Walking with Mary in Lent -5

Journey 5

Next morning, back on the road again and way on its way, the caravan arrived upon a Roman road block. These blockades were security checks, or that’s what the mercenary soldiers said, when they stopped to search them. Romans were disliked intensely. Their countenance was always severe, and their manners rough and careless. They were godless and disrespectful to the Jews; few even spoke the language. Distrusted and feared, children ran from them, hiding in their mothers’ skirts, crying. They were requiring the regular Roman tax, which totaled from one to five percent of a man’s income. Faithful Jews already had other voluntary temple taxes, decreed since Moses, to pay for the sacrifices and incense. So, paying an added half shekel or half an ounce of silver was an onerous burden for the people of Nazareth.

The “tributum” as it was called, was truly the "tribute" that Romans demanded from those, under their control. Most of these taxes were placed upon the goods of travelers, collected as transit tolls or “portoria” at town gates and harbors.

One of the villagers picked a fight, refusing to comply. He was rejecting to pay now arguing he had no goods. In doing so, he was unwittingly, putting the whole caravan in danger of total confiscation.

Mary looked on, picking up more than she wished to know. The hardened soldier to the left, had his hand on the stilt of his sword. His quivering upper lip denoted withheld aggression. He stood ready to pounce on the attack, awaiting for the order. His mouth watered with anticipation. He wanted blood.

“Thomas, stop!” yelled the man´s wife as she hid behind other trembling onlookers. The fighting continued, turning into a power-play without signs of stopping, but neither giving signs of growing out of proportion.

Meanwhile, Mary´s eyes met those of the chief centurion, who shifted, some distance away, supervising his men. For a long time their eyes locked together searchingly, venturing into each other´s souls. Suddenly he took a step back, aghast. Color escaped his lips and his face froze.

His mind raced through the recent memory of a life-changing experience. His eyes shone, alit with hope and unutterable joy as he remembered.

‘Yes’, he recalled.. ‘Jhesus had entered Capernaum, when he had been seeking help for his beloved servant, bedridden and dying, at home. In desperate hopelessness he had asked Jhesus for help’.

"Lord," he remembered saying, "my servant lies at home paralyzed, suffering terribly."

‘Jhesus had immediately offered to go to him. But how could he? His home was undeserving of such distinction’. Grasped by unknowing assurance he had gone on….

 “Just say the word. You are, as myself, a commander and surely, with your authority, my servant will be healed”. ‘Yes, it had been a miracle!’

Awe-stricken he thought to himself, ‘This is his mother’, and went on, recalling… ‘Jhesus was from Nazareth. Definitely, there was the same hue of holiness about them’.

The centurion started transfixed, towards Mary.

“Blessed are you among women, because blessed is Jhesus, the fruit of your womb”, he said in deep reverence, as he came up to her.

Mary´s eyes swelled in tears, deeply moved by this man´s faith. This centurion's servant, whom his master had valued so highly, was healed because of his loving faith, she somehow knew.

Just then, the centurion called out “Jair, come forth”. A sturdy middle-aged servant came forth; his hardy face and white hair depicted someone knowledgeable and honest, with the likes of someone, Greek. “This is your real Master´s mother”, he said, “and I command you to take care of her. Go with them into Jerusalem, and be free.”

The servant broke down in deep gratitude; Mary, deeply moved.

Such had been the compassion evoked, that the belligerence had stopped, and all were standing around, aghast. ‘Had the centurion let his servant free? Had he commanded him to guard and travel with Jews? Was this the mother of him, so talked about; the miracle-maker?’

“In tears myself, I marvel at faith and pray to be as trusting”.

Walking with Mary in Lent- 4

Journey 4



By now, the villagers from Nazareth were preparing to travel together to Jerusalem. The caravan would include whole families; donkeys, camels and some even took fowl for food. Dogs also came along to help protect them from outlaws and stragglers, waiting to rob them from their tents, animals and goods. Mugging was not uncommon at this time of the year. They would travel along the Jordan River for water, and stop periodically for the women and children to rest, and the animals, to quench their thirst. At nightfall, tents would be put up and woodfires lit, for prayers to be shared before mealtime.

