From an Upper Floor

Hunger For What Is Remembered. . . .

I write only of worlds I know. Of little, gentle fishes called Nords and Kerns and of Teachers. Did I create them or discover them in place? They shimmer for me. They are not just one world. There are also places of poverty that touch the living heart and strum it with songs of despair which are heard day and night. Barren places and places also speaking of Mind. These I write of and scribe.

In the light of daily observation about what goes on in our country, what must be kept in mind is the progress we make, the potential of individuals and what is voiced as thought processes. In the long torturous road to maturity, we look to see what was exhibited in process.

In our leaders, has the genetic line been enhanced with education, perseverance and viewed with no embarrassment because intelligence has been acquired? One can then guardedly assume stability and maturity within the individual.

We must look upon those wishing election and reelection, at their ancestors and family and be kind in judgment. In this day when good minds and strong character must be exhibited before important decisions can be made concerning affairs of the world’s countries and therefore the body of man, more care should be given to lineage and character of the person.

And weighed carefully against spirit and dedication of the individual and what has been accomplished in their life. Personal characteristics as manner and art in coping with the exigencies of life must be accounted for.

The day when credentials consist only of the work accumulated with PR is gone. You cannot be a better anything than you are a person. No matter the job. One whose life is publicly intentioned will hold his personal life above scrutiny. They will hold themselves responsible and accountable as well.

These days of wholesale keyhole peeping will unveil all manner of decadence. It is no longer an okay thing to blatantly be crude, an embarrassment not only to the parents of children but also to brothers who have sisters. The young will demand better behavior. To the answer ‘everybody does it’ the comment will no longer be hesitant, ‘well, I don’t!’ And the behavior will be unblemished.

In the beginning we were an experiment in the borning of a country settled unethically and dismissive of native pilgrims. Our tortuous route to democracy is constantly questioned and must be compassionately worked at.

Sophistication has catapulted and public education has sent persons unqualified and unbalanced to high offices. But the right to life continues its cost and purpose. We must study and work to make balanced decisions.

The times now demand the best of who we are. Some think it is a hellhole and yet others know our best will lift us again for those who hunger for the good of what is remembered.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

(for those who understand how things change and remain the same. . . .this post was mostly scribed from journal entries of August 12&21, 1987 edited for space)

April 24, 2020

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
Moments Of Thought. . . .for us. . .

Moments of Thought. . . .

In retrospect, everything becomes a moral decision. Some of us only learn this in our dotage when reflecting on how we lived our lives.
*****
It is a vast classroom but the basic lesson is one of abandonment. Everyone knows abandonment. The hardest lesson to bring home is to dream into being the splendor that can come when the heart is healed
*****
To insert the cosmic into the mundane is what we must do.
*****
Whenever we embark on a choice, we embark also on change. With choice comes responsibility to carry through.
*****
We are free to make other choices. But when we come to commitments, there may be no choice at all. No options.
*****
One’s sense of one’s place in the larger picture heightens one’s sense of responsibility.
*****
Unless you can share your heart, you cannot enter into a liaison with anyone and raise a family.
*****
You cannot force feed a menu when the seated are not hungry.
*****
The continuity of life is the only view worth harboring. How else to explain the eternity it takes for a mushroom or daffodil to reach full potential? One life does it for a human?
*****
In our solitude we don’t have an audience of peoples; we have an audience of souls.
*****
I have learned that if it is not done here, where I am, it will not be done elsewhere. If I see this good to do, I must do it now or there will not be this chance nor these favorable circumstances again.
*****
When a good is done on one hearth, all hearths will do good throughout all worlds.

April 22, 2020

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
Prayer To The Greater Heart. . . .

Prayer to the Greater Heart. . . . .

Stay with me, my god. Lead me where my heart
should go and stay with me.
Give me strength to stay out of the way
of other’s growth but give me the compassion
to show by example how the road goes.

Let me be a vehicle for the cosmic completion
of a work entrusted and keep me from becoming
fragmented by the enormity of it all to
my own unstable body.

