Author: Rita Sommers-Flanagan

I'm a relative newcomer to blogging, but have 3 sites, each representing a distinct aspect of what matters to me. One is more or less professional, with large doses of personal thrown in. As Dr. Bossypants, I am dedicated to nonjudgmental authenticity. Dr. Bossypants values honest interactions aimed at positive growth and well-being. The truth is an evolving concept, but that is no excuse for not seeking close approximations! The Short Visits with God site is dedicated to a wild kind of honesty and connection with the Divine. It's my poems, prayers, and parables site.... It's wrestling, like Jacob, with Someone/Something so Holy, so enormous, so loving that sometimes, She lets me win. And someday, soon, I'll allow you to meet 8 articulate Baby Boomers just dying to give you pieces of their minds! Ah...the blogosphere...

I Eat Your Joy for Breakfast

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

God is indulging in a morning nap, sound asleep on a weathered recliner near the garden shed. I’ve noticed that God can sleep pretty much anywhere. But I’m awake and agitated, stewing about climate change, greed, cruelty, and the limited hours at the landfill.

I clear my throat and speak loudly enough to wake anyone within ear shot. “Someone took a huge gamble when they introduced creativity and choice into their evolutionary efforts.”

God startles and sits up. “What now?” he says, rubbing his eyes, raking his fingers through his holy bedhead hair.

“Creativity,” I say. “The bored human is often a deadly human. We need to create and change things up. But then we compare. We get insecure and try to make ourselves more beautiful and have too many children and accumulate vastly more than we need. This leads to overpopulation, scarcity, and war.”

God swings his legs to the side of the recliner, stretches, and groans. “You’re so right. It’s a huge gamble. And yeah, it hasn’t gone that well so far. But it isn’t over.” He sees my scowl and adds, “I mean it’s always over, and it always isn’t.”

He lays back down, situates his hat over his eyes, and pats the space beside him. I perch on the edge. I do not know how to relate to this complacent, laissez-faire God.

“Blur,” he says in a languid voice. “Blur, mingle, melt.”

He means let go. He means he’ll carry me for a while. He intends to be a source of comfort.

“I can’t blur,” I whisper. “I know you have your ways, but I want to do something on my own. I want to make my mark.”

God sits back up. “And there you have it,” he declares.

The profound irony of what I just said hangs in the air between us.

God sighs. “You are still adolescent apes; you need to play. But your marks will all wash away. Remember, the lasting measure of worth is compassion.”

I look down at my hands. God continues. “And the nature of mercy is upside down. The gluttonous will eventually fast. The lips of liars will be purified. It’s all about balance.” He winks and adds, “When you get it right, I eat your joy for breakfast. It’s delicious.”

I stare across the expanse of my life. Finally, I say, “And when you speak, I stir-fry your words for dinner. They’re tasty.” “Fair enough,” God smiles. “That makes me happy.” But as he drifts back to oblivion, I hear him mutter, “Or at least I think it does.”

Missive from the Beautiful, Horrible Moment

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Every morning I sit in the warm, chunky soup of God, my attention split between robins in the garden, clouds on the move, and my fingers poised above the keyboard. God appreciates the opportunity to clown around, but sometimes they take it too far, and I feel left out.

I want God to notice me. I eat dandelions. I pull clumps of quack grass, pretending there’s a chance to eradicate this long-rooted invader. Quack grass is also known as twitch, quick grass, quitch grass, scutch, dog grass and witchgrass. My own pet name for it is Satan. On more generous mornings, I allow for the possibility that it has redemptive features. Not today.

“How about we all float on our backs?” God suggests, flailing happily in the womblike liquid of themselves, ignoring boundaries such as time and space.

I shake my head. The steady pressure of God is eroding my body. The Ever-Presence is a weighted blanket, a hazmat suit, an open invitation to find peace in what is true. I am not a maker of stars, but I am my own tornado. While I’m still able, I will continue spinning through the garden, yanking quack grass to kingdom come.

All the faces of God smile. “Look!” they say. The arms of God bend, fingers pointing every possible direction. I have no idea where to look.

“You’re too inclusive. Too amped. Could we bring it down a notch?” I ask petulantly.

The many fists of God punch the air, and their faces melt like candles into a singular pool where I see my singular reflection and consider my singular fate. The robins appear to be flirting, ready to mate. The aroma of God is intoxicating, but even so, my stiff hands won’t curl around the quack grass anymore.

My friends and family are floating on nearby rivers, hiking their own circuitous trails, and I wish them well. I wish myself well. I wish God well—the Unitary, the Complex, the Galactic–all of them.