Mary´s two daughters-in-law travelled with her and her grandchildren. Omar, was now old enough to be of great help, carrying the provisions that they had been preparing. She had packed gifts for her sons, Jhesus and James and their followers, by now, also part of the family. How she hated for them to be referred to, as “master” and “disciples”; one, placed over the other. They were all devout believers, praying and preaching hope in the love of God. There was such hopelessness, such strife, nowadays…no one believed much anymore, much less prayed. Temples had become marketplaces, mercenary meeting grounds with the spoil of the big cities. All had to be distrusted. There was always some hidden personal gain to be bartered for. How she feared for her sons… ‘lambs among wolves’, she often thought. She could only pray for them and trust God would protect them, as He did, her. He was always with her; ‘Even her guardian angel had come along, on the trip!’, she thought as she spotted her little featherless bird who had finally decided to leave his cage, deciding to follow along. ‘Good thing she had brought added seeds for pigeons and fowl along the way’, she mused.



The hustle and bustle all around, had a ring to it. Yes, there was also the little blind boy, who had learned to play the windpipe, and sat on one of the carts as everyone got their things together, playing cheerfully. It took all day to pack, but they were ready to leave, early next morning.

Mary was relieved when they parted and finally settled to rest in the family cart, now on its way. It had been hard work preparing the food, finishing the weaving and fixing the tent…but worst of all, bearing the constant growing worry. She closed her eyes and prayed on her prayer-beads, silently, safely inconspicuous.

The caravan would travel towards the southernmost mouth of the Sea of Galilee, to avoid the mountainous region of Mount Tabor, and follow down the Jordan River’s flow southward, towards the Dead Sea. It had been years since Mary had travelled, and wouldn´t have known the way, if she weren´t travelling with the village men who often sold their goods in Jerusalem, taking that same route at least twice a year. Feeling confident, Mary doze off.

The road was a rough, dirt path traced out by caravans. It had mud pits, wash-outs, and cave-ins. They had long debated whether to take the newly paved Roman highway that ran along the entire shore of the Mediterranean Sea, along the opposite side of Israel. They called it the “Via Maris”, but had decided against it because they would need river water for their animals. They chose instead, what the Roman’s called the “King’s Highway”, just east of Israel, along the Jordan River. It was however, much more dangerous since it was newly paved and much travelled by foreigners that exchanged their goods, in what Mary recognized as the Queen of Sheba’s mother country.

By the afternoon, the caravan sighted the Sea of Galilee at a distance. They arrived just in time to see the sun walk over its water. The effect was miraculous against the black clouds behind. The golden sunlight seemed to extend their pathway directly into its warmth. They thought to camp early, to fill their water skins and stone jars (since the Sea of Galilee is the lowest freshwater lake on earth). They washed up, fed their animals and prayed together, for blessings and protection along their way, before sharing bread and wine.

Later that evening, Mary walked up to the seashore, alone. It was a cool evening, refreshing after the dust-ridden heat. She dipped her hand into the soothing waters, as if caressing them and thanking them for always being there for Jhesus. Ever since a child, he had loved jumping into it and swimming far off. How she hated it! The Sea was easily 200 meters deep! Many had lost their lives in it. But it always seemed to befriend Jhesus. Even when he started fishing with Joseph, he returned triumphant with a shoal of fish, generously bestowed. Its ripples shone with memories under the moonlight.

Two years ago, Mary had travelled about 30 kms to Capernaum, with the village women, to take food and clothes to Jhesus and his fast growing followers. At first, it was Andrew, Simon, Philip, and Nathaniel who followed him from Bethabara. But now, the well-known fishermen from Galilee, Simon Peter and Andrew had joined them. They had told her about their meeting, as they ate the food she had graciously taken, from Nazareth.