The mind in its desire to envelop
all that is good and holy and cosmic,
leads a plea to a body of the same nature.

I believe. Amen and amen.

Photo by
Joseph H. Hallissey Sr.

April 18, 2020

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
A True Gift of Heart. . . .

The Greatest Love Affair. . .

If you are a front line worker, a miracle worker to all of us, and you are driving home at the end of the day, you begin to talk in the silence of your car. You vent and cry with fatigue, with sadness, with curses and finally end your discourse as you turn down the street where you stay either with others or by your Self somewhere.

Or you are a worker, stocking shelves nearby your home or making change for the nitties that are crucial to the sanity of those who are in need and your mask is making your face itch and you wish for a shower away from lines of other itchy peoples.

But you are walking home in the rain and loudly talking. You cry and the words are not elite nor sorted, just a wrench from a heart pressed for various reasons. None of which speak to the fairness of anything. No one notices your tears because in the rain everyone you pass seems to be crying.

But to whom are we talking? For almost my 90 years I have held conversations in mind that were company for who I am. And for only slightly more than 6 decades have seen my words of mind printed at first on paper and by self discipline on the monitors. When did I become conscious of the argues of an Other and the solace of a companion mind in Conference?

It is what I call the greatest love affair ever we engage in.

For when we reach the highest and best that we know, that bar set for the highest mountain we can climb in our human skin, when we succumb to the intensity that has us roaring and venting, cursing and in great fatigue exposing our hearts in bas relief, that we are answered in like intensity by the Divine Within.

No respecter of social classes, but great respecter of caliber of effort, of ethics, of belief that the Each is of supreme value regardless what is held to be the worth of the day. The intensity of purpose will reveal the Who of who we are and we are assured to be more than the disheveled one we appear.

It is then we have knowledge born to be ours. That we are companioned and never abandoned though this was lost to us. The night embraces us but in the morning we take our posts to be accountable. We never have the language to describe this affair of heart which only is alive in mind.

But we know now it is another pearl of great price.

Concordance. . .

The heart reaches out
in mute acceptance to that which is given.
It answers only that which
it perceives at its Source.

Its depth is mirrored by the very essence
of the soul’s reflections.

It wanders not among possibilities
but perceives also

the very essence of the mind’s abstractions. . . . .

(artwork by Claudia Hallissey)

April 11, 2020

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
To Search The Why. . . .

All Time Is Now. . . .

In May of 1993 when I was coming to in Recovery, standing by was a female physician I recognized from OR. I am cold and I am clammy I said and through gritted teeth she said you are not the only one! And I wondered what had happened in the OR. I was to understand that no two doctors had identical memories. Directions had been given for resuscitation and all complied, but whose voice?

Unsure of what I would say to a roommate and to avoid hysterics, I was given a private room. The cardiologist’s first question was were you always spiritual or just since the cardiac arrest? I was puzzled because I had not ever even been asked if I was spiritual. I was always working I thought like everyone else. Only by quarter inches did my life begin to unfold.

In June of 1984 I was sitting and reading the paper at the dining room table and saw our house painter pull up out front in his green truck and I yelled while I put our German Shepherd in the basement. He was standing looking at the paint job done and he came in for a minute drinking his water from a peanut butter jar.

His daughter called for him to come home and he walked to the back gate. I yelled that his truck was out front and he said he knows where he parks his truck! I followed him to the back gate and his blue, blue truck, new flatbed was there.

I heard in mind the words simultaneous worlds. And knew for every aspect of my world here, there is another impinging in identity on it. Though sometimes not up to date as with Michael’s blue truck only 2 weeks old. I did see him pull up in his green truck, heard the gate slam, and talked to him. But his blue truck was out back.

Not until 2015 did I read Michael Talbot’s Holographic Universe and knew then all my life I walked with a foot in other worlds. There was always a barrage of criticism because when I tried to explain myself from the time I learned to speak, I was silenced. I was easy to dismiss. My quiet brother I remember saying so many times, Ma, she’s crying again.

