What Does Heaven Look Like?

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I’m not sure what heaven looks like. What I know is that we are students and life on earth is like a sacred school. Some souls are closer to graduating, others might return to learn more lessons. I have had overwhelming  experiences of deja vu and strong feelings of being here before. Perhaps heaven is where we go when we graduate. Maybe it is omnipresence and understanding. A place we exist with all that we love? But there must be so many places in-between that we cannot imagine. I know there is a tunnel/wormhole that the soul travels through. I have seen it and connected with it in meditation. I think we can access this gateway now – this is how we manifest and where we pull our intuitive intelligences. Heaven is surely filled with color!

My daughter once told me that she used to be my mother, I believe her – maybe this is why she is always bossing me around. I once read a story in a christian magazine where a mother overheard her 5 yr old daughter on the baby monitor – asking her newborn sibling about God, because she was starting to forget him. Children know, and then they become adults, some of us find our way back before death. I know the end is also the beginning, like birth.

When I was young I astral projected all the time. The most memorable time I was flying through space without a body – as pure consciousness. I remember this overwhelming sense of joy and contentment. I was flying over the world at the speed of light? Landscapes, oceans, and cities beneath me – continents glowing vibrant colors in the unending blackness, as I zoomed by. I was filled with freedom. The feeling of a child.

Why do we grow old? I think so we can move past our bodies and go. So maybe  heaven is where we dwell when we aren’t working and eventually we retire. The place where castles are built from diamonds. Perhaps we can stay there if we want to. I knew God before I was introduced to Jesus – nobody had to tell me about him/her. I also know I was born a poet and have always been one. I don’t believe in the fire and brimstone hell. I think hell is what we create in our own lives here on earth. Karmic hell. What do you think heaven looks like?

Light Bulb


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This morning I woke up as bright as a newly screwed light-bulb.

Life is tough—I am clinging to the center –

today I am winning.

I am a child.
We are all children in God’s family—stubbing our toes and scuffing our knees along the way. We wipe our snot-drenched faces with cotton sleeves – because we can’t stop crying.

Yucky Yogi

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Some people don’t appreciate anything.

I didn’t appreciate the catfish breath of the yoga instructor when she whined into my face under a meddlesome moon. ‘Catfish?’ ‘What does that smell like?’ Well I’m not exactly sure, but I presume it would smell fishy with a scented hint of kitty litter. I get it that everyone suffers from the occasional white coated tongue – an overabundance of yeast in the diet, but I’m telling you her chakras were clogged. Maybe mine are too but that’s why I went there – my pineal gland is in dire need of decalcification.

She was so rude, she blamed her attitude on the elements.

In her class we use bolsters, we straddle them like lovers. These bolsters are sluts. I wonder how many other sweaty bums they’ve seen. She instructs us to rest our cheeks on the bolsters – not those cheeks, the ones on our face. I meditate on an Epsom salt bath after class. Why am I writing this? Because sometimes I need to vent, sometimes laughter is better than crying. So hahaha in everybody’s face. Have a great day!

Into the Light

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She is a false prophet.
Her moral compass has no bearings on my soul.

And the child had known His Majesty before any recollected thought. But the woman did not know Him, and her house was filled with red voodoo dolls and possessed ouija boards – bought from thrift stores. And the old-house was haunted, their were spirits in its walls, and they would come and torment the child. And they would come every Christmas Eve – their fevered calls drifted from the parlor room. So the child would rest her head on a pillow – with a clutched knife in her hand. She could not sleep in that house where the spirits roamed, so she left that house, but the house remained  inside her soul.

One day the old-woman came back with a bible in her hand, believing she had all the answers. So she preached to the child, who was now grown, with children of her own. And she pointed her finger to the hall, and told her to follow. But the hall’s walls were filled with spirits, and she did not want to go. So the child who was now grown, prayed to His Majesty, sending prayers on the wings of His angels – and the old-woman said it was wrong.

