If you were the only Omnipotent Force in the universe, one would hope you’d have a certain sense of humor: the kind without any of the usual mean or sarcastic twists. A good laugh is one thing. Cruel guffaws, another.
If you’ve been born only once, one would hope you’d carve your coordinates into the bark of the nearest tree. Hurry. You will be exiled, left to find your own way home. If you calm yourself, you will realize that you already know.
If you were born accidentally, knowing more than you can handle, you might wish for an easy exit. Instead, you are destined to watch your mountains come down, one by one. There is no safe distance. Even the act of observing changes the outcome.
Those who were born amphibious reproduce in obscure complexities. The permeability of skin, the need to be near still waters; this is where shades of gray form a rainbow. If you are brave enough, you can touch your own inner longings.
Darkness is an absence of bioluminescent beings flitting from branch to branch, swimming from cave to cave. Of course, you once had gills. Your sorrow is justified and holy, but it will drag you down. Peer steadily through the cracks to find the light.
Heat-seeking missiles zero in on warm hearts, but you’ll only bruise yourself trying to escape. Soften your eyes. Clutch the amulet you were given in another life. Make the signs of various crosses and give it up for the godlike being playing the cello.
And give it up for the rising sun and low hanging fruit. And the shivering murmur of laughing hyenas hunting in the neighborhood. Give it up for molds, yeasts, fungi and friendship. Revel in the divine but fleeting salvations of any given day.
Humans are being bought and sold this morning. I’ve placed a bid on one, but we’ll have to wait and see how it comes out. I’m having trouble with the messaging systems.
A voicemail is heard in Ramah — lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted—for her children are gone. I suspect the children of Leah, (Rachel’s sister-wife), and Bilhah and Ziphah, (the handmaidens), are gone as well.
So damn gone. Pushed down the slick, disgusting slope of vengeful, wrongful incarceration. Deportation. So much money to be made. Phone calls prepaid by the broken.
There are too few places to put my rage. In the back seat of the old, malfunctioning car? At the borders that define us? In the pocket of the officer who lied about the handcuffs?
It’s easy to be indignant from a distance and then order dessert. Tempting to wash my hands of this murky, oily, filth and focus on harvesting carrots. This evening, we can yuck it up about, oh, I don’t know. Privilege? Wokeness?
And this God Thing.
Maligned, manipulated, ridiculous. Should we wash our hands of it, too? Would we behave any better if we had no fall guy? No excuse?
“Thing,” I scream. “Are you paying attention?” “Trying to,” Thing mumbles. “Got a black eye. Dislocated shoulder. Bleeding.” “Stop bleeding! There’s a cleaning fee.” “Got no money.” “They’ll go after your spouse and children.” “Got no spouse.” “They’ll beat it out of you.” “Got no body.” “Just stop bleeding. The sight of your misery makes us sick.”
Thing raises its piercing eyes to mine. “Don’t stop looking. You’re meant to see.” “Oh, I see, all right. I see the idolatry of young girls with golden hair.”
Thing sighs. I continue.
“Some fucked up stuff is being done in your various names.” “I have no name.” “Well, they’ve named you some horrific names.” “I’m beyond your alphabets.” “Doesn’t matter. They’re using you to justify war. Cruelty. Wealth.” “So, I should just disappear? Wrap things up and move my concept along?” “Yeah, I think so. It would be better.”
Thing shakes its head.
“Then who will suffer with you?” “We can do that by ourselves.” “Bad idea. And impossible.”
Thing puts its fractured arms around me. Splinters slice my flesh. Tears roll down our cheeks.
We mourn the hatred. We mourn the debasement. We mourn the children.
“We have to stop crying,” I say. “They’ll see that we’re weak. They’ll hurt us.”
Sometimes when I listen to the lyrics or melodies of songs, I choke up. The depth, the artistry, the pathos—it is a profound gift to experience music.
Other times, I can be moved to tears by the clanking of the trailer stacked with haybales. My brother drove by early today pulling a load of 14 round bales back to the main ranch. Thousands of pounds of food for the cattle, baled and stacked against the coming of the winter.
My brother loves music. I wonder what station he was listening to as he navigated the sharp turn onto the highway. I doubt the DJ was playing the tune that had popped into my head as I watched him go by.
“Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go…”
Yes, it may be hard to believe, but as I’d sat mulling the redundant demands of the changing seasons, the seven dwarves had marched into my brain. They’re all here now, milling around, mocking my somber mood.
“How about I recite some your favorite verses from Ecclesiastes?” Happy asks. “What do we gain by all the toil at which we toil under the sun?” He grins sarcastically and adds, “All is vanity and a striving after the wind. But you can be happy if you’ve a mind to.”
“I’m past all that,” I snap.
Grumpy sneers at me. “Liar!” Bashful gasps at such rude directness, and Sneezy begins to huff and puff. Doc grabs Dopey and Sleepy by their ears and yanks them straight into the line of fire. A seismic sneeze blows our shelter to smithereens and sends us tumbling down the hill, spilling our woefully inadequate pails of water. It’s been a dry August.