“Thank you,” they say harmonically.

“You’re welcome,” I say automatically.

“That’s unlikely,” they laugh. “Our welcome is usually, um, shall we say overstated?”

I nod. “Well, you’re more welcome than quack grass.”

They grin, poking each other in the side. “Score! We’re more welcome than quack grass.”

I realize God is making fun of me, so I issue a slight retraction. “Actually, that’s not entirely true. Depends on the day.”

Short Podcast With You-Know-Who

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Podcaster: Thanks for agreeing to be on my podcast.

God: Glad to be here, but why now?

Podcaster: Well, after spending some years as an atheist, Rainn Wilson (Dwight from The Office) has declared he believes you exist. That’s big. So I thought I’d get you on. Boost my ratings. Go viral.

God: Ah, now I get it. Rainn wrote a nice book, and he’s got a million followers.

Podcaster: Yeah, and his God hasn’t endorsed any massacres or sacrifices. Can you say the same for yourself?

God: Of course.

Podcaster: What’s your name again? I may have you mixed up with a more violent, judgmental God.

God: Understandable. My real name is not something you could understand or even pronounce. You people use a lot of nicknames. Approximations.

Podcaster: Are you the one who guarantees an afterlife but only under certain conditions?

God: Nope.

Podcaster: Are you the one in favor of people killing other people, like in self-defense, or war?

God: Nope.

Podcaster: Are you the one who devalues women? Hates gays? Insists on pregnancies brought to term?

God: Nope.

Podcaster: Are you the one who wants to be praised all the time? Elevated? Worshipped?

God: Nope.

Podcaster: I’m not sure you’re really God. Do you have some commandments or something to prove it?

God: Yep.

Podcaster: Well, that’s a relief. Are there ten of them?

God: Nope. Only two. And they’re for your own good, not mine.

Podcaster: And these are?

God: Love me and love your neighbor as yourself.

Podcaster: That’s a problem right there. You won’t even say who you are. How can I love you?

God: Well, let’s assume I created you and basically everything seen and unseen, and I infused it all with love. Kind of like a perfect mother, if there was such a thing.

Podcaster: Big assumption.

God: Yeah. Well, how about that neighbor thing?

Podcaster: Um, let’s drill down on that. I think I could love a few, select neighbors. Is that enough?

God: Nope.

Podcaster: Do you have any suggestions for how to do that comprehensive love thing?

God: (sighing) Crack open your puny chest, pry open your stubborn mind. Die instead of kill. Lay down your weapons. Cheerfully give all you can give. Find joy instead of fault. Be still. Tender. Humble. Awake.

Podcaster: (snapping God’s microphone off) And that’s it for today, folks. Tune in tomorrow for a rebuttal, led by a panel of experts: The Rich, Lucifer, Judas, Adam, Eve, Kali, Coyote, and others who’ve let their lower natures run amok.

God: (gently touching the cheek of the Podcaster) Got a minute?

Podcaster: (recoiling) Nope.

Monovision

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Due to my astigmatism, I wore hard contact lenses early in life, and those darn little things were easy to lose. It took a long time to get a replacement, so I’d wear the remaining lens and become a one-eyed wonder until the new one arrived. This practice trained my brain to be tolerant of monovision—one eye feeds tolerably clear visual information into the brain while the other contributes only fuzzy approximations.

Decades later I had laser surgery and made this arrangement permanent. One eye tells me about things further away. The other allows me to read without glasses. I suspect my brain works overtime to sort this out, but I’m not conscious of that effort.

Monovision is cool. By simply closing one eye, I can remind myself nothing is ever exactly as it seems. My take on reality is based on the way I see things, but it’s not the whole picture. It’s just one view.

“Right on!” God chimed in as I was mulling this recently. “You would not believe how I look to a housefly.”

“True,” I said. “I don’t even believe how you look to me.”

“Is that so?” God asked. “I thought we were on better terms.”

I closed my left eye. Then the right. I tipped my head and considered looking at God upside down, but the thought made me queasy.

“What are you seeing?” God asked.

“Oh, the usual. Needs, vacancies, denial, anger, fear.”

“No, I mean what do I look like?”

“Old. Improbable. Vast. I wish you looked softer and safer, but you’re too vague.”

“Are all your eyes open?”

“I think so.”

“You’re wrong,” the Ultimate Optometrist said. “But I know you’re trying. Let me adjust these lenses for you.”

“No!” I yelled and backed away. Who wants God adjusting the way they see things? In my haste, I failed to glance behind, so I tripped and fell.

