Month: July 2023

Ice Cold Beer

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

My enlightenment began decades ago at the Yellowstone County Fair. Until that moment, I thought beer to be of questionable value when compared to Pepsi or Strawberry Fanta. But in the sweltering heat, someone handed me a red plastic cup filled with ice cold beer, I drank, and it was heavenly. No sticky sweetness. Just icy liquid bringing swift existential relief to my parched throat and weary soul. I finally understood the goodness of beer.

But the next time I took a big swig of one of the popular yellow brands, I nearly gagged. The evening was chilly, the campfire smoky, and the beer lukewarm. Ah ha, I thought to myself, sidling away from the keg. Nothing is good in and of itself. It is all relative.

And thus, for a moment, I was enlightened.

Or at least, that’s how I remember it. But now, I’m not so sure.

God clears their throat in the back of my mind. I open it, and they drift into the room like pollen, like music, like a fine piece of evocative art.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hello,” God says.

“How are ya?” I ask.

“Fine, thanks. Yourself?”

“Can’t complain,” I say.

That’s a lie. I can complain, and sometimes, I complain vehemently. But God knows everything, so it hardly seems like lying when I lie to God. Besides, I know God isn’t fine, so we’ve just engaged in a mutual lying ritual common to my culture. God’s not fine. I’m not fine. But who has time to listen to the truth of our miseries?

“They aren’t miseries,” God says.

“I beg to differ,” I say. “But misery shared is misery halved, so let’s share.”

“Cute,” God says. “And joy shared is joy multiplied, so let’s go turn some stones and see if we find a speck of joy.”

“It’s too hot out there,” I protest.

“C’mon. We’ll take some cold, dark beer,” God insists.

“Okay, fine,” I sigh. Then add sarcastically, “For you, Creator Darling, anything.”

“That’s the spirit!” God exclaims. “Same here.”

“I call bullshit,” I say.

“We do, too,” God says.  

And we laugh all the way to the river. There we leave most stones unturned, admire the speed and variety of spiders, and along with our beer, sip the bitter truth of fresh, clear water slipping without protest to the salty sea.

And for a moment, I am enlightened again.

The Ten Suggestions

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Yesterday, Big Fella handed me a tattered scrap of paper and said, “Could you take a look at this?”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Just some ideas I’ve been rolling around in my head forever. Need a new set of eyes. I’ll pay you.”

Me, edit for God? I was honored. I should know better.

TEN SUGGESTIONS FOR A HAPPY LIFE

You might want to stop worshipping anything or anyone that promises an easy life. Suffering and death are part of the plan. I am the Process. Love is the whole story.

It’s foolish to imagine Me in your own image. Embrace Mystery.

Cuss and swear all you want, but if you do something cruel, selfish, or hateful, do not claim to be doing it for or with Me. That’s ridiculous and offensive.

It’s wise to rest in the majestic beauty of creation. You will thus be renewed.

Being kind and respectful to those who cared for you as a child is good practice. They weren’t perfect, but then, who is? Individuate but don’t be nasty about it.

Killing each other is a terrible idea.

Try to keep your promises. For instance, if you pledge monogamy, don’t sneak around having sex with others. This is a very hurtful form of lying.

Don’t take or damage what isn’t yours (and by the way, the earth isn’t yours). Own as little as possible. Pay your taxes. Be as just and fair as you can.

Always tell the truth. No cheating.

Jealousy will make you miserable and prone to stealing, lying, cheating, killing, and denying love. Endeavor to be content.

I handed the paper back. “Pretty good. A little bossy and repetitive.”

Big Fella shrugged. “Maybe I could shorten it, but it’s a road map to a well-lived life. You simply need to choose the most loving possible choice every time you move, think, or act, even if it involves a little sacrifice or self-control. Is that too much to ask?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Way, way too much!”

“I knew it!” Big Fella exclaimed and threw down his hat. “That’s what I was afraid of when I introduced consciousness.”

I picked up the hat, intending to hand it back and say something reassuring about the editing process, but Big Fella was gone and in his place were three newborn kittens. I moved toward them but then realized they weren’t kittens. They were unexploded bomblets from a cluster bomb. My heart sank. I knew I had to try to defuse them.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Big Fella whispered.

 “I’m afraid,” I whispered back.

“I know,” Big Fella said. “I’m right here.”

Book Arrives

Rita Sommers-Flanagan14 Comments

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” The snotty little god that lives in my ego held up a copy of the first volume of Godblogs. I tried to snatch it away.

“What’s with this?” She pointed to the back cover. “OMG. Did you bribe these amazing writers or just make these accolades up? Here’s what I’d say. Sanctimonious, solipsistic drivel. But never mind. No one reads the back anyway.”

I covered my ears.

“Why the cheap-looking shiny cover? The missing page numbers? The sketches seem a little blurry. Did you scan them yourself?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Why’d you publish Print-on-Demand from the exploitive Behemoth of Online Indulgences? Probably packaged by starving children soon to die of climate change. No one will appreciate having to order this.”

I shrugged.

“Sure. Roll your eyes, cover your ears, shrug me off. You’re a needy, cloying, backstage shadow. You’re pathetic.”

The barrage was starting to hurt. I curled fetal.

“SHOO! ENOUGH!” Big God arrived, waving a flyswatter. “She gets up every morning, eats breakfast, and we hang out. I dance around in her head, which gets pretty weird, but I like her reports of these encounters. Sometimes, I let her see through the cracks.”

“Fool,” little god muttered. She shot me the evil eye and faded away.

“Thanks,” I said to Big God. “But honestly, is it worth it?”

Big God winked and curtsied. “May I have this dance?”

