Peach-pink, gold molten,
blue wisps of breath,
slivers of molecule--
a sun rising, while I am unable
or unwilling--
tucked in my bed.
Waving and crackling
tired few leaves
call the morning,
hanging on by tiny desperate strands
for one more
winter morning.

When . . .

When does purpose and drive become arrogance?

When does surrender to God’s will bump up against the kind of giving up that breeds hopelessness?

When is faith presumption?

When is humility just feeling a lack of self-worth?

And when does analysis become pure criticism?

To think—to be—such a mix of dark and light, of bristle and silk.

The will wobbles back and forth between leaning in and running away, between giving up and holding tight fists.

Oh God, are we performing empty rituals, cup and bread, songs and sermons, trying to find meaning when there is none,

. . . trying to convince the world and ourselves we have found all the answers?  When we don’t even know all the questions.

If there is meaning,

If there is purpose,

Why are there so many barriers, the path so thorny?  Why the clouds and chaos?

As days flit away, filled up with critiques and commas, baking and brooding, there is a kind of desperation, a deep searching for You.

What a black heart I must have to have journeyed so long

and come only so far.

When does doubt yield to wonder?  Wonder to glory?

~Lilly Green 2-2011

Everywhere Tall Trees



The stretch to the sun, the stretch to the center of the earth, and the sheltering cool in between.  Secret hidden places for treasures and firm holding branches—houses in the air.  Feathery leaves trap mysteries in my mind and catapult them into the future. 

Rows of stately soldiers guard country roads.  Lonely isolates in flowering meadows stand moody, marking time in aloneness.  Companion trees link arms with knowing glances, intimate breathings—

sharing ground, sharing air.

Everywhere trees.

Solid oaks, assertive with chests puffed, mock gale winds.  Supple birches, evanescent green and whispery white, sway and flex with storms.  Up on the mountain, pines all buffed up bristly, dare intrusion, while maples filled with dripping sweets flaunt green today and fire red with tomorrow’s frost.  Down by the river, willows droop with tears from countless sorrows, long sucking fingers in the dirt.  Vain wooden alders hover close, leaning to the water’s edge to catch a glimpse reflected in dark deeps.

My apple tree offers sweet, sometimes wormy, fruit and a lofty perch.  I retreat to write and meditate,

pleading mother-calls unheeded.  I weave dreams in the branches and trust secrets to the leaves that

no one else would understand.

On hot, steamy days, I hop shadow to shadow to cool my feet and cool my head. 

Barefoot steps quick quick on hot packed dirt, but slow to freeze frame under sheltering tall trees,

the long dance home in desperate darts and lingerings.

Aged elm branches spread a welcome for my childish floors and walls, my odds and ends. 

Barely a whimper—long dagger nails pierce—sacrificial lamb. 

I homestead in crooks and climbs with soda crackers and Jell-O tea—

sweet communion. 

Barked, brawny arms hold the rope that swings my feet to tippy touch the lowest leaves.  Back and forth and back and forth with pumping legs and flagging hair, then jump!  I’m flying!  I land with a thud, all laughter and grass stains.  Then, up again.  I wind and wind and wind.  Branches groan.  I twirl and twirl and twirl,

then stumble as with drunken pleasure.

Everywhere trees.  Leaves pressed brittle, photos captured, admiring peaceful pauses taken in busy days—

I breathe the memory and the now.



All Roads Lead to Seven

I was raised to believe that three plus four equals seven.  And even six plus one, and two plus five.  As I got older and studied more, it became clear to me that not only did twenty-eight divided by four equal seven, but I was amazed at the depth of my understanding when I learned that seventy divided by ten equals seven, and even more so that two hundred and eighty-one point four divided by forty point two equals, you guessed it, seven!

Then I met a man, an erudite man, an articulate man.  He told me that seven was equal to one plus thirty.  He told me that sometimes three plus three equals seven, and in some parts of the world, if you wear orange robes and hum, even negative ten times two equals seven.  After all, all roads lead to seven. 

He was very convincing, and I could see that my narrow view on life was rather arrogant.  Did I think that my seven totals were superior to someone else’s?  There are good, moral people who believe as I do, but certainly, there are some really good, moral people who have different ways of arriving at the same outcome. 

I was very satisfied in my new belief system and spread the word whenever I could, particularly among the “old school,” who still clung to their archaic beliefs.  I was very satisfied, that is, until the day I came to bake bread for the local universalist center.  It was a necessary act, a compassionate act, a feed-the-hungry act.  The recipe called for seven cups of flour.  Since all roads lead to seven, I felt free indeed to place in my mixer twenty plus six cups of organic whole wheat flour.  Because I was so liberated with sevens, I felt free indeed to be liberal with my threes and my fours, and even my fives.  So with all my ingredients accounted for, I mixed up my bread and set it in a warm, cozy place to rise while I read my book about how all prophets of seven are equally valid, equally holy, and entitled to my worship.  How elated I felt that I had found this new light.  But my bread did not rise.  I waited and waited, and still it did not rise.  I left it in the warm oven overnight, and in the morning it still had not risen a smidgen.  It even began to smell a bit funny. 

When I asked the erudite man, the articulate man, he assured me that I was still on the right path, but I was not called to make bread.  Oh, well, that made sense.  Maybe I was supposed to feed the hungry with jam.  So I bought two plus one pounds of fruit and added eleven times forty-four cups of thickener; after all, all roads lead to seven.  When I checked my simmering jam on the stove, I couldn’t even lift the lid off the pot.  The mixture had solidified into one unyielding mass and had begun to burn on the bottom.  I couldn’t imagine what was wrong.

Just then, an old friend knocked on the door.  She had come by to share with me some of her bread and homemade preserves.  “How is it yours turned out so well when I used the same recipes,” I asked, pouring our tea.

“Oh, but you didn’t use the same recipe,” she said.  “A recipe is a true statement of the proportions necessary to get the proper outcome.  A “seven” is a particular truth, not open to revision.  You can’t just change what a seven means and hope to end well.”

“But the erudite man . . .”

“There is a wisdom of this world, which is foolishness to the Lord of the Sevens.  It may seem narrow to restrict your options, but the way is indeed narrow that leads to truth,” she said.

“May I have seconds,” I said.

Well, I learned an important lesson that day:  All roads do not lead to seven, and that’s the gospel truth!

You know your finances are in serious trouble when the only vacation you can afford is to not floss your teeth for one night!

Something to think about . . .

Have you ever stopped to think that some of the most beautiful things we get to enjoy here on earth are a result of chaos and destruction? 

Majestic purple mountains capped with glistening snow cause some to gasp in awe, some even to worship.  But those peaks are a result of tectonic activity that broke the earth's crust and displaced other once beautiful things. 

Some of our most beautiful flaming sunsets here in the valley resulted from a horrific volcanic eruption in the Philippines.  Their destruction gave us a particled sky, ribboned in gold and red.

When I hear someone praise the majesty of creation and the One who created it, I find myself saying inside, "But wait!"  If this beauty is the brokenness, what must creation have been like before the corrupting blackness of evil, and what must the world God is preparing be like in comparison.

Something to think about on this sunny day, brought to you by a burning, thermally exploding sun!  :-)

A Child’s Snow

Tractor treads in fresh white snow,

Perfect form with heel and toe.

Angels fallen, rise again,

Thoughtless sins of little men.

Fence posts peeking, winter’s quilt,

Woven cold with crystal silk.

Words in vapor down the hill,

Carve a path both loud and still.