God rushed to my side and helped me up. “Are you hurt?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. My pride was bruised, my fears, fully activated, my body felt fragile and clumsy, but was I hurt?

“That depends on what you mean by hurt,” I said finally. Then with my two eyes open, I looked straight at what I see to be God and added, “Are you real?”            

“Oh, I love how you set me up,” God chuckled affectionately. “That depends on what you mean by God.”

The Perfect Couch

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I’ve searched for the perfect couch for a large portion of my adult life. I maintain a steady presence on the internet marketplaces and frequent the thrift shops scattered across the three states we travel the most. My couch karma is pathetic. Once, I broke my vow to only buy used items and bought a new one. That didn’t work out either.

Over the years, God has cheerfully sat on each of them except for the small sectional coated with multiple layers of nearly invisible cat hair. That one didn’t even make it into the living room. Too bad. It would have matched the nostalgic recliner I’m usually sitting in this time of day. If any cat people are interested, the sectional is piled in the barn. Blue geometric design. Can’t miss it.

“You’re funny,” God says, lowering himself into the sagging cushions of my most recent attempt.

“I know,” I reply, proud but sad. My mom would have turned eighty-nine today. I didn’t engage in any “Happy Birthday in Heaven” posts, but I’ve sent my regards to wherever the essence of mothers goes.

Generally, my mom did not like secondhand furniture, but she loved this little recliner that last year because she could put the footrest up and down on her own. Limits and needs humiliated her. She would have starved rather than ask someone to cut up her meat. I can relate.

It is one of life’s ironies that if we live long enough, we come to understand the disappointments, fears, and irritating quirks of our elders from the inside out.

“No, no. That’s not irony,” God says. “That’s mercy.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “It feels vindictive. It makes me wish I’d been nicer and tried harder to understand.”

“No amount of niceness takes mortality away. You were nice enough.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Trust me,” God says, “You were nice enough.” Then he adds, “Say, I didn’t sleep well last night. Mind if I take a little rest?”

He yawns, snaps the wobbly footrest up, settles back, and is soon snoring peacefully. I watch his chest rise and fall while George Winston plays melancholy piano in the background. Such short lives. Such very short lives.

I guess maybe it is mercy, I think. Better to understand later than never. A rush of adoration washes over me. I lower my own footrest quietly to tuck a turquoise blanket around the vast arthritic feet of my friend, the patient creator, the weary one, snoozing on my latest bad couch.

Vertigo

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God is a dizzy dame who throws her head back and laughs from her gut. Droplets of saliva sparkle in the air. No politely covered mouth for this One. She’s extravagant, repulsive, and contagious. Early in life, I came down with a bad case of God, and it permanently deformed my worldview. To stay balanced, I learned to compensate.

But now, the crystals in my inner ear randomly come untethered and reality spins like a rolodex. I no longer trust any surface or deity presenting itself as stable or defined.

“Remember that coiled rattler under the burdock?” God chuckles as she guzzles Hutterite rhubarb wine. “That was me!” She’s drunk and proud and dancing.

“I’ve never doubted that,” I say, sober and serious.

“And remember how I taught you to breathe?”

I shake my head. God takes credit where credit may not be due. But who am I to question the Source? To protest the inconsistencies, incoherence, and impossible dialectics? The Sophie’s choices and failed states?

God clicks her castanets, sways her hips, and stomps her high-heeled feet. “Yes!” she exclaims. “That’s the question. Who are you?”

The frenzied beat moves her past the limits. The sky gathers force, and hailstones strip her naked. She throws her head back again, her joy maniacal, her hair, a den of vipers, awakened and writhing.

I am unfazed. Bemused. I’ve seen it all before.

“No,” I say calmly. “The question is who are YOU?”

The scene shifts. God is Tevye, singing as if I were Golda.

“But do you love me?” His voice is gravelly. Vulnerable.

“Do I have a choice?” I ask.

“Do you have a telescope? Or microscope? Can you alter DNA? Of course, you can. But if you plant carrot seeds, do you harvest corn?”

I settle in for a long ramble of nonsensical obfuscations, but God chucks me on the chin and becomes Dr. Seuss, reading from his book Oh, the places you’ll go. “You have brains in your head, feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose.”

Despite my instabilities, I know this is true.

“I have no sheep, but there are eight chickens, two pigs, a tiny slice of land, and some hateful, deluded neighbors to care for. Will that suffice?”

