From an Upper Floor

We Teach What We Are. . .

The reasons are many for the ways of this world. It is not to see what difference we make in outward matters but what difference we can make within ourselves. Do we see where our soft spots are, places we see needing change and where to begin?   What is wrought within are reasons for real changes in the world.

As a nation we struggle this time with behavior fraught with injury to all of us. We wonder what to do as people who love what we have stood for since our country’s beginning. We want to do what is right and guard our heritage well.

Do we contribute to what is going on? How can I change how I think, what to think and what do I wish to make better about me? Conflicts will arise in all of us time after time because of our cultures and the streets on which we live. I may be at peace but it does no good for my neighbors who must work on peace within themselves.

Is this all I can do? Is there not something I wish to become that will enhance my thinking and knowledge? And be a role model for someone who would desire to work on themselves to broaden their thinking.

We are told that what we do for one, we do for all. Meaning that what is done for good will eventually be done for everyone’s good and by everyone. Evolution takes one step at a time and the footwork is mandatory. We must do all the steps in the procedures for the next step to be taken. Otherwise we stumble.

Anything done for our betterment will be lasting, for that good then we spread to others. Anything done with half a heart may be utilitarian but the lasting good will not be as evident.   Band-aid measures are like half a tank of gas on a desert road.

This classroom, and all of us in it, are all purposeful for earth life. We all are god participants and changes can be wrought in us and be everlasting.   But to improve the quality of thought, the ongoing progress of evolutionary leaps that benefit and nourish the psyche of mankind is the kind of work done on the knees in the solitude of who we are. When those times enrich our souls, they will benefit and enrich all Others in time.

When our cup runs over, the overflow is felt throughout the kingdom. Since we all teach what we know, the question asked is what are we teaching? We must think it through.

photo by John S. Hallissey

September 27, 2019

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 Big Step. . Loving For The Right Reasons. . . .

We must love for the right reasons if we are to find peace within ourselves. When we think we must love because children must love their parents or parents their children simply because we borne them or are born to them, then when systems go awry, there is chaos within.

As parents, we injure our children unless we search ourselves as to why our relationship is traumatic. And as children, guilt rises and we distance ourselves because we hurt when our parents fail us, no matter our age.

Until we get to the place where parents consider children a sacred gift and not clones will we even be at the beginning of a relationship that grows in goodness. But we also must recognize our lacks in not having mothers and fathers who knew how to parent and we must learn how to parent. What we have not had we can learn in the classroom, in therapy or in our places of worship.

I do not view life through rose colored lenses. It is work and in our country where education is mandatory even the youngest knows differences in the most basic premises, knows when something is different in homes of love as well as material gifts. I realize also that recognizing love’s absence is not always articulated, but I refuse to relegate to the heap what can be the only way to lift ourselves from the mire and rescue our children.

It takes courage to look at our parent gods and see how impoverished they are or were. Yet it also takes courage to look at ourselves and see where nature has dipped to lavish us with what others see as our gifts, and from where those come. And why this child we borned finds us pushing away because what we see is an affront to us. Possibly those things in us criticized? Education starts with stripping ourselves and removing the log which blinds our sight and granting courage necessary.

This is what evolution is about. Confronting ourselves and from where we have come is hard while wearing human skin. We will find our history embracing worlds no longer in evidence, perhaps revealing Nomads and Neanderthals and like Joseph’s coat of many colors, revealing our skin of many colors. Think it through.

I have great faith in who we are, to have come to this time. Times call us and our strengths to be the highest and best we can. We begin now,

to love one another for the right reasons, because we see the highest and best in all of us.

September 25, 2019

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 Meditation. . . does the world stand still for you?. . . .

Come with me to this place
I visit often, hidden behind an eyelash;
where it is Easter all the time and
rebirth is not a sometime thing; where
gods cavort in joyous abandon.

Come, we dance. . . .