“I have people,” I reassure myself as I get up and brush off. “They’d take me in.” “Thou dost have people,” sayeth the Lord. “But thou shalt not ask to be taken in.” “Stop talking like that,” I grin. “You sound silly. But you’re right, I’m still sufficient.”
I’ve been harvesting weeds. Sonchus oleraceus (Sowthistle), for instance. The flowers are hermaphroditic. It’s edible, nutritious, and one of the five bitter herbs humans are commanded to eat on all the nights of Passover. Every one of us. The whole rainbow. The old young small and large of us. It’s the best way to remember the cruelty of slavery, the absurdity of dichotomies, and the joy of emancipation.
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho. It’s off to death we’ll eventually go. But before we arrive, let’s savor the harmonies, complexities, and wonderments. Let’s feed the cattle. And stoke the fire. And eat the bitter herbs.
Odd week this week. Odd week every week. Here are three poems to consider. The first by Shel Silverstein. The second and third by me, struggling to respond to such an awful, open invitation.
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Invitation
If you are a dreamer, come in If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer... If you're a pretender, come sit by the fire For we have some flax-golden tales to spin. Come in! Come in!
No Words
We have no words but carrots and beets. The corn is tasseling. There’s nothing else to report. An outbreak of peace would be nice. But outbreaks of endless revenge threaten to end it all in a flash.
We have no words of our own. Every thought is on loan, and our hands are tied. Our feet take us places we don’t want to go. All of this is prophetic. Pathetic. We don’t know where to turn.
We have no words but longings and love. Perhaps we could bake some bread and tenderly explore where it hurts. The diagnosis will be indeterminate, so we’ll remain afraid. The little we possess never includes the right words.
We have no words. Only weeds and misconceptions. Obsidian-tipped news that once flew fearless now lies twisted and broken. Redacted. Redundant. The few remaining meanings have hidden themselves.
We cling to words as if we own them and they will save us. But Words are guests. Real Words ring free and true like bells. Rods and staffs may bring comfort, but the Truth speaks softly and carries no stick. No salvation and no stick.
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What We Serve On Platters
Come in, you old-skinned bastions of wrinkles and droopy eyes. Come in, youngsters drifting in the increasingly salty sea. Come in, bruised souls walking littered paths to nowhere.
Come in. Come in.
Here is a place at the table. Here you can relax and break bread. Here you can dream. Here you can practice forgiveness. Here your shame turns to dust. Your sharp fears grow dull.
Here.
Come in, you resistant bastards of the cruel ways, you of the emptiness. Come in, you liars who torture and violate. Who consume and destroy. Come in, monsters, devils, seekers of vengeance. You’re already burning in hell.
Come in. Come in.
Here you will be taken apart. Served in pieces at the feast. Here you will be the sacrifice you always wanted to be. Here your story will be rewritten, and you’ll return as a bird.
Here.
What is it you’re looking for? Why are you skimming? It’s all here. Stop. Breathe. Stop. Sit.
Once in a while, the dead ask to borrow my eyes, and I almost always welcome them in. Sure, it can be sad and a little frightening, but it’s the least I can do. There’s nothing like the vision enjoyed by the living, and for the living, a briefly expanded view, though jarring, has its benefits.
When the dearly departed share my visual field, unsullied gratitude mingles with that vague longing triggered by the waning of summer.
My dead enjoy viewing fertile fields, mountain peaks, city streets, and tall trees. Some are in awe of babies, but others would rather watch a good football game, especially if their former favorites are playing.
You may wonder how this works. It’s not at all like being possessed. There are no ghosts.
When I feel the light touch of a soul on my shoulder, I tilt my head ever so slightly and nod. The cataracts of being alive drop away, and the focus becomes eternal. It’s incredible. But such co-mingling must always be consensual.
So, I’m writing to ask a favor. When the time comes, would you consider loaning me a glance at the sunflowers and the cold, clear sky at night? Could I take a quick look at how the planet is doing from your preferred elevation?
In my experience, the dead are polite and cognizant of the demands of being alive. If you agree to my request, I’ll strive to be the same. True, in this life, I can be demanding, selfish, pigheaded, and insensitive. I suspect most of this will drop away as my body rejoins its origins. It is my intention to be thoroughly kind.
And if you want to follow my example and make similar requests while you still can, be my guest. No pressure, though. There are abundant alternatives.
Older souls often borrow the eyes of donkeys, kittens, chickens, lions, puppies, bison, eagles, and even the occasional snake or bearded dragon.
The dead frolic in memories and other succulent fictions. They are and they aren’t. And they don’t seem to mind one way or the other.
Even though I’m still temporarily alive, some mornings I touch the Shoulder of the Almighty, and she nods.
Goldfinches glow. Dust and ash sparkle. Gravity lifts.
We survey the rising hatreds, toeholds of courage, glimmers of benevolence, and black holes of despair.
We stare into infinity, watching small endings and fragmented resurrections while the raspberries ripen, and a mournful dog howls in the distance.
Short visits with an honest God 