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Shared Silence

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. . .

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. . . .

 

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.

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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.

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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.

*****

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.

*****

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

*****

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

*****

There will be change simply because there will be shame.

*****

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

*****

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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A Convocation of Saints . . .

 

Not Fun and Games. . .but in communion . .

My eldest in a conversation at one time spoke of the torture of those given knowledge in the inner journey.  He said there was no one with whom to share what has been given so they drag in nobility aspects of it.  He was a young man then and he was right.

The need for physical arms around one is not lessened in the light of cosmic awareness.  If anything it points up painfully how few there are who share or can share in this journey.  It points up even how very few there are who know of what we speak.

The desire to clasp hands across the table with a like mind is so intense that the desire is quickly dismissed with uttered arguments.  Yet they are just moments.

One learns to walk in communion with invisible friends and these times do make the empty house full.  I walked through those rooms with warm woods and the empty house was full.  The voices of long ago loves occasionally break through and ears ache from pressures of invisible friends.  There is a convocation of saints and the company of good minds still present.

I can throw back my head and laugh at a thought co-mingling with mind and know the presence of a kindred spirit.  You have too and to the questioning glances of those standing by explain. . . ‘a thought just struck me funny’ . . .and wish they were such good friends with themselves to be able to laugh out loud.

I can weep with unstoppable tears at ancient anguish hidden within centuries of genetic history.  I am given love and have the capacity to love the Spirit within me and to love the Spirit and struggle of the Other.  I am pieced and peace-d.

And in the company of those who love, I rest.  It is a way station.  The journey is unending.

The Welcome. . .

Come, we walk.  Take my hand.
Lean on me for a time to gain
a respite for a work unending.

I stand by you, ready
to catch you if you fall.
My arms are steady and ready.

I will not stumble, so do not be afraid.
It has been a hard journey
and you tire.

I’ve stood the watch and marveled
at your tenacity, your perseverance.
Though you faltered, you stood upright

without hesitation.  Now breathe easy
for a job well done.  No one
could have done it better.

Welcome to the winner’s circle.
It was worth the run. . . .don’t you think?

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There Is A Balance. . . lest we forget. . . .

 

Too late we learn life holds the sharpest knife.  Cutting the loaf accordingly and with compassion passes the butter.

Retribution for whatever deeds is a commonplace happening but there will always be those who think that the die is not cast by them.  They are and always have been.  That the intricasies of complex living seem too diverse and too extraordinary coats the attitude that all is coincidence.

But it is not.  For every action there is an inaction and a reaction.  Which are one and the same.  An inaction is a decided action in zeroes.  From this there will always be the decided game of chance being played and the players somehow think they will escape the consequences.

But in time, their time, there is a reactive legislation which prevails.  And no thing goes forgotten.  It is written in the wind, so to speak.  And Nature will have her day.  Always.  Life will have its totality, always.

What is sown is also reaped.  People understand this only in the most banal terms.  But all these precepts are ideas of long standing and have come to their own fruition.  Listen well.

Cliché’s are true and have a substance leaking energies which do not dissipate until satisfied.  There is a balance to all of life.  Lest we forget.

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She Went To The Wedding. . . .

                                                         Emma E. with her Grandfather Hallissey

So She Went To The Wedding. . .

It was an evening affair.  Black and white attire requested if possible and Emma E. complied.  With a flower in her hair.  It was a union of hearts and arms resting about each other all evening.   An uncle was married to a winsome woman and everyone was happy.

Especially the youngest member of the small invited gathering who was never out of sight or hearing.
She even had ear mufflers, sound protectors, in pink to muffle the noise and music at occasions now that are magnified.  I could not attend but I have some wonderful photos taken that have me smiling at how life proceeds amidst changes and fortunately some things virtually unchanged.

Emma E. is almost 10 months old and we are grateful with the wondrous care she receives because as all life should be called, a miracle.  Born at 1 pound 12 ounces,  she has blossomed into a growing, outgoing and curious baby.  Her checkups are wonders in themselves.  Soon she will be walking out the door.  Pray that her guardian angels are alert and not sleeping.  She will try to outsmart them, I’m sure.  And she will.

                                                                       Last week’s photo

 

photo of Emma E. with grandfather
taken by granduncle, John S. Hallissey

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Forever Is Happening Now. . .

The miracle of life is that though we all hold different perspectives on everything,  each of us, beast or human,  we seem to hold an anchoring desire which is survival.  And that desire somehow is enough to keep us afloat for however long. 

When we fail, we all fail and go down the tube together.  And pick ourselves up and begin again.

The differing perspective is matched every once in awhile by another in part or whole and when it happens is met with a startled ‘we know each other don’t we’?  thought. 

The heavens do not look kindly on such alliances because little work would get done when relief comes with much fun.   Which is why isolation is often the state of the differing souls and loneliness the condition. 

Once recognized as a chosen state,  life becomes a dedicated ceremony.  And the celebration often at the end becomes the enlightenment knowing the party just begins. 

 

Forever is Happening Now. . . 

Was it a thousand years ago
or just yesterday when you stood
at my front door as a guest for dinner?

My eyes caught your
brown wing tipped shoes that
I recognized from another time.

I followed the path to your face
and there was an electric moment of recognition.
I wanted to say I know you, don’t I?

Followed of course would be to say
good to see you again, yet knowing
we were new to each other.

It was another time in a place
of no name now but it was a time
locked in forever.  I knew then as I do now

that time is a happening for this place
with the Earth names we’ve memorized for ourselves.
But it is a happening still

as all things are all the time.  We do not escape
who we are.  A quantum leap into the present
is our stance for this moment

but forever it is all happening now.

