Obviously, the writer/blogger/all over everywhere

in print and on-line loves to hear himself write;

if you can get through all the “super clever” verbiage,

he has a valid critique of economics, race relations,

the environment, culture, international relations, war

and just about every thing else on the face of the earth;

he’s long on what’s wrong and short on solutions ex-

cept a simplistic call to the simple, urban life (Hello-oh!);

he hates tattoos. On a weekend in Chicago, I saw this

tattoo-filled guy (the ears, no less) checking into the

hotel paying in cash and, honestly, it was somewhat

disconcerting and while it was great (Chicago Symph-

ony season opening concert, Art Institute, architectural

tour on a river boat), I was bothered by what seemed

all very impersonal in the midst of all the busyness,

hustle and bustle:  a zombie-like quality of people star-

ing at their i-phones in elevators (I pulled out a flip top,

and called attention to it; the two, handsome, young

people looked away from their little luminous rectangles

for a nano second and laughed), walking down the street,

sitting in hotel lobbies, at tables in restaurants. At a sup-

posedly top-notch restaurant (recommended by a chef

whom I sat next to on the train into the city), the bum’s

rush we got felt like cattle herded down a chute to the

eating trough in West Texas and out the revolving door.

At the same time, employees at the hotel and at two

other restaurants were really gracious, helpful and

attentive. So, what are we to make of it?  Is it all

(culture, economics, environment, politics) bad, in de-

cline, wasting away, rotting/ thriving like sewer rats

coming out when the weekend revelers from out of

town go back to their hotel rooms and the dump-

sters are full of flavorful leftovers or is the good and the

bad in some kind of uncomfortable homeostasis? Is it

tipping one way or the other?  What to do? Is there a

historian in the house for some perspective here, please?

From the thirty-third floor

of the thirty-four floor

narrowest skyscraper

in the city, she looks

south with an uninterr-

upted view between

much taller buildings of

the park, the stadium and

just a hint of the lake to

the east. Later, outside

on the other side of

the river that runs through

the city she looks up

the every narrowing

skyscraper thinking,

Holy Cow! That’s a

long way up and so

narrow at the top. No

wonder there are only

three rooms on that

floor. And probably

there are only two

rooms on the thirty-

fourth floor, if that.

Some still interpret

standing tall

with Jesus as a call

to be a

manly man,

misguided macho

and

misogyny.

Perhaps a different

view is due —

the view

of Jesus’

mother Mary

who stood tall

beneath the cross

and watched

her son

in agony

entrusting him

to his destiny,

and perhaps

in that

moment re-

membering

her Magnificat —

the liberation of

all creation

for eternity.

*with appreciation to Henri Nouwen for a meditation that gave me the idea.

The morning started cold

as a titche’s wit,

as funny as shat tounds

(the dog did it on the trail),

so they undled bup

for their jog along

tocal lrails,

but wart-pay through,

the sun came out of

Dive Fay’s hiding,

and Fay dove down on

them with a fierce

bummer’s slast.

They felt all

biscomdobulated

in all those clothes,

so they stripped to their

sirthday buits

and in a flash,

they crossed the

linish fine

and headed home,

or, to be consistent,

swapping lirst fetters,

headed home.

The man was having a cup

of Oolong tea with a friend

in a popular coffee shop when

a fellow passed, stopped, back-

ed up and identified the man in

a question. “I am,” the man said.

“I was in your class.” “That was

twenty-one years ago,” the man

said. “I remember how in your

pain and suffering you allowed

yourself to be vulnerable,” the

fellow said. “It was a tough time,”

the man said. The fellow went on,

“You let God into your pain; we

were the beneficiaries.” At that

time so long ago, the man hadn’t

known if he would survive and

now a fellow stood before him

and simply said, “Thank you.”

The man’s friend said, “The

Lord works in mysterious ways.

In ministry, you just never know.

Congratulations. Nice work.” In

gratitude, the man silently sipped

his Oolong not even noticing that

the tea had grown cold.

Jogging a trail near mountains,

he stopped in his tracks

at the sight, so near a county road,

of bear tracks and a few

paces farther along, scat – small

paw prints and late

summer apple laced scat: a cub.

Momma must be near.

He looked around and, as a man passed

by, the excited jogger

implored the hiker saying, “Look, look

here. Bear prints and apple

scat.” The passerby, no earphones

apparent, ignored

the plea, the desire to share

the discovery (even

a deaf man would have seen the

excitement), furtively

glanced down, hurriedly looked up

and hiked on. The

jogger, forgetting the cub and she

bear, wondered why

the man had been hiking at all. By

then the bears were gone.

who can listen to barber’s adagio for strings

and not experience again whatever pain

and suffering life brings?

i listen and see, without a glimmer of hope,

the passion and the finality of death

echoed in the final notes.

the sweep of good friday from beginning

to end sends thoughts rushing again

of my own suffering,

but there is the hesitancy and doubt

of saturday and eventually easter

and light throughout.

without those notes how would I get there?

without friday and saturday why

would i for others even dare

to enter into their lives and offer care

and, together, hope upon the light to stare?

When I see overly indulgent parents

pampering their children

who, in the store, cause strife,

I want to quote the Franciscan monk

and shout from the roof top, “Life

is not about you; you are about life.”

But said parents, who think the sun rises

and sets on the heads of their progeny

as well as their own backsides,

while the monk’s wise words fly by,

would tell me just to buzz off and

find a rock under which to hide.

And so, with less than charity,

I pray for lightening to strike

but my wise wife then says,

“Let’s just go for a nice hike,”

proving, once again, she’s right.

I have to confess that I, too, do think

I am the center of life.

Oh, how I wanted, at those folks, to holler

but discretion really is the better part of valor.

Perhaps, one day, I, too, shall avoid strife

and realize that life is not about me

but I am to be — about life.

An early memory, he recalls following,

after school, a friend from fourth grade

in a direction away from home – an ad-

venture around a small park with a canon

in the center. He remembers jumping up

on the base and patting the cold steel be-

fore jumping back down in the cool, aut-

umn air thinking he better head home. His

heart beat fast away from the safe, known

way home – the first thrill of adventure.

He recalls in seventh grade crossing Halsted

Street and heading to the creek and wanting

to be an Indian rather than a cowboy be-

cause he loved the stories and pictures of

Indians in birch bark canoes he read about

in books in his grandmother’s parlor while

the family sat around the kitchen table drink-

ing coffee. Decades upon decades and advent-

ures upon adventures later, he loves to jog

and hike along the trail, the winding path

through the forest, along the desert, by the

inland sea, across the sand dune, up the

mountain, back and back and back to his

roots, their roots, the roots.

The wet, cold wind

interloping

upon a much too short

summer flees

momentarily

leaving a dry, brisk breeze

and the ever-beckoned

sun

makes a surprise

visit on Sunday saving

the otherwise

lost weekend.

The two play and cavort

in the afternoon

ducking and hiding and

reappearing

among the blowing branches

of pine, oak, beech and poplar.

A couple hikes near

the Big Lake.

Their Chocolate Lab

sneezes in the breeze,

listens to trees

and then romps

down the trail

as the sun teasingly

begins to flee

and the breeze,

all alone, retreats

to the inland sea.