Peter and his friends had been fishing all night without catching any fish. Disheartened, they returned onshore to find Jhesus wanting to join them, urging the boat back into deep waters. He had told Peter and his friends to throw their fishing nets back into the water. Unbelievably, they found they had caught so many fish that their nets began to break. Excitedly, Peter had called to his friends onshore, to get another boat to come to their aid. Their catch was so, that it filled both boats to the point of starting to sink. All, were in disbelief. It was obvious that it was all Jhesus’ doing.

The story hadn´t surprised Mary. Ever since he was a child, animals, birds, fish would all swarm around Jhesus, at his bidding. Since then, Peter and Andrew had become his followers. They even had other friends’ of Peter join them. James and John, two brothers, sons of Zebedee, also left everything and follow Jhesus. “They would all become fishers of men”, they told Mary, proudly, as they asked her for more  bread to spread the cooked grains, butter and cheese she had brought.

She sat musing on the seashore, till she got cold and walked back to the tent to rest. “God, she said, please lead them not into temptation but deliver them from all evil”, she prayed for each and every one of them.

Walking woth Mary in Lent - 3

Journey 3


Unrest continued gnawing at Mary’s soul. She knew not why. Her heart was split between her eager desire to see her son, and a strange resistance that kept wanting to hold her back and stay home. She was scared, but knew not why. This on-going infighting made her strangely irritable. She, who was known for her serene and peaceful nature, was uptight. It was in this mood that she snapped at Omar. Luckily, he was not around to hear her complain about his leaving the palm tree leaves, in a pile under the shadow of a tree, instead of laying them out one, by one, to dry. Just as she was picking one of the palm sheaths up, setting herself to the task, she felt a sudden stinging pain. Her had immediately swelled and was fast becoming numb, when she screamed for help. Omar, still on a palm tree cutting leaves nearby, ran to his grandmother´s call. He found her on the floor, feeling faint. He recognized the symptoms immediately. It wasn´t uncommon to find scorpions on palm tree leaves, at this time of the year. She had been stung. He knew that, though scorpions in the region were not deadly, they could stop your breath. So he wasted no time hurrying to bare her arm and tie it with her sash, as he took her hand and started sucking on the wound. Over and over he spit the venom out, flushing her blood out painstakingly. Slowly, she came back to herself, regaining her strength. Seeing she was better Omar rushed to find and kill the scorpion, but Mary held him back. “Don´t” she said faintly. “Even scorpions are God’s creatures. His sting is a sign that must be honored. Let him be”.

Back in the house, when the commotion had stilled and nightfall befell, Mary wondered to herself, what it all meant. ‘Let it be, let it be’ she kept repeating, as if to convince herself to stop trying to control fate and ‘let go’. She found solace in her psalms and prayed: “Out of the depth I cry to you- Lord, hear my prayer; let your ears hear my voice of supplication” and after bitter tears, finally subdued, she continued, “My soul relies on your word -Your will be done, not mine”, and at last in resignation, she found peace and fell asleep.



As I prayed with Mary, I found it was my profound grief that yearned for relief. Presently, I realized that it was I who was making the trip to Jhesus. I had been on the road all my life, resisting the suffering that necessarily lied ahead. And I cried bitterly. “Mary, walk with me”, I prayed.

Walking with Mary in Lent -2

Journey 2


There was a lot of bustle in town, with men, women and children packing for Pesach (Passover). Everyone seemed to be going to Jerusalem. For seven days, all Israel would be commemorating their freedom from Egyptian slavery. Mary had learned about it from her father, Heli Joachim and Hanna, her mother, who, in turn had retold the story, they had heard from their forefathers. At nightfall, Hebrews would honor the memory of the midnight of the 15th of the month of Nissan in the year 2448 from creation, when, during special Seder meals, chametz (leaven) would be replaced by matzah (unleavened bread) and maror (bitter herbs). Over four cups of wine, they would retell how, after many decades of backbreaking labor and unbearable horrors, God had sent His last warning to Egyptian pharaohs, to set Israelite slaves free. Despite ten devastating plagues that had destroyed everything from livestock to crops, Egyptian pharaohs still held them hostage. Because God wanted His people to serve Him, He wrought upon Egyptians, the death of all their firstborn children, “passing over” Hebrew homes, whose children were spared.



