Archive | Observations

The Scales Are Just. . . .


We are not  the product of one lifetime, but many lifetimes and many frameworks.  And we are a reference point to other frameworks.
The Ego which needs continual stroking becomes unwieldly and obscures divine passage.
‘I am only human’ is an excuse that has been overworked.
To dismantle another’s world demands that we stay around long enough to help build another one.
Within is the rest and without is the charm.
We need to see things as they more nearly are.
To create a reality is everyone’s business and cooperation is necessary.  It is a communal endeavor.
To build a philosophy to fit a perspective and includes our commitments has a high cost.
The highest framework we can choose is the one by which the heart is healed.
Heaven rushes to the side of our cradle to give proof that we are not abandoned.
To ask presumes the divine presence in the Other.  It is a love affair of the greatest kind.
We aim to educate the heart.   And the condition of the heart will determine the cost of tuition.
If by our presence  we signify criticism, we lecture without opening our mouths.


The Hard Work of Thought. . . .

It seems going through my head are many things connecting to all things.   Nothing stands alone.  I am not sure  where to begin, if there is a beginning.  Perhaps that is what we have to learn, that there is no beginning and no end.  It can start anywhere for me and therefore anywhere for you.  And that is a big, a huge morsel to swallow.

For me a big deal.  Because with every thought,  I am hesitating with even telling or sharing anything without a prelude.  And if I don’t explain,  then what I say has to stand alone and make some sense.  Otherwise we are reduced to groans and hums.  The question then should be, does it matter?

If you care enough to question why? then it matters.  If not,  take it from where you stand and run with what you have in hand and head.  It will be enough for now.  Later may require something more.

I read last night a scribing of June  27, 1991 (yesterday quantum time) that the purpose of life is not meant to be happy.  It was meant to be lived and learned from.  I came to Earth with that knowledge, dragging a foot from my last world. It was not meant to be a comfort ride through life.

Already there was confirmation that the twig was already bent and would continue to grow.  That’s what I mean about connections.  The Nazarene said ‘as the twig is bent, so shall it grow.’  

Too many think we are a clean slate to be written on.  Some are and they are newbies to this classroom.  Too many problems are created by thinking we all are newbies.  For those of us with histories, each lesson with  synergism, integrates.  We are the hair pulling parent claiming ‘I treat them all the same!’  And followed by ‘I don’t know where she/he learns that’!

I look at the national scenes of the insurrection against our democracy and the souls who trampled our Constitution, breaking the windows of our governmental house,  searing the eyes of the child holding the book telling us how humanity is special.  I hear the child question his mother asking why daddy is mad and what means elite? . . .

Pictures easily show what we are not part of and demand little from us.  Words demand work from us. Undeniably we have seen our devices of entertainment evolve to become weapons of war.   Devices evolve but not the human hands holding them unless the hard work of thinking be done.  

When thought has us asking heart questions, the Divine Within  already nudges us with  answers.  Our children are reading the books giving them the right words to ask the right questions. 

Please be the right parents for them.  They chose you by heart.

Family Photo



With Credence To Time Warps. . .

With Credence To Time Warps. . .

(I had a dream where there was an old woman muttering over a  young woman in a  body cast with only eyes and mouth showing.  I told the old woman to release her. I  don’t know why she was punished, perhaps for prostitution.  And a person throwing a baby gleefully in the air  I told stop!  Possible joint dislocation with that kind of rough play!)

I edited this journal entry of July 19, 1992  for posting, saying  . . . .I am not confused.    No, because I already  know.     I see where the past is still  happening someplace.   I see ways to rewrite history; to bring from here a portion of history that  could help a segment of another.  How do I know that or even think it?  Imaging taking place where? 

There can be no change unless there is a shifting in the mental capacities of the nitty gritty.  Like soap and water in the health care system.  Or change in forgiving one another in the revenge: punishment concept.  You see, unless there are minute changes in even the genetic structure  . . . here my hands stutter. . .

There are lots of ways to make changes, aren’t  there?   You step in and change a past in a world whose present reality would profit wisdom from our present reality. We change a past whose present welcomes our intrusion into their present with new facts. 

