Tiny choices bear far flung fruit, the seeds germinate each in their own time, waiting for abundance of whatever sort to come forth. Some fruit sweet to the taste, others bitter, then there are those which are poison, spreading pain, death and fear. Often planted deep, hidden, for generations, when its growth suddenly hits the spring time of thorny abundance, wounding all who get in its way. Words, actions, and yes even thoughts have to go somewhere, when spread out upon the world, taking seed in human hearts and yes in cultures, secret, both for good or ill, sleeping until the great awaking; its force always a violent shock.
Cycles, within cycles, sort of an unending hell; over and over again ad nauseum, at least for the bitter fruit, that litters the alley ways of life. That which is good often seems swallowed up in the chaos. Perhaps despair is the ultimate fruit along with that of faith, which is where the war is fought. In the human heart, with the cultures that flow from that deep interior the battle field, inner conflicts flung outward, our terrible work of art painted in bold red colors; for is not blood, the life?
The Cure
We are all healers unbeknownst to ourselves,
a simple smile
given without thought
or a touch,
can be a healing balm to others,
do not doubt what you have to offer
for in a world of suffering
the healing balm of love is the only true cure,
for it is love that we are made for,
also we exist to show love to those in need,
for God gives without limit,
in our giving we draw close to His image.
Br. Mark Dohle, OCSO
