Month: August 2024

Watching a Goldfinch Eat Chokecherries

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

I’m tired of calling you God, I say, 
as I watch a goldfinch eat chokecherries.
And I’m tired of being called that, 
God answers in green, disrobes to fire.

I’m surrounded with absurdity, anger, and absolutes,
but the branch does not break with the weight of the feasting bird.
Sky backdrops vultures circling 
but they don’t block the sun.

Layers of harvest are upon me,
a comeuppance of carrots, chard, and beets. 
Leering pumpkins, wily cucumbers,
and basil going to seed.

Going to seed. 

My hands smell of onion. 
My eyes sting from wildfire smoke. 
The Collective strums chords 
composed for disintegration.

What, then, shall I call you? I ask, settling. Sad.
I’ve always liked Improbable, God says,
then adds but Maybe.
Too much. I shake my head. And not enough.

God smiles a rather evil smile. 
Perhaps you could crowdsource the Question.

No way, I say. I wouldn’t like their answers,
and they’d rip me to pieces.
That’s a given, God sighs.
But for now, gather and share.

I don’t want to, I admit.
Improbable but Maybe begins to rain.

If you want to achieve exit velocity, It whispers,
You need to strengthen those wings.

Did I say I wanted to fly? I ask
 
But that’s exactly what I want.
And I admit, I’ve said it many times.
I do want to fly.

When Your Inner Child’s a Biter

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

It may take a village to raise a child, but some villages do better than others. And what about the Walt Whitman multitudes within each of us? Who’s in charge of those inner children?

For instance, when things aren’t going her way, or malevolent forces get too close, my own inner child growls and nips like a protective dog. I scold and apply sanctions. Sometimes, she’s contrite. Other times, she clamps her teeth down on my forearm and leaves marks of unrepentance.

God babysits occasionally. My inner child likes to sit on his lap, braiding his beard, poking at his eyes, and pulling on his large, floppy earlobes. The entwined snake tattoo on his temple is one of her favorites, but his various piercings bother her.

Yesterday, she was having a tough time, so she found God and crawled up for a cuddle. He was dozing, a summer novel splayed across his chest. He didn’t rouse himself fast enough to suit her, so she grabbed his limp hand, bit him, and squirmed away. God sat up, put his finger in his mouth, and lumbered after her like the ancient, doting grandfather he is.

“You don’t need to bite, honey,” he said. “That’s not what those pretty teeth are for.”

“How would you know what my teeth are for?” she retorted, pointing at her gleaming incisors. She’s feisty like that.

Gently, God put his hand over her gaping mouth. She kicked him in the shin.

“So that’s how it is,” he said. He winked at me and began dancing around like a boxer. My inner child wore herself out swinging and missing. She finally dropped to the ground, winded and sweaty, her fists still punching at nothing, her ruffly dress torn and dirty.

“I hate you,” she screamed. “You’re a nasty old man. A pervert. Don’t touch me again or I’ll call the police.”

God leaned down and handed her his phone. “Go ahead, sweetheart,” he said.

She slapped the phone from his hand and dissolved, howling and gnashing her teeth. She knew she was bested, but she didn’t seem able to stop the tantrum.

At last, night fell around her, stars came out in forgiving droves, and a holy breeze cooled her miserably enraged body. She and her demons rested in the arms of the river. God stretched himself out on the sandy shore, forearms cushioning his head.

“I love that little hellion,” he said, as if talking to himself. But he knew I could hear him from my mature hiding place in the willows.  

“You can come out now,” he added, his voice tender. “She’s asleep.”

Estate Planning

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

“I’ve been updating my will,” God said the other day.

I wrinkled my nose. Estate planning is no one’s idea of fun, and I react negatively when the subject is mentioned. But then I did a double take. “You’re doing WHAT?”

It was confusing, not to mention deeply troubling, to think of Alpha, Omega, Parent, Child, and Still Small Voice documenting their final wishes. Who are the heirs? And what would these heirs do if they inherited creation because The Creator ceased to exist?

