Let us hold the candle. . . . . .
Do you hear?. . . .
Lifetimes lived secreted
behind the woolly frames of memory.
We jog the frames
of Christmases past. . . .
Scents of
pine boughs and holly berries,
mince pies and cranberries.
Sounds of
apple crisp snow and
retorting icicles,
crackling fires and laughter.
And the sound of silence
as love stretches
through all dimensions
to encircle Thee and Me.
As real as tangible,
as the star beams
on the evergreen.
A promise. . . .given and kept.
Do you hear the angels?
DECEMBER CONFIRMS THE JUNE WOMAN
It is June and I stand poised on the landing of the half circular staircase. I am hearing the strains of the Canon not heard in this, my lifetime. Shocked still, caught in the shadows of half remembering and yet reluctant to confront the shaded memories, I wait.
She is visible, the young woman gliding with joy to the music which carried her down the long hall. She curtsies to the throngs lining the great walls.
I stand, not moving. Her joy is mine, translating to an emptiness in my heart. The tears scald my cheeks and the rest solidify in a mass in my throat. I cannot swallow. I am in danger of drowning from within and without.
II
It is now December. I am before an ancient building in a city bearing her years gracefully. The snow is circling my feet and the wind is freezing my eyes. I am rooted to this spot. The air is ringing with the sounds of holiday; lights flicker their ritualistic colors in harmony. Yet I stand immobile.
On the second floor of the ancient building, caught in the winter of my memories, I see the long hall stretching before me. The strain and refrains of the Canon carry the young one still, waltzing yet. The violins smooth the way for her memories to be built. The red vests of the rotund violinists complement in contrast their black, slicked hair. They bend and bow in homage. Their music locks her destiny forever.
My eyes are in danger this time of freezing in their sockets with the salted tears that cannot stop. The memory does not move, not to one side nor the other. My will forces my eyes to see what can only be played in my throbbing head. Courted through centuries with great care to remain hidden, I unwittingly jarred the box housing those memories.
In retrospect, I was ready. It was my time. I turned away shaken and knowing,
the past is still happening.
(they were hard years, but those times when we touched hearts, ahhhh, those were the golden days.)
The Journey
So we pitch our tents
on the side of the quiet river
and look for landmarks
in the morning.
It has been a full day,
rafting and wandering
through the rapids
hoping for a night of calm waters.
Still, we hope.
Christmas will come knocking
at the midnight door
and hope will enter.
And she will be welcome
for she enters with a promise.
Art by Claudia Hallissey
Chance Encounters
You cannot accommodate an attitude that sees only the good without giving notice to what the other is doing in laying garbage on unsuspecting shoulders.
It is a real gift to be able to give voice to an Other’s most cherished beliefs but neither does it give them tools to withstand life’s disabilities and allow them to work at standing upright themselves.
Conscience is a commodity with a price. It is the voice within us directing our own belief system.
To be given the tools to work at life is the best gift of all.
Sometimes what we consider to be coincidence is truly a matter of heavenly intervention.
The quality of the diversions bespeak the fellows.
The ‘not knowing’ of the moment is tense relief only to be recognized as the fool’s paradise in retrospect.
It takes a long time for humanity to grow up. And some play at it better than others.
Some wear their conscience in their breast pocket and others sit on it.
If you cherish the childish, you don’t grow up. If you lid the childlike awe and exuberance, you get old. Not necessarily mature, just old.
The Lady Of The Blue Cloths
Can we go today, he asked? Perplexed, I looked at him and wondered now where since most of the errands were done that we considered a must. Soon the holidays would be upon us.
To the lady with the blue cloths, he said. To the lady who knows things. And of course, I said. You haven’t asked for a long time. Because he said, I knowed when I ask-ed the question! And how, I wondered, but first we needed to get ready.
Soon we were on the way. He was quiet and wondering his wonders. I asked him again how he knew the answer when he just had asked the question! He stuttered for a bit and looked straight ahead. You know, he said, when I ask-ed myself a question. I wait and knowed I knowed the answer when I aske-ed the question. Somehow, pieces come into places, he stammered, like puzzles and I knowed that I knowed but I had to ask out loud.
I listened to this and still wondered. But why then do we need to see the lady of the blue cloths? Because he said, because. Because it is almost time for the Glooorrrriaaaaaaaaa time he said and I needs to find out from her some things she knows. Her answers he said, not mine answers.
We were met by his friend at the door of the shop and she led us to her table. She held his hand a minute and their hearts melded. Why, she asked, are you wondering how to say it? I am thinking he said, how you knowed what you knowed without asking questions out loud? She touched his cheek. Like you she said. When I feel a light breath on my cheek or a warm hand on my shoulder even if no one is there, I know my angel is. And knows my question. So by the time I put the question into words, the answer is in my heart.
