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A Chance To Make Better. . . .

Gratitude. . for lives consciously loved through. . . . . .

She was a friend of the boys and came to share her grief with life; an aspiring legal mind that looked to reason the why of it all.  She asked in despair, why did you settle for so little?

Words escaped me because life had given me so much.  Yet her question haunted me all these years as I struggled with it. The question, unsatisfied with my answers, kept returning.

Have I lived a substitute life the erstwhile minds labeled, by allowing others to shine?  That deserves its own essay with arguments.

How to evaluate others’ perspectives fairly without the ability to see behind their eyes?  How to gauge the value of what I would have missed, taken other than the path destined?  Big questions that deserve consideration.

I listened and watched for full impact of President Obama’s speech in Pennsylvania. His words impaled my skull.  No, he said, we weren’t completely successful, but we made conditions better.  I paraphrase because this is what I needed to hear.

And this, in my endtimes is what I  struggle with.  One would think that after a lifetime of hard trying one would have something, a tangible something to hold in one’s hands.  But the prior President’s words were meaningful as he gave hope to the community workers needing guidance.

My teachers say it may not be in our lifetimes that we see the success of what we do completed.  What has given me motivation and hope to keep on keeping on have been lives of great dedication to those values of mind.  They have been a testimony to the commitment and devotion not only to intangible values but to humanity. 

We are a country of immigrants granting second chances.  We don’t junk humans. Even in our common singular lives we have many of those chances to better all lives we touch.  It is not the road most traveled and it is not easy, but to make better is what should be our intent.

Perhaps teaching our young to persevere with good intent is to benefit the All, which is Life.  Success is perhaps like this. . .my inlaw mother calling to me as she drew last breaths and took my hand.  She lifted my fingers with a kiss to them. . . . and I knew she was grateful I was in her life.   

For over a half century I tried.  Easy, of course not with almost a century of rock driven issues for her to peace.  The mills of the gods grind slowly.  But her next borning in whatever world will be with an eager leap. 

When we help to make better. . .Conscious Evolution with thanks to Dr. Jonas Salk. . .  with love.

Portrait of Dante
by Wikipedia


A Cosmic Prayer for Mankind. . . .


Much crowds my head and I would wish to put it out like a grand buffet.  But it would bring dyspepsia  for the majority and who would turn away.  But life is a balanced judgment.  We seem to be fed what we need and purposely not what we want.  And that is where good judgment is balanced.

This poem came from June ’93 journal and written  in November  2013.  It was meaningful to me then and meaningful now. It is something we as God Participants can do.  As mothers and fathers we can love the children and feed them those things that will provide nourishment for growth in a world we  cannot imagine.

The poet, Kahlil Gibran called people Earth Gods.  I scribed from the Teachers that we are God Participants.  Mother God, Father God, love your children and prepare them for the world when you send them out the front door without your shepherding.

It is the only gift that matters, for you will have given the best of who you both are.

A Cosmic Prayer for Mankind

We would wish for much.
We would wish
for the sublime love
that was preached
from every mountaintop.

 We would wish
for a mother’s love
to be there for the infant
and the father’s hand
to caress the brow of every child. 

We would wish for peace
within the human psyche
and learning to be brought
to the dinner table
and the breakfast table everytime.
And love to be served
as the main course.

 It is much that
we wish for;
much that we yearn for.
But peace is designed
for the human in mind
from birth to the grave.

Bring peace.


Make It Count For Real. . . . .

Since I know that no steps are skipped  in Evolution, lest we have gaps in behavior even more difficult than what we see, I admit to fatigue as the years encroach.  Coming to mind from a time past is our eldest as he waited for his father to drive him to the train back to Chicago.  His words still echo in me.  ‘You must get very tired waiting for all of us to catch up to you,’ he said.  Taken by surprise I murmured something but what?  Was I so easy for him to read?  To this day my one regret is not being able to convince those I love most.

At the time this poem was written (journal entry, December, 2015) I had finished Michael Talbot’s Holographic Universe.  Affirmation, verification, understanding all plied their substance as I approached my 85 years.  How much of everything is illusion, how much gravity filled draining away, siphoning of matter because of our Earth Hostess?  And I, with a foot in another world, lived it every minute with a paper trail.

How much of everything, life itself, is lived in the head?  All of it or much and neatly done but tiring if one is not a ‘walk through.’  The only way to make it count is to take it seriously and play it for real.  Else the quagmire deepens and stagnation results and we are still on watch.

The Sound Loaf

 Evolution or God
(perhaps one and the same)
finely grinds the meal ever so slowly,
while I cannot breathe with the dust in the air.

But there will one day be understanding

with the digestion of the bread. . . .
The wholeness of the grain
so nicely baked till the hollow sound
is heard when tapped
gives credence to the sound loaf.

I can no longer wait for it all to cool.
It has taken far too long for this bread
to be made and yet still to be digested.

The bellies are still
immature for whole grain.
Pablum is the mushed cereal
of sort for feeding infants
too long in the pram.
I suffered the parents to grow up

and now have no time to wait for the children.


Running Late. . . .

