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...

Texture

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Nine years ago, when the walls I’m staring at right now were taped, mudded, and painted, I was in the midst of chemo; my attention was limited, and my judgment fractured. I chose the texture of least resistance: orange peel. We ended up with a boring, slightly bumpy, ivory creaminess as far as the eye could see. I’ve since blued and purpled some rooms to break the grip of ivory, but undoing texture is a whole different matter.

Humans are a thin-skinned, acne-prone, melanoma-inclined, busted-nose species. We’re born smooth, but life has a way of texturizing and shaming, so we add layers. Leather and tatts. Silks and fine linen. We use fat wallets and fancy cars to distract.

“What about sanding?” asks the Creator of Walnut, the Weaver of Wool. “And there’s always acid, epoxy, varnish, and grinders.”

Even allegorically, this sounds painful. In the looking glass, I see that I’ve grown more textured than the last time I looked and not in ways I’d describe as appealing.

“Don’t be so judgy.” says the Big Eye in the Sky. “I’d go face to face with you any day.”

“Of course, you would,” I say. “And I’d be toast.”

“Toast is soft bread with a roughened exterior,” the Eternal Jokester counters. “Quick exposure to intense heat.”

My friend Scott rails about the energy required to make toast, but I like toast. I resist feeling guilty because I turn off lights like a religious zealot, hang my clothes to dry, and heat water on the wood stove. Shall I thus be held blameless for the fractured ozone? Mudslides? Fires? For a carbon footprint larger than my feet? Shall I be exonerated?

“Of course not,” the Balancing Beam assures me. “Exoneration is out of the question. But when your fault lines widen into fatal apertures, and your body rejoins the teaming earth, your consciousness will be windswept and shiny. Smooth as glass.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say. “That sounds just peachy. But in the meantime, I think I’ll get some Botox and touch up my hair.”

 “Oh, yes! And amass more riches and fame,” Pock-Face Crooked Arm grins.

“Easy peasy,” I say. “It’s all about appearances. And lying. The bigger, the smoother, the lie, the better.”

“I’m not sure where I went wrong,” The Truth admits. “But there’s hell to pay. The course corrections are going to be rugged.”

“But it will come out okay in the end, right?” I ask in a weak voice.

“You may have to define what you mean by the end, honey,” the Lover says, stroking my sagging cheek. “That word isn’t in my lexicon.”

Waiting for Asparagus

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On my belly, eye-level with thistles, there’s no sign of asparagus emerging. But this will change as the days lengthen and the rains come. For decades, I’ve made compelling requests of this ancient asparagus patch, and it has done what it can to save me. This has less to do with faith than with remembering and waiting. There are forces at work; we are at their mercy.

Waiting for Bats

Some years ago, on Father’s Day, we hung a double-chamber bat house on the warm side of our home. So far, no bats have moved in. We had hoped that they would take up residence and eat mosquitoes. Instead, a pair of robins have built a nest on top of the box, and their droppings trail down the side of the darkly stained cedar.

Waiting for Redemption

An ominous enlightenment is stirring offstage. Twice, it has missed its cue. It is an enraged bull, pawing the ground, spewing snot and indignation. It is a rusting toy. It doesn’t like its assigned role. It wants to rewrite the script.

Waiting for the Answer

This morning, I texted The Gods three times, begging for alternatives, biting back tirades and justifications. Silence is the hardest answer to accept. I left an offering at the edge of a slash pile and imagined the thick smoke bellowing skyward, hiding their thin defenses.

Waiting for the Raucous Conclusion

There are animals, wild and otherwise, who will outlive me, but there are others who will not. In fact, I will eat some before this day is done. If I were a hunter, I would make sure I had a clean shot. Then I would give thanks, waving one hand over the lifeless body, raising the other in gratitude. Hand to mouth. Heart to ashes. Dust to dust.

Platitude Day

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“I’ve still got it!” God exclaimed in a braggy voice. He stuck out his butt and raised his hands in a victory march around our uncomfortable orange couch.

“Still got what?” I steeled myself for a barrage of the absurd.

“Whatever it takes,” God answered.

“Oh, it’s Platitude Day,” I observed in a chilly voice.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” God said.

“And I don’t have to explain myself to you,” I retorted.

“That’s rich,” God laughed. “You can’t even explain yourself to yourself. Give it a try.

“Leave me alone,” I said.

“Never,” God said.

