Month: May 2024

Texture

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

Nine years ago, when the walls I’m staring at right now were taped, mudded, and painted, I was in the midst of chemo; my attention was limited, and my judgment fractured. I chose the texture of least resistance: orange peel. We ended up with a boring, slightly bumpy, ivory creaminess as far as the eye could see. I’ve since blued and purpled some rooms to break the grip of ivory, but undoing texture is a whole different matter.

Humans are a thin-skinned, acne-prone, melanoma-inclined, busted-nose species. We’re born smooth, but life has a way of texturizing and shaming, so we add layers. Leather and tatts. Silks and fine linen. We use fat wallets and fancy cars to distract.

“What about sanding?” asks the Creator of Walnut, the Weaver of Wool. “And there’s always acid, epoxy, varnish, and grinders.”

Even allegorically, this sounds painful. In the looking glass, I see that I’ve grown more textured than the last time I looked and not in ways I’d describe as appealing.

“Don’t be so judgy.” says the Big Eye in the Sky. “I’d go face to face with you any day.”

“Of course, you would,” I say. “And I’d be toast.”

“Toast is soft bread with a roughened exterior,” the Eternal Jokester counters. “Quick exposure to intense heat.”

My friend Scott rails about the energy required to make toast, but I like toast. I resist feeling guilty because I turn off lights like a religious zealot, hang my clothes to dry, and heat water on the wood stove. Shall I thus be held blameless for the fractured ozone? Mudslides? Fires? For a carbon footprint larger than my feet? Shall I be exonerated?

“Of course not,” the Balancing Beam assures me. “Exoneration is out of the question. But when your fault lines widen into fatal apertures, and your body rejoins the teaming earth, your consciousness will be windswept and shiny. Smooth as glass.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say. “That sounds just peachy. But in the meantime, I think I’ll get some Botox and touch up my hair.”

 “Oh, yes! And amass more riches and fame,” Pock-Face Crooked Arm grins.

“Easy peasy,” I say. “It’s all about appearances. And lying. The bigger, the smoother, the lie, the better.”

“I’m not sure where I went wrong,” The Truth admits. “But there’s hell to pay. The course corrections are going to be rugged.”

“But it will come out okay in the end, right?” I ask in a weak voice.

“You may have to define what you mean by the end, honey,” the Lover says, stroking my sagging cheek. “That word isn’t in my lexicon.”

Waiting for Asparagus

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

On my belly, eye-level with thistles, there’s no sign of asparagus emerging. But this will change as the days lengthen and the rains come. For decades, I’ve made compelling requests of this ancient asparagus patch, and it has done what it can to save me. This has less to do with faith than with remembering and waiting. There are forces at work; we are at their mercy.

Waiting for Bats

Some years ago, on Father’s Day, we hung a double-chamber bat house on the warm side of our home. So far, no bats have moved in. We had hoped that they would take up residence and eat mosquitoes. Instead, a pair of robins have built a nest on top of the box, and their droppings trail down the side of the darkly stained cedar.

Waiting for Redemption

An ominous enlightenment is stirring offstage. Twice, it has missed its cue. It is an enraged bull, pawing the ground, spewing snot and indignation. It is a rusting toy. It doesn’t like its assigned role. It wants to rewrite the script.

Waiting for the Answer

This morning, I texted The Gods three times, begging for alternatives, biting back tirades and justifications. Silence is the hardest answer to accept. I left an offering at the edge of a slash pile and imagined the thick smoke bellowing skyward, hiding their thin defenses.

Waiting for the Raucous Conclusion

There are animals, wild and otherwise, who will outlive me, but there are others who will not. In fact, I will eat some before this day is done. If I were a hunter, I would make sure I had a clean shot. Then I would give thanks, waving one hand over the lifeless body, raising the other in gratitude. Hand to mouth. Heart to ashes. Dust to dust.

Platitude Day

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

“I’ve still got it!” God exclaimed in a braggy voice. He stuck out his butt and raised his hands in a victory march around our uncomfortable orange couch.

“Still got what?” I steeled myself for a barrage of the absurd.

“Whatever it takes,” God answered.

“Oh, it’s Platitude Day,” I observed in a chilly voice.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” God said.

“And I don’t have to explain myself to you,” I retorted.

“That’s rich,” God laughed. “You can’t even explain yourself to yourself. Give it a try.

