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...

Platitude Day

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

“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

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

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

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

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?

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

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

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

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

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

“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

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

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

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

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.”

Oh, Baby

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

This is the narrowest time. Night has loosened its grip, and old wine is poured out as libation to the rising sun. My head slumps to my chest, and my shoulders curl inward to make the passage less painful. Less prolonged. To the east, a thin blaze of orange takes hold. With kindling gleaned from around the chopping block, I light a fire so I can immerse my hands in the warm liquid of another day.

“What sayest thou?” I ask the newly arrived Sandhill cranes.

“What thinkest thou?” I ask the rising river.

The answers come on the in-breath and dissipate before I can inscribe an adequate translation. I will have to ask again and try to be worthy of the answers.

My inner audience isn’t kind. The promise of spring is shrouded in snow, and for some reason, the fire is burning more reluctantly than usual. I suspect it’s the blessing and curse of the thick bark still clinging to these beautifully split logs.

Before I slept last night, someone told me they loved me, and someone told me they hated me. The raucous rise of the north wind relieved the barometric pressure of leftover miles. There was just enough time to make a cursory inspection of my seashells, sticks, and rocks before the paralysis set in. Even then, I had to lean into God to make it to the safety of my flannel sheets.

Now, alert and alive, we are filled with equal amounts of dread and joy.

“Oh, baby,” God sighs. “Oh, baby.”

“Oh, God,” I say, pushing back a little. “Oh, God.” I look into myself as far as I can. “I wish you wouldn’t sigh at me. Go sigh at someone else.”

This elicits a smile. We sip coffee, eat toast, and raise our glasses to the trains arriving, the trains departing, journeys beginning, journeys ending. These simple routines grease the wheels, and we’re off.

Who can guess the length of their days? Who can predict the hard hatreds and easy loves? No one knows their own soul very well, let alone the redemptive mind of God at rest in the protective bark of scorched and fallen trees. We cannot be expected to do any better than we can.

“Oh, baby,” The Cosmic Drama Queen sighs again, so inclusive, so determined. Her obsidian eyes are sparkling, her broad shoulders squared. “Oh, baby.”

Generosity

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

If for some reason, Jeff Bezos wanted to give away a million dollars a day, he could do so every day, 365 days a year, for well over 500 years. So could Elon. I sit with this incomprehensible trivia hoping God might make a sarcastic comment. She doesn’t. She’s staring out the window I’ve opened to let her in.

“I don’t want you to call me God anymore,” she says, her voice crossing the room like light from the fire. Like air cleaned by the nearby evergreens.

Why would God say such a thing? Maybe She/It/He/They are tired of this centralized, politically charged, maliciously manipulated name that defines and limits them.

“That’s not quite right,” The Entity tells me. “The name limits you. Nothing limits us.”

“What does Jeff Bezos call you?” I ask.

“Helicopter.” They chuckle.

“And Elon?”

“Moon.” They collapse in giggles.

I don’t laugh. God is being elusive and self-indulgent. I don’t know what to call her. I don’t even know what to call myself. I’m a body of one and many. I have more brain cells in my skull than there are humans on earth. Jeff Bezos has twice as many dollars as the Milky Way has stars. I can write these facts, but like God and infinity, they are abstractions far beyond my grasp.

“You’re coming apart,” the Voice from the Garden murmurs in my better ear.

An observation? A warning? A taunt? I’m not sure. I feel defensive.

“No, I’m not,” I say, looking down and away because in my heart, I know it’s true. I am coming apart. Unhinged. Unglued. Along with Bezos and Elon, the unsheltered and the powerful, my friends and my enemies, I’m coming apart. Muscles and memory. Bone mass and eyesight.

“And you’re coming together,” the Voice from the Ocean adds in a reassuring voice.

The earth sustains life as we know it because, unlike the sister planets we’re aware of, it has surface water separating the ever-changing islands of land, and if things are working properly, death begets life. I stand on the shifting shore, toes immersed in salty water, coming apart, coming together, balanced.

In the slow dissolving, I have not yet given all I have to give, or given back what was never mine to keep, but if the Source of all Generosity, the one I’ve nicknamed God, continues to be of help, I will carry on.

Guesswork

I think there is a God

Her name is Water.

But she is known by other appellations.

Light. Fire. Longing.

Her brother’s name is Greed.

Sometimes known as Fear.

His legs are short and stocky.

Hers are long.

They meet for coffee

at the little place on the corner

but they go home

on different roads.

There is a path

that climbs gently

out of hell.

and opens

to a soothing meadow.

Tread lightly. Eat something.

Find your still small voice.

There is a little girl

beside you.

Her name is Truth.

Take her hand.

There is an old woman

in front of you.

Her name is Wisdom.

Follow her.

Woven into your bones

there is a quiet voice

called Compassion.

Listen.