I thinked that way so with me, he said. I knowed you would know he said because I know too. I think real hard and in my head pieces like puzzle come together. Angels are good friends, real friends. He got up to go. Never afraid he said, never afraid. Angels carry blue cloths. They say blue cloths good to wipe tears. You have lots of angels here. I come back just to see them?
Any time, she said. With the holy days we have lots of them. They follow me sometime he said, follow. Never alone, I never alone. She smiled at me in leaving and gave me her hand. The warmth of it raced to my heart and I drew breath. You are good for this one, she said. You are good. Charged, himself and I floated home.
Painting by
Claudia Hallissey
How Much Of A Difference
It was morning
though the night still hung heavy,
the clouds hovered,
the sun unable to rise.
The children gathered for breakfast,
morose, unhappy and angry,
heavy still with sleep.
Mother looked with unhappy eyes
and father, already delayed
flew out the door.
What could she plan
for this crew this night
as she scrutinized each face
when they exited.
That night the same faces
appeared to sup together,
hostile, unable to summon
the good things of the day.
Seated, they glowered
and the mother, with hope
passed the platter.
Have some love, she murmured,
as she handed the platter to the eldest.
Puzzled, he helped himself
and in unbelief said to his sibling,
have some love.
And around the table the faces changed
as the platter of love was passed
and with a whisper
bestowed its blessing by each one.
The father then picked up a plate to share
and to his surprise murmured, I bring peace.
And around the table, peace was passed
to accompany the main course of love
and talks resumed and the world
was given another chance.
On a level we cannot enter,
we cannot know how much of a difference
it takes to make a difference.
(Do you think that the problems in the rest of the world are of a greater nature than the wars fought within the four walls of any home? Think again for this is where the Cosmic Concern is. What is handed out as ultimatums for the growing family is what we in turn will be concerned with a few years down the line. Let us pass Peace at our tables when we gather together for this day of Gratitude.)
Old Friends
I summoned courage
from every quarter
with friends who
fleshed out my life.
There was Valor. . . .
a recent one whom
I befriended
and Patience who gathered
the young and nurtured them.
He was special.
And among these
were Honesty, a brilliant one
and Honor who brought up
those who lagged.
But also Trust,
a good friend to have beside me.
Altogether we formed
a contingent sent out
to regroup those who diverted
for the moment of excitement.
It, of course, could not last
and the old friends
were called upon time and again
to replenish forces.
It is a hard game to play,
this one of breaking rules.
The cost is harsh
with little profit.
Enough it is
to make use of those things
that prevail with values
hard won over time and tested.
That is when the gold shows.
(double click on photo to bring up details)
The Teacher speaks and the scribe takes dictation. . . .
As long as the desire to accomplish is within us, there will be sufficient time to do what needs be done. As long as what it is we wish to do is for others and for ourselves, there will be sufficient time. Time being a space in this dimension, has its own terrible cost. It is a tyrant. It is also a whip that has beaten its own inhabitants to a pulp. Never intending to be used in such a way, man has made it his master. Never stretching it to cover his wants as well as his needs, he has filled it more tightly with things to do and when taken out of context without his personality imprint, is simply just busy work.
We can give meaning to our work when it is filled with love. We can give meaning when in our own desire to make a difference, we stretch ourselves to fill in the holes in the work when left to itself means little. It is our own imprint, ourselves, that give meaning to what we find to fill our days. The other, the work that cleans the premises, that gives beauty to the eye, takes the heartbeat of who we are also. It behooves us to make our space shine for those who come by and who also follow.
There is much that could be done within the confines of our premises. There is much work to be done with those of our commitments. What we do with them is of importance when it is done from the heart and with our own best motives. All else simply becomes work.
It seems there is within us, all the knowledge of longstanding, but with the passage of time loses its impact. There comes the time when in viewing what others simply let drop, the feeling that it hardly is worth the effort. Yet the perseverance and the sticking to it is most necessary for others to gain entry into the sacred place of the heart. It is most necessary to keep the circle intact and the other pursuing, even when our own pursuits are fulfilled. Our least dropping away will soon discourage others from their own even little effort. And they in turn will think they are not worth the effort.
What this presents to the efforts of the earth classroom is failure ensured. We cannot allow this to happen without repercussions, even to the babes. The whole depends on the integrated pursuit of the aims of those who go the route and tire. We watch the entire procedure with calmness at times and then we border on hysteria. For the workers are few. They are not in great number. They work with no conscious memory and when the lack of memories and efforts become too much, they fade from the picture with work still to be done and leave the majority who cannot get out of their own way, to themselves.