“Leave me alone,” I said.

“Never,” God said.

My eyes stung with absolutes and finalities. I didn’t want to cry, so I stared at the orange objects peppering my visual field. Then I moved to lime green. I took my pulse.

I wrote my funeral vows in the dirt with a long walking stick. One end had been whittled to a sharp point for balance and clarity. The other end was wrapped in rope for a better grip. It was a little tall for me. I shrink a bit every year and have to remember to downsize my expectations accordingly.

This passive acceptance caught God’s attention. “Outsourcing, not downsizing. Insourcing. Reverse osmosis. Whatever it takes.” He looked determined. “Too many killed waving white flags. Too many born to dead mothers. The holy will always be greater than the sum of its parts. You have less to remember than you assume.”

“You’re driving me insane. Please, please, please get out.” The tears spilled.

“There’s no out, baby,” the Insistent Presence whispered. “But then, there’s no in either. Go ahead and cry a little. I don’t mind.”

“DON’T MIND??” I yelled at the Organizing Principles of the Universe. “YOU DON’T MIND?” How could God not mind? I dried my eyes and took a breath. Two breaths. Counted to ten. I straightened my spine, got my hammer, put my shoulder to the wheel, and twirled my lariat overhead.

“Hold my beer,” I shouted. “I’ve still got it, too. You want a piece of me?”

“You’re right,” God chuckled. “It is definitely Platitude Day.”

He drank my beer. I painted him orange. We confessed our sins and rejoiced in small victories. We took tall orders and gathered no moss as we rolled downhill. We sat tight, broke a leg, and let it all go.

The Presence met the sick and dying at the door. I sang to them. And at the end of the day, in a mind-bending way, it all mattered just enough to matter.

“Would you like me to go now?” God asked.

“Sure,” I said. “But I’m going with you.”

Formatting

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

Phote Credit: Theresa Vandersnick Burkhart

“If you wanted to write a bible or some holy essays or something, would you use Word?” I asked the Source. “Would you store documents in the Cloud? Post directly to Facebook? TikTok?” My tone was edgy. Yesterday, I’d lost most of my skirmishes with technology.

God’s eyebrows arched quizzically. I waited in comfortable silence, enjoying the sensuous twist of driftwood and the undulations of the emerging horizon. I meditated on medieval monks brewing dark beer as they transcribed and illuminated ancient texts.

“I don’t write things down,” God finally answered. “The written word hardens and can become a weapon. It’s often misused. Have you considered the living word? It offers an array of formatting options that could keep you busy for centuries.”

Brilliant colors bled across the eastern sky, transforming the unspeakable terrors of the night into manageable commandments.

“Yes. On occasion I’m possessed by the living word,” I said “But I still love the written word. What would life be without bodacious, malapropism, or onomatopoeia?”

God’s gaze was steady. The carefully ordered syllables of my life started breaking free, combining and recombining. Recumbent. Iconoclast.  Greek. Mandarin. Farsi. Sanskrit. There are over 7,000 languages spoken by humans in the world right now, and who knows how many more existed before we started counting? And what about the languages of animals? Trees? Vibrations in space?

“Do you think we should include the living word among the list of functional modern languages?” I asked.

“Seriously?” God laughed. “Functional?”

A silver convertible, a rusty jalopy, an all-electric Ford Lightening, a school bus, and a fume-spewing Chevy paraded by. The Drivers grinned and waved.  Instead of candy, they tossed indestructible reading glasses. Delighted children grabbed them and put them on.

“We see you,” the children shouted at me. At each other. At the Drivers. “We see you!” They scooped up small animals, lonely widows, bees, and bones. “We see you!” they cried, rejoicing in their vision.

Their weightless innocence was infectious. I longed for a Buddhist-like acceptance. I’m always trying to weave the words at my disposal into an easily maneuverable raft or a safe path forward, but they often splinter or blow away, catching debris and damming up the Living River as they tumble willy-nilly in the crosswinds.

The Drivers got out of their rigs and circled me, holy eyes magnified by thick lenses, clownish smiles revealing large, sacred teeth. “Relax,” they said. “Word dams are an important part of the ecosystem. Just ask the beavers.”

“I don’t speak beaver,” I protested. “But you could,” they said, their heads nodding sagaciously. “It’s never too late to learn another way of seeing.”