My eyes stung with absolutes and finalities. I didn’t want to cry, so I stared at the orange objects peppering my visual field. Then I moved to lime green. I took my pulse.

I wrote my funeral vows in the dirt with a long walking stick. One end had been whittled to a sharp point for balance and clarity. The other end was wrapped in rope for a better grip. It was a little tall for me. I shrink a bit every year and have to remember to downsize my expectations accordingly.

This passive acceptance caught God’s attention. “Outsourcing, not downsizing. Insourcing. Reverse osmosis. Whatever it takes.” He looked determined. “Too many killed waving white flags. Too many born to dead mothers. The holy will always be greater than the sum of its parts. You have less to remember than you assume.”

“You’re driving me insane. Please, please, please get out.” The tears spilled.

“There’s no out, baby,” the Insistent Presence whispered. “But then, there’s no in either. Go ahead and cry a little. I don’t mind.”

“DON’T MIND??” I yelled at the Organizing Principles of the Universe. “YOU DON’T MIND?” How could God not mind? I dried my eyes and took a breath. Two breaths. Counted to ten. I straightened my spine, got my hammer, put my shoulder to the wheel, and twirled my lariat overhead.

“Hold my beer,” I shouted. “I’ve still got it, too. You want a piece of me?”

“You’re right,” God chuckled. “It is definitely Platitude Day.”

He drank my beer. I painted him orange. We confessed our sins and rejoiced in small victories. We took tall orders and gathered no moss as we rolled downhill. We sat tight, broke a leg, and let it all go.

The Presence met the sick and dying at the door. I sang to them. And at the end of the day, in a mind-bending way, it all mattered just enough to matter.

“Would you like me to go now?” God asked.

“Sure,” I said. “But I’m going with you.”

Formatting

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Phote Credit: Theresa Vandersnick Burkhart

“If you wanted to write a bible or some holy essays or something, would you use Word?” I asked the Source. “Would you store documents in the Cloud? Post directly to Facebook? TikTok?” My tone was edgy. Yesterday, I’d lost most of my skirmishes with technology.

God’s eyebrows arched quizzically. I waited in comfortable silence, enjoying the sensuous twist of driftwood and the undulations of the emerging horizon. I meditated on medieval monks brewing dark beer as they transcribed and illuminated ancient texts.

“I don’t write things down,” God finally answered. “The written word hardens and can become a weapon. It’s often misused. Have you considered the living word? It offers an array of formatting options that could keep you busy for centuries.”

Brilliant colors bled across the eastern sky, transforming the unspeakable terrors of the night into manageable commandments.

“Yes. On occasion I’m possessed by the living word,” I said “But I still love the written word. What would life be without bodacious, malapropism, or onomatopoeia?”

God’s gaze was steady. The carefully ordered syllables of my life started breaking free, combining and recombining. Recumbent. Iconoclast.  Greek. Mandarin. Farsi. Sanskrit. There are over 7,000 languages spoken by humans in the world right now, and who knows how many more existed before we started counting? And what about the languages of animals? Trees? Vibrations in space?

“Do you think we should include the living word among the list of functional modern languages?” I asked.

“Seriously?” God laughed. “Functional?”

A silver convertible, a rusty jalopy, an all-electric Ford Lightening, a school bus, and a fume-spewing Chevy paraded by. The Drivers grinned and waved.  Instead of candy, they tossed indestructible reading glasses. Delighted children grabbed them and put them on.

“We see you,” the children shouted at me. At each other. At the Drivers. “We see you!” They scooped up small animals, lonely widows, bees, and bones. “We see you!” they cried, rejoicing in their vision.

Their weightless innocence was infectious. I longed for a Buddhist-like acceptance. I’m always trying to weave the words at my disposal into an easily maneuverable raft or a safe path forward, but they often splinter or blow away, catching debris and damming up the Living River as they tumble willy-nilly in the crosswinds.

The Drivers got out of their rigs and circled me, holy eyes magnified by thick lenses, clownish smiles revealing large, sacred teeth. “Relax,” they said. “Word dams are an important part of the ecosystem. Just ask the beavers.”

“I don’t speak beaver,” I protested. “But you could,” they said, their heads nodding sagaciously. “It’s never too late to learn another way of seeing.”

The One-Eyed Chicken

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The one-eyed chicken turns her good eye towards me, poised to pounce on the moldy cheese I intend to scatter for our flock of five. In terms of pecking order, I doubt she’s at the top, but she’s held her own, foraging and evading predators for months now. I drop chunks of mozzarella well within her visual field and cheer her on.

