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...

Being the Cozy One

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

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.

The Blame Game

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Having someone or something to blame for my mistakes, disappointments, and entropy in general is such a blessing. If no one, if nothing, steps up to take the fall, then what? The empty abyss of nothingness, the voracious black hole of randomness, the uncontrollable, irreparable, directionlessness of life suck me undertow, and I’m paralyzed. Blame is a very good thing.

“But everyone is trying as hard as they can, right?” God says sarcastically. “So how can you blame anyone?”

“Oh, I’m a skilled, irrational blamer,” I say with pride. And it’s true. Except when I focus my lens on myself, there is solace in blaming and excuse-making. I harbor resentments, nurse grudges, and scan my environment for everything that’s wrong with anything. When I have a chance, I point out these shortfalls in a judgy voice as if the failings I unearth are both shameful and deliberate.

“I’ve noticed that occasionally you include yourself among the damned,” God observes in a kind voice. Almost offensively kind. I’m not in the mood.

“Leave me alone,” I say. “I don’t want to be understood or placated. I want things to go my way. I want things to be shiny, warm, buttery, pretty, predictable, and trouble-free. I want everything to be right with the world.”

“Don’t we all?” God sighed.

“See? This is my problem, God.  If you’re even a thing, then why aren’t you a preventer of tragedy or at least a fixer? Seems definitional of anything called God.”

“There’s a chance you’ve got the wrong dictionary, honey,” God said.

I scowl. God stares steadily into my squinty eyes. Her love is seeping into the room, and I don’t like it. Yeah, sure, being loved should make me happy, but there are strings attached. Equanimity, acceptance, and holy detachment come at a cost.

I don’t want to face hard times or try to do better. I want my address to be Easy Street, where everyone is pain free, youthful, fat, and sassy.

I don’t want to be loved despite my imperfections. I want to be perfect. I don’t want to be loved as I decline and die. I want to be immortal.

“Ding, ding, ding,” God says, pretending she’s got a bell in her hand. “We have a winner, folks. She makes it to the bottom in record time.”

I flip God off with my knobby middle finger. She blows me kisses. I grab them out of the air and make them into a string of luminescent beads. Elegant jewelry? Noose? It appears to be my choice. But I’m never sure.

Seven

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Here’s a fun fact: forgiving others is highly advisable for our own well-being. There are various sayings addressing this basic truth. My favorite is: Let that shit go, man. It’s killing you.

Over the centuries philosophers and theologians have written about the topic. In one source familiar to many, the Greek is a tad unclear. How many times are we supposed to forgive the same stupid insults, injuries, or mistakes? Seventy times seven (490)? Or just seventy plus seven (a mere 77)? It’s translated both ways, but honestly, I can’t see why it matters since it’s unlikely many of us make it past two.

Unforgiveness, grudges, and plans for revenge are personal treasures that clatter along behind us like tin cans tied on the back of the “Just Married” car.

“That racket makes me crazy,” God says. “For the life of me, I don’t see why you do this to yourselves.”

“Ah, but remember, we’re not like you. We have our self-esteem to protect. We get all tangled up in righteous indignation and strategic self-defense whereas you can just la-la-la along embodying benevolence and good cheer. We’re fragmented, weaker,” I pause and then add with a sly grin, “and more complex.”

God starts laughing. Side-splitting gale force laughter spreads over the space-time continuum. I can’t help but join in. The leaves turn and fall. The garden harvests itself. The cows come home. Imagined or real offenses blow away, and my sword and shield melt like candle wax. God howls.

“Stop it, God,” I beg between gasps. “I’m going to wet my pants.”

It doesn’t stop. My life flashes before my eyes, and it’s perversely hilarious. I see all the forgivenesses I could have requested or granted. I see all the burdens I could have offloaded and all the joys I could have experienced. It seems like this should make me sad, but it doesn’t. God and I just keep laughing.

Finally the seventh day arrives, and we rest from our laughter. I make a soft, downy bed of my many sins and shortfalls, intending to sleep the sleep of the grateful dead. The Incarnation of Forgiveness snuggles in beside me, pulls the quilt up to our chins, and whispers, “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. Love never ends.”

“That’s nice,” I murmur. “And I forgive you.”

God snorts, and the laughter threatens to start again. But I gently put my finger on God’s lips. “Shhhh,” I whisper. “Relax, buddy. We gotta get some sleep.”

