Month: July 2025

The Ducks

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

The ducklings escaped. We were gone and it was raining. Most likely, they waddled to the river and floated downstream. They may not have taken their size into account. They were too small to buck the current and make their way back to their shelter and the humans who dug them tasty worms. With their underdeveloped wings, flying home would not be an option. They launched into the wild unknown, and they will not be returning.

Hermann Hesse wrote, “The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The bird flies to God.” Hesse went on to name God Abraxas. God is always named or unnamed according to our needs and agendas. For my purposes today, I’ll call them Water.

Here’s why: Without water, we would not exist. But I don’t worship water. It neither wants nor appreciates worship. When you’re that powerful, you can afford to be humble. Perhaps you don’t even mind being polluted. Hidden. Transformed. Evaporated.  To you, the flow of suffering is all in a day’s work.

If you are God, you just are.

Death has meaning only for mortals. We cling to our shells and boundaries even as they thin and weaken. It’s unlikely that anyone enjoys being pushed out of the womb, and when the time comes, the work of breaking the shell from within appears to be exhausting and perilous. But inevitable.

So, sure. Run to the river, you traitorous ducks. Your easy food will go to the chickens. I’ll siphon the poopy water out of your plastic pool, and your nice straw bedding will become mulch. I don’t mind transitions. Or aging. Or abandonment. Not at all. Run, ducks, run.

God is chuckling from the corner. “Yes, indeed! Denial is always an option. Consciousness is as hard to handle as birthing.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, even as I move closer to the banks of the river. The current is swift. Water bursts into vapor as it hits stone, and the ancestors shimmer in the misty veil.

My mind is a whirlpool of images. Ice cracks across the lakes of winter, and steam rises from the center of the fractures in Yellowstone Park. Earthquakes are an ever-present danger. The risk of liquefaction looms on the crest of the clay-footed hills. Our bodies are more than half water, and the rain has begun to fall again. I am too weak to swim upstream.

“Just get in the boat.” God cuts the engine and pats the cushioned seat nearby. “You make us very tired some days.”

Angles of Repose and Other Non Sequiturs

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

What do you suppose the angle of repose would be for those pyramids of dead bodies we’ve seen in the news over the years? (The angle of repose is the steepest angle at which a sloping surface formed of a particular loose material is stable.)

Syria. Tuam. Viet Nam. The Sudan. Gaza. The victims of Covid in Brazil. In these places, they would know.

Mass graves are frowned upon here in our modern and stolen country, so most of us will not witness haphazard heaps of people firsthand. We have refrigeration and waiting lists. We prefer to deport or enslave rather than outright slaughter.

Most mornings, I either cry or paint something. Some days, it’s yellow. Others, dark blue. Or a swirling medley of colors interacting aggressively with each other. Sometimes, I glue broken bits of mirror into new shapes. It can get messy.

“What would you like to cover today?” I ask Royal Blue. Before Royal Blue can respond, Blood Red shoves Royal Blue aside, and a firing squad tosses the sanctity of life into the air and takes aim.

“Knock it off right now,” I yell at Blood Red. “I MEAN IT.”

Blood Red shrugs. “Fine. But you know I’ll be back.”

Something ends. Something begins. Breakage and destruction are part of rebirth. A long time ago, at the end of an especially magical youth camp, I considered smashing my guitar so I could give everyone a splinter. I had the odd notion that this would keep us together. But smashing my guitar seemed a bit extreme. Instead, I pulled apart a pheasant feather that had traveled in my guitar case for years and handed the astonished circle bits of pheasant down.

 Now, most days, I wonder if I have something I could dismember to express my outrage and despair. To break hope open. To keep us together.

“Heroics come in many guises,” the Paint Brush whispers. “You do you. No need to come apart just yet.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Paint Brush,” I shake my head. “But I’m no longer flexible enough to kick myself in the butt.”

“Who cares?” Paint Brush scoffs. “Bruises aren’t the best motivators. How about a cookie?”

“Not hungry,” I mumble.

“Oh, honey,” Paint Brush says gently. “You have no idea how hungry you are.”

Hats

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

To avoid doom scrolling, I browse through the infamous “Marketplace” and notice a lime green shed for sale. I’m drawn to sheds, and I love lime green.

(And why would you need another shed? I ask myself.)

