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...

If You Pray, Be Honest

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Me: Excuse me, Outer Intuition, Inner Nagger, Origins of Love, and Source of Galactic Central Heating, I need a check-in. I suspect you’re aware that there are a lot of people who’ve decided the best way to deal with the Idea of You is to emulate Nancy Reagan: Just say no way.

Ineffable: Oh yes, that’s fine with me. Entirely understandable. Gotta love those atheists.

Me: And of course, there are other people who say the Idea of You emerges from their experience of mountains or stargazing or babies.

Ineffable: That’s nice. I like that.

Me: And some say that if by chance there is something like you, it is unknowable.

Ineffable: Well, that’s wise. In times like these, bet-hedging is the way to go.

Me: But the ones that worry me are the vast hordes of True Believers. Do you know about them?

Ineffable: Of course. That impulse emerged with human consciousness. It’s a cult-like, primitive narcissism fed by fear, avarice, and a quest for power and immortality. Long on delusion. Short on reasoning. It’s intriguing.

Me: Intriguing, my ass. It’s killing us.

Ineffable: I can see why you’d feel that way. But it’s not me. No version of me is killing you.

Me: Yeah, sure. Guns don’t kill people. People kill people. But what’s the point? Why do humans lock down on these falsely-comforting, narrow, ignorant narratives of the Idea of You that dangle formulaic salvations? Or endorse sadistic sacrifices? They don’t know the real you.

Ineffable: WHAT? THE REAL ME? Now you’re scaring me. Did you really just say that?

Me: Gotcha. Hahahahaha.

Ineffable: Very funny. Is there a real you?

Me: Ah, maybe. I don’t know. Don’t change the subject.

Ineffable: We’re more alike than you realize.

Me: Now you’re scaring ME!”

Ineffable: Why? Because there’s a lot of suffering and death inflicted in the name of the “real me”?

Me: No. I know that’s not like any version of you.

Ineffable: The real versions of me are more like the ones being killed. Especially the powerless ones.

Me: And that’s what I’m afraid of.

Ineffable: I’m a little afraid myself, honey. But mostly sad.

Me: Yeah. Mostly sad.

Getting to Yes

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On one of my all-time favorite British sitcoms, The Vicar of Dibley, there was a character who answered any inquiry with no, no, no, no, no, no, no…. Then his oppositional stuttering would shift abruptly to something like, “Yes, sounds good.” This made the vicar roll her eyes and the audience laugh. Every time.

That sums up my relationship with my Coauthor fairly well. I look at the deep divisions in the world, the absolute necessity of being loving and forgiving, shake my head, and say No, no, no, no, no. Then I breathe, consider the options, and say Yes. Not because anything looks or sounds all that good. It’s just that Yes is the best answer available.

And the audience laughs. Every time.

The vultures laugh. The sparrows laugh. Friends and enemies laugh. The feasting deer lift their heads and laugh. Secure in the lap of forever, the souls of the brutally departed laugh. Fire-setters, firefighters, funeral directors, midwives, engineers, artists, jailers with rings of keys, pilots with bombing planes, producers of poison, planters of organic seeds.

Laughing. Every time.

But what’s so funny? The knee-jerk string of NOs? The pivot to YES?

“It’s all funny,” my Coauthor says. “Every bit of it.”

“I beg to differ,” I say.

“Of course you do,” my Coauthor chuckles. “See? Now, go ahead and get to yes.”

 “No, no, no, no, no,” I say, shaking my head.

“There’s a Yes in there somewhere,” God insists, sneaking toward me with tickle fingers, making ridiculous, nostril-flaring faces, tossing popcorn in the air to catch in his mouth—the Clown of Heaven, the Fathomless Fool.

“YES!” I yell. “Stop! You’re absurd.”

“No,” God laughs. “No, no, no, no, no.”

“Very funny,” I say. “Now, go ahead and get to yes.”

“Already there,” God smiles. “C’mon in. I’ve got wine and fresh bread.”

The Yes propels me forward. I take my place at the table and break the loaf open, crusty and warm. The wine is bitter, but there are carrots sweetened by the frost and a steaming cup of tea. I am grateful despite the costs and challenges in such wanton communion.

“Yes,” I say, soberly, allowing my eyes to see.

“Yes,” God nods with compassion.

And the day begins. It will be filled with divine comedies, embodied tragedies, the futile and the fulfilling. Most of the doors will be left unlocked, swinging freely in the wind.