Each morning, I render thoughts, words, and prayers the way lard is rendered from the carcasses of the beautiful pigs. I endure the heat of certain realities, stirring the hot mess around in the cauldron of my mind, watching impurities rise to the surface. To those in charge of assigning value, the one-eyed chicken might be classified as an impurity and skimmed off the top. But I’ve hung around with The Idea long enough to realize that the one-eyed chicken is not an impurity. She might actually be the purest expression of meaning available.

I don’t know how she lost that eye. I don’t know how it is that humans lose their way and kill each other. We are frightened and ashamed of our perceived inadequacies. Life seems wildly unfair. We’re lonely. Despite warning signs and alarm bells, we continue to accumulate possessions as if they will save us. We don’t realize we’re gathering floatation devices that push us to the surface where our fatal impurities will be most obvious.

And there it is.

We cannot save ourselves, and this makes us go a little crazy. Will humanity survive the adversarial urges that elevate winners and denigrate losers? Can we decenter ourselves enough to relax into being an ever-evolving, transitory, fraction of The Idea?

Botox doesn’t make us younger. Wealth does not make us worth more. Denial doesn’t change the truth. Fame does not make us immortal. We are loved, as is, by The Idea—a fertile complexity that in the end, renders us as wordless and dependent as the day we were born. The Idea that birthed us is in perpetual danger. It must be hell to watch us gorging on toxic delicacies to prove her wrong. Or prove her right. But The Idea needs no proof. We’re the ones who need proof, so we make things up. False justifications and worthless guarantees.

For now, the one-eyed chicken still lays eggs, which of course, proves nothing.

And everything.

Who’s Show Is It, Anyway?

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Be thou comforted, little dog:

thou too in Resurrection shall have a little golden tail.

                                                                                                     –Martin Luther

Host: Why are dogs so popular with people?

Mystery Guest: Only certain people.

Host: Fine. Why are dogs so popular with certain people?

Mystery Guest: They’re a warm, reflective surface. They’re loyal without condition.

Host: But people spend more on dogs than they donate to feed hungry children.

Mystery Guest: Apples and oranges. Sometimes dogs make people more charitable.

Host: Maybe. But it seems to me we should devote more money to caring for innocent children.

Mystery Guest: True. Sometimes dogs inspire. Sometimes, they distract.

Host: Distract from what?

Mystery Guest: Misery. Complexity. Mortality.

Host: But they lick their own butts. Then they lick your face.

Mystery Guest: Your point?

Host: Disease. Filth. Bother. Hair. They hump your leg.

Mystery Guest: Love is messy.

Host: That’s a weak answer. I’m sorry I asked you to be on the show.

Mystery Guest: Some days, I’m sorry I accepted. But the show must go on.

Host: Wait. What do you mean? Who’s show is it, anyway?

Mystery Guest: I was hoping you’d ask.

Host: But I don’t need to ask. It’s mine. All mine. I invited you, right?

Mystery Guest: You can make assumptions, as long as you realize that’s what they are.

Host: I don’t like how this is going. You need to leave.

Mystery Guest: I’m afraid that’s not possible. This is my show.

Host: You’re crazy. I’m calling security.

Mystery Guest: Don’t be silly. I am security.

White noise. Dead space. Bombs. Sirens. Music. Dogs twitch and sigh in their dreams.

Host: And that’s a wrap. Thanks for coming by.

Mystery Guest: Thanks for having me.

Host: Next week, cats. Parrots. Pigs. Children.

Mystery Guest: Slaves. Hierarchy. Autonomy. Dependence. Servanthood. Abuse.

Host: No.

Mystery Guest: Education. Compassion. Self-sacrifice. Gratitude.

Host: I said no. Give me that microphone and get out.

Mystery Guest: This is my microphone. You have your own. Use it wisely.

Host: I’m turning everything off now.

Mystery Guest: I wish that were possible, my friend. But as we know, the show must go on.

My Way or the Highway

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Arguing is easier than listening, even internally. It’s hard to ask myself why I believe what I believe and then to admit that sometimes, I just believe what I want to believe, whether it’s true or not.

And sadly, I’m not alone. Being wrong can be so devastating that even in the face of serious contradictory evidence, people will defend themselves to the point of absurdity, poisoning conversations and relationships as they dig ever deeper holes.  

“Are you including me in this scathing indictment?” Big Guy asks.