( I scribed then in ’84. . . the teacher’s explanation. . . we will discuss later what transpired with the impinging world when the Michael worker arrived. It is not easy we know to live in many worlds. But to hold to the one in which the physical body finds itself is important. To be able to recognize the other worlds and still maintain a line of communication with the hereness of where you are is doubly important. We take pride in your abilities. Man blossoms under such guidance.)

Not much comfort when there is not a hand to hold who understands. Hard row to go. I am glad for over a half century of journals and all manuscripts with dates and times. Who would believe? Amen and amen.

April 9, 2020

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
When GIVEN Thoughts Require Attention. . . .

The children will know the highest and best framework you have chosen is one by which your own heart was healed.

*****

We say take love and use it and it will heal the rift which threatens to become a chasm man will never be able to cross by himself. Would you be able to help if need be? But who could you trust to do it?

*****

To ask in thought for help presumes the presence of an Other. It is a love affair of the greatest kind. Heaven aims to educate the heart which is ripe and ready and open.

*****

Eric Hoffer states in his book on loving that when one comes to the time to do good, if one is aware of good, the choices are few. When you become better and better, your options narrow.

Heaven goes one better, I scribed. When approaching sainthood, the options are not there anymore. They refer to those who have made the Light a Beacon force in their lives; when the mind is one with the god mind which gives life, no matter the personal consequences resulting. Humanity’s progression is the only path to take.

(now you try to sleep). . . .

April 6, 2020

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
We Will Talk Again. . . .

We Will Talk Again . . .

We will talk of philosophy and
we will talk of poetry again like
. . . .once upon a yesterday. . . . .

We will talk of people and beings
whose lives are woven tapestries
of great wonder. . . .

And we will again grace the lovely work
of the Great God and say. . .

We walk beneath the wings of him
who holds us all together. . . . . .

(artwork by Claudia Hallissey)
(poem from journal entry July, 2013
but all time is now)

April 5, 2020

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
Each One Teach One. . . .

Today I post with a practical idea that helps me enormously. Two of my favorite bloggers, Jon Katz on Bedlam Farm and Maria Wulf on Fullmoonfiberart.com inspired the following idea. Jon posted that Maria put up shelves to enable him to glance and see clean clothes on hand.

My head rang bells and I asked son John if he would put up shelves. Once upon a yesterday I did my own carpentry but aging prohibits and so I said I wait till he finishes pushing out walls and windows of our home. While waiting, the thought is a Given, why not see if the idea floats by taking out the drawers?

I did and this is what is now. I have thanked Jon and Maria and shown them this. For any of my peers still navigating these waters with me, I say try this. The drawers become too heavy right now for me and even with no sense of fashion, sameness becomes lethal daily. Instigating some zest is crucial simply to keep breathing.

Also included is the chest next to my bedroom chair by giving me added shelf space for more tops but also shelves for papers and work in review. Neatly stowed and at hand and yet organized to some extent. Finding old sweats like new has increased my wardrobe by almost another 50% says my eldest son!

Simplifying is what everyone wishes to do, but I like my friendly stuffs at hand! Yet common sense says there is no energy to call upon lady, so get real!

But I tell you this. I truly don’t know whence cometh my desire to make bread today that make grown men cry as I wrote once, who remember what real bread tasted like, and the soup which I put into the crock pot last night to slow cook for a ‘clean the fridge vegetable soup’ that a spoonful of shredded cheese and a spoonful of sour cream make taste like gourmet fare for lunch.

New cost? 1 can of diced tomatoes. These are the talents my mentor talked of that we should multiply and divide throughout eternity. These are the ways that we do and we will be shown how. Start where you are and you will be shown how. Evolution. . . each one teach one.
That is what it is all about.

April 4, 2020

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
Help Balance Our World. . . .

Where is this place called home? The elders often sit with a distant look and one hears them say I need to go home. Most lives have given no exact place to these words, but all of us have heard them said since we were children.

