Tag Archive: spiritual


Brilliant Orchestrators

They come like stars.

See them there in the thousands:

Limitless discovers.

…Could be death or the wind.

Multiplying—

Perhaps it is love or happiness,
like the pink of a cherry orchard:

You walking there in denim,

with your thoughts mind you—

It’s not necessary to understand,
although sometimes I do…

See it like the green in your eyes.

It’s the song I hear—

And without hesitation sing,
with reverence for all.

This is what I’m meant to do:

Transcribe the language
of little orbs,
red and yellow and bluish-green.

Their benevolence,
intelligence—

Carry that weightlessness,
to be disbursed into vast pools
of universes.

Into the collective energy,
a minuet.

I am here,
in a studio,
listening,…

The sun through slanted blinds,
like a carpenter’s brilliant hands
on my oak floors.

You there in Milan,
Toronto,
India,
Switzerland,
Israel,
Belize,
and Arkansas…

All over and beyond,
unique as imagination,

identical by a thread.

That is the question and answer:

Omnipotent—

Like particles in a memory bank,
preservation for a future we can’t know.

The world in a nutshell—

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2014 All Rights Reserved

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Still Consciousness

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It is not the years that put on age but the predicaments we travel through…the slicing and dicing of our hearts and souls…draw deep lines of regret on our faces and weigh down our breasts in the gravity of despair…adorn you in white turbulence…remove your hair in literal losses…Eventually give-up your mind most willingly, though subconsciously, to dementia, deafness, going blind, because the safe-havens built as the foundation of your life have always been but mere illusion, a formed quicksand.

If everyone remained as his or her innocent child, in his or her natural state of potent life force, birthright, the sunlight in us would never stop enriching each cell with exuberant flow, the bodies we host. The light abounding in the universe would cup us in stunning perfection and peace.

It is when we separate from our Source that we succumb to the cruelties of nature and life outside of ourselves, foreign to our natural state and whither in its grasp. We become the earth in all its beauty and frailty, giving way to changes that are purposeful and significant, if you are a rock or fields of grass, the tide or seasons, but we are not…

We are the stillness of consciousness that never dies and always knows inherently all that is and isn’t present in perfection.

This beautiful lesson here on earth, poignant in pleasure and pain, is magnificent as we leave grateful to have experienced every tingle of emotion. Back to the place we came…we are…and never left…never born and without death.

It is glorious intellect, sensory, source, and movement,

God—

One heart galaxy in love, all there is, ever was…

Being—

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

© 2014 All Rights Reserved

The following excerpt is from, Dan Millman’s, The Peaceful Warrior:  “The universe is, well, there are theories about how it’s shaped…” “That’s not what I asked. Where is it?” “I don’t know–how can I answer that?” “That is the point. You cannot answer it, and you never will. There is no knowing about it. You are ignorant of where the universe is, and thus, where you are. In fact, you have no knowledge of where anything is or of what anything is or how it came to be. Life is a mystery.” “My ignorance is based on this understanding. Your understanding is based on ignorance. This is why I am a humorous fool, and you are a serious jackass.”

And below is a poem of my own from my upcoming book.

(Sometimes “I’m the humorous fool, and other times the serious jackass.”)

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I feel as if I came to earth by accident.

An unfortunate event occurred:

Somehow I was disconnected

from something vaster, universal,

far more intelligent, sensory…

than that of earthly things.

I am an extra sensory being—

That very disconnect,

or floating if you will,

separated, alone –

Is my fear!

I detect the detachment.

On a subconscious level it lives within me-

the mind-body connection:

My soul that gathers in my gut,

all knowing –

the seed of me…

I feel that cell!

In every thought,

Panic—

Been trying to fit in all my life,

into a place I don’t belong.

The struggle is the internal structure,

a program that is wiser and unwilling,

to adapt to the stupidity

that brings peace.

OH and I want peace!

To be accepted by the very things and people

that I can’t accept, won’t…

that I frown upon!

I never would want to be like…

I simply envy the ability to be oblivious –

to nature and the universe,

to sound and sight,

and energy…

To the point they are happy!

Because it is true:

“Ignorance is Bliss.”

When you are a mirror,

the truth is evident,

and what I speak of

evokes fear in those

and sadness in me

because I am alone.