I looked away. Our morning dances range from raves to tangos, waltzes to Irish jigs, macarena to ballroom. In the background, ranch hands do the two-step. Rappers grab their crotches. Skeletons rattle their bones. I struggle with the beat in the Circle Dance, and I wouldn’t dream of trying to fancy dance. Or would I?

“Well, the book is a little flawed,” Big God said, pulling me to my feet. “But I don’t mind. The next volume might be better. Formatting is the shits.”

“We don’t talk like that in our family,” I said, arms crossed.

“Damn right!” Big God laughed. “Honey, you can claim whatever nonsense you’d like. I know what’s in your heart. It’s a little flawed, too. But like I said, I don’t mind.”

A fiery string of forbidden expletives leapt to mind. Big Ass God should not make fun of me or poke the hell out of my fucking defenses or shine a shitty light on my pissant denials.

“I repeat, may I have this dance?” Big God was laughing out loud.

“Fine,” I mumbled. Then mustering a scrap of dignity, I added. “Just don’t step on my toes.”

“I can’t help it,” Big God said, still chuckling. “Sometimes, you’re all toes.”

Where Things Break Down

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

“Do you mind if I call you Allah for a while?” I asked my old friend often referred to as God.

“Of course not,” she said. “I’ve been called worse.”

I was hoping Allah might ask me why so I could explain my longing for humans to be more forgiving and inclusive, but she just sat at the edge of my peripheral vision grooming and preening, completely self-absorbed. This irritated me, but then I thought, why not be self-absorbed if the Self you are absorbed in is the energy behind DNA, the Big Bang, dark matter, the molecular miracles of sperm, egg, tastebuds, vision, synapses, light, friendship, sacrifice, and transformation. Why not?

“I’ll tell you why not,” Allah interjected. “Absorbed is the wrong verb. I’m self-expulsive. I have self beyond self. I wear more hats, circle more stars, shape myself into more curvilinear spaces than you can possibly imagine. But I like it when you open your mind and try. Keep up the imagining. Climb high.

“When I was younger, I had no fear of heights,” I said. “But now I get vertigo.”

“I know,” Allah said. “And it’s wise to be cautious. I can’t promise to catch you when you fall.”

“I’m already falling,” I said.

“Me, too,” Allah said.

“Why?” I asked. “You’re falling voluntarily, aren’t you?

“Of course. But I’m lonely. Misunderstood. And…”

I held up my hand, signaling Allah to stop talking. I was feeling sick. Vertigo does that to me.

“Do you mind if I call you duckling for a while?” Allah asked, kindly changing the subject. “Or maybe cuddle-buddy?

“Do you mind if I call you Absurd instead of Allah?” I responded, smiling a little through the haze of my human frailties and foibles. The vertigo settled.

Then without warning, Absurd grabbed my arm and pulled me into a headfirst dive. The speed of our descent peeled back the skin on our faces.

“See?” she shouted.

“See what?” I shouted back.

“Falling together isn’t that bad,” she answered with a thin-lipped grin.

“Stop this nonsense,” I pleaded.

“Can’t,” Absurd said. “It is what it is.”

She pulled the cord, the chute opened, and the moments of the coming day rolled out beneath us. We landed on a spongy, rotting heap of bad intentions, false hopes and broken promises.

“What’s this?” I asked, trying to scrape the sticky substance off my shoes.

“Compost,” she said. “Where things break down and get another chance.”

Oil and Gas: Nectar of the Gods

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

Millions of years ago, on this evolving planet, tiny animals and plants died, sank to the bottom of the swampy waters, and were gradually pressurized into coal, oil, and other nasty-seeming substances.

Quite recently (in geologic time) humans began to play with fire and found it helped to stay warm and cook food. Not long after that, we discovered that digging, drilling, refining, and combusting those nasty substances provided astonishing amounts of energy.

Soon, basketballs, varnish, nylon tents, plastic bottles, airplanes, asphalt, and cozy homes began to seem a birthright for many of us. Even though it’s now obvious that extracting, refining, and burning these nonrenewable deposits of ancient life is dangerous, destructive, and ultimately deadly, we can’t seem to stop.

“Nice summary,” God says. “Though a tad simplified.”

“Fine,” I say. “Go ahead and complexify, God. You always do.”

God offers me an apple and leans back into the gathering clouds.

“I got my first doctorate in chemistry,” he says. “Technically, you should call me Dr. God. But I’m not hung up on titles.”

“Right. Or maybe I should call you Dr. Denial,” I say. “I got my first doctorate in psychology, and you are diagnosable.”

“That’s rich!” God chuckles. “Isn’t your diagnostic system just a primitive description of being alive? Coping?”

“Maybe,” I admit. “But there are better or worse ways to cope. You seem to cope by rolling the dice a lot. And we’re the dice.”

“Vegas, baby,” God jokes, rubbing his hands. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

“Ah, c’mon,” I say. “Not funny.”

God grins. “Fine. Actually, nothing that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. You probably don’t know this about me, but I bathe in untouched oil reserves. I rub Myself with chunks of coal and float in pockets of natural gas. They let me be. I let them be. I love what they were and where they are, but you should leave them alone. They’re not worth the gamble.”

“That horse has left the barn,” I say.

“Oh, I know,” God says. “I got my second doctorate in statistics with a dissertation on probability.”

“So, with our selfish, exploitive, nature, we’re screwed, aren’t we?”

“Likely,” God nods, then adds, “I often root for the underdog, but it doesn’t look promising. I’m working on my third doctorate. It’s in theology. I’m exploring the concept of black holes and infinity, and I’m totally transfixed. Want to be on my examining committee?”

“I think I already am,” I say.

“I knew that,” God says with a big grin. “Ironic, isn’t it?”