Month: March 2023

The End is Always Nigh

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

Once upon a time, I took comfort in this bit from Ecclesiastes: Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever. The sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises… Of course, I now realize the earth will not remain forever. It depends on asteroids, nuclear bombs, and cosmic waste. Forever isn’t an option.

For every goddamn action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. I realize that attempting to inhabit impermanence is oxymoronic. But I can’t stop myself.

Mounted on a skittery horse, I navigate the slippery slopes of transience with a rope in my teeth trying to lasso the good moments and make them last. If my attention snaps the wrong direction, I could find myself swinging from the saddle horn. Depending on how badly this spooks the horse, my chances of climbing back on would be slim to none.

“Your metaphors aren’t working for me,” God says. “You don’t even like rodeos.”

I shrug and grin. “True. But you know what I like even less than rodeos?”

“I imagine I do since I’m God.”

Undaunted by the sarcasm, I continue. “I don’t like death or uncertainty or good things ending or rotten things continuing ad nauseum.”

“Well, blow me over with a feather,” God says.

“And I don’t like suffering or feeling inadequate. I don’t like making decisions or wasting time. I don’t like diseases or injuries, aging, accidents, robberies, lies, cruel jokes, or greasy food. I don’t like mediocrity, bullies, or vicious dogs.”

“Good to know,” God says, peering down at me. Like a hog rooting for grubs it seems I’ve dug myself a surprisingly deep hole. It’s easy to do in the spring mud.

 “So hey, could you use a hand?” God asks.

This strikes me as condescending. I’ll climb out on my own when I’m good and ready.

In a mocking voice, I answer, “So hey, instead of you dragging me up, how about I make room for you to come down?”

“Sure,” God says, handing me a shovel. “I’ll get my boots. Want me to bring anything else?”

“Water,” I say, but I immediately regret it. God’s up to something.

Sure enough, the flood begins. The shovel becomes a floatation device. I’m lifted from the grave I was digging, and I kick myself to shore.

The water recedes. The sun shines.

“Still early,” God observes, squinting at the horizon. “Might be a good day to start some seedlings on the porch.”

“But I don’t even know if I’ll be around to harvest,” I pout, hoping for a guarantee.

“Doesn’t matter,” God says. “Plant.”

What Condition My Condition Is In

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

A moment or two ago, I was hunkered down in an old Chevy van with two women I admired but didn’t know well. We were finessing undercover maneuvers to abolish some unfair hiring practices. And in the fragile and fractional ways of justice, we succeeded. I didn’t know it at the time, but they were God.

Faith was the slender, quiet one. A shaman. With the help of heavenly beings, she planned her own starvation and left for higher ground. Grace was outspoken. Irrepressible. She had a breast removed as a token of her love. “Statistically, I’m stepping up so seven other women don’t have to do this,” she joked, framing it as a willing sacrifice rather than a curse. These are the ways of the cross as I understand it.

But there is so little I understand.

The drivers of the machines of destruction let their engines idle when they’re not full throttle. I despise this ignorant, highly polluting practice. They are overweight and complacent; their masters are neither. Humans now move more carbon each year than Nature, even when earthquakes and floods are factored in.

Game on, humans. I think to myself as if I were God. You won’t win this one.

“Excuse me.” God emerges from the paralyzing fog of nostalgia and dismay, eyebrows knit downward. “I’d like a word with you, young lady.” Looks like he’s going to grab my arm and drag me somewhere out of sight for a scolding.

“Well, I’d like a word with you, too,” I answer, knitting my eyebrows to match his.

“Word,” he says.

“Word,” I answer.

We laugh.

Fed by riotous tributaries of living words, the clear lake of infinity pools up at my feet. I strip off armor, shelter, clothing, and body; I shed ideas, hopes, fears, longings, and memories. I dip everything in the sacred water, hang it all up to dry, and jump in.

 But I’m cold and uncertain. I have no idea if I should try to swim in my condition.