Planned Obsolescence

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Did you know that if you push a straight edge up the outside of your apparently empty tube of toothpaste, at least a week’s worth will squish to the top? And if you cut the tube open and flay it, you’ll find even more of the goo clinging to the inside.

Labeling and packaging practices are fraught with waste, lack of imagination, and greed, often making it difficult to use up the entire contents of whatever it is you’ve purchased. And don’t get me started on single-use plastics, false recycling guarantees, and planned obsolescence.

Even well-intended containment is tricky. For instance, my own packaging has become increasingly prone to leaking, bruising, and breaking. My container has been taped up, repainted, and artificially preserved for a while now. Clearly, it’s not going to last until everything I have to offer is entirely used up.

As I struggle with this unpleasant reality, a primal protest grips me.

“Hey, Universe!” I yell. “When we age out, do our unused talents and potentialities end up in the Great Landfill of the Afterlife? Do you reabsorb our unwritten masterpieces? Our unsung songs? Hard-earned but unheeded advice? Unturned stones and dormant acts of kindness? How about the promises we meant to keep? Do you even have a plan for this obsolescence?”

God’s enormous head lifts from its heavenly repose in the sky beyond sky, and the Gaze comes to rest on the tiny speck that is our planet, that is my naked eye, that is a bioluminescent Whisper in the amniotic fluids covering the earth.

“You are not the sum of your talents, failures, passions, or fears,” the Whisper murmurs as the tide rolls in. “You’re the question, not the answer. You’re the journey, not the miles. You’re evolution’s hitchhiker, the plot of my favorite fantasy, and a transitory fraction in the equation you call eternity.”

This ethereal, evasive answer infuriates me. I want my untapped potential to guarantee longevity if not immortality. Like the spiritual toddler that I am, I throw my temporary container to the ground and beat my knobby fists against the pain of consciousness, empathy, imperfection, erosion, imagined glories, and old dogs.

The earth receives my rage and offers joy. Its undulating tenderness envelops me.

I roll onto my back and stare at the sky gathering itself into another night. The massive head of God explodes into trillions of stars, galaxies expanding, defying entropy and all attempts to limit or restrain.

Every boundary eventually gives way. Every horizon is a curvature forward. And we are all, together and forever, the trajectory of a certain hope and the substance of things not seen.

Little Planet Big Lies

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Photo Credit: Scott Wolff

Earlier today I told myself some little white lies and then moved on as one does in order to survive. The falsehoods involved a forced smile, the use of an herbicide, the denial of grief, and the last bite of ice cream. My chronic inclusion of God could itself be a lie, but if so, it’s neither white nor little.

This is because God yanks the universal down to the particular. For instance, she mimicked my smile, bathed in the herbicide, paraded around clad in old photographs, sang Paul Simon, drank the old wine, and hid the chocolate syrup. I threatened to go back to bed and restart the day, but she raced ahead, pulled off the blankets, and pretended to be the ghost of Octobers past.

I gave up, overwhelmed by the insistent Presence, the insanity of the seasons, and the weight of knowing what’s coming. The future is an out-of-control Mack truck, and we’re all bugs destined for the windshield.

But for now, God and I sit calmly, me contemplating how much phlegm a body can produce when fighting a viral invasion, God knitting socks for soldiers and other unsheltered souls.

“Whose side are you on?” I ask, thinking about revenge and innocence, viruses and hosts.

“My own,” God says.

“Figures.” I get up to make a smoothie. “Where’d you hide the chocolate?”

“Deep in the recesses of your ontological brain,” God chuckles.

“Of course.” I sigh, wave the fruit flies away, and peel two bananas from Guatemala. I drop them into the blender made in China, add blueberries from New England, and pour in kefir I made myself—but the milk I used? It’s from cows, possibly nearby. Possibly not. I toss in Swiss chard from our garden, squeeze in chocolate from Cameroon, and push the button.

“Would you like some?” I ask.

“Not now, thanks,” she says. “But I’m glad you found your way to the kitchen.”

I lift my glass to a delicate world, but the complexities and hypocrisies rob me of delight. I look at God, desperate to save what’s left of the day.

“Enjoy the damn smoothie,” she says. Her smile is genuine. “I’ll be back.”

 “Where are you going?” I ask.

“Gotta deliver these stockings. The alpaca fleece is from Columbia, the needles are bamboo. From Japan. Winter’s coming in Ukraine, and there are the barest feet you’ve ever seen in Gaza.”