“Yes!” Dr. Seuss says. “Oh, love what you love and then love some more. Love so much that your muscles get sore…”

“Shazam. Poof. Be gone!” I wave God away with a smile. “I’ve got work to do.” God winks and squeezes back into that slinky gown. “Me, too,” she says with a toothy grin. “See you around.”

Hog Heaven

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From my bank of unblinking windows I watch the ways of old trees dying. None are a direct threat, so I keep a respectful distance and consider rootedness and wind, drought and disease, and the sustenance dead trees leave for future generations.

Like trees, we exist fleetingly between flood and fire, partaking of a generous past, discovering our relevance even as we decay. I have been reborn many times, birth canals shaping the way things look when I reemerge. This morning’s reemergence is solemn. I am grateful for the stillness.

But my revery is interrupted by two pigs noisily reminding me it’s breakfast time. Obviously, their pen is too close to the window. These exuberant uprooters are stinkers in every sense of the word. I try to limit my fondness, but the way they make eye contact is most endearing. I see interest. Recognition. Maybe even primitive affection. I also see the truth. They are omnivores. If I were down and broken, they would eat me. And I’m sure somewhere in their active little brains, they are aware that I am a predator, and they are worthy prey.

“And thus you could break and eat them,” God says, finishing my thought.

“Eat or be eaten, eh?” I say, scattering soaked corn for the dramatically ravenous pair.

“Almost. But actually, it’s eat and be eaten,” God says. “That’s the plan. A good one, if I do say so myself.”

This is not a new conversation. I wrinkle my nose as images of mold, fungi, maggots, and other faithful workers of creation come to mind. I am an integral part of an inclusive, circular, cleansing, evolving, expanding universe. Pigs, chickens, cattle, yaks, grasses, trees, seeds, whales, mules, plankton, cabbage, caviar. Apples, melons, hybrids, bones, stones, erosion, uprisings, down-fallings. I sigh and look at my hands.

“So, God, what do you eat?”

God laughs. “Oh, I nibble on almost anything. I’m not picky. And before you ask, let me add that I am also eaten.”

I resist this idea, but then I realize I’ve always known the divine and sacrificial taste of God.

“You’re welcome.” God says, dissipating into the blue tangibilities of a day that has arrived unscathed.

There are orange chunks of squash in the trough—the final remains of last year’s garden. I sweeten the deal with an outdated protein drink we bought for a friend with cancer. The pigs are in hog heaven. I’m jealous of their uncomplicated joy.

Gone

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To begin my morning wrestling match, I typed the word gone and then backspaced it out of existence and then typed it again. It sits on my screen, a fragile, arrogant four-letter word with its dukes up, ready to go a round or two with denial. But here’s the truth:  I can make it disappear and reappear the rest of the day if I’m so inclined.  I am more or less in command of my words. This is comforting. Sobering.

Spoken or recorded, words can linger beyond the speaker or the author. We fawn over first words. Cherish the last. The words in between muddle along, hurting, encouraging, freeing, frightening, disguising, delighting, warning, elucidating, lying, and shaping whatever they touch.

“Hello,” God says. “What have we here?”

“Me, muddling,” I say. “Thanks for interrupting. It was getting weird in my head.”

“Gone can do that,” God says. “Try go or going instead. More energized and hopeful. For now, that’s probably better for you.”

“Don’t pamper me.”.

God looks surprised. “Why not?”

“I want to be tough enough to handle it on my own.”

“Handle what?”

“You know. Goneness. Endings. Closures. Failures.”

“Oh good grief.” God digs his fingers into my shoulders. “Listen.”

I listen.

The rumble of a gravel truck. The neighbor’s choice of music. Birds singing. Fire crackling. Familiar sounds.

“Good,” God says. “Can you bring any of that back and hear it over?”

“Well,” I say with a grin. “That truck won’t make those exact sounds again, but I think Pandora is on replay next door.”

This cracks God up. “Ha ha! Pandora. Good one. So you think your playlists will save you?”

I look at God like he’s lost his mind. I shake my head and try to turn my back which is silly. There is no back.

“And there is no gone,” God says gently. “There’s nothing but Now. Type that.”

“I just did.”

“Good. What you think is solid, what you think is redundant, what you think will last, it’s all just Now.

“But wouldn’t it be great if words could pass through into forever?”

“Actually, there’s one word that does that,” God says.

“I suppose you mean Now,” I say.

“Nope,” God says. “It’s my favorite name—quite difficult to translate. In your native tongue, the closest you’ve got is love.”

I dig my fingers into God’s shoulders and in my most serious, sad voice, I say, “God, love is what makes gone so painful.”