The child ran toward the woods that were filled with magic. And the old-woman’s voice grew faint and disappeared from where it came. Inside the magical woods there were angels, and the light that shun was a majestic sun. His Majesty sat in the heart of that sun – arms outstretched, for the child to enter.

She was safe.

She was loved.

Book Review: The House on the Strand Author: Daphne Du Maurier

I would categorize this book as a historical fiction novel, containing supernatural happenings. Dick Young, the protagonist – has a close friendship with the scientist Professor Magnus Lane. Dick’s life is put in danger when he decides to partake in an experiment that induces time travel by ingestion of a liquid drug (concocted by Professor Lane). It is only the mind that travels; the body remains in the present time (which is sometime in the 1960’s). Dick Young journeys back to 14th century Cornwall each time he takes the drug, and becomes emerged in the life of the Carminowe family.

Whenever Dick takes a trip – which is how it is described when he consumes a dosage, he is guided by a man named Roger: a horseman/steward who works for the Carminowe family. Where Roger goes, Dick is pulled with him. Dick’s mind follows Roger, but his physical body remains stationed in the present. This proves dangerous because Dick’s mind is sightless and unaware in the present time —when under the influence of the drug. He has no ability to interfere in the past world; just an observer drifting through their world like a phantom – unnoticed. Magnus instructs Dick to never touch a person in the past world; if this happens detrimental circumstances occur.The drug begins to have side-effects, and he becomes addicted. Similarities could be drawn between alcoholism and drug addiction. There is an underlying homosexual quality in the relationship between Mr. Young and Professor Magnus. Dick’s wife and two stepsons begin to notice changes in his appearance and behavior, which he tries to hide. The tension in the family manifests an interesting dynamic.

Du Maurier overwhelms the reader with descriptions, and honors the vernacular of the 14th century used in that area. The author’s writing can demonstrate complexity, so it is important to pay attention while reading, or you might find yourself drifting – there is a lot of information. Some might find this tiresome, but I chose to treat it like an educational experience. That being said, don’t give up because past midway through the book I became engrossed in the story – finishing the remainder of the novel quickly. When I completed the book I had a desire for more unveiling – several missing pieces, too much ambiguity. I would have preferred to know how the Young family was affected long-term. There were many unanswered questions in regards to the heroine Isolda: the woman existing in 14th century Cornwall, that Mr. Young had become obsessed with. However, I still liked it – and appreciate the element of musicality in Mauriers writing style, which resembles  the rhythm of a galloping horse. I would definitely recommend this book.


Book Review: The Potato Factory

I’ll start by saying: don’t be put off by the length(832 pages), or the boring cover— Australian author Bryce Courtenay delivers an outstanding piece of literary work in his novel, The Potato Factory – I highly recommend it.

The story commences in mid-19th century London – among the scum-swept, rat infested, streets and dwellings, of London’s criminal classes. The characters are physically and morally flawed yet retain likable qualities. Ikey Solomon guides us through the grimy realities of London’s criminal gatherings: pubs; bawdy houses; and the infamous ratting-ring. A complicated character hiding within his great coat adorned with many pockets—creeping through alleyways and consorting with wayward sorts in criminal pursuits. He finds success in his endeavors and accumulates a significant fortune which he stores in a safe, that he retains half of the combination to – his wife Hannah holds the other half of numbers. Hannah runs several houses of ill repute; acquiring her own small fortune from their profits, and stores her money in the safe as well. Both parties have to be present to open the safe—this conundrum is revisited numerous times. Ikey and his wife despise each other, and wish to be rid of the other – but the safe keeps them bound.

Ikey is a Jew and suffers isolation and guilt because of this fact. His spiritual struggle is referenced throughout the pages. He holds an empathetic connection with minority sub-characters—able to connect with the inequalities they endure.