When I go into their notion it is

a vacation. I can take the weight off…

The philosopher, philosophy,

Aesthetics.

I am—

Detesting what surrounds me.

Wildly fearful there’s not a living soul to trust.

So smart….

to be a dope is easier!!

An OBLIVIOUS WONDERLAND!

Do what IS civilized society:

Detach joyfully,

tread on one another,

make a life of greed and war,

Things and more things…

Have your spawn shadow you.

Build an empire on illusion.

When I am in the light,

the sun-home,

I feel connected to the heart of mine.

Only then I can be free and walk among

the fools!

Those are the days of my innocence.

-Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

© 2014 All Rights Reserved

Swing High

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When I was a little girl I swung high and low,

and tried to touch the clouds with my toes,

in a pair of sneakers with worn-out laces,

that I learned to tie with the help of

a song about rabbit ears.

Collected memories in dirt-filled-soles,

of Mill Pond and the trees I climbed.

Each winding branch an invitation to soar,

to new heights,

in the world and in me.

The days of tall grass fields and Daffodils,

scents of onion, and honeysuckle sweetness.

Oh and how loudly the sun shone!

As if it were a chorus in the sky:

Hopes and dreams sung in children’s voices,

not just light, but imagination come to life–

We challenged one another to balance,

walk on the white wooden fences,

dividing us from the street,

and constructed belief.

I learned to stand tall, even on one leg,

with the other behind, then in front,

arms like a bird.

When you could you flew, and if not,

you fell and got back up again,

dusted-off the scrapes and bruises.

The breeze was delicate, innocent,

could heal and carry you anywhere…

We played softball in a dirt field with

made-up bases, raced up and down hills,

yelled:

You’re it!

We honored our word and knew the importance

of it as children.

…Called teams, jumped rope, hung tires,

even dug deeply down into the clay layers of soil

for China.

It’s true (and we actually believed we could!)

Sometimes with a close friend,

you’d just sit and wonder, talk secrets,

and collect the ladybugs or ants that crawled

onto your sun-drenched skin.

We had no doubts…

When I was a little girl no one ever told me

it’s impossible to touch the clouds with your toes.

They let you believe, reach for, and dream.

We weren’t encouraged not to because we may fail,

get hurt, or that things were unattainable, silly even,

but were encouraged to strive because trying

made anything possible—

As we grew into adulthood and older eyes,

from seeing the truth of things not so playful…

Something somewhere somehow said we couldn’t,

and being so smart we believed it,

and settled into that misfortune.

I carry around my little girl’s heart,

into love, into life, into creating,

in everything that I am—

(and it’s when someone suggests I shouldn’t that I hurt.)

…Into believing, into teaching my own daughter today,

and every little girl (boys too),

that  you should always strive to touch the sky

with your toes, even if it seems no one ever has

or will.

…Be the one trying and believing,

rather than a hopeless fool—

For rigid is the road to devastation.

And you could toss your sneakers,

and live your days in shattered bones.

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

© 2014 All Rights Reserved

(this is still being edited)

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True Love Story

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Look at these two people I was raised by, Francesca Sessa and Filadelfio Pisciotta. They are almost too perfect to believe in, but I, my other siblings, family and friends, are their testament.  They were a part of the greatest generation. Actually, they were the epitome of the greatest generation.  I take such pride in my parents!

My father, Filadelfio went by the name, Fred, in order to be more Americanized in his quest to grow in business.  He had to drop out of high school in order to help support his family during the great depression.  So, he shined shoes in Harlem and found other odd jobs that helped to put food on the table. He learned about life and responsibility outside of a classroom.  In his free time he would study the dictionary, and read the newspaper and other written material. He told me how he would take a word, memorize it, and use it in conversation. He never wanted anyone to know he had to stop his schooling and he wanted to engage intelligently in conversation.  My father went on from his days shining shoes to a career in sales that he built with pride in customer service and satisfaction. He was shrewd and tough but always remained grounded and humble. His heart was big but he came from strong stock.  He learned every aspect of the stock market and went on to make over a million dollars (huge in those years and not bad today either) with no help from anyone, simply of his own will to succeed and provide for his family! He served in the Army and became a Sergeant in WWII where he served years abroad.

