Thoughts Have Hands

Sometime 

Some way

I must produce some figs.

I’ve been standing here so long

Patiently waiting 

Rooted in this gardener’s garden.

Some day soon,

Surely, please tell me, I will produce ripe fruit.

My relatives whisper in the wind, it takes time to grow figs. Three years for branches to build strength, only then will I grow plentiful fruit.

Now my neighbors do it effortlessly season after season.

It must be a joy when our gardener admires their succulent produce,

And plucks a few for his own lunch. 

It must be wonderful to become the tree you are meant to be,

instead of this waiting 

instead of this worry 

instead of this interminable anxiety.

Recently, the owner eyed me, he seemed unhappy with my barren nature, annoyed, by the room I’m taking up.

I fear he will cut me down.

I know he is upset.

I hope he knows,

I am doing my best.

I am frustrated too, taking so long.

I want him to know how eager I am to bear good fruit.

I thought my first would come this year.

I pushed my roots deeper into the soil, 

I inched as far down as I possibly could.  

I opened my limbs to the sun and embraced every drop of rain that fell, but nothing came,

Not one fig could I name my own.

I guess I didn’t have the creative juice.

Maybe I don’t know how, or maybe I suffer some strange disease.  I don’t feel sick and my bark is smooth.  I even produced bright green leaves last summer, not one turned yellow,

and that’s a fact.

Oh I do hope I can do better this year. Maybe I will have a coming out party if I blossom.

But the owner seems so angry and impatient.  He’s making me nervous.

The gardener talked earnestly with him, yesterday morning.

I heard him say he would pay special attention to me all season.  Oh, I think I may get a second chance.

The gardener laid his axe aside and spread fertilizer around my trunk.  He dug at my roots and pruned a bit, not too much.  He provided good care and fine service.  

It felt good to have my plot of ground loosened.  The fertilizer smelled of fresh nutrients; I think it will do me some good.  It is powerful medicine my neighbors whispered.  

Thank you, Mr Gardener for another season.  Thank you for taking time to show your love. I promise to do everything I can to bear fruit this season.

It’s a new day.  Spring is a few weeks away.  Winter was cold but my roots stayed warm and no frost burned my limbs.  I’m ready to blossom. I feel it under my bark. My sap is rising in the heat of the sun.

What a joy it will be,

To finally feel like a real fig tree. 

What a gift to be able to provide my owner fruit for breakfast.

Grateful I am to say the least, for the new growing season, for a second chance to be the fig tree I am meant to be.

Thank you, Mr Gardener for your faithfulness.  I appreciate all your kindness.  Thank you for saving me from becoming kindling, stacked on the burn pile out back.

By forgiving you gave me a blessing,

You gifted me time, and created space to bear new life. and that’s pure grace. Now I stand with abundant figs, a full fledged member of the tree of life.

Here won’t you try some of my fine fruit. I believe the taste will be a delight.

THH

3/27/25

Layers of clouds spread over the earth; 

A diffuse light glowed soft and warm,

No sign of blue sky only an airy white comforter to pull over.

A billowing shield from harsh sun rays.

A cover for dreams, inviting sleep.

Then a clear blue patch popped up on the morning horizon.

Light beckoned earth get a running start.

My sleep worn eyes opened, astonished,

Having awakened from a long, cold night to catch the wink of sunlight.

Awakened from somnolence I could only grin;

Stretch out gleeful hands as if today would be like no other.

Joyfully greet another gift from out of the blue.

THH

03/25

Jesus is asked about tragic sufferings of a group of people. He responds: what about this group and what about this one back when. They suffered calamities as well. He adds repent. He reiterates this after citing each example as the crowd queries him about the meaning of suffering. Jesus has a point to make.

He tells a quick story of a fruitless fig tree and a second chance. The implication is before we are cut down for lack of fruit, make the most of this one opportunity. This moment is grace. You have whatever time you have to create a life. To be who you want to be. You can even choose to improve yourself. So repent of worrying about troubles and the causes for this or that, none of that is where life is; instead turn to the life you are given and nurture it. Stop performing rituals and outward signs to make yourself look righteous.

Just live in your heart where you can be truly alive.

Jesus uses repent like a mantra.

I wonder if these days he might simply say stop whining, get on with living.

His instruction refers to turning ourselves around in the midst of life, in the midst of suffering, to stop looking for reasons for blame. He suggests gratitude for life given is the best attitude. Only then, are you free to concentrate on nurturing the gift bestowed. This life you have is your moment so make something worthy of it.