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

“Well, that’s just wrong,” he says, chuckling.

I give him a phony smile. “Tell me more,” I say, sidestepping conflict with my excellent listening skills.

“You don’t have excellent listening skills,” Big Guy counters. “And I won’t tell you more until you’re ready.”

“I’ll be the judge of when I’m ready,” I say, arms crossed, temper flaring.

“And that’s what I fear the most,” he sighs. “You, judging. You, thinking you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?” I ask, but I’ve lost track of my original premise. Arguing with Cosmicity is disorienting. Big Guy continues to chuckle, which is not helpful.

 I hate the thought of being gullible. Or wrong. My protective cloak of self-righteousness has worn spots. I need to be dead right about something. Anything. What if I’ve wasted my life swinging like Tarzan from belief to belief, only to have the final vine break? What if I’m a naïve fool? What if I grow bitter for erroneous reasons? What if I’ve leaned the ladder of success against a false wall? What if I’ve taken too many supplements all these years?

Big Guy is howling, holding his gut, peeing his pants. “You’re the best, honey. I needed that.”

“Needed what?” I ask, red-faced and defensive.

“I needed to watch you drink from the chalice of uncertainty. Elixir of the Gods, right there. Confessional magic. The meek and humble are my last hope for humanity’s continued existence.”

“So glad I could be of help,” I lie. Big Guy seems to think he’s winning an argument. He’s relishing my chagrin.

“No, and no,” he says. “I don’t relish, and I don’t win.”

“And I don’t get it,” I admit.

“Oh, but you do,” Big Guy says.

Every cliché in the known universe is screaming at me. Platitudes and blind faith parade by, tossing sweet assurances. There are cookies baking, robin eggs hatching, children laughing, ice cream melting, rounds of stiff drinks on God. So little time. So many simplicities.

“You’re ready, little one,” Big Guy whispers.

“I know,” I whisper back. “But hurry. It never lasts for long.”

Eclipse

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“I would understand completely if you didn’t love us anymore,” I say to the Outer as humanity roils in its own troubles. “Maybe you never did.”

The Outer slowly removes her apron, wipes her hands, and gives me her full attention. She is the grandmother I miss the most, daffodil bulbs I planted in the fall now emerging green. She is rain. She is equally at home in the bassinette and the casket. She digs ruthlessly into the soul like a miner extracting the rare elements needed to provide light to the world.

“And it’s okay if you don’t love me anymore,” she answers in the voice of a thousand cranes.

“Why do you say things like that?” I ask. I suspect the Outer is being strategic, not honest. I feel certain she wants my love.

“It’s just a badly translated word,” she shrugs. “You have a very limited understanding of, well, of anything. But especially the substance of that word.”

She’s right. Love is an impossible notion. A dark foreboding, an insistent demand. It’s both threat and promise, a transactional negotiation, a rigged wager. It’s time taken away. Time given back. Blood everywhere. Tears flowing. It’s organic and orgasmic. Sacrificial, selfish, obligatory, and oblique.

“There’s a total solar eclipse coming,” the Outer says. “What do you make of that?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Should I?”

“I would if I were you,” she says. “But then, I make something of everything.”

The Outer gives her homemade pinafore a shake and puts it back on. It’s a badly stained yellow. She wraps the strings around her ample middle and ties them in front. I’m filled with envy. I want an apron, too.

“In some places, for a moment, your tiny moon will obscure your view of the sun. I’d call that something,” she says. She’s begun to glow. I realize I am in mortal danger.

“Moon!” I yell. “Moon! I need you.”

Outer laughs. The nuclear fusion continues. Moon arrives just in time and covers me.

“Moon,” I say, humbled. “I love you.”

The great stirring and swirling and folding continues. I’m an easily eclipsed flash of joy, a dash of salt, a grain of sand, a sunflower seed. I offer thanks to the Moon and Stars, the Outer, the Inner, the Unknowable, the Tao, and the Way.

“I love you, too,” the Moon says back.

She hands me an apron and a wide-brimmed hat. A makeshift kitchen has been blown to bits, seven servers and their beautiful aprons, gone. I am desperately sad. But in this grim, eternal spring, the muddy garden calls me by name, and for now, I know where I belong.

Poker

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When you start out writing a poem, you may end up telling the truth.