Mary Abacus is a mathematical genius with a Chinese abacus who fails to secure a job as a clerk; a common plight for women in 19th century London. She is sexually assulted; contributing to her downward spiral – through her experience we journey through a stretch of: brothels, opium dens, prisons, and eventually witness some success in her life. She is after-all the heroine of the story. Mary’s relationship with Ikey Solomon attributes to the course her life takes and their friendship is maintained throughout the novel. Hannah of course learns of Mary’s existence in her husband’s world and seeks revenge. What would a book be without a good old-fashioned cat-fight? The feud travels from London to Tasmania.

Another entity within the book are the street children, who are referred to as ‘street urchins.’ They drink gin, pick pockets, and roam the streets like a pack of cold-hungry wolf-pups. Running errands for a shilling or a sweet meat, they would probably murder for beer. Ikey conducts regular instruction on the art of thieving to the street children, and they worship him like a god; aspiring to be as great a criminal as him one day.

The transportation of Mary Abacus to Australia’s penal colony: Van Diemen’s Land, was a highlight of the story—filled with dangers, persecutions and victories.We get glimpses of several different prison experiences. I found it fascinating to witness the historical setting of colonial Australia; the prison conditions of the convicts – many who were allocated to families as slaves.
The momentum is maintained well throughout the book, the ending is a pleasurable shock. Mary takes the reader on a mission into the dangerous and isolated communities of the: timber getters, wild men, and escaped convicts— who live in the impenetrable parts of the wilderness.
book review

Inside the House

Time to turn off the mind for awhile.
It is unspooling –

thought after thought,

like a scroll scribbled in questions.

It is an overcast day in Sydney; the rain drizzles, there is no wind—
the sky a fading bruise. Everything is quiet in the National Reserve next door; the occasional rainbow lorikeet or cockatoo coo. The dog hiding in her house.
I like days in Australia, where there is no pressure to venture outside and worship the sun. To steer clear of the worlds shoulders upon shoulders; eyes upon eyes—bodies stacked like bricks, never changing sides.

But the children need fresh air – I would never dare stay inside for two days. What would the neighbors think?

Not like when I was twenty—unable to leave the house to collect my mail, even though the letter-box was stationed on the front porch.

Not like when I was twenty—crossing paths with a woman on the street, her face demonized, jackpot  eyes glaring at me – I scurry home quickly.

Not like that day in the crowd — where my body sweats, my mind begins to swirl; there is too much blinding-light. My heart threatening to tear through my sternum, into the heaving crowd; slicking the streets, underneath stamping feet – with my pain.

Burning Palms

There are so many things going on, I’m not sure where to begin. I suppose today would be a good start. It was a typical morning with children taking over.

Morning— an unappreciated toss in the lap; got to get going.

I must have missed the kookaburras; their hyenic laughter did not startle me awake as it used to at 5am, a sign I am exhausted — constant disturbances in the night: ‘Hold me’ ‘Give me a bottle’— ‘I am one!’ My daughter is demanding breakfast and my son is whining, all I want is coffee and to wipe the sleep from my eyes; there is no time. Unhappiness begins to swell, I will not allow it to take over; I should be grateful for my blessings. There is an urgent push through the door— My husband enters, freshly showered with a coffee in hand. “Are we still going hiking?” The coffee is not for me.

The road to the national park is winding through the hills. A forest made of sticks and bush. Barren branches white-washed from back-burning— teenage shrubs and shallow foliage; I am unimpressed—the landscape is thirsty and stubborn, a forest-floor carpeted in dead leaves. The road turns from cement to dirt and the woods begin to thicken— I am happy to feel the cover of nature, to see the rust-red leaves blend green— the deepening of life and growth of canopies— undisturbed habitat –
beckoning me.
My mood begins to lighten in the fresh quiet air, like the sound of a conch shell drawn to the ear; mapping a route for the crashing waves below, my son mesmerized in the carrier. A wallaby stands statuesque in camouflaged grasses— watching us walk by. The North-Eastern wind is swift and whips sand into his eyes; I cover his face with a blanket in protection, he is unsettled in the carrier— wanting to be free.