(Of late my head has too many ideas  wanting  a voice, even when I sit  and want to write a simple catch up note.  The Muses, or my Spirit Within or God About seize the moment and wish it learned. . .so Jane, here is the letter I meant to send. . . ) 

Jane, how can I at 89 be running late for anything?  But I have just finished dinner for son John and I or is it John and me?

First off I made a good meal.  We had a hot bird in the fridge so I pieced small cubes of the chicken and sautéed them in butter.  Cooked some rice and made a tossed salad.  Simple?  It is when you put the rice in a bowl and your salad over the rice and spoon the chicken pieces over all.  Then put your dressing of choice over all.  We like Italian dressing since it only needs a simple dressing.

I learned late how to use and when to use leftovers.  The dinner today is simple but all the ingredients were fresh.  And when you cook simple you need fresh.  Old leftovers require a crockpot or pressure cooker to make yesterday taste like new thought. 

You would see the sense in that.  Son John found unbelievable cherry tomatoes .  They are about 1 inch size, like an iron alle. Growing up with brothers, I knew iron allies. You bite into the tomatoes and get a surprise.  Crisp and juicy and tomatoee.  I almost ate the whole package.

 I also wash and dry Romaine lettuce and put into towel lined plastic container in fridge.  Crisping clean it tears into pieces and our Newfie breathes heavy hoping for his pieces. 

 You guess I make even lettuce a spiritual exercise?  My eldest says I make vacuuming  one. But it is the difference between just eating with no memory of either the meal or the people or making it a nurturing event for the cook and all.

 You know my thoughts on putting heart into your work.  I have seen where it makes a difference to the ones sitting to a meal prepared with love and respect for food and the farmers who have dedicated lives producing it.   All deserve those thoughts in mind.  It shows even in the way we serve food.

We can fill plates with indifference; no thought  and it makes me sad to say this, disdain or carelessness, because such feelings would make the sensitive ill.  There would be some who say I read too much into this and make drama. . . but I would have to excuse myself because to be sick at the table is too much evidence.

 I will talk one day of our best gourmet dinner of beans and frankfurters and why it was and give the necessary evidential.  Simple?  You bet.  Good?  Extraordinary.  I will take it to the next address in my memory bank.  But I will leave you the shortbread recipe. . . .

photo by John Holmes


A Resting Place. . . .


Conclusions are reached by methodical circumcision.  We  cut apart our hearts and yield what we can.


There will always be those things which cost dearly and have no remunerative value.  They may be outside our frame of reference but are recognized when the time is right.  Then you know you have paid dearly and given the full litre of blood.


In the place where we rest, bless the multitudes for they know not what they do, let alone what they say.


The amount of  teaching that has gone on in this vestibule of the church of Man has been enormous.  Pray that the learning takes.


Too many people act with instinct without considering the source of that instinct.  What was once appropriate and serviceable, is no longer.


 Instinct is a precarious word and human balance should not rest on the word ‘precarious’


Nature’s balance is such that never is a dream dreamed without the ability to put it into motion.


Life in a crucible is life in human form.


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 further.


Timing is of the essence.  You cannot pull a tulip out of the ground nor can you force the petals of the rose to unfold with your own hands.  Of their own accord and in their own timing, they will.


Not to trample hearts, but to cup them.


photo by John S. Hallissey



The Simple Often Says It Right. . . .



The Jenny Genes are rightly sometimes a curse as well as blessing.  It drives this writer to despair when the right word evades and the curse begins its perseverance work on me.  And search I do for the precise word.  For there is of course we think a precise word for everything.  We search through the day and half the night compelling the word appear.  Eventually we give up and lo!  The imprecise simple one is used and the heavens moan in relief.  And so the reader leaves the dictionary lay where it is.  We all take victories where we can. 

The Right Words. . .

She said the right words to the beloved.
Suck the fear out of it; it is the only way to go.

Because every morning throughout the world,
man does his ablutions in the privacy of the bush,
in the privacy of his very expensive room,
or in a modest place wherever he lives.

And hopes he releases his fear before
he appears to face beloveds and the day
overtakes him, leaving him soiled.

He whispered,. . . that is the way it is. . .
suck the fear out of it.

I don’t want a dead bird hanging
around my neck for the rest of eternity.
There is no final place but a place of becoming.

It is life everlasting in all its measures.



Connections I know. . .

And you will know also. . . 

Nine years ago, when I was 80, a grandson said I should do a blog.  Not knowing what a blog was, he proceeded to teach me.   This perennial student did not want to disappoint the good teacher.   Edited here is one of the early posts where I try to explain my views.  For those who missed the first years I hope this helps to understand from where I come.

On Connections

‘This is an idea spoken of since man first began to think about the purpose of life.   Or perhaps his purpose on this planet.   It deals with the idea that every thing is connected throughout the Ethers.   That nothing happens in and of itself but is the result of an action happening because of a previous action elsewhere.   However long ago.   Our purpose,  however wrought with meaning as we think or not,   is the result of perhaps a stone let loose on some distant hill, rolling and crashing onto a field.    The storm in the night is the result perhaps of an argument lamenting the arduous activity of sea lions in some obscure waters.   The idea remains cleverly innate in heads looking for reasons to believe that of itself nothing exists.   We are connected,  one to another and one event tied us tightly to all of life.   It is with this idea in mind that this poem came to be.’

