Month: October 2023

Being the Cozy One

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

There’s much to be said for a Cozy God. Not just passive cozy. No. I mean assertive, smother-hugger, cheek-pincher, aren’t-you-just-adorable, big-lapped cozy.

But today’s version is sharp-tongued and angular. Her purple hat is cockeyed and her cloak of many colors drenched from flying through the freezing rain. She’s shivering and disoriented. Thus, I’m forced to be the cozy one.

“Here. Drink this.” I offer a cup of hot chocolate laced with peppermint schnapps and replace her cloak with a down comforter. She lifts the mug to her bluish lips, sips, sighs, and settles near the fire.

I let her warm up in silence. Mostly I’m happy when any version of God drops by, but as she curls her tired body and nods off, I realize some visitations are less pleasant than others. I consider hiding the refreshments and putting out the fire.

Where’s Cozy God? I complain to myself.

Witchy God yawns, stretches her thin arms above her head and says, “She’s busy. I’m subbing for her today.”

“What’s she up to?” I ask, interested despite my disappointment. If I’m hosting Witchy God, then maybe somewhere, someone is being cuddled and fed by a cozy, affectionate God.

“Doesn’t work that way,” Witchy God says. “The manifestations are interactive. You get what you give. You get what you need. But luckily, you never get what you deserve.”

 “Why not?” I ask, peevish and disappointed. “I try to be thoughtful. I share my stuff…” My voice trails off. “Well. Most of it. Some of it. Sometimes.”

I’m suddenly uncomfortable claiming I deserve a visit from Cozy God. The equations are slippery, comparisons fraught with subjectivity, tinged with envy.

“So what’s your cozy quotient, my pretty?” Witchy God asks in her witchy voice.

“You mean how much cozy do I need?” I ask, ever hopeful.

“No. How much cozy are you putting out there?”

And there it is. The eternal question. Witchy God begins whirling like a dervish, and the remaining October leaves let go.  Every limb is bare. Winter has arrived. The wars rage on. Witchy God is preparing to do whatever it is she does. Her cloak has dried, and her thermos is filled with my cocoa and schnapps.

“I’ll ride shotgun for as long as I can,” I say reluctanly. I swing my leg over the broom, but her take-off velocity leaves me flat on my back in front of my toasty fire.

“Not every battle is yours,” Warm Room whispers. “With that bad hip, you could be a bit more cautious.”

“No way,” I say.

Warm Room gives me a knowing smile and hands me a broom of my own.

Impact

Rita Sommers-Flanagan9 Comments

Who doesn’t (secretly or overtly) want to be a social influencer? Maybe a few humble souls are at peace with having little influence in the world, but I doubt they’re in the majority. Humans want proof that they matter—as measured by clicks, votes, money, fame, prestige, or power.

Years ago, I began learning a lesson I’m still working on. As a newly minted rehabilitation counselor, I was assigned to teach a young man with a serious brain injury how to ride his three-wheeler to the sheltered workshop where he glued pieces of wood together every day. This is harder than it might sound.

He flashed me a drooly grin as he turned a block early for the third time. I calmly redirected him, but inside, my ego was screaming. I wanted to be actualized and recognized. I wanted to be somebody. But here I was, with my master’s degree, on a back street in nowhere USA trying to help a badly damaged human being learn to navigate a three-block commute.

He gritted his teeth and pushed hard on the pedals. I pictured him before the crash, a reckless teenager, stomping on the gas in his souped-up car. He’d lost control and rolled three times. Hours later, the jaws of life had freed him to face a partial recovery followed by this new, confusing existence.

We made it to the employee entrance on his fourth try. I feigned approval, but I was resentful and exasperated. I had functional legs, strong arms, and an eager mind. I had a ten-speed bike, running shoes, three published poems, and a family that did not wish me dead.

“Can’t you give me something important to do?” I whined to the Universe. “Something that’ll make a difference?”

The day froze into a singular moment.

“Allow me to introduce you,” the Universe replied in a clear, penetrating voice. “This is my son, Clayton, with whom I am well-pleased. He needs a little help. I chose you, but if you’re unavailable, I have others.”

And as if that wasn’t enough, the Universe continued. “Clayton, dear, this is your servant, Rita. Be patient with her. She’s still figuring things out.”

So much life has flowed under so many bridges since that day, and so many Claytons have come and gone. In this waning light, Wisdom occasionally lifts her skirts to show me her ankles. But even now, instead of sitting in gratitude, I sometimes long for more. I want accolades and adoration. Assurances that I matter. Most days, I push down hard on the pedals, but I’m uncertain of which way to turn.

Obviously, I’m still figuring things out.

Packing

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Even the shortest trips go better with a little planning. Of course, this makes me nervous and increases the chances that I’ll overpack or underpack. I aspire to smooth-rolling suitcases, thoughtful snacks, and a business-casual posture at the airport. But what I often end up with is bulging bags, broken zippers, spilled water, crushed bananas, the wrong pants, not enough underwear, and so many layers it’s hard to move.

These issues are especially salient today as God listens to me mutter while I unpack from one less than well-done trip and pack for another daunting adventure.

“Your neuroses are fascinating, darlin’” she says with an exaggerated British accent. “Are you by chance laboring under the impression that what you’re doing right now matters?”

My temper flares. I hate packing and frankly, nothing seems to matter. I throw down an armload of jackets and lunge at this unwelcome critic. The energy thrusts my soul upward through the mists of imagined relevance, gaining altitude like a cosmic drone. My piles of clothes and treasures shrink into indiscernability. I kickbox the Cloud of the Holy and try to grab her elongated, bejeweled, illusive neck. At this moment, I would gladly strangle God if I could.

