Month: September 2025

Here and Now

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments 





In front of me, red curtains, 47 paint brushes, and a few years.

Alongside, turquoise drapes too long for the window wells,
a boiled skull, three wishbones, a pink phone, 
and the idea that I am loved.

Behind me, a life. 

Around me, The Idea loosely wrapped, permissive.
Another fall day. Chilly. Firewood stacked, dry and reassuring,
not necessary yet because

I have added layers. A down vest. Scarves.

If you read these lines and do not take stock
I’ve not reached my intended audience.
This is not uncommon. Perhaps there are too many

double negatives.

Above me, asbestos held in place by sheetrock.
Sky held in place by rain.
Gates flung open, releasing all the promises, broken or not.

I wish them all soft landings, my lips dyed crimson for a final kiss.







			




			
				


	


					
Walking Meditation
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		













Last night, I tried to calm my restless body by changing my mental focus from doomscrolling to consciously observing each muscle involved in rolling over. Impossible. There are so many intricacies in even such mundane movements that my mind gave up and wandered back to the terrors facing humanity.





At a silent retreat decades ago, I learned about walking meditation. You progress at a snail’s pace, noticing each miniscule dimension of your body moving forward. As the foot comes up, are the calf and quad engaged? Does the foot adjust its angle, ready to be placed forward on the floor? Is the surface level? What are your eyes doing?





Gradually, the lifted foot glides down, settles, and the process shifts to the other side.





Such deliberate awareness requires concentration, patience, and time. And if a novice sees a daddy long-legs climbing up her jeans, her reflexes will override all that consciousness, and the sequence will be blown to smithereens. Trust me on this.





Humans are a bundle of electrical/chemical communication systems, most of which we neither notice nor understand. Our neurotransmitters interact with electrical impulses to give us motion, thoughts, and feelings, some of which are based in reality, some of which are not.





If you imagine a slice of lemon on your tongue, you’ll likely salivate. The salivation is real, but there’s no lemon there. It’s the power of mind over body. But our bodies can send signals that are open to interpretation. The power of body over mind. We’re a jungle of actions, reactions, reasons, biases, and instincts. Though we think we make conscious decisions, somewhere near 95% of the forces that influence what we do, think, and feel are outside our awareness (including the latest evolutionary mutation: algorithms).





“So, am I real?” the Intruder asks in a sly voice.





“You’re a figment. A fragment. An iron fist and a fuzzy notion. There’s definitely something real about you,” I answer, defenses at the ready.





“And do you love me?”





My teeth begin to grind. To love the Other Within runs against the grain of most conscious urges. We’re built to procreate, not sacrifice. We’re a me-first, guilt-ridden species.





“Is that a look of panic on your face?” my Coauthor asks with fake innocence.





I freeze. 





“Relax,” She continues. “We’ve written a little Psalm that may help.”





 What you know may not be true.
You see mostly what you want to see.
Insisting that you’re right is wrong.
Choosing to be loving is like sucking lemons.
But the alternatives are worse.
Trust me on this.





God beams and slugs my shoulder. I flinch a little and slug back. We walk.


			




			
				


	


					
A Fortunate State of Existence
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		













In Montana, we have 5.6 million square feet per person, slightly more than the 4.8 million square feet per person for the whole United States. In India, there’s just over 100 square feet per person. That’s smaller than most bedrooms in our middle-class lives. Selah.





This bit of trivia was provided by something called Artificial Intelligence, or AI for short. AI is a voracious information gathering machine, still in its infancy, but rapidly gaining ground. Since I made these inquiries, I’ll be deluged with ads for birth control or real estate.





And if you’re wondering what Selah means, AI will explain it to you, and your ads will have a distinctive Hebrew flavor for a while.





How does it feel to be that well-known? I don’t like it. Sure, it’s helpful to be alerted to a smarter route for our romantic date to Fishtail. (Seriously? Construction delays getting to Fishtail?) AI is market-driven and ostensibly helpful, but there’s a lot more to it than that.





I cross my arms, and do a little Selah-ing myself. Scriptures are always being rewritten under the auspices of the great and powerful Oz. I wonder how the AI algorithms might edit the beatitudes for our times. I think I’ll give it a try.





The Creator crowds into my brain. I push them aside and write my draft:





    

  • Blessed are the wealthy, for they can purchase great swaths of the kingdom and eat what they want while others starve.
    • 




  • Blessed are those who avoid mourning. There is little reason to focus on loss.
    • 




  • Blessed are the aggressive. They will obtain power.
    • 




  • Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for the bodies of the young. If they are rich, they shall have them.
    • 




  • Blessed are those without mercy. They can thus dehumanize the poor and displaced.
    • 




  • Blessed are those who lie to themselves. Their hearts will be darkened, their shame erased.
    • 




  • Blessed are the makers of war. It is the essence of human history.
    • 




  • Blessed are those who deny hard truths. There are alternative facts in abundance.
    • 




  • Blessed are the sadistic. They shall be satisfied.
    • 




  • Blessed are you who deport your neighbors. Who avoid looking in the mirror. Who refuse to forgive. Rejoice in your momentary existence. Assuming the earth survives your terrible ravishing, you will die leaving it tragically damaged.
    • 






The Crowd clears their throats.





“Step away from the keyboard,” they command. A bouquet of holy hands reaches for me.





“No!” I yell. I unplug the charger and dash for the door.





“We have a runner,” they declare gleefully.





I fall down. This is painfully funny. We all laugh. 





“Thanks,” they say as they help me up. “We needed that.”







			




			
				


	


					
Advice From The Quilter
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		








Use it up
Wear it out
Make it do
Or do without





Everything has an expiration date. All the forethought in the world won’t change that. All the planning, lying, and scheming. All the willful ignorance. Even the highest aspirations.





You can plant and maybe, you’ll harvest. Or maybe before things come to fruition, you’ll be the one planted. What’s fruition anyway?





How dare you make it your business to tell someone how to decorate, alter, or use their own body? Or worse, assume it’s yours to use? Cast those evil urges into the outer darkness. Be nice. Be kind. Be patient and humble as you rip out some of the crooked seams.





If somehow, in your vague longing for the truth, you manage to dislodge pieces of the log in your eye, tell the tale because others might be inclined to lower their own blinding defenses. Either way, keep chipping away at yours. Start a small fire with the splinters. Warm your hands. Invite the neighbors. Even the vicious ones.





It’s fear, baby. Fear. You’ve spent so many days of your life shielded by the wrong armor. Those days aren’t coming back. Bless them as they recede into oblivion. Bless your many selves and your best intentions.





Clean the floors. Contemplate the cobwebs before you brush them down. They were once liquid silk, spun into webbing by those with more eyes than you will ever have.





It is all to be venerated. The warp and woof, the tiny stitches, the walking sticks, the wailing walls. The joints swollen round as crystal balls, the doomed attempts to achieve perfection; it’s all as essential as the broken strands and stolen lands. This is all there is. Make do.





Imagine your face in someone’s hands. Your neck on the line. Your severed limbs pulled from the rubble. Imagine you’re an endangered species or hieroglyphics on papyrus, a contaminated river, or a resilient weed. It’s time to try acquiescence instead of acquisition. Let the bee sting. The dog bark all night. Stand in the gap, arms at your side. Absorb the blows in silence. Loan the victims your voice. 





Behave as if there’s a future, and you want things to be better for the least among you. Become the least among you. Offer what you can. Consume what you must.





Use all you have
And all you know
Try your best
Then let it go