“And what condition might that be?” God asks, floating by on his back. For some reason, this makes me think of Kenny Rogers and the First Edition.

“Decrepit,” I say. I had been filled with self-pity, but something about that song makes me smile. God shakes his head and points at the shoreline where there are rows and rows of old Chevy vans. And so many smiling people.

Why Do I Have This Heart?

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

When I have time on my hands, I try to squeeze the moments into a softball-sized orb but like particles of sand, the individual instances won’t stick together. Eternity may be circular, but apparently, my life is not. It’s entirely up to me how to use my time, but it won’t roll up like a river rock or a bowling ball, I can’t hold on to it, and it won’t come by again. This adds an unwelcome gravity to my choices.

Volition is a terrible curse. It’s right up there with self-awareness, God, and the nutritional labels on packaged foods. Humans have debated the correct basis for making the right choices for as long as they could articulate the question.

“But can you articulate the question even now?” asks the Issuer of All Questions as he stomps snow off his boots and sniffs the air.

To my chagrin, my hands smell like liquid nails, creosote, and chlorine—all toxic. There are plastic containers and dried brushes on my counter. I’m doing laundry with warm water and fabric softener, eating chocolate laced with lead. I designed our house to let the sun warm it, but there are days when the sun doesn’t shine. My carbon footprint remains larger than my feet.

“Probably not,” I admit. “But I ask a lot of questions. That’s safer than locking down on one anyway, right?” I’m trying to shelve the chronic shame I feel for various shortcomings and hypocrisies. “

“I hate to say this, little buddy, but that sounds like rationalization,” the Issuer says. This could come across as judgmental, but I know him better than that. He’s just trying to help.

“Of course it is,” I admit. “But then, why do I have this brain?

The Issuer smiles. Wrinkles upon wrinkles define and deepen the beauty I’ve come to expect from that weathered face.

“That’s a fair question,” he says gently. “But here’s a better one: Why do you have that heart?”

Atlanta Airport

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The Atlanta Airport is not an easy place to kick back and relax, but today we have passes for the United Club Lounge and enough time to use them. God is enjoying the free Budweiser and I’m happy to have found a salad bar, chips, salsa, and windows.

But liberated from the constraints of luggage, what I really want to find is my center. I sit on a worn sofa, consider the ebb and flow of travelers, and examine my life for signs of meaning. So far, it doesn’t look hopeful.

Nearby, a thin man eats pulled pork with collard greens, and a young woman in leather hotpants refills her plate, eyelids heavy with artificially thick lashes. God is busy chatting up one of the waitstaff in a language I don’t recognize.

A blown-up black and white photo in front of me features a row of women standing at attention. Shoes, hair, pigment, purses, smiles, skirts, hats, breasts, height, weight: identical. The shot was likely taken half a century ago. In geologic time, less than a split-second, and yet here we are. I have no explanation for anything I’m observing. None.

“You don’t need an explanation,” God whispers.

“Then why do I want to explain everything?” I whisper back.

God shakes his head. “Let it be. That’s what dogs do. Even the smartest breeds.”

“Then why wasn’t I born a dog?” I ask. I know he’s not serious. We’re just making small talk. Humans are forever asking why and insist on explaining even when we’re wrong. We seem purposefully designed to want to understand.

God grins. “Totally on purpose. Why do you think you travel?”

To those of us born before devices, the one-way conversations around me look like repeated singular insanities. My own device activates itself to urge me along. Time to check in. Time to board. Time to go.

I glance at God, not sure what he’s planning to do. He removes an earbud and looks up. “Hey, you think this place is open 24/7?” he asks, yawning.

“For you, of course,” I answer. “But is this really where you want to hang out?” I look pointedly at the retrograde picture of the lined-up women.

“Ah, those were the days.” God says. “Would you mind saving me a seat?”

“You know it doesn’t work that way,” I say as I gather my burdens. “See you in Montana?”

“You betcha.” God smiles and stretches his legs out so long I can no longer see his feet. “And you can leave your carry-ons with me if you’d like.”