In my dream with the old woman muttering over a young woman,  releasing the young one put a pause in  the genetic structure that would have taken centuries to overcome.  Or the one tossing carelessly the child in the air  and ordered to stop gave him pause in action.  Joint dislocation was reason enough.

What is puzzling is that I grasp this.  That somehow by altering the consciousness of the past, we are in turn altering the genetic line through which we pass.   And speeding up the process of evolution which needs speed since we are running out of time, Earthwise and human wise.  It is enough to put us all to sleep, permanently.

Genetic engineering can wipe out diseases but changes in thinking must be done on a level where time lines of knowledge and lack thereof would welcome intervention.   And what better level than education in another dimension.  DNA can be restructured and codes rewritten in cell structure are being learned.

Not lost on me is this 1931 farm girl  giving credence to time warps, but education in time warps to boot.   In primitive form was a germ of an idea in a dream with a lesson.  Somehow lost is the validity of our connection to life.  And also lost is our pride in learning.  Everything teaches but we must be alert by feeding our minds humanity’s potential for good .

Life is everlasting and with encouragement we would also ensure humanity’s progress.


We Are It, Sailors, We are It . . . . .

 Take to Heart This Earth Planet Classroom. . . . .

 I have been in a few rooms when some beloveds have been preparing to transit this world.  Some have been hospital rooms where it has been calmer when attention is focused on what was happening and not being diverted from the one leaving our world.

I am grateful to those  who felt safe with me to share their experiences in leaving this world and trusted me to understand what they were saying.  I have been there when information went against beliefs held by others present and the words were ‘it’s the medicine talking’ or some religious salves they felt necessary. 

When our David said they were calling his name with his presence required for work on the Intergalactic Council for Peace. . . he was alert and not dreaming.  It would have been cosmic shortsightedness not to avail his caliber of knowledge when the need was acute and the service on hand. 

We have seen unqualified people in high places requiring expert and precise knowledge.  We are living the results of such a calamitous journey now.  And how we rejoice to see learned ones called upon again for what we hungered. 

I took David’s statement as truth of the Council because  I had heard the topic  discussed years before his hospitalization.  And never by him but by people well versed in stellar knowledge.

When my mentor, the Nazarene stood on the rock and said his famous much rendered  I will build speech that the Romans took and ran with,  he also said in plain words that here on Earth we are the reflection of heaven and heaven the reflection of Earth, the what is loosed segment seldom repeated.   

Take those words seriously because they are meant to be serious.  There is no better place than here right where we are.   We are the reflection. We are it, sailors, we are it.

The only reason to make a difference in this world, altruism aside, (the true altruistic persons are few, if any) is with the difference we make in ourselves.  When we come to this conclusion and know the reason,  we will remember that the purpose of this Earth is to be a classroom.

Things are not going to change because the purpose for us is to change ourselves.  And we hold that card.  When we do, we are graduates to the Universe, where there are places needing work. 

Places are many. . . planets and worlds with names and no names but workers are few.   It’s like Ethics class where conscience line dries for public scrutiny. Nobody shows up.  Will you?

artwork by
Claudia Hallissey


The Happy Camper Gleanings. . . .

Man can strike the essence of what is wrong in the arena the heavens cannot reach.
Man must process an enormous amount of garbage in the place where integration of the human is of vital interest.
The sounds of mortal life cut deeply and quickly and with great pain to those who have ears to hear.
Television is the answer to a lifetime prayer for some.  To be entertained without having to participate is the ultimate dream.
Rehearsed rhetoric is a game to use for one’s own justification.
Humanity’s progress comes quarter inch by quarter inch.  We can jumpstart evolution simply by opening a book to learn something new.
Mass evolution is an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms; never a fact and never a reality.
Ambition takes on the sharpness of a double edged sword.  Not only do we benefit when applied to learning, but our circle of commitments benefit also.

Motion gives the illusion of growth and to man means progress.
Life is a pleasure when all things are left out except those giving pleasure. Yet we all know that only with struggles do we actually prosper in character.
What is here and now is no different than anywhere else.  Only our sense of it makes a difference.  And of course, the costumes.
The life of the least is more than something.  It is all there is.
The universe may be neither good nor bad,  but it cares because it too, must survive.


