Month: December 2024

Christmas Aftermath

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

As seasonal tributaries, the Humans are neither endpoints nor accidents. Because of this, the Humans often snarl in selfish indignation. The Gods snarl back and fling a flailing baby into a gaggle of haggling businessmen or a throng of women practicing self-defense.

The snarling ceases. The Gods remove a turban to swaddle the infant, and by yet another route, the rich young rulers resume their deadly journey home. Those on the continuum don purple robes, line up on the risers, and sing the hallelujah chorus at the top of their expansive lungs.

The Gods are not an elegant solution to the shrinkage of age, the drying of oranges or tomatoes, or the rancor of opportunities lost to love or hate. The Gods do not guarantee you’ll be safe on that ladder or the other side of consciousness.

The Humans call the Gods simplistic names, contort the Gods into shapes that looks like heaven, and attempt to squeeze the Gods into skulls, thickened with fear. But the Sheer Force of Life is hot and untouchable, eternally erupting, convulsing, and bringing forth.

In the bleak pre-dawn, I use my fingers to count anxieties and losses, but as morning arrives, I find my hands tickling the Child. I make faces at the fragrant Baby Jesus, gently rub the head of the Little Buddha nursing, and mark the calendar so I’ll remember when to plant potatoes. It’s already too late for garlic. And too dry.

The Humans are a comedy of errors and assumptions, but they also dance with gay abandon. They can be forgiving and hospitable. Sometimes, they prepare a room in the inn, choose the fatted calf for a barbeque, and offer the best wine to wayward guests and nasty neighbors.

The fault is neither in the stars nor the fallen Samaritan. The Sheer Force of Life can be brutally redemptive. The Humans are repeatedly fed unleavened bread, milk, and honey, white rice, brown rice, sticky rice, and the chewed fat of the fallen walrus. As the grapes of wrath are crushed, the mortal hands and feet turn purple, but the sacred fermentation continues with every holy birth.


https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/video/scientists-capture-first-light-big-bang/


A Thousand Hands

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 
 
A Thousand Hands woke me, waving feather dusters, exasperated. 
“We're forever cleaning up after you”
“That’s rich!” I said. “I could say the same about you.”
“Oh, don’t even try that ‘blame God’ thing. 
We’re not responsible for these terrible messes.”
“How about the raw material? Where’s all the dust come from?”
I asked. But I already knew.

A Thousand Hands grabbed my hands and stared at my palms. 
“We see a long, productive life. Children. Soulmate. Gardens and compost piles. 
Students. Eight or nine remodels. Trees. Books. Friends. 
Logs. Dogs. Pigs. Sticks. Stones…an unwieldy number of stones.”
I grinned and pulled my hands back to look for myself. 

A Thousand Hands turned palms up. I gasped.
“I see glaciers melting. The beautiful quaking of planets,” I said. 
“I see moons rising over the pockmarks of black holes and mass graves. 
There are streams of gleaming molecules ascending, 
my own and those of everything, ever.” 
I glanced skyward. “You aren’t safe in any way, are you?”

A Thousand Hands knit their fingers together, creating shelter over my head. 
Deep lines crisscrossed the firmament, blocking the ordinary sun. 
The only light remaining was the radioactive residue of the unrevealed.
“No. Not safe in any way,” A Thousand Hands agreed. 
Ominous shadows fell hard around the edges.
.
“I’m a little bit afraid,” I said.
“So are we,” the Hands admitted. “And weary to the bone. But we’re not giving up.”
“Why not?” I asked. “The messes are getting worse.”
“It’s the role-model thing,” they smiled. “We’re setting a good example.”

And it was evening. And it was morning. But I had lost count of the days.

Because I’m preoccupied about planning for the end, 
I’ve surveyed the old homestead 
and chosen a spot to decompose. 
But until recently, I was unaware 
that family pets were already buried there. 
Turns out, when the time comes, I’ll be surrounded by well-loved bones.

“You already are.” A Thousand Hands squeezed my corporeal shoulders, 
knuckles cracking so loud I thought the house had caught fire. 
“Now let’s finish cleaning so we have time to play.”

“Fine,” I said. “What shall we play?” 
“Handball,” They declared, gleefully slapping a thousand thighs.
“Not funny.” I shook my head.
“C’mon, sport,” They teased. “You’ll have the home court advantage.”

I nodded toward my rock collection. In the dead of winter, 
thin layers of ash collect on the rugged surfaces, blurring the subtle distinctions. 
We grabbed a thousand rags and scrubbed until the stones floated home
in interstellar joy.

"Time to play," the Hands declared. And I agreed. 
It was time to play.

Mean People

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Sitting with my half-beer and laptop after a bad night’s sleep puts me in touch with my lack of girth or influence, and I long to escape to Mexico or India or anywhere of color. I need the distraction of vibrancy.

Bullies and idiots are at the helm of the Mothership, humanity is sinking toward extinction, and I take up way too little space to make a difference. Mean people are grabbing whatever they want with impunity, but it’s  never enough. They will die hungry. I’m afraid we will all die hungry.