This Little Light of Mine

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Instead of turning on the lights, I often choose to find my way along in the natural darkness that gathers at the end of the day. I put my arms out in front of me and wiggle my fingers so if I misjudge the passageway and hit the wall, my loose, flexible fingers will save me from full-body impact, and I can gracefully adjust my course.

If I happen to be outside, in addition to putting my arms out, I access the maps and nerve endings stored in my feet, remembering fences, gates, high spots, low spots, and the long history of undulations in the dirt. It’s a rare night that falls dark enough to require more than that.

 I imagine this practice will be helpful when my eyes fail or the grid goes down, and I like the challenge of malleable mindfulness.

I practice kindness the same way. When the dim gloom of malevolence, morons, or mean people descends on my psyche, I put my arms out and wiggle my fingers to reduce the chances of causing harm.

Once in a while my fingers run into God. Or at least I think it’s God because the encounter leaves me tingling and confused. From a logical distance, I know it’s not the whole God. I’m a blindfolded child touching the elephant’s leg thinking I now know the truth about elephants.

“I’m more like a cold snap than an elephant,” the Voice of God chimes in. “You can get frostbite playing that game.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “But there are always dishes to wash, and the water’s warm. I usually recover nicely.”

“Why don’t you just turn on the lights and be done with it?” God asks.

I turn instinctively toward the Voice but see only an obscure reflection that could be anyone—even myself. “Isn’t that your job?” I ask the Haziness.

“No,” the Haziness says adamantly.

“Okay. My mistake.” I shrug, then add with what I hope is a healthy mix of dignity and contrition, “But I kind of like the dark sometimes. It softens the harsher realities.”

“True,” the Haziness says. “But you’ll be fine in the light. Let me know when you’re ready. I’ve got plenty of sunscreen and a massive umbrella.”

“I don’t need your sunscreen or umbrellas,” I scoff.

“Okay. My mistake,” the Haziness says. “What is it you need?”

Last night’s pots and pans are soaking in the sink. The question hangs in the air, unanswered. I suspect it will always hang in the air. But the soapy water is steamy and comforting.

The Soup du Jour

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“You know what I like best about Homo sapiens?” God asked as she continued packing an ancient-looking doll suitcase.

“No,” I said. My tone suggested I wasn’t all that interested in what God might like about humans. We’re a disappointing lot so far, trending toward extinction thanks to profound sexism, denial, greed, over-population, and homemade security blankets we call faith systems.

God ignored my rudeness. “Could you check your weather app? I’m not sure what to pack.”

“For where?” I asked.

“There’s a galaxy just to your left. Not sure what you’ve named it…” God’s voice trailed off. She folded the bulging little suitcase shut and stood on it, which was clearly the wrong approach.

“Hey, tune in here,” God said. “I could use a little help.”

I stared out the window. I didn’t want to help. I didn’t want God to leave. I didn’t want God to stay. I didn’t want to consider the awfulness humans have done in the name of our deities, and I didn’t want to face the ways I’ve participated.

Grudgingly, I joined her and tried to position the contents so the suitcase would latch. “Where’d you find this?” I asked. It was overfilled and warped.

“Well, where does any baggage come from?” God asked with a grin, and added, “Your basement.”

Ah ha! It was a set-up; a parable to make me consider the cumbersome baggage humans unwittingly collect and drag around. God wasn’t coming or going anywhere.

I laughed and gave God a shove. She grabbed me and we tumbled backwards into the deep recesses of consciousness where humankind’s fears of oblivion are always the soup du jour. I flailed but then God reminded me that it’s best to relax and float when the liquid is this salty.

God did the backstroke and philosophized.

“Did you know that I’m the attraction between electrons and protons?” she asked. “It’s a big responsibility.” She paused, then said in a wistful voice. “I tell this to the dogs. They just wag their tails and beg for treats. I show this to the stars, and they align. But when I reveal this to humans, I’m never sure what will happen next.” She paused again. “And strangely, that’s what I enjoy the most.”

I climbed out on a rock, leaped as high as I could, wrapped my arms around my legs, and did a cannonball back into the thick soup, splashing God in the face.

 “Like that?” I asked.

“Yep,” God said, wiping existential angst off her forehead. “Just like that.”