Some Awards Do Not Hang On Walls. . . . .

Often we think nothing has been accomplished in our lives, so I encourage journal keeping, if only a few sentences limited to what one learns in the day.  Many of us have enlisted our efforts in what cannot be seen.  The journals will show the awards that hang on the heart and not on the walls.  They will show  that some awards money cannot touch and are priceless.

The following maxims and gleanings were taken from a June 10, 2013 entry.  Some were scribed and others focused in dialogue.  Sit with one or two and write what you know when they take your thought.  Surprise yourself with what you have learned on your journey. . .

Feeding a body is crucial but to starve a mind is criminal.
The world is full of many riches.  Mental activity in only one form is not for everyone.
We can walk from the mental buffet and eat a bit from all tables and never be at a loss to learn.
When husband and wife, daughter and son, sister and brother, friend and lover skills are not called upon, make cradles and cars, books and hats and be a prized trophy of a human.   Do and you will be shown  how.
How we conduct our lives and what we learn determines the world we prepare for.

What you love into being, you become and graduate to.
When you become the person you hope to meet, you are the person looked for.
Go with the God who made you.  He, She, It, They certainly did a good piece of work with you.
Remember, when beliefs are dislodged, often the person holding them is dislodged also.  But further study ALWAYS  enlightens because the premises are broadened, the picture enlarged.  Do your best and study hard.  Ancient studies  taught me that educating a son, one educates one man.  Educating a daughter,  one educates a family.   What happens on the world stage is determined by what happens within the four walls where one’s life begins.  Begin anew.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey


When I love you is coupled with a hug. . . .

These are my progeny I am fortunate to see at least with photos.  I am impressed that there are several lady greats in our lives.  And I am also impressed with the knowledge of two close mister greats.  There are others  I am certain in my scattered large family that I do not know,  but I welcome any word of them. 

These past few years have been difficult for the many youngers.  And I know the families at hand give support as they can.

I know the parents of these jenny gene children read my posts when able and are learning  about these children from this grandmother great.  I wish them luck in their endeavors in understanding what has been borne of them.  No doubt they will be scratching their collective heads with puzzlement trying to decide how to cope.

When I understood the maxim ‘as the twig is bent’ and realized that the twig is bent upon arrival with a history! . . it was the beginning of a lifelong journey toward the heart of Me.  Many a parent has voiced the timeworn plea of I treat them all the same!  I would quietly assure them but they arrive not from different countries but different worlds!

And no way will our words mean the same to  each of them.  Except these words. . I love you coupled with the strength of your arms around them.  There is no misunderstanding when hearts press each other.

And they will insist every day of their lives that they were  the favorite child . . . .             


Gleanings. . . a few. . .


Man’s kharma is his dharma, the coin he uses to buy for himself the peace he seeks.
To see through the eyes of an Other will put one’s heart into divine orbit.
Can man run far enough and fast enough to escape the swollen burden of coming to grips with self confrontation?
The moments of glory that belong to the sainted adulthood of which we are capable are the redeeming moments of this world.  The rest of it is the fourth grade.

There is that point where everyone is eager to understand until the minute personal  responsibility would be required for actions taken.
As we stretch to pour the milk out of the pitcher, we are blind to the fact that it is only out of abundance we continue to pour.
We are laughed out of the curriculum when our search involves basic origins and we find answers.
Born into human reverence, can any male child grow into adulthood?
Who we are, what we are, where we come from and to where we go are not confined to the adolescent search of most religious organizations.  The adolescent feeds on glamorous charismatic assumptions.  Often held on sadly to the grave.
The premises of life’s purpose are the meat of our lives and the wine of our maturity.
The hurts and bruises humans endure should be worn as karate belts.  Black belts should be worn for psychic bruises.
Words have a weight which carry an indepth report on everything.  Now tell me what you think.


To Answer. . . our very best. . .


This has been a hard year for all with unavoidable obstacles.  We have wondered together if there would be Light beckoning to grant some reprieve during these holy days and holiday season.  There was and is but we do not let up on our vigil until given word it is so. 

The journey has taken us through some dark places but we have found Light as we are bent to do.  We have come thus far and now keep our guard up until our commitments walk with us. 