“Like we said, we’re doing some estate planning,” they said. “We have a long list of nonprofits to consider.”

“Is this some kind of game?” I asked. Occasionally, God uses absurdity to make a point.

God chuckled and kept typing.

I persisted. “Look, you’re a lot of things, but mortal isn’t one of them. By definition, whoever or whatever you are is forever, right?” My voice had gone from suspicious to panicky.

God ignored my uncertainty and asked. “What would you like to inherit?”

I hate questions like that. I hemmed and hawed, aware of a selfish longing to inherit everything, but unwilling to admit it. Instead, I said, “You know, someone once said that the meek would inherit the earth.” Then I added with a grin, “Luckily, I’m not that meek.”

 God grinned back. “Maybe we should change that so the liars and greedy inherit what’s left of the planet. But that’s not what I asked. What do you want?”

I backed away. The God of the Hardest Questions backed away with me.

I stopped, aware of some rising indignation. “The gifting goes both ways, you know. Once, I gave you everything. And you returned it to me slightly stained, but basically untouched.”

“Ah. So that’s how you remember it?” The Many Faces asked. “That’s funny. We forget how linear and language-bound you are right now.” Then they sang a little ditty.

Everything is yours.

Everything is mine.

Everything is nothing.

And everything is fine.

“Oh, that’s so cute,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “When all else fails, write a little poem. Sing a little song.”

“All else hasn’t failed, Little Buddy,” God said. “Relax.” Then they began to sing again.

Finish this parable.

Be of good cheer.

Decorate your coffin.

Drink your beer.

“Sure thing, Skipper,” I lifted my glass, took a long sip of the inexplicable, and in my last edit, added, “If you ever do kick the bucket, I’d like to inherit your irony.”

“Sure thing,” God laughed and hit the Save button. “It’s all yours.”

Who’s Vetting This Damned Mess?

Rita Sommers-Flanagan11 Comments

Here’s how vetting works: Unbiased authorities carefully examine the basis of claims and issue a verdict of accurate, unlikely, or bullshit to help average citizens determine what to believe. When we decide not to trust credentialed authorities, we are prone to mistake our opinions for facts and our personal beliefs for reality.

But there’s a painful tension between belief and reality. Believing a falsehood doesn’t make it true. Or does it? The placebo effect is powerful. Maybe it’s possible to believe lies into reality.

“Excuse me,” God says.  “Could you give us a minute?”

My ancestors, friends, and readers slip out of the conference room in my head and quietly shut the door. I’m alone with an edgy God.

“Now listen,” God says. “Blind faith is dangerous. Some people think there is such a thing as ‘the word of God.’ Maybe. Maybe not. But I am not the Great Vetter in the Sky. You’ve got to vet things yourselves.  It’s relatively simple…”

I hold up my hand. “Let me stop you right there. Nothing is simple or straightforward about seeking the truth, and you know it.”

“You have education, language, and history,” God says.

I frown. “Yeah, right. And there are people who deliberately teach lies.”

 “But you have scientific methodologies,” God says.

I glare. “And we have science deniers. There are billions who don’t believe in the existence of germs and think carbon dating is from the devil.”

“Well, good grief. You have common sense,” God says.

I shake my head. “Nah. We believe that which is convenient or matches our needs or leanings. Con artists do quite well politically and financially.”

“But you’ve got eyes and ears and beating hearts,” God says in a firm and final voice.

 He packs his briefcase. I stand at attention, eyes wide open, hand over heart while the honor guard of God marches by.

Then I pull my hand down and stare at it. What, exactly, was I saluting? My feet take me to the garden. My eyes behold the dry brown hills and smoke-filled skies. I dig into the honest dirt and listen for the pulse of reality, raw and unhindered.

Bullshit breaks down and fertilizes tender green things. What goes around comes around. It is the earth itself who will do the final vetting.

“Sorry I was so harsh. We are helping where we can,” the Creator whispers from a sad, small space under the chokecherries.

“I know, Precious,” I whisper back to the Bleeding Heart of the Universe. “Of that, I am sure.”