My parents were both of Sicilian descent. My Mother grew-up in Brooklyn, my Dad in Harlem.  My mother was the oldest of three girls and the baby sister to a brother, Vincent, who perished during WWII at sea in a shark attack leaving forever a vacancy in his family’s hearts.  My mother shared letters from her brother where he asked her to pick-up Christmas presents for the family.  He wrote how he looked forward to seeing them all soon. He called her Francie.  She told me how her heart sunk into her stomach the day the telegram arrived.  She never forgot that moment. She described to me eating her favorite taffy at the time, and that after that day she could never bring herself to eat it again for surely the taste of her brother’s death remained.

My mother was beautiful, innocent, poised, gentle, spiritual, passionate and romantic. She was raised strictly to be a lady, Christian, strong but nurturing.  She was reverential of all of these things. Mostly, she was in love with my father.  They met at a dance.

They both have told the story of how they first met.  My mother explained falling in love during their first dance together.  My father was more apprehensive.  He thought she was lovely but too young.  They were six years apart.  When his leave was over and he went back overseas my mother wrote him.  He wrote back.  My father said that he was falling in love with the heart of the girl in the letters.  When they met again at another dance, that my mother happened to sneak-off to, (deceiving her parents, a highly unusual act) but in this case worth the risk and defiance, Filadelfio would come to learn that Francesca was no longer that girl from the last dance but had become a most elegant and beautiful woman. Together they danced, talked and laughed.  It was then my father promised to come home to my mother.

My father sent money home in an envelope to his sister, Lucy, and asked her to please pick-up a promise ring for my mother.  At this time my mother had become friendly with my father’s family and spoke of him to her own. The ring is pink gold with red ruby stones. It is engraved, “To Frances Love Fred”.  Years later, my parents gave this ring to me and I forever cherish its value.

When my father returned home on leave he went to meet my mother’s parents and ask them permission for their daughter’s hand in marriage.  In a questionable language they asked, “But what is this, I thought you said he was Italian? There will be no marriage!“ My mother frantically explained, “Oh but he is…!”  My father’s Sicilian dialect was often misunderstood. Once against his true will, being I was his baby no matter what age, he taught me how to speak to a boy about lunch: “Voy neshada con me natro voltro eo voglio neshada con tu.

They were married! My father went overseas again to serve the rest of his time. He explained how he would get airsick in the planes over France, and how they ate potato skins.  My mother prepared their first home, an apartment in Brooklyn for his return.

Their first child was a son, Vincent, named after my mother’s lost brother. Year after year they had more children, seven to be exact, and three miscarriages or it would have been ten! So, there were seven total, five girls and two boys.  They started off raising the first half of the family in the Brooklyn apartment but then bought their first and only home in Valley Steam, Long Island.

Life was never easy for my parents but it was rich with goodness, love, stability, religious belief, and family joy.  It’s been said to me by outsiders that my family life growing-up was unreal and resembled the television series, “Leave it to Beaver.”  This is the truth.  My mother was always well kept, dressed and beautiful. I think maybe three times in my life I saw her in pajamas beyond breakfast time, sick, and it scared the hell out of me it was so foreign that I should worry!

My father worked six days a week, one to two late nights and once a month on Sunday. He furnished our home with the same beautiful merchandise he sold. My mother worked hard in the home. She raised seven kids, cooked meals, cleaned, did laundry, changed bed sheets, took kids to the dentist, participated in fundraisers, and school PTA. She was the leader of my 4H group, The Pretty Tulips.

As a family we ate our meals together, until one by one, we grew-up and left the nest.  In the morning each day was a different breakfast before leaving for work or school.  Saturdays we always had pancakes and on Sunday, my father would wake-up early to go to Everbest bakery and pick-up rolls. My mother would make bacon and eggs. Our juice was poured out into glasses with printed flowers adorned on them, and a little red multi-vitamin for each of us sit at the side of the glass. If there was toast it was all buttered and in a central dish that we all shared from.  I was drinking coffee since I was four years old. My father would pour the milk and tell me to, “Say when…” and I always said when.  The theme was structure and togetherness.  My parent’s priority was family, always making God and religion and spiritual practice center, but above all connecting respectfully with love for each other in everything they did.

