A Chance For Love. . .
Each time is a new time,
cast in the shadow
of a rock, a cave,
or even a cove. . .
Simply set and
inspired by a rolling coast,
a sunset, a glimpse
of a new place. . .
New tidings of good cheer,
a glass of sweet wine,
robust, quaffed in slow gulps
but favored by a thirsty throat.
Ever new, ever fresh
as a new beginning.
New worlds,
hammering their impatience
with promises;
limited only by how much
we are ready to forget.
Croesus, My Country
Croesus stumbled
and laid back a war torn skin
for public autopsy.
With bruises bested
by emotional welts
too deep to be visible, he wept.
In the eye of the cyclone,
the earth’s erratic heartbeat
was his heart;
the blood drenching the soil
was his blood
and the screams of the mothers
came from his throat.
From Midas he inherited
his golden touch,
spewing riches tinged with decadence;
stroking the mind of man
and lulling into complacency
the aging neophyte.
Promising to pave
the illusory streets with golden bricks,
the purchase price was extracted
ounce by sweaty ounce
from the despairing brows
of the ages’ overburdened.
*****
We will again bathe our Croesus
in the River Pactolus.
We will anoint his open wounded heart
with the balm of Gilead.
He will stand again
with his ancient head in the clouds
and his heart in the eye of the cyclone.
And no longer will he permit
the mothers’ screams
to tear the earth apart.
art by Claudia Hallissey
Quantum, sumus, scimus. . . you are what you know. . .
Sometime in my history, someone touched my life with their example and I learned to love books. It was in reading that I became aware that the Talmud taught that the only reason for Being was learning. Learning became the end in itself. Not to prove anything, but to improve life. To answer my own eternal why. To take the log out of my eye I could then venture to help take the splinter out of the Others’ eye.
With the continuing events of the previous weeks escaping our abilities to harness our emotions, questions need to be asked. If there are no questions concerning our behaviors, then events are repeated with no progress, even minutely. And the first question must be directed toward ourselves. Since attitudes are contagious, our first question should be how do I contribute to what happens?
During a fearful time a young man said to me, I know how I am supposed to think and feel and I will continue to try, but right now I am scared. I told him with that statement, he was close to the kingdom. Enough times told, even the self begins to change its habits, to match the words the mouth spills. Lessons are called lessons because the word suggests that a morsel of knowledge is to be found, something not known to the individual. If the knowledge was truly part of our fabric, it would be a known and not something to be learned.
We ask ourselves the question, what have we learned? And if it is learned, if dailyness suggests that we have integrated knowledge, or integrated a once unknown, then we have learned something. That something. If only the one something. If it is in the head, learned only by rote, and our lives do not proclaim it, then it is not knowledge, it is still an unknown.
It is by example that we teach. Example is still the best teacher. What do our daily actions announce about us? Are we sending crossed signals? Perhaps we need to take time and do some deep thinking. To see what messages we send out as we approach an Other. Body language speaks our intention before our words do, so what are we saying?
We must be the good example.
The Good Night
I ask you
to take the good night and
follow your heart.
Wherever it takes you, follow it,
for it will not lead you astray.
Cancel all thoughts
of destinations
conceived in mind.
They do not exist for you.
But follow the leanings of your heart
in flight and take the good night.
Whisper the night awake.
The stars will listen.
Murmur the moon into view
and it will light your path.
Take heed of your own awakening
from the black deep
and your heart will usher you
into worlds of your making.
(it is not a mistake to listen to our hearts. The error is only in misunderstanding the heart’s murmurings. The poem is from a collection in progress called The Love Psalms.)
As I See It . . . .
There are no more answers anywhere except those written within the individual on his heart. It is all there for him to discover and what he discovers will be adequate for this time. It works to cover tracks and to discover just one more truth which will enlighten what has already been learned. For one it will be fine. For another, it is nothing but a way station.
Everyone has a piece of the rock. A piece of the truth. The justification for each life is in the person and no place else. Not in the life of their god or their spouse or their children. But in themselves. There is no other place than the place of the individual heart.
