with today’s vernacular is a noble attempt. Hard to find an ancient mind not colored by the passing centuries.)
If man is the result of the whim of the Potter, how dependable is the Potter?
*****
Or is the lump of clay thrown willy nilly at the whim of the elements and molded?
*****
And how great should man’s efforts be and how much energy expended to remake what we did not control?
*****
Throwing the kid out of the house and using ‘tough love’ would never be a factor in today’s world or any world if the twig was not already bent upon arrival.
*****
Can any constructive change be considered not worthwhile and worth the effort? When does ‘at what cost’ enter into the argument?
*****
Process is All and discipline is part of the process if you are a disciple.
*****
God is a Process and therefore a verb.
*****
Tears are what we use to rinse out our brains if we give life any thought at all.
*****
Tears are also what we use to rinse out our memories.
*****
The purpose of life is to lift our brother up. And then to ask how high. We will then know how high and for what reason. The footwork then begins.
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 this was first published a letter arrived thanking me because it was used in a eulogy for a person who was difficult at best. No words of gratitude for this life could be found by anyone who had not been deeply affected by this wounded soul. That they found these words to give them a different perspective to view their experience with this person has given me a profound respect for the sacredness of language. That words can pierce and lacerate and kill as any weapon must be held in mind. It is with responsibility that we speak. And use words as a blessing to heal.
BLESS THE EXPERIENCE
I learned something today. I learned to
‘bless the experience’. For if the
experience has been a negative one, has
left me with a hurt so deep, has filled
me with anger, then I must bless it.
For in the blessing I remove its power
to hurt me again. I leave it impotent, unable.
I’ve taken the wind out of its sails and
there it sits, blessed for the teaching,
but unable to wield power over me again.
If the experience is a positive one, I bless it.
In like manner, it will remain
powerful and upon recall, able to confer
its goodness time and again. In my thinking
happily on it, I will automatically bless it again.
Life is a blessed experience, all of it.
Bless it generously and gratefully. It
teaches us magnificently and impartially.
These are the magic words.
For in the unhappy experience we are taught
swiftly and surely and must bless the lesson.
In the happier one our pleasurable memory is our
reward.
In blessing all of it, we make our
truce with life and secure our place in it forever.
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.
I guess it all is a matter of how you look at life because it will determine your path and your prejudices . And you will ultimately determine how you go about your life. My glaring fault according to my sister and my mother who no doubt discussed this failing in detail was that I alibied everybody.
I made excuses for everyone. I always found a reason why they did not do what they were supposed to.
I was attributing positive action to someone and my mate said that was not what the man intended at all. A young friend was our dinner guest and watched this exchange.
I said that was what I heard him say and do. And the argument again was, that was not the intent. Then I elevated the man’s intentions to be better than he is? There was silence at the table. Well, I said, that is not such a bad thing to do, is it? To see the good even in the not so good?
I have to because in my thinking it is the underlying rule in this universe that the good supersedes all else otherwise we would long have decimated ourselves along with all worlds. We have gone down the tube before and managed to rise.
Good has Intelligence as its basis and whether it is called God or Father or Life, that primary factor is central to all Universes. This Intelligence explains to me man’s struggle in life. It explains his belief that because of others or circumstances he has not succeeded.
Seldom does he take the log out of his own eye because to do that means he has to evolve to be able to take that step and own the responsibility. Because at the center of the smallest particle which unites and grows to participate fully in life, Intelligence is innate.
Learning has always been the key to evolution. How to survive was difficult for man without rudimentary knowledge.
I was aghast when someone did a something and my gasp was followed by how could he????? It was a matter with a family and pointed out eventually in thought was the fact that even today there are persons with no ties, or ties which do not bind even with mates or even with their children.
That function within some persons has not yet been born. It is a matter of evolution also. Footwork must be done.
When we acknowledge that we teach with our every action, every thought, we will know we are accountable. And then we take our presence on Earth, in this classroom seriously.
Then, as the bard said, it follows as the night, the day.
(photo by Joshua Hallissey)
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.
He called me gullible. Is it the same as trusting I asked? He blanched. And he had reason to. There is nothing in the common vernacular to put nuance into words touching the heart.
When I watch the Morning Joe and Mika program and listen to the worldly guests I wonder the world I left but brought with me by dragging one foot still in it. It was a world where my word was my bond, my trust, my honor and my love. It was all that was needed.
Not knowing my head was open, I was always surprised at what people said. I was sure their mouths were saying things their ears did not hear. And now I listen and still feel that way. They cannot know what they say and not hear the words. This morning I asked my daughter going out the door if this behavior is common and she said all day long. How does one continue to conduct life in such a world?
The career General and the private company of retired military now proven was formed to conduct nefarious dealings with the adversaries to make profit on information illegally dispensed. Do not the sacred and highly held loyalties stay the heart and mind to levels beyond profit? When one is voted to high office built on constitutional beliefs sweated and wept through wars that decimated families not mean that one cannot dismiss these as incidental and proceed with untruths to line one’s pockets?