“I’m fully aware of that,” God says, equally sad and serious. “But the alternatives are worse.”

Slightly Altered States

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“Imagine me as a sensory deprivation tank,” God says.

I shiver. “Too claustrophobic. How about I imagine you as a cosmic county fair?”

“Hmmm,” God says. “Methinks you wouldn’t like that either.”

“Yeah. But if we’re talking extremes, I’d rather experience you as over-stimulated children and deep-fried cheese on a stick than the arctic chill of nothingness.”

God shrugs and mutters, “Massive.”

“Excuse me?”

“So much suffering. So much to clean up.” God sounds irritated.

“Wait a minute. You can embody any metaphor, idea, symbol, or myth, and you’re worried about a little housekeeping? You can be nothing and everything, whereas I’ve only got me.”

“Have you seen the satellite debris around your planet?” God’s voice implies this is my fault. “And do you know how many of my beloved are unsheltered right now?”

I bow my head in prayer, hoping the holy Non Sequitur will leave me alone. I wish I could hire someone to give my life an extra lick of meaning.

“What’s your hourly rate?” I ask the One who will not go away.

“Winner takes all,” God answers.

I sigh. Humans do not appear to be winning. There is little doubt the great collapse is coming. The heavenly workforce has thinned, and the eyes of this galaxy are closing. God has woven a casket of willow saplings for the salty residue of existential misery. I should be more grateful. More sympathetic. But I’m resentful

“I don’t even have me, do I?” It isn’t a question. It’s a resigned acknowledgment.

“That depends,” God says. “I’m always willing to share.”

“Why?” I ask. “Obviously, you don’t have to.”

“Well, expansion is my roller coaster. Unconditional love is my triple-shot latte, and forgiveness, my full-body workout.” God sounds momentarily energized. “But of course, I get lonely sometimes.”

“Aw,” I say. I throw my arm over the shoulder of this stubborn lunkhead of impossibilities. “Let’s go for a nature walk.”

The Lonely Lunkhead nods and a terrifying, tangled wilderness appears. Why didn’t I suggest golf and whiskey? Happy hour. Something numbing and contrived. A nice, slightly altered state.

Lunkhead laughs. “You’re always slightly altered.”

Being known that well makes me less afraid. I smile and things lighten up.

“Shall we bring the casket along?” I ask. “I noticed it has wheels. And plenty of room for a cooler and a six-pack.”

The End is Always Nigh

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Once upon a time, I took comfort in this bit from Ecclesiastes: Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever. The sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises… Of course, I now realize the earth will not remain forever. It depends on asteroids, nuclear bombs, and cosmic waste. Forever isn’t an option.

For every goddamn action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. I realize that attempting to inhabit impermanence is oxymoronic. But I can’t stop myself.

Mounted on a skittery horse, I navigate the slippery slopes of transience with a rope in my teeth trying to lasso the good moments and make them last. If my attention snaps the wrong direction, I could find myself swinging from the saddle horn. Depending on how badly this spooks the horse, my chances of climbing back on would be slim to none.

“Your metaphors aren’t working for me,” God says. “You don’t even like rodeos.”

I shrug and grin. “True. But you know what I like even less than rodeos?”

“I imagine I do since I’m God.”

Undaunted by the sarcasm, I continue. “I don’t like death or uncertainty or good things ending or rotten things continuing ad nauseum.”

“Well, blow me over with a feather,” God says.

“And I don’t like suffering or feeling inadequate. I don’t like making decisions or wasting time. I don’t like diseases or injuries, aging, accidents, robberies, lies, cruel jokes, or greasy food. I don’t like mediocrity, bullies, or vicious dogs.”

“Good to know,” God says, peering down at me. Like a hog rooting for grubs it seems I’ve dug myself a surprisingly deep hole. It’s easy to do in the spring mud.

 “So hey, could you use a hand?” God asks.

This strikes me as condescending. I’ll climb out on my own when I’m good and ready.

In a mocking voice, I answer, “So hey, instead of you dragging me up, how about I make room for you to come down?”

“Sure,” God says, handing me a shovel. “I’ll get my boots. Want me to bring anything else?”

“Water,” I say, but I immediately regret it. God’s up to something.

Sure enough, the flood begins. The shovel becomes a floatation device. I’m lifted from the grave I was digging, and I kick myself to shore.

The water recedes. The sun shines.

“Still early,” God observes, squinting at the horizon. “Might be a good day to start some seedlings on the porch.”

“But I don’t even know if I’ll be around to harvest,” I pout, hoping for a guarantee.

“Doesn’t matter,” God says. “Plant.”