To be able to ensnare all knowledge in one fell swoop would be to discourage and dismantle the psyche. It can be done but it would undo us all. The psychological trauma would put the psyche on the shelf forever. For who would have the courage to attempt another journey?
Our need determines our intent. And the caliber of teacher we require. To strive toward the highest and best we can be will of itself bring to our side those who also strive to do best and those who yearn to touch the highest. The divine within is called into conference and the work begins. The journey only begins when the present becomes unbearable and the future unthinkable.
I hold two views within me. That the universe is benign and at the same time it is ultimately good. Benign because the rain falls on the just and the unjust and ultimately good because if it were not, it would long ago have self destructed. Can one hold two opposing views and live? I hold the two at the core of me and at 85 I still breathe.
What can be born and borne in this world? The knowledge that all reality is a preferential viewpoint. That all reality is a preferred judgement and yet so incredibly real and so compatible that it all works. Painful? Of course. Worthwhile? We get to know the awesome power of individual thought. That we can make Peace on Earth an actuality and not just a hope.
photo by John Holmes
Out of the mouths will come words and in those moments when patience is tired, those moments will speak truth.
*****
Un-swallowed remorse is such that no throat opens wide enough to accommodate the sorrow.
*****
Optimism comes easily to a body that feels good.
*****
In one lifetime, there is always one relationship that becomes more than was hoped for.
*****
This relationship stands like a beacon and throughout life it is felt and tried as the perfection of what each relationship could become.
*****
We had to know love at some point for it to become a measure for us.
*****
The greatest lessons are those that require digesting.
*****
It is a process of evolution that separates man, not only from the beasts, but often from his own kind.
*****
People try to do, but doing is what they don’t.
*****
Values are gifts we shoulder from one generation to another.
photo by John Holmes
The Mind set to turn a particular way
is already bent. . .
The Teacher
It is a benign universe in which we are, always just, always fair to the extreme. If it does not appear so, our view of it may be in need of adjustment. Perhaps, just perhaps our focus is too narrow.
The divinity which resides in man puts him in the driver’s seat. What happens in this lush planet will have recourse in universal seas. What happens on one hearth, happens on all hearths giving warmth or not. What happens in one market place, happens in all marketplaces.
What man does or undoes, will rebound. Every act must be one of holy obligation.
The erstwhile professors claim their inadequacy and who are we not to believe them? The clerics proclaim their great faith in a just God and yet bridle at the injustices and claim their humanity in not knowing the answers. Can we not believe them? Who knows them better than they do themselves?
When one proclaims his ignorance, he also proclaims his negligence in the obligation of thinking. Thinking is a 24/7 work. Hard work. And this was not meant to be Paradise. Wars and catastrophes are started by thought. One man and one thought. Think Holocaust. Can we not think Peace? Think on it. And start on ourselves.
When we settle in for the night and put the light out, we are reminded that night class is down the hall to the right. The class is Ethics and Man. The last class was cancelled. No one showed up. What is wanted is the heart to carry the argument of the right thing to do, complete with commitment, to put priority on what will sustain humankind, what will give life and not take life.
Do we qualify?
Photo by
Kathy Qualiana
It is amusing to me because whether we believe it or not, all of life is a matter of faith. And when the century mark gets closer, one is no more surprised than I am to recognize the ceiling in the morning bedroom. When my dentists says we will see you in six months, it is a matter of faith on his part that his livelihood will continue. Or when we plan our Thanksgiving dinner or even this evening’s meal. It is a matter of faith.
I now work on mini wall quilts. These are less than 12 inches, like a small framed photo. When the 4th of July appears and disappears, I seriously begin the holiday ventures. When Thanksgiving dinner is put away and the children know that officially we begin the greatest excitement of the year, and it is still too early for decorations, something needs to be put up.
This is my suggestion. A hint of the the holiday. I may only have one of what I show, but if you are interested, contact me. I move slowly now, so my time is planned. We can negotiate. I am not the best photographer and as one of my readers said, in actuality they are treasures. You can contact me at [email protected]. I do take checks.