Today the world stood still. In the
bright afternoon sun I saw a butterfly
dart into a spider’s web woven between
the power lines and lift it up and carry
it with him.

In the silence I heard the question.
How heavy is a spider’s web on a butterfly’s wing?
Since everything is balanced,
the question is proportional.
A friend said to me, ‘only you had eyes to see it.’

Does the world stand still for you? Ever?

It sometimes has seemed as if my life has been lived under a premise of ‘hurry, we are late already’. And I’ve wanted to say like the phrase I learned. . . I am dancing as fast as I can. . . I am taking time to reread things I have written and learning to thank who I was for finding the time when my half of the world slept, to leave a memo of hundreds of thousands of feelings. Veronica, I hardly got to know you. . . . this was the first post 8 years ago on fromanupperfloor.com . . . a gift from me to my new readers. . . .

September 23, 2019

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.
The Children Will Lead. . . but You Are The Answer. . . .

The Children Shall Lead Us. . . .

Young people, some only in grammar schools, around THE WORLD have taken leave of their classrooms today to strike their concerns about the coming death of their best and only classroom. It is this planet Earth. Our only home as far as most of us know, this lifetime.

Many of the young have memory and they know that nothing is given but what something is taken away. For many lifetimes our planet has given us lush greens and vibrant blues and sundry good to avaricious hearts. They know who these are among us. Yet we know we all plunder our Earth Mother, in the substance thrown away and her largess of native goods taken and trashed. We all participate in greedy behavior.

We either sit on arid land pleading for water or wading in hip boots in the living rooms of our once homes. Or picking up the matchsticks of our beloved countries in the residues of tornadoes and hurricanes. A doomsday on this planet of great numbers? In many areas, it already is. Who cares?

And what difference does it make? Well I care and one day you will care a lot and it will make a big difference. You are its prayer, its question and its answer. Only you. In you are the answers to what your life means. There are no other answers. You are the answer. You are the unsuspecting shoulders upon whom the answer rests. You will be the answer to who cares and you will care a lot.

Your God you pray to is not always merciful. He respects what you would call my stand alone responsibilities. I respect without argument an angry Cosmos that has the power to strike at the core of us and hit home. This is my beautiful planet and I in pain realize we are a reflection of that pain elsewhere. I work to relieve it.

Primary kindnesses must be granted to all facets of nature, from the glass of water to the earthworms that fragrant the soil. Every aspect of life, every aspect of guarding this planet from dawn to the whispered good night in love to our Earth Mother. I tell you true.

You will care and you will care. A lot.

(a pleading to us all. . . )

Let our hearts lead us
to that place where
we intuitively cherish the mother
who feeds and clothes us and
gives us sustenance.

Let us not forsake our responsibilities
to those yet unborn but whose futures
we have already mortgaged.

Blessed Spirit, enliven our curiousity
about our daily world, remind us
that the bird’s song needs our
acknowledgement and praise,
that the sun needs our greeting
and the night wishes it bid good.

As we nourish those of our commitment,
speak to us of our commitment
to the home we know, our planet Earth.
Let our love guide us to make beautiful,
to make secure and to guard diligently
what has so faithfully harbored us.

In love we pray, Amen, amen.

{the pleading scribed April 5, 1991}

September 20, 2019

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.
Far Beyond Where We Are. . . . .

Recently I was lost in thought and found myself saying out loud that I have to get back to teaching! I surprised myself but to whom was I speaking and what world but more importantly, at what depth? I remember a conversation at dinner where there was argument and I exasperatedly said, the wrong people at this table were educated!

David looked at me with a steel glance and said, only the people who needed the education ! And I looked hard at this lawyer son of ours with a philosophy major in his life struggle and knew what he said because all of them held credentials except me. And I said you are right, David, right.

In that world I held in conference and said I had to get back to teaching, was a real world though I would be laughed at with derision in this one. Yet much of what I find compelling in this world ,in a concerted effort daily of independent study, avidly, tells me it is not new.