This in itself is of no great import singly. But when taken to the extent that the lights are extinguished in the group and the hibernation begins in numbers, then we know there is little that will give meaning and direction to the majority. The effort required to keep the lamp burning in those of influence and not necessarily to mean world importance, but by singular effort, is immense and sometimes so overwhelming that further work is impossible. We then use what we can to keep the process intact and start the individuals moving again.
Even when the track record is evident, aging precludes the sustained interest. But we adjure and constantly encourage prolonged effort. We must. For we have so few in the fields. In the vineyards. The larger scope must always be employed. We cannot let not even one be lost to the place of darkness and mist. We count on our people of light. We must for we have no other support in a world of closed circuitry. We employ every means we can to keep the interest high. The personal input is of major importance. The aging body works against us. And the feedback for this work is nil. There is no one who bestows the kudos on the heads of the menial workers. The words of comfort and encouragement no longer are heard and the larger picture fades from view and what we have are the nuclear boundaries. So what we ask seems impossible. To keep on keeping on when there is arid territory to plant and feed and urge into production seems a monumental task. Yet we ask it again and again, keeping the worker in the field in the face of obstacles that a high jumper cannot navigate.
They cannot measure their impact nor fathom their influence. This is of the individual we speak. Not only the producer of works that gain attention but also of the cogs in the wheel that keep things balanced. ‘Only’ seems to be a very little word, yet to the cosmic populace, the word becomes holy. The ‘only’ includes all those on whom the workload falls, the ones who balance the entire lot of worlds precariously swimming. We hold to be of importance the ‘only.’ They are the ones who are shunned as the so called movers of the world and cast into the place of no importance. They are not called to the summit for conferences where the world’s conflicts are discussed. Only called to Mount Olympus where the holy work of the worlds is parceled out. There is the word again, ‘only’ in conjunction with holy.
No mail of worth comes to the door begging one’s presence. No telephone call summoning one to the world’s conferences. But neither is there the residue of regret, nor the hidden head in the sand hiding embarrassment. There are, in fact, words hanging in midair of encouragement and those now willing to give it another try. Another try and another try is what we ask our workers to give to others and to themselves. We need the workers. We need the ones whose vision contains elements not seen by the majority; the majority who yearn for role models of caliber.
We do not paint the pretty picture. What we do paint is our need, the cosmic need. The need to keep the classroom operative. To give meaning to the dailyness of the population struggling with stress to find meaning of their own. We know this and unfair as it seems, with no awards to hang one’s hat near, it is a work requiring doing and few know about. When it seems futile, we ask again the workers to think again. Instill within the neophyte the desire to improve one’s self, one’s place, one’s world. The least effort is not wasted. The smallest encouragement may be the encouragement that prevents total disaster.
The beds indeed must be changed to prevent contamination in a world of great numbers. The babies must indeed know of those who love them and care. The lonely soul trudging the inward path to procure meaning keeps another off the streets with the contact of one who has gone the route. The beautifying of a relationship, the word to the lonely, the hand to grasp, the eye to contact is all the encouragement sometimes needed. We cannot fathom the depths of life, of god.
Life, god, renews himself, itself. Summoning all of himself, herself, to the work involved, he reveals himself to himself. And learns of the depths of who he is. Always in the process of revealing, of revelation, of learning, we struggle as god struggles, as life struggles to give meaning and to ensure the depth of it all.
There is a depth still to be probed. There is a deep still to be revealed. And the human body is a marked probe waiting and seeking its own depth. Nowhere can we begin the excursion into the meaning of what surrounds us and to what we cover except by the dailyness of the common search. It is of no use to think that we can cover distances in a leap of profound understanding. The elements of discovery are step by step. It is a work and one of excruciating pain. It never was said to be easy nor light but what was said was that it was going to be deeply satisfying for one who struggles with it all. No one comes through but with some store of experience which translates into knowledge. Somewhere. And here it is that what the individual learns is applied to the group as a species and then is integrated into the whole.
Man was told that what is done for one is done for all. The lesson is profound when taken seriously and applied to everything. Not just to the case in hand but to all cases and to all hands. Keep it always forefront. The individual effort is noted and the heavens are not deaf nor are they blind. And the homecoming is worth it all.
We ask the blessing on this day and allow all things their space, for the simplest and most menial task is only so when glimpsed within the structures of the day. When taken to its completion, it becomes a sacred work of art.
artwork by Claudia Hallissey
It Is Enough
It is enough. . . .
just breathing and feeling
the north wind
coming through the night.
It is enough. . . .
to stir my senses,
to lift me from my bed,
to get on with life.
It is enough. . . .
to work the dirty and sweaty labors
and point out
that in these are the gifts of life.
These are the beautiful,
along with the first snow
and the harvest intact and sealed.
And to find a reflection
of what I hold dear
in the eyes of an Other.
It is enough.
Art by Claudia Hallissey