To repent : turn from your pain, worry, and shame. To repent: accept the gift with humility. You will never know the reason why. It is pure grace. And this moment is all you have or may ever have.

The gates of life have opened, for however long, don’t waste time. You may not get a second chance.

Don’t let the abrupt nature of it scare you.

Life is a gift beyond understanding. Go live it.

It is the hardest lesson.

Jesus admits life is hard. Jesus doesn’t whistle past graves of the dead or ignore the pain and suffering endured during life. But he refuses to judge or weigh the suffering of others, as if the trouble suffered was brought on by sin.

Suffering goes with life. No one deserves it. No one earns it. It is not punishment for anything done or left undone.

Living with suffering is the difficult task of wearing heavy gloves to do good work while protecting and preserving the tenderness of your heart the best you can.

Jesus asks us to stop fear mongering,

Be love of your neighbor as you love yourself.

A favorite quote of mine from Zorba the Greek sums up this passage pretty well.

It goes: ‘ Life is trouble only death is not, to be alive is to undo your belt and look for trouble.’ Zorba tells his boss wear suffering like work clothes, and take them off when no longer needed. Live with passion and joy as best you can and confront troubles with integrity.

I think Jesus would endorse Zorba’s approach with a happy smile and maybe add you reap what you sow. Now be on your way.

THH
3/18/25

Some Pharisees come to warn Jesus that King Herod was looking for him; he answered, ‘ go tell that fox …’ I am working and healing, too busy to worry about you.  He adds a pointed reference to his three days of work and laments of the many prophets before him whose faithful work ended with their murder. He adds he must go to Jerusalem where he will meet his end.  Jesus declares how he longed to gather all his chicks under his wings like a mother hen. But they would not listen, wanting instead to go their own way, presumably, and now are to be left behind until a future time when Jesus promised to return. 

This is a rich rhetorical framework in which to imagine life in the world of the Fox, the Hen, and chicks. Not to mention a platform for the evangelist to bring home the point that Gd cares.

The evangelist puts these words in the mouth of Jesus for rhetorical purposes.  What is his message?

What is it like to live in the world as a fox? A hen, a chick? 

Imagine you are a hen trying to gather your chicks.  Desperately, she tries to get her chicks to stay under her wings for protection.  One might imagine she fears a fox on the prowl or a chicken hawk circling overhead. The chicks keep trying to get to the barnyard to hunt and peck,innocent of the danger, driven by hunger.  The hen clucks and hustles them back to safety under her wings, shielding them from threats of predators.  But they refuse to settle down. 

The chicks don’t want to be mothered.  They are restless.  They are hungry.   They want to hunt seeds, bugs and worms. They want to eat and explore the world around them.  They want what they want and won’t look up. The mother hen does her best but is frustrated and worried like any mother would be.

The world of the chick is small; they are ignorant of danger and don’t even know enough to worry for their lives or futures.  What could happen? Like teenagers driving home after a big game having too much fun to notice on coming headlights — A parent’s biggest fear, I know, I’ve been there.

We can all be careless creatures, and unaware of wings that spread out to shelter us.  Too often invisible as we rush through busy lives.

The world of faithful people (adults and children) is small especially in the context of the cosmos, and we are naive to think we understand the mysterious depths of the world or of Gd’s love. We prefer to be on our own and follow our own predilections. We think living under the hen’s wings restrictive or too burdensome.  

Chicks do not long survive without protection in a predatory environment, no matter how brazenly they approach the world.  Foxes are always hanging around and make the world a dangerous place.  Chicks have little foresight. They are controlled by hunger and resist mother hens.  It is the old innocence to experience theme on steroids.  

Those of us who survive to adulthood or old age look back in wonder at our survival and whatever successes. Trust me.  I can relate.  I shake my head in surprise daily.  It is a pure expression of grace that I’m here.  And I am very thankful.

Foxes are predators. They are opportunistic.  In their world they look for any chance to grab a meal and are often ravenous and destructive.  They don’t have limits beyond the practical, ie the availability of food (or read drugs, sex, power, etc) which includes assessing the possibility of pulling off a raid without adverse consequences.  We probably know people who fit this description.

Surely the evangelist was aware this metaphor could be applied to powerful people.  And we see all about us today manifestations of power where people decide they know what is best for the rest.  Such leaders believe they have special privileges to exercise vengeance on those who do not measure up to their standards or fail to show proper deference and respect for their authority and interests. This is not new and unfortunately, it has come home to roost today in our own country.

The evangelical point seems to be: Jesus is (was) here. Jesus is (was) available. Jesus offered to be our protector, our mother hen. Jesus poured out his love for us through his work in the world, but sadly we didn’t grasp his purpose or failed to listen closely. Perhaps we were too preoccupied with our own hungers or worried about foxes.  