For me God is a verb and Jesus, the Nazarene, is my mentor.

I understand that all time is simultaneous, which Albert Einstein verified by saying man will not ever begin to understand his own ‘why’ until he understands this very important element of time.

My mentor became my friend as I was held accountable and as I sought his divinity, I found mankind’s and eventually my own. Then I was able to see the GodWithin which sparks us with conscience. In the Dead Sea Scrolls (the Nag Hammadi Library) Jesus said, ‘I shall give you what no eye has seen and what no ear has heard’.

Even with no credentials, and whatever our persuasion, we all have a highest and best we hold onto. It is a good beginning knowing all the while there is a realm of existence so far beyond where we are that it cannot be spoken of because there are no concepts beyond our immediate conceptual abilities.

It is still some distance where awesomeness will lead to further realms of thought not possible for the human brain. Fir’ piece to go?. . . .long ways. . . .a very long way. . . .

The Uncovering. . . an excerpt. . .

The idea will find its home
in the minds of all men
and the revolution begins.
The learned ones will marvel
at the evolution in thinking
and peace with brotherhood
will slowly mark its beginning
in the house of one man.

Nestling in the house will be the children.
They will be remembering where

the promise was given.

above photo by John Holmes

September 17, 2019

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 Much Time To Frolic. . . .

Today I thought that many events in my life were practice literally for what was to be revealed. I did not know that of course, but I rehearsed for what I thought right and good. I became involved in being who I thought I could be.

There was a phrase when I was growing up, fake it till you make it were the words. It meant pretend it is so until it is. We think often that is how our government is run but I knew certain things were correct but not of my heritage. Events were blatant contradictions (like parents being hateful about classmates ‘ families when we were taught to be kind in school) to what I hoped or knew could be the ideal. So I pretended a lot. It was not easy but as I said, practice it was and I was rehearsing. Alibi-ing people is what others said I did.

I can see the reasoning of Job and those souls who put themselves in public saying their god was good and life was also. Even though smack in the belly was a whopper. What was Job aware of? What were the do-gooders doing in the face of contradictions likely to choke them? What was escaping me?

I remember lying on the patch of grass when I was just seven or so and moving clouds into forms with thought and wishing to be a wise old woman some day. Not for things like English doll buggies or fashionable clothes but always wished for straight talk. I now see 100 approaching and still look for talk.

I want to explore pretend until it is not pretend, like a stretched sweater comfortable to wear. How to do it. How to love the unlovable with behavior repugnant? How to get past the repulsive sight to see the shining eyes or blazing heart? How to pretend a tight hug and not push away.

There are warts and worms in every world. I think what I pursue at heart is to be a godperson in human skin. I think all life is a route back to what once was and we threw away in pursuit of something to hold in our hands. Manifested. Not a waste to be sure, but lifetimes so hard that it has taken eons to retrieve our heritage.

We are a reflection of that pursuit. I see Job insisting his god is good and welcoming the challenges. Hit me again, he says, I can take it and rise to go on. He already knew that life was everlasting, and he, groomed for his next world. Pretending leads to integration of uncomfortable ideas, foreign and hard to digest, but altogether an enhancement not only this life but all lives.

My Mentor, the Nazarene said this, didn’t he? Do for one and you do for all. Evolution is step by step with a society grown in ways not only science driven, but technological, able to integrate old anguish and ancient beliefs with a sympathy as well as understanding that is balm for us all. Kabbalah was our innate respect for learning, bedding for we who remember from where we come.

I am grateful for a life that has taught much and wondered too much to frolic this time, but in overwhelming gratitude to the All.

simple request. . . .

it won’t cost a sou, or a mint
or a farthing or a dollar.
It won’t cost anything, she says,
except . . . . .

to put away the toys
that spoil the air we breathe,
that take our fun
and spoil that too. . .

all she asks is time
to take care of this Earth
and to take care of the children
we make and be

their example. . .

artwork by Claudia Hallissey. . .