For Mary it was not a celebration that she wished to remember. She would have preferred to totally overlook the date, blocking it out completely, if it hadn’t been for Sarah, Her eldest son’s wife, who had insisted on having them join the pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The date evoked painful memories of a similar massacre which she and Joseph had rushed from, scuttling their firstborn out of Israel, back into Egypt when he was just a baby. It had been horrible. She still couldn´t understand what had happened. If it hadn´t been for her loving angel, who had warned them just in time to flee, she herself would have chosen to be killed along with her adored Jhesus.



It was early spring, the Hebrew month of Nissan, and the trip to celebrate Pesach, gave her the perfect excuse to go to Jerusalem. She was planning to go anyway, and it would avoid having to find a reason why she wanted to go, in the first place. She really didn´t know. Confessing it was because of an intuitive presage, would have put her in the lips of all, who were already spreading venom critically, about Jhesus and His friends.



She had continued pondering over the killing of Egyptian firstborn and her similar experience, wondering why such innocent sacrificial lambs had to die in the first place. It almost seemed to be a prerequisite for Life, to continue. Her mulling was abruptly interrupted when Sarah rushed over to hug her. “Thank you”, she said effusively, “Oh! Thank you! I’ll be able to see James! He will be so happy to see the children!”



Later that day, while starting to bake provisions for their trip, her thoughts went back to Egypt. She thought of the food needed to feed the six hundred thousand men, women and children, leaving Egypt on their trek to Mount Sinai. ‘Of course!’ They would have to prepare matzah, flat unleavened bread, zealously guarded against moisture, instead of chametz, for it to last! ‘So that´s why handmade schmurach matzah was dried from the moment of harvest’, she thought.



Celebrating the Passover Seders required strict adherence to traditional Hebrew rituals which would be difficult to adhere to, while travelling. She tried to convince herself that honoring the miracle of liberty didn´t need strict following of the obliged fifteen-ritual-ceremony. ‘Just bringing the family together and sharing Seders with the boys in Jerusalem was a feast in itself. They were travelling from so far away’ she reflected. ‘The greatest miracle they would celebrate would be the life they had had after such near death’.

Back home, the celebration would require intensive spring-cleaning, in search of all leavened grain. Any food or drink with a trace of wheat, barley, rye or oats would have to be disposed of and destroyed. Mary was convinced that the burning of the chametz ceremony, the morning prior to Pesach, could be replaced with acts of humility. ‘The flat, unflavored bread just required ridding inflated selves, to be able to tap into the miraculous well of divine energy we all have within our souls’, she thought. So, taking her cue from the matzah, she would give away something personal to the needy, before they left. That would cleanse her from chametz.

‘Of course, the recitation of the Haggadah, could not be replaced’. It was an obligation to recount the story of the Exodus on the night of Passover.

Though the commemoration should last the whole week, the first two Seder nights would be enough to rejoice over the miracle of being together; that in itself would be a full celebration.

‘Oh!’ She thought suddenly, ‘She must take the wine for Kiddush. Sanctifying the shabbath would require wine!’ She would ask Sarah to make a leather bag, from the sheeps´hide they were preparing. The trip´s continual travelling would help crush the grapes and shake them enough to settle into wine, just in time for Pesach.



Urgency pressed her on. So, she eked out the strength to continue her diligent preparation.

‘Where was it they were going!?’….she rummaged. Again, the familiar foreboding had her envision a coming storm… She automatically diverted from her pressing pessimism, assuring it was because it would surely rain. ‘She had to ask her little grandson, Omar, to cut some palm tree leaves to take along, for shelter’.



For years, Mary had opened her home to villagers for afternoon prayers. They had formed quite a large group of regulars, that always left an air of benediction. And she was grateful for it. But lately she had left vespers and preferred to pray alone in the garden´s grove. Her spirit stirred with unrest and only solitude gave her solace.

