the thought occurred walking that it was in error that I thought I did these things.  And the error was in thinking that they were done to gain the praise and gratitude of the one I had in mind.  It was not the Other whose praise I wished.  It was none other than my Self I did my best and worked to please.

The scenes I wanted to duplicate were the ones I had in memory.  From where or what world I did not know.  But from a somewhere and sometime that burned into my brain their beauty and with the love for me that somehow came as an apriori, a before that kept me warm.

When I saw this photo from Emma E’s grandfather, who said that the great granddaughter decides whole scenes with great grandma’s tapestries,  adding a house, birdhouse, raffia  and sea shells with very real symbols, I know what is withdrawn from that memory bank.

Important to me is the care given to creating what is done from mind’s bedding.  Lately I am keenly aware of the casual dismissal of what is made and what little thought is given.  And it seems any effort is called creative no matter how thrown together something is. 

It offends me greatly because if it is worth doing, there should be pride in workmanship when done.  Time and physical effort called sweat should accompany what one presents as one’s work with name attached.  Some things are done as exercise of an idea and should be our fun.  Creative presentments should have standards that are measurable. 

Our schoolrooms once taught these standards.  Realizing that many felt outside what was accepted and were singed by the standards should  open one for further study and practice to make better. 

And learn that we are not the only way station but our further journey will yet show us sparklers.

a mountain top experience. . . .

I had intended to send an email to a friend and instead with this quirk of a mind which is mine, it took to be an essay.  When finished I thought better than to send it.  The reason being another trip to the hospital last weekend in dire straits.

An early cardiologist appointment on Friday morning the 7 th, had him saying you need hospital care and the feeling was imminent.  So a weekend in the care of my Mentor’s Caregivers had them releasing me to my family on Sunday, January 9 th.

And time to give some thought to what I need to write.  The finding (stumbled) and reading of an early journal entry, (almost to the day plus 50 years) had this to say about the road being traveled.  I edit only for space.

January 17, 1973
Wednesday

Been busy at work all day.  Read for a while last night and was interested in the excerpt of Paul Tillich when he talked of the Cosmic Consciousness experience as a State of Grace.  It is interesting how much I understand what was not clear a decade earlier.   Does time do it or growth?

Tillich states that Grace cannot be wished for (how can you wish for something outside your experience?)  Yet when it comes you know that something outside your experience has happened;  not by various names but a something, happened. 

Mine came with the knowledge that I was one with the universe and the words, ‘He Lives!’
Whether that meant Christ because of my upbringing, or because a friend died and was alive without a doubt.  His wife was impressed to call me on the day he made his transition and the only thing I could say to her was that he lives,  over and over.

This was the 3 day period when I felt as if the top of my head had been taken off and I indeed felt one with the universe.  This must be what it is like when you die to this world.  The physical boundaries are no longer and you become part of the surrounding. 

I seemed to flow into the Ethers.  I felt part and parcel of it, a oneness unbelievable.  It was exhilarating while it lasted.  I did not know of new intellectual stirrings, except no doubt about the foreverness of life on a gut level.  And the words over and over ‘He Lives!’

Tillich said that all that is necessary in this experience is that you know you are accepted.  It also comes out of grief and despair.  To this day I don’t know why I was so devasted by this friend’s illness and death.  Except I remember our first meeting of recognition from a someplace and sometime.

How deep can grief go?  It flows through the very core of you and out to join the suffering of ‘All That Is’ . . .

And  the core of you is ‘All That Is’  . . . .

(I have been encouraged to enter the early journals into my blog.  One already through conversation, that few know even scattered religious history.  I have mentioned my crashing world with the doctor asking me to speak to some student wannabe psychiatrists.  I agreed and found a roomful waiting.  And only one had an idea, an idea of maybe this is what I was talking about, the Rosicrucian.    

There may be no description given that matches the experience, but as Paul Tillich said, one knows a something happened, a big something.  It was an authentic experience and in discussion with a Protestant minister, he called it a mountain top experience and wished it had been his.)

This wall quilt surprised me and I am fond of this artistic side of me.  Knowing how difficult it is to stay with a body intent on laying down,  the jenny genes triumphed.  Probably never again.  I negotiate with my teachers for a bit more time to try another evergreen.  

All Creatures great and small. . .

 

 

In reading Bedlamfarm.com about simple changes in their three dogs leading to a concern, it brought to mind this whole pandemic we have been tangling with.  Not only our concern with humanity but with the creatures we live with. 

I am certain we have had more differences of opinions these past two years than we contend with and no resolution.  The fact that there is question among us concerning what we should do definitely with humans leads to questions about our four legged companions.

We wonder if we have a cold or Covid or possibly underlying complications from conditions compromising us.  Is our Newfie upset because we’re housing the sister dogs or is it something in the water?  Why all the accidents with bathroom habits when I am home all day? 

And why all the landscaping upsets and gross eating outdoors?  When our Newfie blew out his hind legs demanding surgery on both, son John toted pool water breakfast and dinner times for a month while Leroy was in the hospital.  Because Leroy wouldn’t drink city water, nor eat the kennel hospital food.  Otherwise of course he is no trouble and he was a free dog.  There is no such thing we learned.