“You’re so rude!” I scream as I dissolve into a sobbing meteor, fodder for the nearest black hole.

“And you’re so sad,” God says gently. “I see that now. So sad and frightened. I’m really sorry. I was trying to help you lighten up and get perspective. Obviously, my timing was way off. My bad.”

God surrounds and we settle. We float down to the base of an urban tree which is growing mostly horizontal in its search for the sun. I congratulate the tree for seeking the light despite all the obstacles. God and I sit on the bench-like trunk and hold hands. The fight is over but I’m still feeling burned.

We get up and amble down the street looking for coffee and a pastry. As I often do, I’m reconsidering the process of writing about these encounters.

“Maybe we’d be wiser to write in third person,” I say to my wily Coauthor.

“Why?” God asks.

“A little distance might be nice,” I confess, looking down at my smoldering feet.

She shakes her head. “Sorry, darlin’. Doesn’t work that way.”

“This may be apparent,” the scribe notes with a self-deprecating grin. “But one shouldn’t blame a gal for trying, should one?”

“Ha ha!” God says. “The authors of these pieces are often quite amusing.”

With that, the authors resume their preparations for the journey ahead. One of them puts in an extra T-shirt. The other takes it back out. “It’s all about faith,” that one says.

“No, it’s all about options,” the other counters. They laugh.

Tucking In

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

After especially hard days, I take a little extra time to gently tuck myself into bed. Sleep well, little one, I say, imagining The Within speaking in a tender voice. I fluff the pillows and give thanks for my great good fortune. I am safe.

But often, like tonight, a wave of guilt hits. Images of war, earthquakes, uprisings, floods, mud slides, fires, and refugee camps take over. No one is ever entirely safe, but everyone wants to be. We steal safety from each other. And the cost of this selfish, temporary safety runs into the billions. With a loaded pistol, I could shoot my way out, right? With enough money, I could build a fortress and save myself. Ha! Fools. We are all safety-seeking fools.

Yahweh clears her throat.

“Oh, hi,” I say sheepishly. “I was just tucking myself in for the night.”

“Hmmm. Is THAT what you were doing?” she asks, glowing orange from the corner.

“No,” I admit. “I was mocking the notion of safety. I feel a little frightened sometimes so I make fun of people who think they can make themselves safe.”

“I like it when you’re honest,” Abba God says. She wraps herself in my spare blanket and lays down beside me. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to feel safe.”

“Yeah, but…”

“I know,” she interrupts. “It can go too far. Safety, sacrifice, and suffering are contentious triplets, progeny of a brief affair between acceptance and agency.”

What now? I think. “I’m way too tired to talk about this,” I say.

“Me, too,” Asherah God says. “There’s a lot going on. I’m exhausted.”

“I bet you are.” I slip my arm over her shoulder and whisper, “Sleep well, Eternal One.”

She closes the eyes that never close. The breath of Allah is deep and regular, but mine is shallow, and I feel anxious. I remember a prayer I was taught as a child.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Whoa! No wonder we’re all so frightened. What child wants to die in the night and have their soul taken by a mysterious, possibly nefarious God?

If anyone’s taking anything in the night, it’ll damn well be me, I think, watching the rise and fall of the chest of The Infinite beside me. Then I relax and smile at my hubris. I don’t even own a gun.

Recent Correspondence

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments

Letters to the Dead

Dear G,

At that last lunch, you presented me with your daughters, and I was so honored. So willing. But it wasn’t until your peaceful demise that I fully grasped your intentions. I don’t know if I’ve measured up. It’s complicated. The windows are streaked and dusty, but I’m still willing. And I miss you.

Love,

Rita

Dear Mick,

Before your unexpected death, you wrote that even though you didn’t go to church, I made you laugh at the magnitude of what’s asked of us, and you had no idea why you cried when I offered God seven onions. You said I should put these writings into a book. I loved you for that. We never met, but you’ve helped me keep afloat. Thank you.

Cheers,

Rita

Dear Brian, Cindy, Dan, Greg, Liz, Rex, Jim, P.J., and the lot of you,

The days are growing shorter, and the impending challenges of winter are leering at me. How dare you die? But then, how dare you not? Your absences make it harder, but you each cleared a faint trail through the wilderness and left deep, distinct snow angels behind. For that, I am grateful.

Warmest Regards,

Rita

A Note to the Living

Dear You Know Who You Are,

If you knew you’d be dead in a month, would you live differently? Well, for some among us, that is actually true. Therefore, let us recline in community and together partake in the Now—a dish best sparingly seasoned by the past, basted in its own juices, and constantly stirred over medium heat. (When the Now gets overheated by relentless fears of the future, the flavors diminish.) Here’s to the feast!

Sincerely,

You Know Who I Am

A Missive Sent in Smoke to the Noncorporeal

Dear Beyond and Within,

It has been said that there are no atheists in foxholes. This is incorrect. Foxholes create atheists. And rightly so. The mornings after are short on solace and long on dread. Nonetheless, when I lie flat on the undulating ground and pretend to close my eyes, I see your gnarly feet and hear the swish of silk across the tall autumn grass.

Corporeally yours,

Rita

A Reply

Dear Rita,

Infinity. Interiority. Insight.

Rivers. Ravens. Rain.

Photosynthesis.

Volcanoes.

Sacrifice.

Fire.

Color.

Redemption.

Dinosaurs. Dogs. Daylight.

Imagination. Intention. Infinity.

Yours to Unearth,

The One You Sometimes Call God