hurricane theory

do most, who hadn’t before, desire to tell the truth when death is near?

the old self lies to maintain the false reputation, the false self.

the renewed will not desire to lie to anyone, not even one’s self.

I am wretched is the truest statement there is.

But also “yet go I by grace.”

when death is near,

the diagnosis the reminder of the sentence

of death

for most who have lied to themselves

most of their life.

couching oneself in small comforts and happinesses

that never fulfill.

We rarely think or contemplate “I will die”

or if we do it is a long way off.

When it approaches,

possibly a relief to some; others a fight to live,

but to die well, one wishes tell those one loves what they mean to them.

while others lament their lives in despair.

while yet others think there will be more time and never say …

what needs to be said,

family bereft of final wisdom or a phrase of comfort.

do we have anything left to say at the end?

but only what is remembered?


Is time a tower?
Like Mount Purgatory?
Begin at the nadir in humility
to rise upward in a spiral
moving in cycles but progressing
upward or downward toward an endpoint.
Yet the point continues on in eternity (above or below).
history and time end
to usher in life to come.
does the spiral, cycle continue?
the difference, a world perfected or a world degraded?
Or an ampitheatre focusing on the Originator in glory?
The abstract and concrete perfectly united,
no longer disunity, dissonance but harmony of existence.
self no longer in rebellion, no longer searching,
but free
continuing to be a self but defined in Christ.
The renewed self.
Bodies admired but not envious or objects. Loves ordered.


Time as a tower wears on the soul
either refining or nearly destroying.
Rounding one bend, we may be in the clutches of sin,
a slave to desires, but another bend approaching gives a chance,
a choice to turn toward the good,
continual possibility to transform
always embraced in arms of grace.
At death do our chances end?
Or does the spiral continue into and until the end of all things?


If time a tower, is their an inverse as Dante suggests?
A regression of soul forever stagnant in a pocket of eternal frozen time.


While we are alive,
we ascend or descend
depending — moments of purgatory,
other, moments of hell,
by grace we ascend toward our origin and source of all being.
By our self we stagnate or descend.
Yet, grace beckons.


The self doesn’t know anything,
but what others tell it.
Who are we listening to? Who are we learning from? Who are we imitating?


Time the tower, many we meet
seen and unseen
shaping us along the way until the end comes.
changing, regressing, progressing — moving toward God, away,



the hurt, the pain from an other

the hurt, the pain from me

an assault


scarring, traumatizing.

“I know I hurt you, but I can barely remember.”

The other remembers as though presently occurring.

A word of admission,

a recognition, an owning,

taking responsibility

the freeing, liberating words

as though Lethe washed over the memory erasing it,

reconciling it for eternity.

Galilean shores

Meet me on the Galilean shores
white pebbled
in the iridescent sun
green waters lapping
eroding shorelines, where Christ offered fish breakfast millennia ago
resurrection sightings.

Meet me on the shores
where Roman emperors convelesce, seek respite
where the unknown, God-man would become known in all places, by all people, in all times
proclaiming and reclaiming the Kingdom of his Father’s, for the life of the world, for all creation.

Meet me on the shores
where the apostles were called
their lives forever transformed,
world forever transfigured.

Meet me on the shores
where Peter was reconciled,
choosing the way of Christ rather than the way of Judas,
the way of despair, the way of Satan–giving up, rejecting,
never choosing reconciliation.

The Galilean shores where the iridescent sun
reflecting off green waters lapping, white pebbled shores.
Resurrection sightings.


this tragi-comedy we live

locked in existential doldrums

desire to break out

a want, a need other than the usual

the nausea of freedom

the fear of something different,

yet the relief.


to break from depression

suffering, suffering, suffering

the mercy,

the grace

that gouges out the cancers:




all that deforms the soul

the sickness inherent

the original sin

marring the Image

like gold that fills the broken places,

making the depleted creature

beautiful, transfigured.

suffering forms the caverns

where grace takes their place.


The wasteland of the self. Seeking self within and by means of self leads to ship wreak. A wasted infertile field, shelled, toxic, a hazard to self and others. The inward turning, only able to give with limitation of one’s folly and finite knowledge. Reaching from within with some good, but without grace falls. Our many wills contending with God’s will. A hell, a cycle of fallen autonomous self–folly perpetuating a cyclical zeitgeist of fallenness, fallen utopia–the place that can never be.

waiting for God, a turning toward the ground of our being. A movement upward desiring God’s will without conflict. Grace the impetus. The will choosing God or turning away from. If Purgatory exists, the will only desires to move toward the Creator of our being.