The complexities of The Deities formerly known as God predispose us to make dangerous assumptions about toxicity, truth, and time. Time does not heal all wounds. Some wounds are lethal and most leave visible scars. Truth is an approximation. An act of bravery. A ride down the rapids of turbulent realities. Truth is neither for the faint of heart nor those unwilling to change perspectives. And toxicities are often invisible. The shake of the hand, the brush of the lips. Misunderstood intentions, unwitting contaminations.

Fall back, I tell myself. Fall back to the basics.

But without permission, The Deities have dealt me in. I don’t like gambling. I try to slink away, but they shake their heads. They are Holograms. Robots. All-seeing Eyeballs. Holy Drones. They’re more like devices than deities.

Each of them has at least three arms, and their ears hear everything. The future is permeable, fertile, and seductive. I want more than the hand I’ve been dealt. I want more than today. More.

“You couldn’t handle more,” The Deities say. “We don’t believe you.”

“Well, I don’t believe you,” I tell The Deities.

“Yes, you do,” they state flatly. “You do.”

And they’re right. I do believe, but it’s twisted. How dare I believe in love when I know what I know? I want to love and be loved without motive, without pockets full of caveats and caution. I want to love smart, not gutted. I want the thick armor of wisdom, not penetrable vulnerabilities. I want the faith to travel unencumbered, but instead, I over-pack.

“Texas Hold ‘Em,” the Dealer declares.

“Ha! That’s rich,” one of them chuckles. “Texas doesn’t wanna hold ‘em.”

The Dealer slaps down the last card, face up. All that’s visible strongly suggests I fold. I do not have two aces in the hole. A poker game with omniscient players is an idiocy many of us cannot resist.

We play until the wee hours bring light over the horizon. Outside, a red-winged blackbird balances on an impossibly thin twig. The Deities commune over breakfast beer and my sister’s deviled eggs. It is Easter morning, and as usual, I’ve bet more than I can cover.

The Deities pluck Eider down from their own chests to make me safe and warm. They grind themselves from grain to flour and break the steaming, fragrant bread. I am nourished. Mercy oozes from the pores of the fatally wounded earth. My gambling debts are covered.

“Good game,” the Deities declare. I’m at peace. I’m tempted to rest. But because of the flood, there are stones to move. There will always be stones to move.

Volcanic Activity

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A derisive voice arose from the cracks in our tongue and groove flooring. “No wonder you thrash around looking for someone who understands, someone who loves you just as you are. You don’t even understand yourself. Whatever that means. So good luck with that.”

I grimaced. God was rumbling up from below, apparently trying to be therapeutic. True, I am in fact wrestling with the complexities of love and understanding within myself and others. But I hate paradoxical interventions.

“Hello, Nasty God,” I said in a resigned voice. “You’d make a lousy psychologist.”

Bully God, Blunt God, Mean God, Bad Mood God, Belligerent God, Greedy God, and Hot Shit God crowded around the table. Nasty God poured coffee and served cake and ice cream. They chewed with their mouths open, burped, and scratched themselves. One of them purposefully passed gas, and the rest laughed like unchaperoned boys at a slumber party in the basement.

But they weren’t by themselves. And they weren’t in the basement. They were front and center in my muddled mind. I stole time from my meditative morning to scorn them, one by one.

“You will not behave like that in my house.” I shook my finger, matronly and severe. It had little effect.

“You will not be so damn hard on yourself,” they cried in unison. “You will loosen up and cavort.”

“OMG, I will NOT cavort,” I said.

“You WILL cavort,” they shouted gleefully and began to sing in three-part harmony:

Don’t sell us short, you will cavort.

You will smirk and go berserk.

You will rant, and you will pant.

You will flail, and you will quail.

You will cast the evil eye,

you will curse, and you will cry.

It’s who you are, our little star.

We’re never far. We’re never far.

I crossed my arms and glared. They mimicked my posture, climbed on top of my shiny table, and danced an Irish jig, belting out round after round of their ridiculous song. The table expanded into a dance floor, and the Wily Women in tall black boots arrived. All hell broke into angular pieces and floated away like iceberg calves. Iceberg calves.

It went on for weeks. Finally, a nearby volcano erupted. A thick cloud of Messianic Ash blanketed the exhausted inner party, and we melted into nothingness.

For a blessed moment, it was profoundly quiet. No color. No light. No longing. No fear.

Then, “Care to cavort?” they whimpered, breaking the silence in strangulated voices.

I smiled and shook my head.

“We’ll be back,” they promised as they dusted themselves off and faded away.

“I know,” I said, centered and calm. “And I’ll be here.”