Brazen winds trash derelict warehouses.

Stifling humidity empties playgrounds, becalms swings.

Winter-ice crusts streets, crazes schedules.

Specter branches expose barren nests.

Sirens penetrate flame-scorched skies.

Road kill numbs.

Mastectomies scar spirit.

Bare cupboards knife the new hungry.

Addicts crash into nowhere land.

Homeless skitter about for homes.

Howling newborns unnerve the universe.

Hooded monks immerse in self-emptying meditation.

Translucent soul mates pass on.

Children leave home, premature or seasoned.


Violence sculpts these hollowing moments, and so many more, within us and around us. We recoil, our comfort supplanted, our illusions dissipated.

And what do we find if we dare look? A parallel violence filled with unutterable yearnings that ground us in our humanness, that prod us over the threshold into paradox. There, we poke around where the Sacred hangs out.

In hallowing such hollowing, we grow into His likeness. Spiritual warriors always do.