September 15, 2019

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.
The Harvest Moon. . . .

The night will bring a harvest moon. I have seen many and they are special. Brilliant and lighting the sky with magic, even though it is Friday the 13^th. I hope there will be dancing with moonbeams and children will laugh as they gather them in baskets like rare gems designed only for their eyes. And they will forever remember from where they come.

Harvest Moon. . .

Within the circumference of the full moon
lies a world of power calculated
to make a man weep. A harvest moon,
brimming with light, great light, prolongs
the day’s labor to make the fields clean,
preparing them for the covering of frost
that will freeze the ground and make way for the snow.

The snow comes in drifts, hiding the stubble
where field mice chew and multiply.
It provides a playground and home
for creatures close to the earth’s crust.

But in the silos, in the barnyards and lofts
is stacked the world’s bounty
to feed those who labored through
the long hot summer to ready the table
for a well earned thanksgiving.

We just suppose the winter will be hard,
written though it has always been for
the old ones to see in the landscape
of the harvest moon. You could not bear
to look at the full moon too hard or too long.

Every farmer soon learns this.
The pull of the moon raises the tides only so far.
But you instinctively knew

that only so far was all the way home.

September 13, 2019

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.
Worry. . .Still An Advanced Skill. . . .

I Am Sorry, but it takes smarts. . . .

When I hear the words hitting my soft spot with a why should I worry? You do such a good job of it! I want to be mean and snarky and say we would still be crawling on our bellies if we did not have those who gave thought that this mode of travel would be hazardous to the health of upright humans.

But I am certain that upright humans probably were not in a future of non thinkers. Not everyone has the ability to trudge a perilous territory seeking out reasons for problems. It takes immense knowledge to see connections when events appear to have no connection.

Immense for the time when common thought sees no problem at all. And that is the kicker. Common thought. For those who are new to my work, I update this previous essay.

My mother, the Jenny, was an orphan adopted at 8, by owners of a barroom. To not go back to the orphanage, she learned to work hard to survive, emptying spittoons and scrubbing wood floors. She became a worrier also because she was late every day running to parochial school and being punished by the nuns. She escaped by marrying too young and giving birth to 8 children.

All she knew to survive was to anticipate problems. All 8 of us became professional worriers. Four of us still survive, the eldest within 2 years of a hundred and the younger babe at 87. We 4 are still expert at worrying.

When the doctor stood at the door of the ward and mourned the death of the newborns and their mothers, he observed the young doctors moving from one bed to another. He noted also they only wiped detritus from their hands with a dirty rag. Could they be carrying something from one to the other? So he instituted the washing of hands between patients. And the babies stopped dying and so did their mothers.

He connected the dots. He worried long and hard enough and came to conclusions. Worry is an advanced form of thinking. It is impossible for some people because they simply do not know enough to see cause and effect.

Most do not know how to encircle the problem. To have a human being who understands the fuller picture, we have to introduce more levels of experience.

When this planet, our Earth, is called a classroom, it is because of advanced classes of education. One crisis after another is chosen to further our advancement of chosen work. When we complete a class, we move on. It is with ultimate concern we who see the devastation of this natural classroom worry that future generations will not have it.

It is with a sacred blush that we who have loved it to distraction ask that its inhabitants become worriers. Study the behaviors that have led to these elements of crises before our beloved best school be destroyed. Not everyone knows enough to worry. Let us be the smart ones.

Perhaps we who worry can do something because we know only an advanced form of thinking now will save us.

art by Claudia Hallissey

September 9, 2019

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.
The Earth Gods Know. . .we do not swim alone. .