 

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A Peace of Mind. . . .

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

*****

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

*****

Statistics are meant to sell beer and not to legislate the human spirit.

*****

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

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It is the lighted candle that sparks the heavens.

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Live and become that dream where you make a difference in a world that makes no difference.

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Bless the good day and blow the winds of fear as far from the ends of the Earth.  The alternative is more of the same in a place where progress is not so swift.

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Wait not for death.  Be vigilant only of life in all its forms, in its entirety.  Embrace it all.

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One cannot break a will which heralds its own functioning and its own existence.

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When nothing is taken from our leisure  to add to our proportion,  it is debauchery and decadence.  We have license to steal from ourselves the only thing we have at the moment and that is time.

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The hardest commandment to fulfil is the one to love one’s neighbor because it presumes one’s love for oneself.

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It is sometimes necessary to be abrupt or we lose our 30 second audience.  We know the perilous times.

*****

You have carved a piece out of the night sky and you stand alone on the jetty in the universal sea.  Who will you ask to dance on the ceiling?  I would be honored if you ask me.

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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Around The Bend. . .

 

Today I sit in the midst of my birthday of 87 years.  It is quiet.  In rereading journals where I was told if you want a good book to read,  write it,  I am finding truth. Rarely do I remember if it was cereal for breakfast and therefore rereading the saga I wonder what comes next .

The Teacher asked in a September 2013 entry . . .you saw an event and caught it in flight and reacted and saw the lesson in the event.  Tell us how you do that. . .

Because I felt sorry for myself that day this was the answer. . . .(My spontaneity as a child was shanghaied because I was born seeing the thought and it was then engulfed in the larger picture with its application within life and lives and results following.

The consequences then run through but the spontaneity is gone and the moment lost.  The result, the lesson, the appreciation is deeper and the entire action is molded into a lesson and humanity benefits, instead of just the impulse of the person.

You have in me no game player therefore someone they say who spoils the fun and doesn’t know how to play.   Not invited to go along because I spoil the fun.)

Within the brackets above was from the entry.  I add, I think life is beautiful as is and needs no embellishment; the storyteller really needs the exaggeration. Games are often played to show superiority, king of the mountain syndrome.

Compensation is at play giving me ‘language sparring’ for diversion.  Great fun and like the poem following,  a surprise and a lark.  The response to Around The Bend was great so I run it again.  Aww shucks.   It seems I’ve run out of cola.

Around The Bend. . .

I was told you have stretched
your boundaries
as far as you can and the rest
will require another world.

You work too hard at this, he said.
Break the pattern because
you do not need more information
to underscore what you already know.

What good to understand worm holes,
and black holes and white holes
and time warps.
You work with them every night
when you flutter in and out
of worlds and know your way around
the bends of light.
You don’t need anything more.

You need a good stiff drink
of more than cola.
Love, take a bender.
You need rye, straight.

I say,  around the bend
there will be a hand,
someone to pull me up. . . .

around the bend will be a someone
to pull me up. . . .I know.

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A Mother’s Dictum—Eternity Is A Long Time. . . .

Not often do I go back in time to relive something so intensely fierce that it can undo my mental health.  Yet I was driven to remember when I found our ten month son missing.  We were living in Tokyo at the time; my husband in the military.

Our lodging was in an apartment near the University with a landlady who was a mistress of a Japanese businessman.  It was a new apartment, sparse though close to the base, in a Japanese neighborhood.

We were on good terms with the landlady whom we called Oksan.  She loved our baby son and yearning to have a child of her own, sat and rocked the carriage in the secluded garden while he slept.  She asked to babysit for short periods.  I was uneasy with her yearning for a child but relented.

I went to the commissary one day and when I returned Oksan was gone with our son in his carriage.  She had not said she was going anywhere only that she would sit.  I put away the groceries and waited.

I soon became frantic and went looking for them.  I ran like a crazy lady from stall to stall on our street asking everyone if they saw them.  They could see I was panicky but why, no one understood.

The students on break at the University understood somewhat though they did not understand the panic.  I called my husband at the base and because he was an officer, could come home and brought a man who spoke Japanese.  Not understood was my fear.  This was after all Oksan and why the panic?

The fact that my baby was gone, in a foreign place, with a someone who wanted him to be hers, did not register.  Overreaction they thought.

Sometime later she did return of course.  Our son was asleep in his carriage and she had gone visiting.  Fortunately, soon after we returned to the U.S. so I did not face the issue again.   What brought this memory forward?

One of this week’s immigration policies would be to separate the child from the parent at the border.  I am horrified at the thought of the panic in the child and the fear ridden parent seeing the young children taken.

My heart will stop if I linger with this now.

I cannot believe such insensitivity would exist in anyone’s belief system.  I cannot fathom a government policy stating this.

I was just 20 years old when this episode happened.  For 9 months this child grew beneath my heart and 10 months in my arms.  The intensity of my fear and panic I can taste again.  I would only say don’t mess with me guys.  Eternity is a long time.

Beneath My Heart. . .

How could I not love them?
They grew beneath my heart,
waiting for my heart to beat
so that their’s would continue beating.

Did you not think
I would not know that?
And they would be reason enough
for me to keep breathing?

You did not know me. . .
Like a bear
I would fight for my cubs.
I made them. . . .

They wear my name
and one day they
will remember. . .

who taught them about love.

 

painting by a local
Japanese artist 1953

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