That afternoon, she had unwittingly kept repeating ‘Abba, Aboon’ (“Father, Our Father” in Aramaic). Over and over, her heart beat to that mantra-like plea, surging from some profound, dire prayer.

‘Aboon Dbashmayo’ (“Our Father who art in Heaven”)… she continued, with desperate persistence. ‘Oh! But “heaven” seemed so far from the everyday chaos which Romans had wrought…’she thought hopelessly. As if to suppress her distrust, she suddenly remembered the comforting words with which Isabel had greeted her, years back, when both cousins had shared their fears during pregnancy.

“Moran a'amekh”, (“the Lord is with thee”), Isabel had reminded her, as they greeted… ‘Yes, my Father is always with me’ she repeated to herself, again and again, till her anguish was finally appeased.          



As I reflected, in contemplation, I found myself, too, keeping unconscious rhythm to the same urgent plea…inhaling “Bless me…”, and exhaling “Bless all…, Abba, Aboon”.        

Walking with Mary in Lent -1

Journey 1


I found her shaking, trembling inconsolably…she shivered under a foreboding shadow of terror, she knew not why. She suddenly felt alone…She knelt and as She covered her eyes to cry. She found herself leaning her head on an angel´s lap…or was it Joseph´s? It seemed so familiar. She had recently lost him and found herself about to commiserate pitifully about her agony, to God. But Job had come to mind…and she held back.

Somehow, this was different.

Again, she felt lifeless, totally depleted. But this time, her intuitive nature had tearful anticipation, of a bleeding heart. She knew it wasn´t hers. Her heart could bear being torn apart and pierced for Love.. but this was a pain too heavy to bear. She wept and as she washed Her tears away, found Her hands were full of blood. The lap held her bleeding face reassuringly. She cuddled closer, letting go. It somehow held her up and gave Her strength… and eventually peace.. not from acceptance but from holy resignation. “Not my will but Yours, be done, My Lord” She whispered….and fell asleep on the holy lap.

An hour went by, or was it a day.. it felt like centuries… She arose, strengthened with a courage beyond herself. Strangely, she had her son in mind, strongly fixed on going to Jerusalem. It was an urgent need to see Him.



Mary lived in Nazareth, in a little home embedded in the mountain. It was close to a well, with grounds, big enough to breed her chickens, goats and host a little garden with fruit trees and the herbs needed for healing the neighboring villagers. She lived with two daughters-in-law who kept her company and helped around the house. Her sons had gone off with Jhesus, stubbornly insisting he would need them. It was all so unexpected, so unconceivable…..far from anything She had ever hoped for them. Times were hard and unpredictable with luring danger all around. They all said it was the Romans who were the enemy, but somehow she distrusted even the Jews who now seemed so foreign.

She walked up to cup seeds in her hand and feed the chickens and a little bird she kept in an open cage. He had refused to fly away after healing his broken wing in her hands. His singing always eased her anguish.

It would take her at least two weeks to prepare for the trip to Jerusalem. She was already making a mental list of all She would have to do…fix olives…(would she pickle them or put them in vinegar?) She would have to buy fish (perhaps she would ask one of the local villagers to fish a fresh shoal for her, on the fishermen’s next trip to sea, at Galilee). She would have to salt it and hang it up to dry for at least a week…and Oh! She just had to finish the lovely silk shroud She had been weaving for Jhesus…She so worried about him and his nomadic travels through cold and winds.

It was at least 100 miles to Jerusalem. It would take well over 8 days to get there, since, she wouldn´t be travelling alone. Her two daughters’ in law would have to accompany her. She was 47 years old now. Her hair was almost completely grey and her feet were worn with life. Though she felt strong, they would have to take her 3 grandchildren along. The older one, now twelve, reminded her so much of Jhesus when she and Joseph had spent days looking for him in Jerusalem. He was about the same age. They had been so worried, back then…and, as it gladly turned out, needlessly so. Now, she was confident God would always be taking care of him, or would He? Could He? She shivered at the mere doubt and threw aside her ungodly thoughts.