Only God can remake a fallen world toward its perfection. Are we God’s hands and feet in the meantime? Only when acting in His will. But we are but vapor; temporary bringers of God’s kingdom in small ways. He is the final Word and the enactor of all remade. How long? Only God knows when perfected City, kingdom will be. Who are we but small contributors of His will that compound to join the communion of Saints? Unknown within the City of Man, known in eternity with God and his saints within the City of God.

hail in May

Hail striking the ground in May.

Dark clouds, lightning.

Blue and sun in the distance.

Turmoil in the sky.

Clash of cold and slight warmth

like two oceans meeting.

unusual weather unsettles

changes our moods

and our understanding of the world.

A slight pang and reminder of limitation

our finiteness.

Our wish for control dislodged

What control do we truly possess?

With work, ourselves.

But it is not automatic.

Can transcendence save us? Becoming the Ubermench?

Then the sky clears,

we think again, we are free

forget our mortality.

Continue in our illusions

until another calamity strikes

or uncommon natural event.

thus spake

Are we but balancing upon a rope over the abyss between animal (behind us) and Ubermench (before us)?

Are we our only destiny? Man, the ground of our being?

The abyss or the transcendence of being within the self, the either/ or?

Are we our own damnation or salvation?

History has only spoken of our constant struggle, course correction, failure, destruction. Moments, eras of acheivement with seemingly inevitable fall. Or, at least, discovering the limits of knowledge, reason, collective and individual strivings.

We exist, then we do not. Is this the telos–nothing?

Or is there a trajectory?

Do we not know by now our own limitations? As a people? As a species? As society, as individual?

If we have killed God. If there is no God, then what? The point and meaning of existence is incomprehensible then.

All things permitted, do not our consciences rebel? Anxiety persists. Broken relationships persist. The libertine may find some type of contentment, but others affected by such a person may be broken, traumatized, lost.

If there is no God a morality still persists. Yet, nihilism is the true danger. A nihilism that permits all things without reflection, without ethics or morality. There is always the danger of the gas chamber, genocide, justifying actions taken that eliminates those deemed unworthy.

If the soul lives on after death, if there is a resurrection, Christ promised, as Christ burst out of the womb of death, renewing all things–then doesn’t the way we live matter? The actions we take, choices made?

If we hang over the abyss, should we not ask the help of the One who made us, all things? To cross the bridge to become like Christ, the Second Adam, the hope for persons, the hope for the cosmos, the Telos. Rather than another fallen, transcended, being “more than human” still within the fallen order?

Or do I understand nothing?


I am despair,

misrelated to eternity,

hoping in nothing.


without possibility;

offers no end.

I am hope,

giving up no man.

abides in love,

salvation and resurrection an end.


with infinite possibility,

offering the third way.

the split, hollowed tree

I walked to the river listening to the clear water rushing, cascading, slipping over and down rocks. There I saw a tree, by the bark it looked like an old oak. The leaves had not budded yet, but I saw tender shoots beginning to form buds. The tree was planted right by the river, a massive root digging into the dirt shore line on one side and another plunging into the icy river. The tree was split and hollowed out. When looking inside, you could see where termites had helped with the hollowing out. The tree looks decimated and dead. Yet it stands and has two larger branches reaching over the river, although several smaller branches are dead.

This split oak hollowed out yet still living sustained by its root system and the plentitude of water is almost a miracle.

I can only compare this miracle of nature to the human existence. We are split in our wills, our actions. We are hollowed out by our sin, the sin of others, guilty of not forgiving, of straying from the straight path, nearly dead. Yet the river continues to sustain, roots nourish the decimated soul. It is withering. The fruits and flourishing nearly choked. Is this an image of a slow death, the intemperate withering, death of body and of soul? Or is this an image of hope? The tree continues on, although beaten, hollowed out, yet budding leaves each year. Eventually, it will die and fall into the river. The fate of every living creature.

Jesus tells a parable of the tree that didn’t produce fruit. He told of the farmer to cultivate it and fertilize it for a year and see if it will produce again.

This particular tree near the river doesn’t have much of a chance of cultivation. There is hope for a tree cut down, or a tree that falls into the river.

That is not its finality. The trees telos is firewood, or used for soil after it is broken down. How much more the worth of the soul? Its telos eternity, either stuck in its habituation of intemperance and incontinence or grace its impetus constantly rushing nearby like the river and reforming the soul–pushing on toward redemption. Yet, free will… we can be our own hell. The will split in two and hollowed out heading toward eternal death or eternal redemption and renewal.

Miraculously, the tree continues to live. It won’t be remade in this existence. But in the hope and grace of the eternal existence? (Or is that too Platonic?)