Short visits with an honest God
The scent of innocence, the vernacular of grace, written in the Mother Tongue
Sometimes, the Beyond and I find ourselves in agreement on human nature and human agency. And then we write a poem. WordPress makes poetic formatting a serious challenge, so we finally did a screenshot instead. Grandma Margaret often said, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” She didn’t add that the way would be rugged and nearly impassable sometimes–both in the realm of formatting AND in the realm of forgiving.
I was reading up on amoeba and discovered to my horror that there are brain-eating amoeba floating around in fresh water ready and eager to devour human grey matter. I have an active imagination. I think I let some in. They’ve eaten what I would have written. In their single-celled existence, they may have achieved world peace by simply following their destiny
I am neither single-celled nor invasive, but every fiber of my being and all 30 trillion cells are inflamed. Sometimes, I can grasp the interconnectivity of all things, but I don’t relate well to thieving neighbors, deadly viruses, fascism, or pastries made with refined sugar and bleached flour.
Most mornings I arrive at consciousness gradually, in disbelief at the insolence, ignorance, and greed snarling just outside our door. The warm blankets and the dent my body makes in the mattress form a Godlike exoskeleton that I am loathe to surrender.
I linger, considering amoeba reproduction. Under favorable conditions, the amoeba divides in two. When things aren’t favorable, the amoeba body produces around 200 spores and then disintegrates. Even those lucky enough to gorge on human brains ultimately disintegrate. Maybe they produce smarter spores. I don’t know. Who cares?
“OMG,” God laughs. “Are you trying for the worst set of excuses ever? You aren’t an amoeba, and there are none in your brain. Amoebas have very few choices. You have many.”
“That’s the problem,” I sigh. “Humans pretend to cherish freedom, but choices that require sacrifice are hard. It appears that many would rather trust the wealthy or have a Big Daddy Dictator make choices for us: Define the bad guys. Kill them. Reduce tax burdens, increase buying power and meet our every need because we’re special.”
“You aren’t an amoeba. I’m not the Big Breast in the Sky. Dictators are not benevolent. There are no easy answers. And it’s time to get up.”
This is true. It is time to get up. I don’t want to leave my safe space, but as the saying goes, you can’t take it with you.
I dress for the day and turn to God.
“You coming?” I ask her.
“Always,” she nods. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Dictator brains on toast,” I mumble.
God laughs. “Amoeba envy?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “Some days, it’s hard to be evolved.”
“Ha! Well, regression is always an option.” God slugs my shoulder. “But it’s more interesting to put one foot in front of the other and lean in.”
I am aware this means to lean into compassion, joy, and sacrifice. I grimace, stare into the abyss, and offer God more toast, but she’s already gone. I take one last bite and hurry to catch up.
I
“Why can’t people just admit when they’re wrong?” I asked Mr. Right. It was early, but the new day was already blemished by the news. I found him having coffee with entities from other galaxies. He was holding forth on various topics, especially focused on the fatal errors humans are making.
Mr. Right shrugged. “How would I know?” He turned to his comrades with a smile. “Any of you ever been wrong?”
“We thought we were wrong once, but then it turned out we were right,” the Pleiades joked. Everyone groaned.
My eyes were already watering from wildfire smoke and the consequences of hateful lies, but real tears of frustration rolled down my cheeks. I wiped them away, angry at myself and the awful fragility of rightness/wrongness and all other painfully destructive hierarchies and dichotomies we live within.
Mr. Right produced a handkerchief and gallantly handed it to me. I slapped it out of his hand, and he drew his gun.
“Take the hanky, bitch,” he said.
II
“Could I buy a little time?” I asked the cashier at the convenience store outside a national park. She was luminescent. Exhausted.
“Don’t I wish, honey?” she sighed. “We don’t stock perishables. How about some everlasting chips and a soda?”
I laughed. Then asked, “So, why are you here?”
“I have no idea,” she said, biting at a hangnail. “Anyways, what would you do if I could sell you some time?”
“Make things right,” I said.
“How?” she asked.
I could tell she did not expect an answer.
III
There are giant women making taffy in the kitchen. The Largest One smiles at me.
“Do you remember how hard it is to get the consistency right and judge when it’s cool enough to pull?” she asks.
I nod. Making taffy was my favorite childhood slumber party activity, but I often ended up with blisters.
“Well, sweetheart” she continues. “The truth is like taffy. The viscosity of the truth thickens due to internal friction. It’s difficult to know how to handle it.”
I stare down at my hands, recalling the scent of cinnamon and peppermint.
She continues. “The truth is sweet for those who forgive themselves, but it’s dangerous for the thinly defended.”
One of The Smaller Ones hands me a wad of taffy to pull. “Be careful,” she warns. “It’s still pretty hot.”
Our final pilgrimage to my favorite Goodwill was a resounding success, but it was twinged with the usual autumn sadness. My father died in the fall when I was nineteen. For whatever reasons, I began shopping at thrift stores shortly after. Maybe I needed to prove I could take care of myself. Or maybe I wanted to give discarded items one last chance at usefulness. A selective resurrection.
Whatever the origins, it’s a spiritual practice now.
Time ceases to exist as Original Source and I sort through bins of castoffs and misfits, keeping in mind the needs and tastes of everyone we love. The possibilities are endless. Our cups and our carts runneth over.
Unpacking is less rewarding. Original Source abdicates as I face the flood of questions:
How did this get in my cart? What, dry-clean only? Why didn’t I check this zipper? Where’s the other boot? Will this really fit her? Oh, dear, are scarves out of style? Aren’t they still worn by Germans and movie stars?
Then, the recriminations:
You have too much stuff. Red is not your color. You’re a hoarder, a second-hand capitalist. You idiot, here’s the other boot, and they’re both for the left foot. Five aprons will not make you a better cook. There’s no room for more coats. And this candle stinks!
Next, the defenses:
You can’t have too much hand sanitizer, and red looks better with a little blue. That stain might come out. It’s hard to find a gold lamé shawl when you need one or Halloween pajamas, for that matter. Single boots make quirky, boho vases, and if the electricity goes out at night, you can locate that candle by smell alone.
Finally, action:
It’s all sorted. Little futures line the halls like wallflowers. I sidle up, dressed for any occasion, hoping Someone will ask me to dance. My imagination has a touch of arthritis, but I can still feign elegance and squeeze my feet into glass slippers.
Here’s the truth: Glass slippers offer no support whatsoever and shatter easily.
The sound of breaking glass attracts Cinderella’s attention. She glares from her repurposed throne, fanning herself.
“No worries,” I tell her. “I’ll glue the shards into a collage and call it Happily Ever After.”
Prince Charming and I bring in the last load of laundry.
“Warm for this time of year,” he says, mopping his brow with a silk bandana.
Cinderella sashays over in a chiffon gown, and Prince Charming tenderly takes her hand. Original Source takes mine, and the orchestra begins playing my grandmother’s favorite waltz. I have no idea how close we are to midnight, but I don’t care.
Short visits with an honest God 