I steel myself and sip the toxic nectar of this splendid, blended earth. Then sadly, I bid farewell to October and pull on a pair of socks she left for me. It’s chilly out there, but I need to harvest the last of the carrots and beets. Root crops, like certain hardy people, do well in Montana.

Being the Cozy One

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There’s much to be said for a Cozy God. Not just passive cozy. No. I mean assertive, smother-hugger, cheek-pincher, aren’t-you-just-adorable, big-lapped cozy.

But today’s version is sharp-tongued and angular. Her purple hat is cockeyed and her cloak of many colors drenched from flying through the freezing rain. She’s shivering and disoriented. Thus, I’m forced to be the cozy one.

“Here. Drink this.” I offer a cup of hot chocolate laced with peppermint schnapps and replace her cloak with a down comforter. She lifts the mug to her bluish lips, sips, sighs, and settles near the fire.

I let her warm up in silence. Mostly I’m happy when any version of God drops by, but as she curls her tired body and nods off, I realize some visitations are less pleasant than others. I consider hiding the refreshments and putting out the fire.

Where’s Cozy God? I complain to myself.

Witchy God yawns, stretches her thin arms above her head and says, “She’s busy. I’m subbing for her today.”

“What’s she up to?” I ask, interested despite my disappointment. If I’m hosting Witchy God, then maybe somewhere, someone is being cuddled and fed by a cozy, affectionate God.

“Doesn’t work that way,” Witchy God says. “The manifestations are interactive. You get what you give. You get what you need. But luckily, you never get what you deserve.”

 “Why not?” I ask, peevish and disappointed. “I try to be thoughtful. I share my stuff…” My voice trails off. “Well. Most of it. Some of it. Sometimes.”

I’m suddenly uncomfortable claiming I deserve a visit from Cozy God. The equations are slippery, comparisons fraught with subjectivity, tinged with envy.

“So what’s your cozy quotient, my pretty?” Witchy God asks in her witchy voice.

“You mean how much cozy do I need?” I ask, ever hopeful.

“No. How much cozy are you putting out there?”

And there it is. The eternal question. Witchy God begins whirling like a dervish, and the remaining October leaves let go.  Every limb is bare. Winter has arrived. The wars rage on. Witchy God is preparing to do whatever it is she does. Her cloak has dried, and her thermos is filled with my cocoa and schnapps.

“I’ll ride shotgun for as long as I can,” I say reluctanly. I swing my leg over the broom, but her take-off velocity leaves me flat on my back in front of my toasty fire.

“Not every battle is yours,” Warm Room whispers. “With that bad hip, you could be a bit more cautious.”

“No way,” I say.

Warm Room gives me a knowing smile and hands me a broom of my own.

Impact

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Who doesn’t (secretly or overtly) want to be a social influencer? Maybe a few humble souls are at peace with having little influence in the world, but I doubt they’re in the majority. Humans want proof that they matter—as measured by clicks, votes, money, fame, prestige, or power.

Years ago, I began learning a lesson I’m still working on. As a newly minted rehabilitation counselor, I was assigned to teach a young man with a serious brain injury how to ride his three-wheeler to the sheltered workshop where he glued pieces of wood together every day. This is harder than it might sound.

He flashed me a drooly grin as he turned a block early for the third time. I calmly redirected him, but inside, my ego was screaming. I wanted to be actualized and recognized. I wanted to be somebody. But here I was, with my master’s degree, on a back street in nowhere USA trying to help a badly damaged human being learn to navigate a three-block commute.

He gritted his teeth and pushed hard on the pedals. I pictured him before the crash, a reckless teenager, stomping on the gas in his souped-up car. He’d lost control and rolled three times. Hours later, the jaws of life had freed him to face a partial recovery followed by this new, confusing existence.

We made it to the employee entrance on his fourth try. I feigned approval, but I was resentful and exasperated. I had functional legs, strong arms, and an eager mind. I had a ten-speed bike, running shoes, three published poems, and a family that did not wish me dead.

“Can’t you give me something important to do?” I whined to the Universe. “Something that’ll make a difference?”

The day froze into a singular moment.

“Allow me to introduce you,” the Universe replied in a clear, penetrating voice. “This is my son, Clayton, with whom I am well-pleased. He needs a little help. I chose you, but if you’re unavailable, I have others.”

And as if that wasn’t enough, the Universe continued. “Clayton, dear, this is your servant, Rita. Be patient with her. She’s still figuring things out.”