The opinions diverse.  When something becomes a pandemic, common sense tells us that our companion animals are affected too.  We are not protected from wild creatures  hugging the earth that roam the landscaping and climb the walls to get inside the yards where the good stuffs are.  I watch lizards scoot up the cinder block fences and squirrels still playing havoc with dogs still trying to jump 8 foot walls.

And the 200 times better noses on the dogs sense the gross droppings from night creatures eating better than they are they think.  I still think it is partly the pool waters.

Many of the homes nearby have backyard pools.  And it means that whole communities are treated for what ails us.  I luckily talked to the pool man and asked if changes had been made and his immediate question was what are you noticing and troubled with? 

I said loose bowels habits and upsets in our creatures.  He said we have increased muriatic acid because of the pandemic as well as other measures.  I told him I had been running the hose into the small spa section of the pool where the big guy drinks.  He agreed it wise to do so when he treats the pool. 

I understand water is the most affected during any crisis that affects the community.  And animal hospitals are first aware of this.   It is written about in most veterinary literature.  I am observant. 

I have no written credentials but my eyes still work.  I am wont to make connections and since I spot first what needs cleaning up.   Sorry, it is what I do.   I care for what is alive and even sometimes not.

 

photo by Jessie Hallissey

English Muffin Bread that toasts divinely. . . .

You might find this helpful if you will be having a houseful of hungry people looking for something to eat Thanksgiving morning but wanting to leave space for big bird, this you will feed them.  Everyone loves English Muffins but to have enough on hand leaves a bare budget.  This recipe makes two loaves and they are good!  And taste even better than the muffins.  Follow the recipe and don’t substitute.  I have and when something is good,  I hope I have learned not to  mess with perfection. 

This yellowed recipe is from the Detroit Free Press from early 1982.  I know some of you were not born, but  I narrow the decade to the century mark.  I don’t know why I seem to have lost this recipe to be found again because  even in hard times we have to eat. 

 

 

 

5 ½ to 6 c flour , divided
2 pkgs active dry yeast or
(4 ½ tsp measured active dry yeast)
1 Tbsp sugar
2 tsp salt
¼ tsp baking soda
2 c milk
½ c water
Cornmeal

In large bowl combine three cups of flour, yeast, sugar, salt and baking soda; set aside.
Heat milk and water until very warm (120 to 130 degrees). Add to flour mixture gradually, beating constantly. Until batter is smooth. Gradually add enough of the remaining flour to make a stiff batter. It takes most of the flour.

(I sprinkle some flour on the counter and push the batter onto counter.  It will be stiff enough to smooth and knead into a ball gently 2 or 3 times.  This I love to do because I somehow know the dough knows the feel of my hands and the love flowing through.  It is my connection and who I am,)

Prepare two 8 ½  x 4 ½ inch loaf pans greasing lightly and sprinkling with cornmeal if you wish.  Divide dough into equal parts for each pan.  Sprinkle with more cornmeal.  The directions say to cover with damp cloth.  I don’t have success doing this because the cloth always sticks.  I just put the 2 pans in a warm place until almost double in bulk. For me it is a little over ½ to 1 hour. My warm place is a toaster oven with no heat of course.  Or your regular oven with no heat. 

You may have a warm place the family pets cannot reach.  Let rise an inch above the center of the pan.  It has a tendency to fall should you forget and let rise all around the pan.  If you do and it does, remove and knead lightly and let rise again.  It happened to me and took a little more time, but no calamity.  I had dressed the tops in the photo with bagel seasonings.  

Bake at 400 degrees for 25 minutes.  I have invested in an instant thermometer and wonder why it took me so long.  At 195-200 degrees the bread is done.  No guessing.  Otherwise all my life I tapped the bread like a drum for reason I do not know to this day.  To my ears it was a drumbeat.  Remove from pans and cool on rack.  Makes 2 loaves.  Enjoy and in good health.

 

What if it is true. . . just for today. . .

What if it is true. . . . .just for today. . . .

 The thought occurred to me what if whatever we think  is true. . .  just for today?  How would it affect me and life around me?  How would it affect you being related in thought with me?

What if it were true that thoughts are things and have a weight?  That everything crossing our minds is true somewhere, what would their effect be?  And what if our thoughts hang in the air, ripe for anyone’s picking?

Supposing, just supposing what we are thinking is considered prayer by the heavens?  Would we be embarrassed? Because we  approach our Thanksgiving holy days of gratitude, can we try something?

We are a special country on this earth.  And many the world over, envy us.  We were settled because people fled persecution for many reasons and one of them being they wished to worship in their own way.  We are a country composed of  the world’s religions and it makes us special because sacred customs  are honored.

My mentor, the Nazarene said you give me a drink of water and you give a drink to all.  Or what you do for one, all will do for the each.  When you do something kind, it is a way of giving your blessing to everyone you meet.  It is a gift we all can give simply because we breathe the same air.

