There’s the sloping streets

that always lead to someone’s secret.

There’s the ocean

that is the womb of prayers.

There’s the friendships

that come and go

within a flash of an eye.

I miss it all.

The panhandlers

corner of marginal way

and that other street

that Trader Joe’s is on-

I learned so much from their humility.

The houses on the west end,

Sherman street,

look like they came from a child’s dream-

gently leaning,

paint fading,

but something sweet in the heart of them.

I Miss it all.

I miss those who won’t talk to me anymore,

perhaps for fear of their own mortality,

or – more likely – something

selfish I did or said.

They were all women.

I wait for their calls

like a cat

looking out of a window.

They never come,

as the sunset in Boston sets

and I shake off these stinging,

bright regrets.

And I miss all of them.

Dad, don’t let me feel like I’m letting you down
if I die.

Dad, we can’t control the hour of our deaths
and you can’t control mine.

Dad, I love you.

Dad, your denial will only cause you suffering,
more than is necessary.

Dad, be in harmony with is.

Dad, I’m sorry I never reached back when you tried to be close to me in the past.

Dad, seeking to control outcomes is a futile endeavor.

Dad, I wish to live, and I can’t do so without befriending cancer.

Dad, looking at this as a fight is looking at is engaging in a civil war in which no one wins.

Dad, I wish I had fulfliled your dreams for me.

Dad, painful as this is to write, chemotherapy can’t ‘cure’ anything.

Dad, I feel your buried pain.

Dad, I treasure our talks and time together.

Dad, it’s “Thy will be done,” not yours.

Dad, please help me to what I am asking you to do.

The blood on the end of the spear that pierced Jesus.

The expert who says, ‘I don’t know.’

The father admitting his powerlessness over his son’s cancer.

The grace with which winter withdraws its white in favor of May’s green.

an abdication to what is.

The bedrock of most faiths.

The strength you never new you had.

What some call a sign of weakness.

It beats with the rhythms of the Universe.

Gives and receives silent as the tides.

It is

       the thunder of humility.

Humility

is the addict

clawing, sweating

in a church basement bathroom

crying out to a God he doesn’t know

exists to set him free from hell.

He casts aside everything he thinks he knows and prays in fervent desperation.

Humility is the sea, accepting the sun’s love, no pride in sight.

Humility is about never getting defensive.

Humility is reaching out to the man in the church basement

bathroom, knowing that helping him will keep your connection

with God alive.

Humility is an integral part of forgiveness, being aware of your own

transgressions, knowing they are probably no worse than the active addict.

Humility is about being in the center of the Universes, neither worse nor better

than anyone or anything.

The greatest humility is a steadfast abasement before God.

It is the appreciation of difference between others and oneself,

and not trying to ‘fix’ others, but in recognizing that even if they

are broken, I don’t have the power to heal them.

Humility is minding one’s own business, in that respect.

The earth worships the sun, knowing it is reliant upon it.

The sun worships the galaxy it finds itself in, knowing

it wouldn’t exist without it.

There is a web of worship interwoven in the Universe.

There are vast, quiet halls of worship in deep space.

All other principles come from humility,

as Thomas Merton wrote, “Humility is the surest sign of strength.”

We pray without knowing it, as do we worship the things we find beautiful,

I pray now that I have the humility to accept suffering.

And I pray that you have the humility to accept yours.

And may the almighty here this prayer, knowing that

this is one of the last ways I have to share

and I am his vessel.