Until I am able to find more of this material, there is but one of this.
I can never duplicate hand work, but this I can simulate.
The words will be the same, the trees will be of different holiday fabric.
The words hang in mid air never to be forgotten as the voice that smugly said, what’s so great about babies? Anyone can have a baby! And try telling that to the couple who have already spent thousands upon thousands of dollars just trying to do that. Have a baby.
Would it come as a shock to our thinking processes, to our lifestyles, (for that is what our lives have become, lifestyles and not necessarily lives of meaning) to give space to the idea that parenting and family are a sacred duo? That it was with primary intention that the birthing process would be an extension of the mother’s heart and mind? That through the mother would flow the process that would unite man to the each, starting with siblings and give them a feeling of brotherhood? That through the father would come the support necessary for this family to take shape?
It was not intended to be a divisive process without feeling. The caring, the uniting, the intention of belonging to the greater humanity was what being human was all about. Times change and roles are reversed in many circumstances. But within the human exchange, human values must still be honored.
Independence seems to have become our main objective. To do everything we can by ourselves to stand and not lean. We shunt out the front door to play groups the infant and toddler barely able to separate from their mothers. And all ages in between are out the door with hardly a bye I’m going and no word about returning. It is the rare family with space in heart to accommodate the aging parent who wishes not to join the sing a long group at the waiting farm.
There is little space for the unable or the dependent to lean. There is no time, no interest, and no thing to bridge the gap separating breaths that wish to mingle. Before we take another step forward, is it not time to glance (at least) back to see what we wish not to repeat?
It is only when we do not learn from our mistakes that we fail.
It Is Said
It is said
that the heavens
care not what goes on
the world stage.
It is too late
to change the outlines
of a world gone mad.
But here. . .
within four walls
are children, eager to eat
of the bread of the gods
to feed hungry minds.
Those the heavens note,
for within these walls
is the outline for peace
on the next stage.
And here, the nurturer, the feeder,
will be given what is necessary
to begin the new world,
the brotherhood of man;
that could not be dreamed
with the old man’s dreams.
photo by John Holmes
A Matter Of Heart. . .
The terminal was unbearably hot. The crowd was gathered ready to embark the train for points East. The luggage crowded the children who were crowding the legs of the adults. Handbags swayed menacingly as little children strayed too close. It was a hot and sweaty atmosphere and not at all pleasant. The air conditioning would be overworked long into the night, even as the number of people decreased.
The wait was interrupted by the loudspeaker intoning that begging our pardons of course, there would be a slight delay in embarking because the train had not arrived. But as soon as it was in the depot and unloaded, we would be granted status as passengers.
The groans were echoed throughout the caverns of the terminal tracks and it was one groan.
In front of me a relatively young man, perhaps nearing forty and dressed in shorts, polo shirt and typical running shoes, stood by the ruby velvet rope, the only sign of elegance in a scene showing none. Until that moment.
A young boy child, estimated to be six or so, came to the young man and leaned against him. This was a husky one, but possibly was younger that what I thought. He looked though to be in training for some contact sport.
The young man bent down and in one gesture, obviously long practiced, gathered the child up. I watched in amazement, fully expecting to hear, ‘stand on your own two feet, you’re big enough!’
But what I saw was an act of love, obviously also not universal, because it was not what I expected.
I saw the child put his arms around the young man’s neck with such sureness that I knew it too was long practiced. And the young man buried his face in the neck of the child and pressed his lips close to the child’s ear. The look on the older face I could see for he was not 2 full feet away. And the look was one of unadulterated love, the purest measure of devotion.
As the larger arms held the child effortlessly, I heard the Teacher’s voice saying again, ‘only a father can make a son but other men make brothers just like themselves.’
And I saw what for these two was evident. At some point in time in the older man’s history, however far back each man’s history goes, this father had known a father’s love and had been a son.
And whether or not this young boy-child would choose to father, he could, because he was truly a son.
And this particular element, so often divisive in the lives of men, was forever in these two, reconciled. It was lovingly demonstrated. And no word passed between them.
artwork by Claudia Hallissey