I brought this place with me when I arrived on this planet, this lush planet I have come to love and call home. I have buried my face in her earth smell. Yet I have spent almost a hundred years less a decade, on the outside looking in.

Strange, isn’t it? I love this planet and have taken care of her in the best ways I could. Where is that place I brought with me, with a foot dragging behind with more than memory, but with knowledge I was loved enough to stay the route until I took the lessons to heart and was healed?

It is the place where words such as honor, trust, love and bonding melded my soul to the weight of words, the only way I had to intricately meld who I am with one who matched and recognized these soul stuffs in me. The weight of these words, in whatever measure I knew to be the highest and best of who I am, would be the bar I would forever live lives of mine to reach. The thought that I would not meet this bar, or that I would settle for less, never occurred.

When it did, I was told that my grief stemmed from integrating the weight of my words and trying to balance in a world not ready for them. My unbelieving puzzlement at what I heard?

Did you say, or did I hear right??? Whatever I heard was right but wrong in what I thought they meant. But I believed you I said and heard the words, well THAT was your problem! It was a shared reality but not shared perceptions.

In these stressful times where evidence is pictured all day on our screens at home, there is a reality we participate in. The pictures hold different meanings for us according to our perceptual prejudices. If the camera does not support our prejudices we say it is a fake picture. I learned that a man convinced against his will is unconvinced still. Until there is a something he relates to. Like a body going into a freezer truck because the hospital morgue is full. And he grew up down the street from this hospital.

Stressful times reveal our fabric. Look to how you manage your days to see whether you are the role model you hoped to be or have become the person you hoped to meet. Work on it.

March 31, 2020

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
Not Better, Not Lesser, but Diverse. . . .

It was 2 ½ years ago that I posted what a stumbling block I had and did not know I carried. When something was so obvious to me, all evidence pointed, words written, pictures and all, yet sitting across the table was one shaking his head no. I was reading into the subject. It did not say, whatever. That was not so.

I thought it was a matter of will, of laziness in opening a book, one didn’t care to think. I was told I was wrong in what I thought. I had no credentials to back me up but I did have a yearning to learn that was not quiet with open books nightly when my world slept and I ventured into what I learned in my dotage was Kabbalah, where Sages did not die.

We were taught in first grade all are born equal. All brains are equal. I believed until I was about eight and waited all night for Santa Claus. When he did not appear toward morning I crawled into bed next to my sister and knew it was one of the feel good things big people said. Not true but feel good.

When I first read Jean Auel’s Clan of The Cave Bear I thought it was a good work. When I picked it up the second time, I did not stop reading for 2 days. It told me in spades what I was unable and blind to understanding; that thought processes are different, not lesser or better, but diverse. The one telling me I was wrong in thinking was as wrong as I was thinking it was a matter of will, of intent.

Creb, the Mogur, or shaman comes to understand that Ayla , the young girl rescued because of climate calamity was able to conceptualize and learn his tribe’s language and behavior because her brain was open in ways his was not to learn hers.

I felt his pain concluding this. New knowledge must rearrange all preconceived thought and demands work. One’s entire belief system, philosophy, must be reconsidered in new light.

His people hammered through hundreds of generations to survive in bleak conditions while Ayla’s had come from conducive conditions allowing growth and less isolation. Her abilities were evident so they aroused jealousy. Just as any yearning desire to learn something adopts a discipline destined to manifest, discipline often seeds resentment in the onlooker.

Tribal groups often settled fertile grounds and mated with similar tribes. Peaceful affiliations though different meant growth evolved. Isolation meant incestuous unions and less growth. Evolution stagnates when different means discrimination.

So culture, genetic anguish, environment, simple poverty and a worst lack, no inner motive to race the morning to begin its dance, puts the brain on hold. Do I take away hope? I do not. Intensity of purpose. . . should have you online to get Clan of the Cave Bear. What a rich two days for me. Learning should be the infection that I would hope be contagious.

Understanding even a little bit does not make it easier, just lessens the frustration.

March 29, 2020

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.