So much life has flowed under so many bridges since that day, and so many Claytons have come and gone. In this waning light, Wisdom occasionally lifts her skirts to show me her ankles. But even now, instead of sitting in gratitude, I sometimes long for more. I want accolades and adoration. Assurances that I matter. Most days, I push down hard on the pedals, but I’m uncertain of which way to turn.

Obviously, I’m still figuring things out.

Packing

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Even the shortest trips go better with a little planning. Of course, this makes me nervous and increases the chances that I’ll overpack or underpack. I aspire to smooth-rolling suitcases, thoughtful snacks, and a business-casual posture at the airport. But what I often end up with is bulging bags, broken zippers, spilled water, crushed bananas, the wrong pants, not enough underwear, and so many layers it’s hard to move.

These issues are especially salient today as God listens to me mutter while I unpack from one less than well-done trip and pack for another daunting adventure.

“Your neuroses are fascinating, darlin’” she says with an exaggerated British accent. “Are you by chance laboring under the impression that what you’re doing right now matters?”

My temper flares. I hate packing and frankly, nothing seems to matter. I throw down an armload of jackets and lunge at this unwelcome critic. The energy thrusts my soul upward through the mists of imagined relevance, gaining altitude like a cosmic drone. My piles of clothes and treasures shrink into indiscernability. I kickbox the Cloud of the Holy and try to grab her elongated, bejeweled, illusive neck. At this moment, I would gladly strangle God if I could.

“You’re so rude!” I scream as I dissolve into a sobbing meteor, fodder for the nearest black hole.

“And you’re so sad,” God says gently. “I see that now. So sad and frightened. I’m really sorry. I was trying to help you lighten up and get perspective. Obviously, my timing was way off. My bad.”

God surrounds and we settle. We float down to the base of an urban tree which is growing mostly horizontal in its search for the sun. I congratulate the tree for seeking the light despite all the obstacles. God and I sit on the bench-like trunk and hold hands. The fight is over but I’m still feeling burned.

We get up and amble down the street looking for coffee and a pastry. As I often do, I’m reconsidering the process of writing about these encounters.

“Maybe we’d be wiser to write in third person,” I say to my wily Coauthor.

“Why?” God asks.

“A little distance might be nice,” I confess, looking down at my smoldering feet.

She shakes her head. “Sorry, darlin’. Doesn’t work that way.”

“This may be apparent,” the scribe notes with a self-deprecating grin. “But one shouldn’t blame a gal for trying, should one?”

“Ha ha!” God says. “The authors of these pieces are often quite amusing.”

With that, the authors resume their preparations for the journey ahead. One of them puts in an extra T-shirt. The other takes it back out. “It’s all about faith,” that one says.

“No, it’s all about options,” the other counters. They laugh.

Tucking In

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After especially hard days, I take a little extra time to gently tuck myself into bed. Sleep well, little one, I say, imagining The Within speaking in a tender voice. I fluff the pillows and give thanks for my great good fortune. I am safe.

But often, like tonight, a wave of guilt hits. Images of war, earthquakes, uprisings, floods, mud slides, fires, and refugee camps take over. No one is ever entirely safe, but everyone wants to be. We steal safety from each other. And the cost of this selfish, temporary safety runs into the billions. With a loaded pistol, I could shoot my way out, right? With enough money, I could build a fortress and save myself. Ha! Fools. We are all safety-seeking fools.

Yahweh clears her throat.

“Oh, hi,” I say sheepishly. “I was just tucking myself in for the night.”

“Hmmm. Is THAT what you were doing?” she asks, glowing orange from the corner.

“No,” I admit. “I was mocking the notion of safety. I feel a little frightened sometimes so I make fun of people who think they can make themselves safe.”

“I like it when you’re honest,” Abba God says. She wraps herself in my spare blanket and lays down beside me. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to feel safe.”

“Yeah, but…”

“I know,” she interrupts. “It can go too far. Safety, sacrifice, and suffering are contentious triplets, progeny of a brief affair between acceptance and agency.”

What now? I think. “I’m way too tired to talk about this,” I say.

“Me, too,” Asherah God says. “There’s a lot going on. I’m exhausted.”

“I bet you are.” I slip my arm over her shoulder and whisper, “Sleep well, Eternal One.”

She closes the eyes that never close. The breath of Allah is deep and regular, but mine is shallow, and I feel anxious. I remember a prayer I was taught as a child.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Whoa! No wonder we’re all so frightened. What child wants to die in the night and have their soul taken by a mysterious, possibly nefarious God?

If anyone’s taking anything in the night, it’ll damn well be me, I think, watching the rise and fall of the chest of The Infinite beside me. Then I relax and smile at my hubris. I don’t even own a gun.