Since you are reading this, I assume you learned to read in kindergarten when I did .  I read the Dick and Jane stories about families not like mine.  I also learned to be kind to the one sitting next to me and not to hurt feelings, to be gentle. 

Which was a big lesson to learn because those sitting next to me were different than me and were not allowed to come to my house to play.  We all had to learn that different can be a  big lesson because in many ways you see me as different than you.

So let us  be helpful and do good.    Today we will think kindly about each other and give our blessings.  We try for happy memories for all and send our thoughts skyward so that whoever finds them will say thank you!

Be it true. . . just for today have our thoughts be prayers and see where they go.  We can do it. . . .just for today.  I attach my name to mine.  You too?

Like Silly Putty In The Hands Of Children. . . . .

  . . . .I got to thinking about this dream that made this world and all in it.  I have been thinking about Michael Talbot who figured out that this was a holographic universe and everything in it was a soup kitchen.  Soupy and until we looked at it to name it and because we identified it, it turned into matter.  So the soupy mess never stayed that way because the minute we looked at it,  it became more solid. 

And the noises surrounding all this identifying and naming and  photographing we couldn’t because we found  also that when identified everything soupy had potential.  Even if we thought there was no life in it, the bottom line to subatomic particles is that there is no divisive factor.  Everything is non divisive,  is united or clinging to their almost likeness because there is a desire to bring forth life I think, in The All or Life or what we think Sacred. 

What I was trying to say years ago in Connecticut when Hal and Ann(our minister friends)  came to dinner was that there is God In A Rock.  That even when we dismiss non life we simply do not have eyes to see everything and what we are dismissing as non viable may indeed be submerged and we don’t have those eyes yet to see.  Because all that we acknowledge is what we are able to relate to.  

As I read the Talbot book what is seen is the top layer of what we look for.  And Researcher Bohm by his proclivity  says that the deeper secrets still are not evident.  We only see what we look for.  So we can only discuss the soupy texture of the Universe and what we hope to see is what is composed of this soup.

As  we evolve we create the reality we identify as we swim in it and rewrite it.  We draw summations of what we experience and view but we cannot project what conclusions can be drawn from the parts.

The good Science does is that it tries to compute how things began but we draw conclusions from what is experienced and what has been glimpsed.  The full potential is not yet disclosed.  And what we are open to.   The potential is in its becoming.

Perhaps as Susan Howatch wrote some philosophers believed that human nature cannot grasp the concept of reality at all. 

My dream of our David after his death was as he came down the street while I was moving the water hose on the front lawn.  I said David you are alive and well and he said it is a wonder.  Heaven  makes  as many mistakes as he had,  David said.

And the reason for the mistakes is that as long as there is growth, no conclusions are drawn because it is incomplete, everything inconclusive and offers potential growth.  Is anything ever finalized?  Surely beyond my frame of thought.  But as long as there is a one who thinks he can make a difference, can we close anything off?   

Especially if the ending is not determined to have a final potential.  Or is final potential an oxymoron?  It can be understood that our desire for manifestation of our mind’s produce gave way to this world’s creation.  Was there direction foreseen with boundaries within moral and ethical choices?  Was there a sense of sexual morass or proclivity to it all?

We have seen human behaviors manipulated as so much silly putty in the hands of  children.  And we have seen the reality show onstage and have seen applause inhaled as so much addictive substance. 

We couldn’t believe what we were seeing because it was not in our frame of reference.  But it blew our minds and we are all wounded.  We have not recovered and wonder if we ever will.

 

photo by  Mark Jacobson

Observations. . .from my lifetimes. . .

If you do not intend to look back,  it’s best to remember to lift the plow.
*****
Wishes are as potent a force as fishes swimming in live water.
***** 
Under adverse conditions, we become more of what we are.
***** 
To think is a holy obligation.  And to be held accountable should follow.  We would then be responsible human beings?  Imagine that!
*****
The world no longer tolerates the thinker.  He has become a recluse in the ribbon of concrete. 
*****
The world hails the activist, the doer.  The attention and kudos are granted no matter the consequences, constructive or not.  And we live in those consequences.
***** 
Curbside decisions belong to the white charger.  The smooth phrase, the quick retort are only newsworthy.  And both fade rapidly in memory to be recalled only by the video screen.
*****
The thoughtful person cannot find a place to be asked a question requiring the time to raise their eyes to the hills and back for a reflective answer.
*****
The visionary has the look of one used to focusing on the horizon.  I have time for the visionary.  They have substance for the long haul as a participant in the vision.  And strangely, human events still take time no matter how we wish otherwise. 
***** 
The immediate situation may be alleviated with a curbside decision but the progression of humankind may never be affected.  There is always that hope. 
*****  
Where is safe?  Safe is only in your head because no place is safe.  And I would have to argue your head.
*****                                                    
Nothing gets done in this world unless somebody’s back breaks, a somebody’s legs ache and at least a somebody’s mind splinters and a heart rips apart.
*****  

 

photo by
Kathy Rybacki Qualiana

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