We miss the little rewards we needed to break from the work of dailyness that bowed us down even in normal times.  During the health crises and political turmoil without them, our dispositions have been tested.  But we are a dependable people and wish to prove we are equal to the task.  Our progeny will one day question us and ask what did we do?  . . .

Our answer will be. . . our very best.. . .  

The Learning Place. . . .

Do you not think
that where you go
at night is the place
where you are healed?

And awaken
to a morning full
of exuberance, to face
another day to fight clean?

For those things you see
at night,  every time
you close your eyes and trust
you will find your way. . .

to the place you know best
that heals the wounds
tearing you apart . . .the who you are,
in still this best of all learning places. . .

to find you do not run away. . . .
and with courage stay the course.


(Suzanne sent me this photo of another quilt.  Another memory. . .)








The Past Is Still Happening. . . .



I looked for the journal entry until I had to stop last night  because of a heart willing itself to stop if I did not.  My eldest son as well as a beloved friend once called my persevering tendency  unnerving.  Both vowed they could not live my way.  I learned much later to call it the jenny genes.  I make myself sick with them.

This morning in picking up clutter I looked askance at a first hand written journal to open on July 23, ’73.  With Hello!!  I read the following in firm 42 year  old  handwriting in ink. . . .Our pianist sons were playing a new LP of the Canon when I first heard it.  Later in Munich,  at a travel conference we stood at Christmastime alight with old decorations in a nightime fairyland.  I realized it was not a first time for me.
I wrote. . . .

I hear Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major and I yearn for a time I can see in my head.  I am there in my hooped dress with cinched waist and I can see a swarthy looking, paunchy violinist (forgive me) bending close to the dancers.  There is an ensemble  but the violinist I can see expressly.  Where is this taking place that it can move me to tears?

It’s not so much memory but participation, complete with all the emotion.  Why does this move me so and why does it have power as if I am in it now?  Who was I and where was I and where am I traveling now when I hear it?  No past or future, just eternal now?. . . .

The rest  of the entry deals with various elements of time and intensity and psychic talents.  Rich stuffs in explanation but having been clueless to this aspect with no one in my immediate circle versed in these subjects .  If family has no knowledge or the subject taboo, where does the child go who only knows to be called weird or different?  Ahhh you wondered why I obsess on this subject?

I still look for the  date on which the following poem was written.  The Europe business trips  were in the ‘70’s.  I posted this once in 2015 and a reader was overwhelmed with did it happen this way?  Exactly.

I hope when one does not fit the outlines for normality, one will be given space for being unique with a welcome to this world.  We all might learn something.  Parents and siblings especially.


December Confirms The June Woman

It is June and I stand poised  on the landing of the half circular staircase.
I am hearing the strains of the Canon not heard in this, my lifetime.

Shocked still, caught in the shadows of half remembering and
yet reluctant to confront the shaded memories, I wait.

She is visible, the young woman gliding with joy to the music
which carried her down the long hall.  She curtsies to the throngs
lining the great walls.

I stand, not moving.  Her joy is mine, translating to an emptiness
in my heart.  The tears scald my cheeks and the rest solidify 
in a mass in my throat.  I cannot swallow.  I am in danger
from within and without.


It is now December.  I am before an ancient building in a city
bearing her years gracefully.   The snow is circling my feet and the wind
is freezing my eyes. I am rooted to this spot.  The air is ringing  with
the sounds of holiday;  lights flicker their ritualistic colors in harmony.
Yet  I stand immobile.

On the second floor of the ancient building, caught in the winter of my memories,
I see the long hall stretching before me.  The strain and refrains of the Canon
carry the young one still, waltzing yet.  The violins smooth the way for her
memories  to be built  The red vests of the rotund violinists complement  
in contrast their black , slicked hair.  They bend and bow in homage.  
Their music locks her destiny forever.

My eyes are again in danger, this time of freezing in their sockets with the
salted tears that cannot stop.  The memory does not move, not to one side nor 
the other.  My will forces my eyes  to play again what can only be seen in my
throbbing head.  Courted through centuries with great care to remain hidden.
I unwittingly jarred the box housing those memories.

In retrospect, I was ready.  It was my time.  I turned away shaken and knowing,

                               the past is still happening.







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