The fox remains on the on the alert for an opportunity to attack unsuspecting prey as Jesus clearly knew.  So be wary.  Don’t let your hungers lead you into unsafe territory.  The evangelist’s story gives us a warning, a prediction, and a promise; it was written probably somewhere between 80-90 CE for his audience, IE, followers of the way of love in a time of persecution. It applies equally well to us in the maelstrom of the present day.

Don’t be fooled by the machinations of foxes.  They will use any means to entice you from under mother hen’s wings.  Be steady in your faith and stay with your community under the guidance and protection of elders. Learn from them.  Keep the faith that Jesus will return and place us under his protection in the kin-dom to come.

Woe to young innocent chicks who allow their drives to dominate their lives, or succumb to wilderness temptations.  For they are easy prey.  Be prepared.  Learn to be wise in the ways of the world- wise as serpents, gentle as doves. 

By extension the message goes on to point out how few of us listen.  Most chicks head out to hunt and peck and feed their hungers leaving behind family(fathers and mothers, etc) to explore the world and seek their fortune.  This is to be expected. Such is the tragic life as Miguel de Unamuno proclaimed.

Jesus agrees as when the evangelist has him say but you would not stay (similar to the prodigal son) and now I must be off to Jerusalem where prophets go to die.  And soon I will be gone but you have the spirit of hope and someday I will return when you are ready. So have hope! Keep the faith! Practice being a loving community!

Explore Gd’s creation as the gift it is,

But be wary of foxes who will make a meal of you. 

And be kind to hens who do their best to keep us safe under their wings.

PS : I don’t know if I believe in Gd or the return of Jesus, sometimes yes, but not as a certainty.  I do think love heals, and we are blessed with life which gives us the opportunity to choose to play the fox or the hen. And just as importantly,

we have one chance to take care of as many chicks as we can. 

THH

3/17/25

St Patrick’s Day 

Some like it hot

Others want it cold, and ask for ice to go.  It matters not.

Some travel the world to see the sights, 

Others read books about what they want.

It matters little. 

Some talk gray matters to death. 

Others spin in circles and make no sense. 

It matters not unless you must listen.

Some stir up plots and egg on resentment. 

Others disrupt the flow of authority and 

make good trouble

Some do wonders without light.

It makes a difference.

The world brooks no resistance,

Upsets aspirations, laughs at certainty,

Unfolds indifferent to complaint or fine argument,

Unleashes surprise

With no surcharge. 

Some respond with idols to distract from signs of conflict,

Others hold down the fort, refuse to budge.

Stubbornness makes room for blame,

But offers no permanence.

Some look too far in the future 

Fail to embrace moments of joy, 

Miss eyes that smile back.

Others stay busy,

Worry too much, 

Wonder what will happen?

Does it matter?

Life weaves in give and take with threads of pure gold to purchase meaning in hope or in grieving,

Enough for all to hold close without deceiving.

Invisible to some who fail to breathe with empathy in the presence of another. 

A mountain stream will cleanse a body that’s willing, but not a mind full of ill intent.

Some claim the heartbeat of connection too faint to hear, and

Wait for less impaired ears.

Others don’t care or live in fear of misdirection. 

Some listen to suffering, and

Expect quick relief.

Others practice forgiving of victims, shamed or dying.

Listen with patience for sounds of ethereal music,

played with sublime precision

for everyone living,

Once heard, loud and clear, will bring 

Change for us all.

THH

3/10/25

Start walking, don’t look back, for home beckons you stay; it’s no longer your own and could break your heart, stymie conviction. 

A mind filled with doubts, fearful of ghostly warnings, empty of knowing, sees the road ahead dimly: 

A thrill to face, a bit foreboding.

A distant star caught your eye, 

Your interest tickled by a flicker of light, you risk the chance. 

Throw off your cloak of self protection, trudge into a thicket of thorny expectation, take a first step, and then another, packing courage, ignore inevitable pits, and follow your call into  wilderness.

Leave behind home and friends, forge ahead, follow dreams with little light or apperception.

Marked with your blood you march in hope of avoiding a heated conflagration 

Read signs painted in their own dried blood by strangers and the occasional prophet, pointing in various confusing directions.  

The path forward twists and turns, tiring your vision and moral attention.  The ups and downs batter the heart, disrupt the mission.

Finally, you find a place to call home. But your skin, thin and bruised, carries once painful scars. 

You think you might settle down when you stare with dismay in a mirror, seeing how much your changes, then bravely smile back at what has not.