Because I Know. . . . 

I see worlds in motion
taking a portion of each one’s talent
for their own survival.

This is what I do with my hands.
This motion of knitting yarns to form

a piece of world to fit the mind
of an elusive soul.

See here, I, content  in what I do.
I free a soul to do the Great God’s bidding
in keeping a world in motion.

See again. . . I give of my Self in this time,
to free an Other to build what may be
the perfect Universe or many.

So content that this time is mine to see
a great plan, a strategy, yet unheard.
It may not be for centuries that

that my knitting fingers  will alert the senses
of a soul to keep in motion
a Life, a Being, an Idea.

Sit here with me. . .and show my hands
what to do and they will do.  The task so simple
will gather other talents and make for itself
the grand design,  futures down the line.

A bidding, the nature of what 
has never been seen before.
I know it and because I know

you will know it also.


This I Know. . because I learned. . .


This I Know. . . because I learned. . .

Only with deeper understanding is there any basis for understanding.
To love oneself presumes a selfishness man cannot abide in himself.
Yet to be selfish presents an attitude of self acceptance, of tolerance that can only begin to be outward in the employment of attitude toward one’s neighbor, the Other.
Unless emotional excesses, like ancient affronts are released, they will continue to be genetically transmissible.
The split in man is so dichotomous, that his life is one mass of contradictions.
When advancing age stiffens the limbs and makes the mind less elastic, we will find the inner ear listening to what the heart stirs.
To say it is mine to do and do it is to take the bull by the horns.  And to say I will take responsibility for it is to tame the bull.
Where will the young generation turn if not to those who pride themselves that their advancing years have brought a degree of wisdom?
Who is going to teach when all about are denying that they are getting older, never mind wiser?
Why is it considered cool to say you ‘know nothing’ when your body shouts your age to say you should have learned something?
When our years pile upon us, why do we feel embarrassed when our experience has taught and we learned from it, to say ‘this I know.’
The persuasive voice is well trained to manipulate.  Today we call it selling.


photo by Kathy Qualiana                                                            


The Strange Bequest. . . .

Tomorrow is Father’s Day and this is a late regret to chalk up to a life in ebbtide.  But with the head on my shoulders today, I wish there had been times to talk of heart concerns.  Life was to be mountains for me to climb and I could have used his hand to hold.  Talk while you both are within arm’s reach.

The Strange Bequest. . . 

There was a man, a slim man,
whose head was bedecked
with a white cloud and
whose eyes saw dreams
he could not articulate.

He sat one day staring into space
and when I questioned him, he said
‘I am sitting and watching the grass grow.’
I hesitated far too long and have lived to regret it.

I wish the courage had been mine
to have asked him to share his dreams with me.
For he bequeathed to me a mind
that does not rest.

I have the thought that his father and
father before him wrestled
the same misty vision which now
is mine to set in motion.

I question this strange bequest,
for I have not the staunch heart required
to lay to rest my ancestor’s anguish.

Papa, I plead now,
to replace my heart with hot ore,
inject me with a vial of celestial courage,
to fuse my spine with tempered steel.

There is so little time.
















The Loving Gesture Makes The Difference. . . . .


What pleases me so much about this photo besides knowing she is my beloved Emma E. is the obvious seriousness she shows in her work.  And it is work she does. 

I identify the intensity and I wish her to be able to see the beauty of her body doing what her mind has determined.  It is with joy she will do work, whatever it is. 

It will be with a loving gesture that she does her tasks.  And the loving gesture is what makes the difference.

We have our favorite people doing for us when we are children and it is special ones we want to do for us as we grow older.  It is the toddler who says either Mommy do!  Or daddy do!   Or pushing the item in the hands of another with a grunt!  Do!  What is the difference?  The child knows.  The child knows the difference.  It is the love.

And the elder child approaching dotage?  They sit calmly and wait for the loving gesture that always makes the difference.

I cannot nor do I even wish to get behind the eyes of an Other to see what they see.  But I can see in the hands the loving gesture simply by how they approach the task.  Is it with haste, or disdain the task is done, or even a disinterest?  Is it with no thought because something else is more important or enticing?

It will show in the outcome of the work. So if it takes me hours to make dinner,  it may be an honored chef in mind telling me to chop finely the celery for this dish.

It may be time in conference or in harmony with the invisible Other whom we all house in heart. This Other we talk to is what the cosmic element sometimes call prayer.

Emma E. is in conference.  Emma E. is in harmony. She seriously mixes her mudcakes and measures the liquid to make real what she remembers from another place.  Not in time perhaps, but in mind. 

What she does is what her grandfather did on the white sheets folded to make a piano on his bed sing his heart songs.  And an uncle sit with the books he memorized as a preschooler to cite them aloud while another climbed his trees with a tool belt made of kitchen ware to saw the branches off.

The loving gestures were part of them as I see now in their offspring.  And I almost know, almost. . . what they see through their eyes.

photo by 
Tresy Hallissey, Grandfather


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