Journaled December 1992 . . . following. .the Great Nor’easter. . december’92

Nature expounds her presence with all. She ventures to shout her presence. She sends storms and pestilence and calm days and sunny skies to announce her presence. She grants to all the balm of her existence. But she angers and cries . And in frustration teaches what no other thing or method can. She is a great lady but given to little patience. The earth is in dire straits, she says. She hurts and I cannot let her bleed to death. So she rages and fumes and she tires. Will she give up? The earth gods know. The earth gods know. (Hurricane Dorian devastates. . September 2019)

January 2019. . . . in a previous entry I ended with the thought that we are the Intelligence undergirding these universes and we are the power beneath it all. I had written that my studies had taken me to that place where I knew Spirit or the God Force or whatever we call this Intelligence that rumbles life into the universes, but we are part. God Participants.

We are the intelligence or the life force. And this morning I see that if anything is not done to correct the injustices or the inequities that harm and hurt peoples and beings, it is not done because we are doing nothing. What we are doing is participating in the harm and injustices. Doing nothing to stop them because of fear or because we are benefiting from them. So we are the cause and the cure.

That there is an over-riding good that belies the insignificant I. That there is beyond the benign the stretching of invisible good that overshadows all. It is or has to be because we would have long destroyed all life. The sparklers are held by a something I cannot fathom but whose potential is ‘becoming.’ What I can accommodate with utter imprecision is the desire to see that balance is achieved.

That there is something that is so good that no evil can touch its core of perfection. I call it the Great God or possibly should call it the Great Good? As I said in that entry when I stumbled with that undergirding, is that we are part of that Spirit. . . as it was in the beginning, a god participant meaning we were of one name. Genesis chapter 1 verse 26 and god said, let us make man in our image. And I said so long ago, or was it only yesterday in quantum, man is basically good because man has the Divine Within needing to be acknowledged.

As long as we try to explain the hard sweat work of good that people do as in doing what is best for humanity, we will enhance life in all universes. Because as the boy child said to the Lady of Blue Cloths, we are being watch-ed. We are being watch-ed.

(I seem to harangue on this subject of this noteworthy classroom, but we must always keep the larger picture in view, even when what we do seems so small. We do not swim alone.)

September 6, 2019

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 Woman Of Great Wealth. . .

It was a hard move for all of us leaving over a hundred acres of camp property we were living on in Connecticut to move to city life in Michigan. From a lake with mountains and an 1800 farm house to a house with eight feet on either side was what we were looking at. But stepping in I immediately knew it would be home to us.

Our sons bonded tightly there even as they branched out to new friends and activities, The photos show how involved we were. I was talked into helping with the construction of the hockey rink in the backyard. It was started every year from that first time a week before Christmas. That was when we could depend on weather to behave itself. We counted on freezing daily then.

I made rules that I would only spray till 2 a.m.! If I remember correctly, spraying involved 20 minutes every hour for two to three days. That was after there was a few inches of snow to push back to form a rim. And it was a joyful night when the lights were turned on and fun began. The guys were ready, the brothers and the younger’s friends.

Hockey could be played till 9 p.m. on school nights and then they came into the basement to undo skates and then upstairs for cocoa and whatever chief cook baked. This went on till graduation from high school. I was not popular with neighborhood moms with young sons when bombarded with the cry of why can’t we have a hockey rink? Alas, someone needed to stand and spray and not everyone loved winter as we did.

Some not as agile on skates but all loved chasing pucks with sticks. We had our share of broken windows in the house and garage which had to be repaired quickly. They became adept soon to hold the shots low and also at repairing the windows.

The younger, son John, eventually settled in California to teach when I received a call one afternoon from the class he was teaching. He said his class did not believe the hockey rink in his backyard. Would I answer their questions? The children were unbelieving. I explained how we did it and what was done to maintain. You sprayed with a hose they asked? Yes, I said and not after 2 a.m.!

After much time with questions of how cold did it get, how long and how many played and the kinds of things kids wonder about especially the strange mother who would volunteer to do this! They thanked me and made me wonder how many were still unconvinced.

Over a half century later, I consider myself a woman of great wealth in charge of this memory bank.

September 4, 2019

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.