“Did you put meanness in our DNA?” I ask a gathering of Wiser Ones, among them the Wily Coyote, the Matriarch Elephant, the Eager Beaver, and the Seductive Holy Turkey Buzzard.

“Probably,” they admit. “Design flaw?”

“DUH!!” I exclaim. “How do you like it when someone slugs you in the gut? Twists your words? Belittles you? Steals your lunch money?”

They confer. I wait.

Finally, Mother Lion reports. “We don’t know if we like it. If someone is mean to us, we eat them. It’s all about transformation.”

“Yeah,” the Elder Sea Turtle adds. “They taste funny, but we hardly ever get sick.”

“Well, have I got a meal for you!” I declare. “A banquet.”

“Sorry. We’re not hungry,” they say. “Besides, we’re being deported.” They stampede away, kicking up golden heels, flapping iridescent wings.

If only mortals could exit like that, I say to myself. I envision a meal of roasted bully. Minced meanie. My stomach churns. Clearly, cannibalism isn’t the answer. But I do wish our short lives could end in kindness. Fulfilled.

I take another swig of the dimly lit substance I think of as soul. It’s dark and fermented. Various human mutations are duking it out in the roped-off ring of evolution. The meek always appear to be losing, but meekness has several adaptive attributes. Occasionally, bullies go down for the count, and the Referees call it for compassion.

When this happens, the Netherworld Pep Band strikes up a rousing rendition of Sweet Georgia Brown, and all manner of heavenly hosts storm the dance floor, shaking their booties, hooting with joy.

On these rare occasions, I dress myself in purple and try to squeeze through the eye of the needle to join the party, but the log in my eye is often too big.

“Let us help you,” the Little Bouncers offer.

If I manage to nod, my vision clears, and I am allowed to enter the cosmic celebration, regardless of how small I feel. Once there, I always notice that even the big are very, very small.

What to Pack

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

What’s your favorite Bible verse? The Still Small Voices asked.

Are you crazy? I answered. Leave me alone.
May we suggest Father forgive them for they know not what they do?
No, you may not, I said. No.
How about Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord?
Depends, I said. What do you have in mind?

This is a fetus, not a child, sayeth the Lord. And this is a child, not a weapon. 
This planet is not a mercantile, and the least among you are starving.
You have access to clean water and compassion, but you’re choosing hate.
Vastly greedy fools are lifting glasses to their own demise. 
The lights are on, but soon, and very soon, no one will be home.

Do you think I am unaware of these things? I asked, the dog in my lap, warm.
 
You’ve gotten too big for your britches, They said. You make us laugh.
And you’ve gotten too small to matter, I answered. So go ahead. Laugh.
They began to sing. Let us laugh with the wren and walrus, the willow, the whale.
I had a sudden change of heart. Laugh with me, I begged.
Nah, They said. You’re not that funny.

But you said I made you laugh. You contradict yourselves.
That we do, the jovial Voices admitted. That we do.
And you’re obviously pleased with yourselves, I added.
That we are. The Voices agreed. That we are.
What about me? I whined. Can’t you be pleased with me?

Are you pleased with yourself? The Voices asked, sly as devils. Are you a forgiver?

But how do I forgive when no one is sorry? I asked, sullen.
They shrugged. The sky slipped from their shoulders, pooling blue at their feet.
All the world’s a stage, They said. And everyone stands naked at the end.
Forgiveness will flow like lava, burn like cheap bourbon,
and the party will end in ashes.

The airstrikes began again. The Voices gathered their belongings
and joined the surging throng of refugees and overburdened donkeys. 
Don’t go, I whispered.      Come with us, They said.     I shook my head,
but I knew eventually, I would. We are all fleeing something.
Some of us linger. Some look back. Some don’t.

My favorite is Jesus wept, I shouted at their vanishing outlines. Jesus wept.


The Light in Your Feet

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments


The properties of light are complex, like the bones in your feet.
All streams flow to the sea, so the wise ones grow more secretive. Discreet.
They disguise the halting steps, callouses, and short, distorted dreams.

It takes a practiced eye to spot the game and take aim. The cleanest shot
is often a long line of honking geese, gliding unaware of their bodies
as sustenance or warmth. Long necks slice thin air, innocent. Provocative.

Is the twinkle in God’s eye First Light? Does the venom of the snake create
the ache that comes from walking home? I mean the long ways home,
the ways of those beloved or betrayed, afraid to be together, afraid to be alone.

First rights of refusal come with dawn, but the last rights of twilight are bereft.
The fall of night allows us to exchange the little we have left,
and our eyes adjust so few of us plummet to sure death. Just yet.

The light you see at midnight has traveled a long time.
Its name is love, its only crime, refusing to be known. So beautiful,
the feet of those who bring good news, who bring the light.

Goose down fills our rainbow-colored coats, and our lamps are thus defiled
with scented oil. Winter has arrived across our shoulders. We’re blinded
by the light across the snow, but the demons in our feet are bound by joy.

So do not be afraid, you weary hobos. Our blessings are a song with bitter words.
We’re nourished by the plants we thought were weeds. Oh, may our days be long,
our feet be strong upon this land. This day. This light. These feet.


Amen