Yes, they would have to travel along the Jordan, where they could quell the thirst of their caravanning animals. They would have to take the old cart, and at least three of four of the donkeys…and the mule would have to tag along just to carry enough food for the trip, and an additional rationing she wanted to take for Jhesus and the boys. She yearned eagerly to see Him and yet she froze at the thought.

It was a 90-mile walk to the village of Ein Karem, John the Baptist’s traditional birth place, and only five miles more to Jerusalem from the southwest. They would surely have to stay a day or two at Martha and Lazarus’ home. They would not forgive her if they knew she was going to Jerusalem and didn´t stop by to see them. They lived at al-Eizariya, Bethany, about two hours from Jerusalem. Perhaps she would find Jhesus there. She knew he always stayed with them. It was safe, and they were always so loving. What would she take for them? She remembered Lazarus had been ill for a while. After pausing to think of it, she was appeased with the idea of carving them some prayer beads.



‘Oh!’ She thought to herself suddenly, as the idea caught up with her that she would also have to churn goats’ milk to take some cheese. Yes, there was much to do.



It was a couple days later, when despite her busy agenda, a sullen sadness weighed down upon her shoulders, again. It even blocked the sunlight as it filtered through the grove, where she was pulling spices for her cooking.  She suddenly burst out crying, despairingly, not knowing why. Her tears fell to the ground. Unexpectedly, a flower bloomed where her tears had fallen, as if filled with holy compassion. ‘Hold on’, it seemed to say, and she smiled inadvertedly. ‘Had that flower been there before’, she wondered?

Just then, her dogs ran directly to her side, wagging their tails excitedly, as if she had called for them. They had responded to her silent cry for solace. She patted them and pulled out, some dry unleaved bread from her garments´s pocket, which she had been crumbling for the chickens. They wagged on, gratefully. Oh! If only she could be so trusting; if only she could rejoice at little things and overlook the shadow of death that loomed beside Her. Again, she looked up at the Heavens and heaved heavily for breath.

Urgency returned, and pressed her on to hurry with her chores. ‘She would have to take the dogs along’, she thought to herself, regaining serenity.




As I contemplated, meditating over the scene, reliving every imagined detail, I realized Mary’s trip would take longer than the 40 days of Lent. In fact, her journey is probably still on-going, since she would be trying to reach each us all.

The dark side of Love

Love spreads its wings and casts a shadow

To Amos Oz

She lay barren in the night…hopelessly calling unto death.

She lay listless, hoping to seduce death into believing, she was ready.

Then suddenly, she got hungry. 

Mary was that way. Her wick was short…both for patience, for focus, for desire.  During the day she was a patient at Londonberry Psychiatric Home. At night, she lit her wick and just for a flicker, she was brilliant.

She got up and walked over to the small refrigerator in her dorm. As she opened its door, light flooded in and lit the shadows all around her. She was accustomed to them as she walked in darkness, being born under the moon´s shadow. She reached in for the left-over hot-dog, she had started eating, earlier.

She hurried the door shut. Mary was reluctant to light. Her slight figure was more elegant at night. She was a shy and somber young lady…At daytime, just a profile. At night an enticing black hole. 

She went back to bed.. and continued bemusing the fact that she had so much to give..but no one to give it to, and chewed her tough hot dog.

Her ideas were so short that despite their depth, despite their intensity and fathomless desire, they seemed trifle. But her life was built on those fleeting moments…on the broken pieces of her shattered light…that glittered every now and then.

Replenished, she stretched and spread her wings. She only unraveled them, under the shelter of the night. She actually sat up and expanded her chest, as she unfolded the weight on her shoulders. She was majestic as she cast her shadow under the moonlight.

Where would she go, tonight?

She took a deep breath as she inhaled a hail Mary, invoking wind under her wings..

Whom would she love tonight?