You shed tears at old wounds and put on a fresh shirt, head out the door; the journey engaged ends when your ashes are planted in dirt.

But for now you have a good friends who don’t make fun of your appearance and can relate to similar mistakes. They know the struggle and the cost of strong.  

From years of living in solitary you have learned what it is to be alone, but now you enjoy the sweet pleasure of sharing the tales of adventure and laugh at your sempiternal search for the mystic.

And in exchange of deep conversation you may recognize this consolation: faithful living often brings a slow and beautiful transfiguration.

THH

3/4/25

The reality of mountain tops come home when you look down; that’s when it hits you square in the face.  Below every mountain lies a valley in need of grace.

Now you are high; you can touch the blue sky. You are talking to Gd. Your conversation transparent as fresh air.  

Overwhelmed by intimacy, you find agreement within yourself and in the mystery all about. 

Somehow the pure joy of breathing feels like knowing, of being loved and of loving, like the first person to stand in the garden. 

Communication flows like wine; fulfilled in the moment, you are ecstatic; absorbed in oneness, held by your lover, freed by a friend in the singular sacred.

Then the time lapsed movie scene shifts to an inevitable climax; you find yourself in awe of the mystic connection, but shed tears outside the theater looking in.  Time stopped, and now starts up again; your attitude hangs by a thread between wonder and regret. You ask was it real or a day dream?  

Maybe you should build an altar before you go down to mark this place of special knowing? 

Silence pervades as you descend the mountain.  There everyday life awaits your return.  You long to stay having found bliss. To get back to the joy that is slipping past. The Cheshire Cat who made your heart skip, a wry smile fading to dark.

Nagging your mind, full of mundane obligations, each calls your name. You feel the pull between staying and telling the fantastic story to people below. 

You walk down the mountain in wonder and silence, basking in after glow.  Suddenly you realize sharing the ineffable is quite impossible; your words will sound unnatural, short of relating the warmth in your heart. 

People wait below with serious questions. What can you say?  How can you share the extraordinaire?. 

The crowd jostles for position, cries out for information, begs for inspiration.  In all too human exasperation, you hate the demands but bless their hope. You recognize the desperate search for magic of intervention.

In the grubby world where people exist, you offer grace.  Wistful for not being home, you hope your friends will come along.  But the deaf can’t hear the music of the spheres and the blind lack a vision of kin-dom. Some people dripping in gold are starving, while the poor are abused for even trying to buy bread. All admire your hope but the burdens of life makes them fearful. So you go to work, and try to heal the broken.

You offer a glimpse of earthly abundance and wait with patience to unveil the kin-dom but earthly rivalries dim human vision and keep peace at a distance.  

Mountain top reverie is foreign, easy for the divine.  And you know your peak is beyond even the chosen: greedy and in pursuit of another scapegoat, it’s hard for them to climb a spiritual mountain. 

And crowned by scandal, suffering performs a shameless dance before your cloud of unknowing.

And in every valley human toil never ends until all rivalries stop their infernal brawling.

THH

3/1/25

I am who I will be

A challenge to the wind

A lonely rock shaped by chaos 

Sinking in the deep.

I am mass and energy swirling in space 

A universal plea defying time

I am protons and neutrons knotted by gravity,

I am an electron moving too fast to

Explain my identity. 

I am resistant to change 

I am persistent playing my entangled game 

I am inconsistent seeking what’s new.

I am emptiness seeking connection

I am striving for validation 

Unsure of the name I was given 

I am a merchant of half-baked dreams

Selling success to all who listen.

I am wadded up paper,

Thrown to the floor,

Discarded thoughts,

Left on their own to slowly unfold

I am spread out, frayed at the edges. 

I am often illegible, not exotic, a common script longing to be deciphered.

I am narratives torn from my drama,

A performer, seeking direction.

I am a half written script 

With endings doubtfully imagined, wanting rewrites or a bigger part.

I am an offender uncomfortable with redemption 

I am my own mystery thriller full of apprehensions,

a master at deception, tempting fate,

A juggler with arthritic hands, 

Posing for a smidgen of human attention,

An actor in pursuit of a standing ovation. 

I am a poet scrawling words on scrap paper to catch artistic inclinations

I am a seeker of rhymes with aging balance.

I am unskilled labor pining for work. 

I am innocence grown old and romantic.

I am digging at my hidden roots.

I am wistful of branches too high to reach.

I am a leaf yellowing on the tree.

I swing with summer breeze

I am turning golden soon to float free.

I am bold but full of aging wisdom.