Recent Correspondence

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Letters to the Dead

Dear G,

At that last lunch, you presented me with your daughters, and I was so honored. So willing. But it wasn’t until your peaceful demise that I fully grasped your intentions. I don’t know if I’ve measured up. It’s complicated. The windows are streaked and dusty, but I’m still willing. And I miss you.

Love,

Rita

Dear Mick,

Before your unexpected death, you wrote that even though you didn’t go to church, I made you laugh at the magnitude of what’s asked of us, and you had no idea why you cried when I offered God seven onions. You said I should put these writings into a book. I loved you for that. We never met, but you’ve helped me keep afloat. Thank you.

Cheers,

Rita

Dear Brian, Cindy, Dan, Greg, Liz, Rex, Jim, P.J., and the lot of you,

The days are growing shorter, and the impending challenges of winter are leering at me. How dare you die? But then, how dare you not? Your absences make it harder, but you each cleared a faint trail through the wilderness and left deep, distinct snow angels behind. For that, I am grateful.

Warmest Regards,

Rita

A Note to the Living

Dear You Know Who You Are,

If you knew you’d be dead in a month, would you live differently? Well, for some among us, that is actually true. Therefore, let us recline in community and together partake in the Now—a dish best sparingly seasoned by the past, basted in its own juices, and constantly stirred over medium heat. (When the Now gets overheated by relentless fears of the future, the flavors diminish.) Here’s to the feast!

Sincerely,

You Know Who I Am

A Missive Sent in Smoke to the Noncorporeal

Dear Beyond and Within,

It has been said that there are no atheists in foxholes. This is incorrect. Foxholes create atheists. And rightly so. The mornings after are short on solace and long on dread. Nonetheless, when I lie flat on the undulating ground and pretend to close my eyes, I see your gnarly feet and hear the swish of silk across the tall autumn grass.

Corporeally yours,

Rita

A Reply

Dear Rita,

Infinity. Interiority. Insight.

Rivers. Ravens. Rain.

Photosynthesis.

Volcanoes.

Sacrifice.

Fire.

Color.

Redemption.

Dinosaurs. Dogs. Daylight.

Imagination. Intention. Infinity.

Yours to Unearth,

The One You Sometimes Call God

Certainties

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“The mythical versions of you are far more palatable than the possibility of you,” I told God who was lurking in the predawn shadows. My mind was slightly disheveled, body and soul stiff and creaky. A mouse scrabbling in the closet had yanked me awake. Troubling uncertainties leaked from the murky remnants of deep sleep.

“No they’re not,” God answered, flitting like a sparrow from idea to idea. “Mythical versions are made by humans. They’re fear-based and jagged.”

“Some are,” I agreed. “But some portray you as all light. Soft, loving, pliable, and boundless.”

“Really?” God asked. “I guess I’m not familiar with all my renditions.”

“This is an absurd conversation,” I said to the deep-eyed leper who has stared at me through the same nonglare glass for 40 years. “It is impossible to know God,” I said to the pewter angel from my mother-in-law’s collection. “I did not ask to be born,” I told the yellowing leaves. “And you’ve made a terrible mistake,” I said to the mouse.

None of my declarations stopped the digital clock from flashing up new numbers. My small victories mattered little to the wind. The earth is still quaking, and there are those awaiting the death of God with a certain eagerness. They rub their hands in anticipation, planning ways to distribute what’s left behind. Sometimes, I am among them.

“All ye in need of rest, I have a hammock,” God declared. “All ye without a cause, I have some little gods for sale.”

“Are you certain that’s how you want to start this day?” I asked.

“Certainty is over-rated,” God said, sharp teeth gleaming through the fleeting crimson sunrise.

I fought my way out of bed, fended off the vertigo, baited the mousetrap, and opened the fridge gingerly, as if I were lifting the seventh seal—the final seal—the ultimate pandora’s box—the well-earned wrath of a frustrated deity. In truth, all I wanted was my dark beer, but it’s better to be ready for anything.

“It’s always the end times and the beginning,” God said.

“I know,” I sighed. “But that’s hard for linear creatures like us.”

“You’re tougher than you look!” God said.

“So are you,” I said, wary but alive. We exchanged respectful nods and made our way into the rapidly forming substance of another day.

“Hey, could you give me a hand?” God yelled from the trunk of the ancient crabapple tree.

I nodded. Last night’s storm had twisted the hammock into knots. It took us forever to straighten it out.