“I’ll just trust the silent call that beckons”..she thought to herself, as she actually stood on the window sill, preparing to let go.

Love is a type of madness. Letting go like that, fearlessly trusting the gaping abyss of all, unknown. It requires generosity to take the leap. But Mary was fearless that way. She felt she had nothing to lose.

Every night she would go through this ritual before flying off to someone in need. It was much more than prayer.

Tonight, she envisioned a nearby hospital. She flew in the pediatric ward´s window and hovered over the sleeping children. One was awake. He was a seven-year old with severe burns.

“What happened, baby?” she asked tenderly as she flew down by his bedside…

The little boy just stared. He seemed to have been expecting the visit, but was heartless. He had been playing with his brother as they prepared festive fireworks for the town’s patron saint. They went off in his face. They also reached his heart because he felt nothing. No fear. No excitement. No expectations. No hope. No pain.

He too, wanted to die…but he didn´t know it, she felt.

They didn´t have to exchange words. The shared memory was gruesome, enough. She took him in her arms and cradled him in her wings. Suddenly she began to sing. The notes echoed from heavenly orbs moving to destiny’s partiture. Every stave had a tune, deep in rhythmic repetition. It seemed almost like a soothing mantra, rocking the boy to sleep.

She prayed down ointment as she sang, endearingly spreading it to soothe his wounds.

She enveloped him in her wings, all night. Then she placed him back on his pillow, listless.

Daylight.

Back in her bed, she curled up, tucking her wings ‘neath her covers, just in time, before the morning nurse walked in with her pills. Shadow-time.

What is righteousness?

There is nothing more radical than fighting for righteousness.

Yet how can you target it, when everybody’s perception of righteousness, is subjective?

Righteousness honors life. It dignifies man, flaunting the full meaning of dignity, as it ignites inner light.

Despite its cost, you stand tall when you do what is right, whether recognized or not. You can still look people in the eye; shed a tear in outbursts of compassion; flush at public recognition. Innocence is repaired in righteousness, shedding the lurid shadow of guilt that tags you, forever bringing you down. Righteousness makes living, less burdensome. It keeps you humble as it stands, unreachable. It keeps awe and wonder alive, when choosing to do what is right.

But how do we know what is right? How can we recognize it as an option, as we choose our path through life?

Righteousness stems from good will. Though ‘wishful thinking’ is not enough to generate a ‘good’ act, it motivates good intention.  In itself, the subsequent act may not have a ‘good’ result but, if the intention behind it is ‘good’; if generated before the act´s consummation (a priori), it appeases the soul. Good acts stem from peace.

Wrongdoing comes from turmoil. It re-acts aggressively or defensively, instead of responding to conflict, from inner peace. It justifies ‘bad’ acts, after they have been done (a posteriori). Though the motivating force behind it, be not consciously directed to doing wrong, the need to cover it up defensively, justifying its intention, is in itself a reflection of guilt. Guilt stems from wrongful intention. Whether the deed, in itself, is right or wrong, is hard to judge. Its effect may, in fact turn with time, or have hidden benefits. It depends on the significance given by those, affected.

Righteousness is constructed, both by the doer and by those affected by an act. It is not limited to a person or an act. It is the pulsating living force, that motivates life. It has movement of its own and is, therefore, unattainable. Nobody owns it. Its movement is released by ‘good’ will. Volition, both creates it and destroys it. We recognize it by its movement. It is alive; it cannot stand still; it cannot be possessed. Nobody is the owner of right. We can only travel on its back as it drives life, on. Resisting it is death-prone.

We choose righteousness; both, to do right, and to receive it. It does not come from judgment.  It is a choice. If we receive acts graciously, we can turn wrongdoing into righteousness. Gratitude is the grace that receives wrongdoing and its after-effect, into goodness, reverting its negative flow.

Righteousness is identified by its movement. It gives peace. If an act done, gives peace, it is right. ‘Good’ acts can only be generated from this inner peace. It is not about right and wrong, but about inner balance.

Keep it simple. It is the flow of life.