The lists grow to include the constituency to see that lies are the way to get the freebies and the goodies and the lusts of one’s depravity since everyone does it so it makes it all right. Loyalties and value systems betrayed make no difference because no one cares anyway. How many times do we hear those words?
Well I care and have always cared since I was little and shouted at my family to stop their fighting because couldn’t they see what they did to each other? And silence always prevailed for a minute and a brother would sigh, she’s crying again. Well, today I cry too. I have made oceans because I still cannot believe what I see and hear.
I cannot believe the planet I love with such passion is betrayed by the likes of whom she shelters. And the country that my father came with such hope let him stay to have a life giving me life ongoing. There will be consequences and no one more surprised than those committing offenses with the thought that their playground would always be theirs simply because they played it smart.
The consequences will be transiting to a world where working hard is payment demanded. Sweat and deep pain will be the cost of remedial care. Offenses will once again have our names attached.
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.
I see a difference in the eyes of people whose vision is long and far away. These are people whose eyes do not stop at the curb but travel distances to a horizon hampered only by trees if it is good, but not by buildings and vehicles and junk.
The difference in these eyes is that I feel they do not stop seeing where I begin. They see beyond my human skin, deep into my heart. I find these souls now and again, but not often.
They do not linger about. They are not in the malls nor connected to computers all day nor are they working fingers on text gadgets.
They mostly are found in open fields working with animals or plaguing the peoples with questions and puzzles to keep minds from atrophying. They are the pied pipers of children who follow them about like puppies.
Children often are the first to find these souls. Others might consider them simple because obviously they are not with it whatever it is. But children know them intimately and quickly. They recognize them from a place the children themselves come from. They know and recognize each other.
I am partial to these souls whose sight, inner sight, takes them beyond what most consider the here and now, the present.
What do they see? Perhaps their ability to step behind our eyes to view the world from our perspective is what separates them from others. Have you not wondered how they are able to pick up our thoughts or conversations coming into a room with no introduction?
And their ability to sort out our feelings without knowledge of our troubles? These are special people, special souls who wander among us.
We should grab them by the collar and say with force, halt! I need you here. Right now and right here. They would be of immense help because their knowledge comes to them by lifting their eyes to the heavens. . . .
. . . . . . . where on speaking terms. . . they are known. . . .
The Godfellows. . .
they crowd him, he who walks
the path like the pied piper.
the youngers follow like
so many puppies.
he bends to whisper the day good
into ears that hear his beating heart.
and their hearts beat with knowledge . . . that they are both Divine. . . . .
(photo by John Holmes)
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.
It is a fact of life that when things are offered and we do not accept them, then when we want them, we find they are withdrawn. It is a matter of inner vision, not having to do with sight. We cannot see our need at the time. But upon thinking and when we see their value, we find it is too late.
We then of course are sorry. Whether the thing is offered by a person or because we are in a fortunate situation at the time, we do not accept because we have no need. But to check one’s vision , to see a need before it arises means that one makes connections.
Timing is of the essence. One must see how the connections between past occurrences and present happenings are related.
The moment becomes all to most people because to live in the moment is the current thought. But without the substance of the past, the present has no meaning. It is of itself, sterile.
To bring this home to us, we must think of who we have been to bring us to who we are in this moment. And if we do not instill meaning in the present today, tomorrow will be bereft. It will of itself, too, be sterile.
We must avail ourselves when opportunities for change are given. Too many think that today is born immaculate without the impact of yesterday. If we do not see how our yesterdays have laid their mark on us, then we will not see how our actions today will affect our tomorrows and those of our commitment.
And we will not see how our harsh winter will yield to a benevolent spring.
(photo by Joe Hallissey, Sr.)
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.
You think it is a neat hat? My numb hands brought forth a memory of how to knit this after 50 years. Many dislike old talk but when one is trying to adjust to a life of diminishing returns, there should be some straight talk about how does one cope with it all.
Mine has been a life of chronic physical disorder since I was ten. A year and a half in a sanatorium when I was 8 years old and a steel back brace through teen years. (I was mortified when boys smacked me on the back and yelped with mock pain to embarrass me. Not fun.)
Bone problems, arthritis, stenosis, muscle inflammation, all chronic, then 2 cardiac arrests and 3 strokes. . . In 3 months I will be 88. And I don’t know how come since I read like the Table of Contents for Contemporary Medical Conditions.
Coupled that with a head that saw too much and heard more than was comfortable to live with, a world crumpled that required medical help to allow me to function normally. Physical pain I learned to suppress; both took enormous endurance with ongoing learning.
One doctor had to resort to a scalpel to remove a deep sliver in my hand. It took awhile and when he was through he asked how I did it. What I asked? Not move nor cry he said. I step out of my body I said. He looked at me horrified and turned and slammed the door as he exited.
Many of the doctors called me mystic. My definition of mystic is one who is born to a new world but dragging one foot still in the last world. Hard way to live, but one can do it with diligence. Or one flees to the forest as I have done many times, I hear.
But one can be an ordinary person, in an ordinary family, in an ordinary life. This is what the public sees. But it is not a life like others live. At some point it spills and the cup runneth over. The answer is that it was worth it as every life is. Just different, that’s all, different. But of worth.