In looking at the world now as an adult with responsibility, family, hardships, I can’t imagine this was always easy, in fact I know it wasn’t. In addition to dealing with the turbulence of five teenage daughters, along with the typical roughhousing of having boys, additionally, they had a child with Downs Syndrome, lost another from cancer, learned of a son being gay in a time it wasn’t acceptable, never mind in a Catholic-Italian culture.  However, none of this deterred my parent’s. They never faltered, not once.  They worked harder with my sister who had Downs, they nurtured my sister with cancer more, and they taught my brother to be brave and that he was accepted and loved for who he was.  As a result of my parents and family, I learned diversity, acceptance, compassion and how to love unconditionally.  There was never a time I ever questioned the security of my home, the love from my parents for my siblings, me, or between themselves.  The foundation was a rock!

As I wrote earlier, I take great pride in my parents.  I am so grateful for the home and upbringing I come from.  I’m proud of the individuals they were, of their faith, courage, sacrifice, fortitude, and love.

My mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in her late sixties.  She finally succumbs to her illness just shy of her seventy-second birthday.  Anyone who has dealt with this illness knows the depth of care taking involved but no matter my father would keep her home, the home they built together for us, until her final breath. We all said our goodbyes to the matriarch of our family, and our home reaped the sadness of the emptiness without her.  At eighty-nine years of age our father passed away in hospice care after suffering a stroke.  We each individually held his hand, prayed, thanked him with love and said our goodbyes.

Is it any wonder coming from this background that the realities of this life today, with its busied, unrelenting, for ourselves world, no time for God or breakfast, ego battling, control rather than ever submitting to another for love and sacrifice, would be found less than satisfactory, that my blessing would be my biggest curse?

I have the top of my parent’s wedding cake, their pictures and notes to one another in love, out in the open where I can see, as an invitation to the universe for the same, so that the seed they planted in my heart not be a romanticized view of life but reality.  I am my parent’s daughter.

So, is time the greatest betrayer when it comes to wishes come true?  Has the way of life evolved so much so that we lose the fabric of who we are and how much better we can become, together?

I never gave up but have tried to institute all that I’ve learned because the world may have changed but I’ve already lived the proof of what works!  I want to love this same way with all of my heart.  What better way could I show gratitude to my parents for making a home in a world of uncertainty so completely certain with the truth–

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

Copyright 2014 All Rights Reserved

A Letter

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Dearest Collector of Thoughts –

      Some of us spend a lifetime trying to find the meaning in ourselves, with the hope others, or specifically another, will understand and help us to do the same; to relate to a calling inside for connecting, and bonds that may help to save us on a multitude-of-levels by which we leave the weight of any despair behind.

     Personally, I have come to find this search includes a process of letting-go and forgiving something I am yet to understand. I can only identify with the presence, the thief if you will, that prevents my emerging into brilliance.

     It has come into question in my own belief system, if perhaps some of us were meant to be “only” sensory beings, maybe all of us (though many do not recognize this), here to experience all things earthly, in beauty and pain to which we are foreign, merely to absorb them as knowledge, not that they should become a part of a soul that is already perfect.

     We come here innocent and unbroken without a need for fixing!  Yet we decay to the forces outside of ourselves, to rigid belief systems, to trying to fit into an illusion rather than into our own hearts.

      Born of flesh and vulnerability, the one thing we must rely on is trust, an ethical code. The gentle ones: the small, meek, disabled, animals- are tests to that code of humanity. When any one of us is purposely neglectful or cruel not adhering to the code, they destroy all of us, into bits and pieces of broken humanity that suffer.

     Life has the potential to become a wonder if we accept not being truly attached to it but merely visitors in time and space.  This I believe to be truth that we are educators to each other and students of God.  We own nothing but borrowed time.

     In the end we fight for our last breath rather than easing into it, not because we fear the unknown, pain or any other previously experienced symptom of life (everything having already been out of our control) but because we are saddened to think we may be alone, no longer a part of love…   

     No matter how much suffering there ever was it all becomes glorious to realize we were part of something more extraordinary than ourselves. The relationships we shared…

      Unfortunately for us, the earthly dwellers, this knowledge is too often lost in the time searching, the rearranging of what already flows, rather than acceptance the fight for control, 

     …..and the realization that we have it all comes clear as day, as we go…

     Every musical note you’ve ever heard will tell you so —

     Home, faithfully, home.

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

Copyright 2014 All Rights Reserved