On the hike home I pace myself, not wanting to run out of breathe, as I have done before. I stare at the stepping of my feet, my son heavy on my chest, my legs plowing skyward, strong and able on the trodden uphill path. I am not startled by tree-roots that resemble snakes from a glance; I am making progress. Elijah kicks my stomach and pinches my skin; he is unhappy in the carrier— he wants to be free. Ricky stops me – directing my attention toward a wallaby hiding in the bush. The creature is curious— I approach him and take a picture, he does not move, he seems unafraid— his eyes in search of mine—
I am spellbound.
Elijah is tired; happy to be carried through the forest on his mothers chest.

Letters to Grandfather


Dear Grandfather,                           30/10/2016
The summer is upon us and all is well here in OZ.  I am sorry to hear that Norma’s condition is deteriorating, I pray she is not in too much pain and her suffering will improve.  Marley attended her first swimming lesson and basked in the experience, she will continue every Wednesday; it is a survival skill in a country surrounded by shark infested waters. A family dog was devoured  just last summer in a netted area. She enjoys preschool on Thursdays and exemplifies talent in painting – always bringing home pieces she is proud of – a daughter full of color.  We hang them on the refrigerator next to your picture and Lord Jagannath, I have enclosed one of her early works for you.  Marley is fascinated with books and stories, her favorite book is “Green Eggs and Ham”, we have the entire collection— which I relish reading as much as she does; an inherited gene for sure. I remember my childhood spent in the dilapidated duplex on Main Street, reading the “Cat In the Hat” next to the mahogany bookshelf filled with your encyclopedias.  Marley speaks exceptionally well and loves singing Row Row Row your Boat and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Her favorite toy is a tattered pirate that she takes with her everywhere, she even sleeps with him.  Work is satisfactory: I find it rewarding at times, I am contemplating continuing my education online.

Ricky is fine and we have decided to move to a more rural area with some acreage within the next year.  We have been looking at houses in the Sunshine Coast – drawn to the slow paced rhythm and quietude the region offers.  More space and shelter for our dear darlings evolving souls. Dreams are big and God is Great!  Their are still mountains to conquer, but my improved attitude is not weary in facing them. We have recently purchased a Cavoodle puppy which will be arriving in two months time, it’s mixed with English Cavalier and Toy Poodle; a Christmas present for Marley and a welcome addition to our budding family. Ricky’s parents are okay, considering his father had an operation a few days ago, involving his neck and shoulder. Bones were fused together, he was suffering from severe nerve pain, aggravation from an old shoulder injury.  It was debilitating and surgery was required —he will be coming home from the hospital today. Marley refers to her Schofield Grandparents: as Nanny and Poppy.

In response to your question ‘dancing Bollywood with the nuns at Stella Maris?’— I do not believe they would know where to begin. A few have found freedom of spirit in their golden years; it is possible. They find my stories about  you very interesting, many of the residents are familiar with the movie “One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest”. Ricky and I really enjoyed the interview and oral history you provided on the CD you gifted us— I often use it as a mental primer for work, much of the information is familiar and applicable to my nursing  environment. I spend a lot of time documenting in progress notes, which I quite enjoy when I am not time- poor. There were things about you I never knew: your years  spent heading  the forensic department at the mental institution. We enjoyed our last visit to the States where we toured the grounds of the Salem Mental Institution in Oregon with you.  The place where you spent most of your life as a leading psychiatrist.  The museum at the institution was fascinating. A history of the barbaric practices that occurred at the facility.

We recently went on a weekend getaway to Berrara with some friends and the kangaroos were traveling in herds, often jumping the backyard fence at our accommodation. At one stage a protective male attempted to lunge onto the  deck. He was accompanied by a female toting her joey in the marsupial pouch. They are peculiar dopey animals, beautiful in their own right – it’s important to remain cautious, they are wild.  My friends five year-old daughter was attacked while they were camping, her face scratched up beyond recognition.

We will soon be preparing for Christmas, an exciting time now that we have Marley. After that we are heading off on holiday –  five days in Shoalhaven Heads, it is located down the South Coast. Hoping to return home for a visit soon. Enjoy the pictures.