So it has taken some time to mentally write my book of lamentations. Lest my readers think it is a make believe world I have created, I built a philosophy from the ground up. It had to make sense with a life filled with non sense.
Critics say it is a philosophy created to make palatable issues life presented. Which in itself is a small miracle. Another says it is swiss cheese with many holes. But he does not see it from almost 90 years or aware of the mountains climbed. Another when transiting this world asked how did I know to do it?
All I knew is that I had to have a something to uphold me because there was nothing in my carpetbag. When a philosophy is carved out of the heart, it upholds mind, body, and spirit. It has demanded much, but I have given it my life. There are moments glorious but mostly my world of joy I learned is what I bring to the table.
One would think that after centuries one would have living down pat. Not so. The mills grind slowly we know and there are no skipped classes. There have been lives not fit to live nor fit to live with.
I now hear only 4 out of 10 words. I work hard even with hearing aids to hear human voices. I learned to read body language, facial expression, eyes, even telepathy and still miss messages.
Often with solitude, musical ear syndrome is an aging problem with unfinished arias in my own head’s inner Julliard school of music along with ongoing noises from the gym’s open doors at the end of the hall with games in session. It is muted but audible.
The specialists say the only way to cope with the ear syndrome is to flood the head with loud music. The body’s innate sense is to fill the vacuum. Try that while hungering to hear your muses. . . .
One audiologist understood what I talked about and asked, does it interfere with your life? No, I said, I have learned to cope, but it is tiring. Another said, my god, you work unbelievably hard at hearing, don’t you?
How to focus on deep thought when all else impinges on consciousness? With an open head there is the invisible as well as the visible world to contend with. The footwork with learning that short sentence is a life’s work. I also must remember the bread baking in the oven . . along with what’s for dinner????
Hearing aids accent sounds of the house but sometimes the brain has difficulty registering human voices. What did you say? Say it again. . please? No offers yet to wear my head. . .
Solitude is my companion. The inner theatre of mine is rich and for me, understandable. I have learned much and brought forth by deep focus things forgotten. Aging numb hands have moments of memory also and when you cannot stand long you can sit and remember old things to make new.
There are things still to learn and life continues to be good. Again, just different.
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.
Everyone assumes that this blessed day of the Heart will be a happy one for all. And if it is true for you and you and your beloved are partners in this great adventure, you are to be smiled upon and wished much happiness. Guard it and each other well. It is truly a gift and one to be remembered forevermore. May you both look forward to an eternity of days such as this.
For those whose hearts need kind words I hope I can help assuage the hurt or isolation you feel. You cannot believe the little emphasis that is placed on words like character, loyalty and bonding in this time we inhabit. You were of another world when you knew the truth of the greatness of the heart. And it has filtered down to you in this world and caused you grief.
Know that what awaits will be something akin to what you know and deserve. It will be what your heart requires and will enrich your life in whatever circumstance you find yourself. Your emptiness would not be so great had you not been given what you cannot forget. It will again enfold and embrace you. You know the greatness of love having been partner to it before. You will know it again.
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.
I rest my head
on your shoulder
and am happy
in the embrace.
Us dancing
in the kitchen
too small to move much,
but close in heart.
I say,
Keep dancing.
You say,
But there is no music!
I say,
We are the music. . . . .
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.
Can we make valentines, he asked? The younger looked as if he was torn by a big decision.
Why make them, I asked? ‘Cause there are lots I know and they be real from me, he said. How real I asked and he looked at me puzzled.
I waited for an answer I thought would clue me to the crease on his forehead.
So’s they know I care he sputtered. Don’t you know that for sure? Again I waited. They just don’ knowed, he said, they don’ knowed. What are they supposed to know I asked. He came over to me and sat on the floor at my feet.
‘Member, he said, when you were like me and nobody ‘membered you and your name not called out and there were lots an’ lots of valentines in the heart box your name not on cards?
I looked at this tender younger and wondered where he wandered. My stomach knotted as I remembered the little girl that I was who sat and hungered for my name to be called. The teacher was almost finished and looked around and said I have a few more cards yet and one had my name.
I rushed to claim it and knew it was from Guess Who? But many of the cards were from guess who? because boys and girls knew the word embarrass.
Much later we learned that our teacher checked off names as she called them and to make certain everyone had a valentine she had a supply in her desk. We did not know it then of course.
And what are your plans I asked. He said in his take charge voice it was not nice for some not to get cards so I give ever’one card and I make them so they be real.
Good thinking I said but no favorites? When time comes for favorite I give real valentine. That be my heart he said. That be real valentine, think so, yes?
I lifted him up and hugged him. Whoever gets your heart will be special because you are special. ‘Til I be grow up, he asked, you be my valentine?
With pleasure sir, with pleasure I said and hugged him again. So we went to make valentines for ever’one so ever’ name is called.
It would be awhile before I learned that ever’ name is called.
(there is still time to make ever’one a card. take the time with the young to do it. the card above was made for me by a younger decades ago.)
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.