For a small fee, the seller will help load. It’s 8 x 12. All it needs is a door and paneling to cover the exposed insulation. All I need is a trailer and a reason.

(Well, it might be nice for the ducks, I think. Or I could store things in it.)

A Stern-Faced Elder, a Waxing Gibbous Moon, a Cackling Hen, and a Clear-eyed Version of God all crowd into my consciousness and, without a word, begin amputating my whimsical fantasies.

(If I find the right shoes, maybe there’s still a marathon in my future; if I find the right words, a best-seller.)

To my credit, I do not try to reattach the longings as they fall away. But I don’t completely let go.

(If I put these ideas in the freezer, maybe someday, someone will find them nicely preserved and ready to bake. I should map the terrain of the plumbing and wiring, the hiding places and perennials. If I can just keep the labyrinth free of weeds, enlightenment will follow.)

The Clear-eyed Version of God and the Waxing Gibbous Moon help the Stern-Faced Elder to her feet. The Hen has disappeared, and it looks as though the others are preparing to leave. I dread the emptiness. They’ve cleared away so many of my disguises, promises, and obstacles. I will have to endure the echo chamber of my naked self.

But what’s this? They aren’t leaving! They’ve found my hat collection and they’re trying on hats, giggling and pointing at each other.

And without permission, they begin parading to the river, each wearing two or three of my hats. They march straight into the icy water near the stones I’ve rolled into circles. I trail behind.

“C’mon in,” they cry, exuberant.

“Nah, I hate cold water. And I’ve gotta make an offer on that shed.” I grin.

“No more enclosures!” They laugh, shaking their heads. The hats tumble off and float away.

“Get my hats!” I yell in a mild panic.

“Not worth it, honey. They don’t fit that well anymore,” the Stern-Faced Elder says. The Waxing Gibbous Moon nods and adds, “They’re needed downstream anyway.”

(Well, I can find more if I want to, I comfort myself.)

As I watch my hats bob away, I center myself among the boulders near the uprooted cottonwoods.  

(Maybe we could use these stones to make a sauna, I think. Or a sweat lodge.)

The Hen cackles in the distance.

Unselfies

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments 

“No, turn your head this way.” The Creator pointed as she positioned her phone for one last shot. I felt silly playing along, but on the other hand, it’s unwise to alienate God first thing in the morning, so I tilted my head obligingly. 

The shift of perspective floored me. My eyes beheld my unformed substance at the base of the flowering clematis. The existential struggles of transformation were underway, and it was obvious that my role is miniscule. I matter and I don’t.

This was overwhelming. I grabbed the wings of sunrise and flew toward the ends of the earth. But there, I was greeted by the forces of good and evil. “Hello, Side-Effect,” they yelled cheerfully. “We saw your selfies. Not bad.”

“Those weren’t selfies,” I said. “And I’m not a side-effect.”

My Coauthor rode in in high on the breakers of an incoming tide, waving like royalty. The forces of good and evil waved back. I did not.

“Ah, why the long face?” my Coauthor asked.

“I don’t want to be a side-effect,” I said. “I want to be the pinnacle.”

“You’re both,” God smiled. “Life itself is a side effect of passion. But don’t worry. Every side effect is different. Even desperately desired descendants don’t turn out exactly as imagined, and clones individuate. Each blade of grass is a pinnacle.”

She pulled her phone out of her waterproof fanny pack, threw an arm over my shoulder, and took a series of selfies as we emerged from the depths. 

“Choices,” God said. “Even side effects have choices. And those choices will have choices. That’s why I take so many pictures.”

“And that’s why I always feel like I’m to blame,” I moaned. “Choices are hard.”

“Innocence and intention coexist,” God said. “Culpability is a carriage with draped windows pulled by a team of wild horses. It’s a rough ride.”

“Aren’t you angry with the choices we’re making?” I asked.

“A little,” the Holy Hungry Immigrants shrugged. “But we’ve already laid ourselves down on the tracks. Now, we just wait for the train.” 

They handed me a phone. “Could you snap a couple shots of us?” they asked. “No one will believe this back home.”

I heard the train in the distance. “Get up,” I shrieked. “Don’t be stupid.”

“We can’t.” They gazed lovingly at my horrified face. “You know we can’t.”