I am disordered entropy.

My consciousness sails west to meet sunset.

I remain an incomplete mess as winds blow me along to an unknown home.

I am grounded looking at sky, feeling the earth under my toes.

Through looming branches,

I reconstruct trips aimed at the sky 

I am desire attached to memories I want to last.

I am a brittle leaf curled up in hope. 

Love will warm me in the sun.

I am winter snow

Taking the shape underneath 

I am molded by gloved hands 

into fragile art, 

A singular eye catcher, 

Left in sunlight to water the earth.

I am open space dancing with time 

I am a temporary, too fallible to understand

I am who I am. 

THH

2/26/25

A preacher, some called teacher spoke to a crowd about abundance

and a special kin-dom very near.

With ears accustomed to broken promises, and suspicious of the words from another ecstatic prophet, the crowd hoped to hear more.

Starved for a message to fulfill tradition,

Ready for ancient hopes to be confirmed,

Hands fingered empty pockets in anticipation,

He spoke of a kingdom found within, available for the asking.

But his call to love enemies and turn the other cheek or walk an extra mile made them grumble.

A strange place to begin a faith journey thought many burdened by debts.

Angry with their long suffering situation, they hungered for victory over known foes.

Full of desperation, they looked for a mighty king, to bring the kingdom to fruition.

To win power in a final apocalypse, and be rid of woe. This was the message of abundance listened for.

The crowd pressed hard against the man, forced him to climb into a boat. And there he spoke loud and clear over the water so every ear could hear.

He proclaimed all are blessed, including the meek and even the weak. He assured them everything will be revealed and all will be satisfied in God’s Kin-dom.

But the crowd wanted blood on the ground. His peace looked puny. And in spite of the man’s reputation for making good wine they left confused and thwarted.

Crowds are never pleased if expectations go unmet. No crowd sees truth until the innocent lay dead and the earth splits open.

But the enemy to be feared is not the one expected. The crowd wanted to conquer their oppressor, not uncover internal demons.

If this story rings in your ears it may remind, when fear wins elections year after year, when habits rule without reflection and abusive practices go unchallenged, when cynical campaigns of lies and fake news blind eyes to facts, then hate takes precedence and escalates by degrees of humiliation to physical retaliation.

Then all we have done is repeat the sad case of the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Rivalries rule our hearts until we face the envy within and humbly seek to be forgiven.

As the crowd wandered off, the man looked ahead and strolled the shore to sit with friends he met before. Fishermen repairing nets after a long night’s work, bone tired and wanting rest.

The man invited them back to their boat. They knew with the Master work never ends. So they rowed into the deep and let the nets down where he said; and the catch was more than the men could haul in. The boat nearly sank by the weight of fish.

Amazed by the gift of abundance, they knew the meaning of God With Us.

And one named Peter, exhilarated by this miracle was transformed; and before his friend fell to his knees and called him Lord.

For this huge catch would feed his family and the village for a week, so Peter believed the kingdom had come.

And the man said to him, are you impressed by catching fish? Come let’s be fishers of men.

And so the message spread a wide net, and to this day we seek this kin-dom of abundance and hope it will soon come.

But our hearts ruled by desire for control and sundry comforts, fears there is never enough.

When the man said to share with your neighbor so no one will be lost, few followed considering the cost.

And still we ask who is my neighbor?

Must I treat this other like kin?

And quick we are to remove the speck from the other guy’s eye and ignore the prejudice hidden under our skin.

Blind to abundance we covet more and more.

THH

02/06/25

Dwell 

Under the Oak tree 

It’s fine

Sit and enjoy the air.

Look up,

Behold blue sky, 

As it peeks through 

Long grey, brown branches. 

Stay present in the breeze,

Trace the evolution of each branch, 

In sinews of twigs, stem, and

Fleshy green leaf, 

Watch them wave cheerful little dares,

Or offer serious prayers.

So to are we lifted up by the wind,

Twisted this way and that,

Dangled at the end of each generation,

Clutched by limbs of inheritance 

bent by chance.

Required to trust hidden strengths,

And transcend arms of connection,

Believe in communal bonds of promised affection, 

Never to be broken.

Hold fast to habits learned by living,

Dream of love never ending. 

Sustained by planted oaks,

Rooted in soil believed fertile,

Grounded in our Tree of Life.

We dance with the whims of wind, 

Struggle for balance,

Seek innocence, and 

Strain to keep fragile hope alive

In the face of coming circumstance. 

For leaves will dress in majestic 

Colors at their autumn ball,

And school our hearts 

In the art of the fall.

THH

01/30/25