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...

The Perfect Couch

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not so sure.”

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

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

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

Vertigo

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

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

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

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

“And remember how I taught you to breathe?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I have a choice?” I ask.

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

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

Despite my instabilities, I know this is true.

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

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

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

Hog Heaven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, God, what do you eat?”

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

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

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

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

Gone

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t pamper me.”.

God looks surprised. “Why not?”

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

“Handle what?”

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

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

I listen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just did.”

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

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

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

“I suppose you mean Now,” I say.

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

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

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

Slightly Altered States

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

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

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

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

God shrugs and mutters, “Massive.”

“Excuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Winner takes all,” God answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End is Always Nigh

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

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

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

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

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

“I imagine I do since I’m God.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The water recedes. The sun shines.

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

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

“Doesn’t matter,” God says. “Plant.”

What Condition My Condition Is In

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A moment or two ago, I was hunkered down in an old Chevy van with two women I admired but didn’t know well. We were finessing undercover maneuvers to abolish some unfair hiring practices. And in the fragile and fractional ways of justice, we succeeded. I didn’t know it at the time, but they were God.

Faith was the slender, quiet one. A shaman. With the help of heavenly beings, she planned her own starvation and left for higher ground. Grace was outspoken. Irrepressible. She had a breast removed as a token of her love. “Statistically, I’m stepping up so seven other women don’t have to do this,” she joked, framing it as a willing sacrifice rather than a curse. These are the ways of the cross as I understand it.

But there is so little I understand.

The drivers of the machines of destruction let their engines idle when they’re not full throttle. I despise this ignorant, highly polluting practice. They are overweight and complacent; their masters are neither. Humans now move more carbon each year than Nature, even when earthquakes and floods are factored in.

Game on, humans. I think to myself as if I were God. You won’t win this one.

“Excuse me.” God emerges from the paralyzing fog of nostalgia and dismay, eyebrows knit downward. “I’d like a word with you, young lady.” Looks like he’s going to grab my arm and drag me somewhere out of sight for a scolding.

“Well, I’d like a word with you, too,” I answer, knitting my eyebrows to match his.

“Word,” he says.

“Word,” I answer.

We laugh.

Fed by riotous tributaries of living words, the clear lake of infinity pools up at my feet. I strip off armor, shelter, clothing, and body; I shed ideas, hopes, fears, longings, and memories. I dip everything in the sacred water, hang it all up to dry, and jump in.

 But I’m cold and uncertain. I have no idea if I should try to swim in my condition.

“And what condition might that be?” God asks, floating by on his back. For some reason, this makes me think of Kenny Rogers and the First Edition.

“Decrepit,” I say. I had been filled with self-pity, but something about that song makes me smile. God shakes his head and points at the shoreline where there are rows and rows of old Chevy vans. And so many smiling people.

Why Do I Have This Heart?

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When I have time on my hands, I try to squeeze the moments into a softball-sized orb but like particles of sand, the individual instances won’t stick together. Eternity may be circular, but apparently, my life is not. It’s entirely up to me how to use my time, but it won’t roll up like a river rock or a bowling ball, I can’t hold on to it, and it won’t come by again. This adds an unwelcome gravity to my choices.

Volition is a terrible curse. It’s right up there with self-awareness, God, and the nutritional labels on packaged foods. Humans have debated the correct basis for making the right choices for as long as they could articulate the question.

“But can you articulate the question even now?” asks the Issuer of All Questions as he stomps snow off his boots and sniffs the air.

To my chagrin, my hands smell like liquid nails, creosote, and chlorine—all toxic. There are plastic containers and dried brushes on my counter. I’m doing laundry with warm water and fabric softener, eating chocolate laced with lead. I designed our house to let the sun warm it, but there are days when the sun doesn’t shine. My carbon footprint remains larger than my feet.

“Probably not,” I admit. “But I ask a lot of questions. That’s safer than locking down on one anyway, right?” I’m trying to shelve the chronic shame I feel for various shortcomings and hypocrisies. “

“I hate to say this, little buddy, but that sounds like rationalization,” the Issuer says. This could come across as judgmental, but I know him better than that. He’s just trying to help.

“Of course it is,” I admit. “But then, why do I have this brain?

The Issuer smiles. Wrinkles upon wrinkles define and deepen the beauty I’ve come to expect from that weathered face.

“That’s a fair question,” he says gently. “But here’s a better one: Why do you have that heart?”

Atlanta Airport

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The Atlanta Airport is not an easy place to kick back and relax, but today we have passes for the United Club Lounge and enough time to use them. God is enjoying the free Budweiser and I’m happy to have found a salad bar, chips, salsa, and windows.

But liberated from the constraints of luggage, what I really want to find is my center. I sit on a worn sofa, consider the ebb and flow of travelers, and examine my life for signs of meaning. So far, it doesn’t look hopeful.

Nearby, a thin man eats pulled pork with collard greens, and a young woman in leather hotpants refills her plate, eyelids heavy with artificially thick lashes. God is busy chatting up one of the waitstaff in a language I don’t recognize.

A blown-up black and white photo in front of me features a row of women standing at attention. Shoes, hair, pigment, purses, smiles, skirts, hats, breasts, height, weight: identical. The shot was likely taken half a century ago. In geologic time, less than a split-second, and yet here we are. I have no explanation for anything I’m observing. None.

“You don’t need an explanation,” God whispers.

“Then why do I want to explain everything?” I whisper back.

God shakes his head. “Let it be. That’s what dogs do. Even the smartest breeds.”

“Then why wasn’t I born a dog?” I ask. I know he’s not serious. We’re just making small talk. Humans are forever asking why and insist on explaining even when we’re wrong. We seem purposefully designed to want to understand.

God grins. “Totally on purpose. Why do you think you travel?”

To those of us born before devices, the one-way conversations around me look like repeated singular insanities. My own device activates itself to urge me along. Time to check in. Time to board. Time to go.

I glance at God, not sure what he’s planning to do. He removes an earbud and looks up. “Hey, you think this place is open 24/7?” he asks, yawning.

“For you, of course,” I answer. “But is this really where you want to hang out?” I look pointedly at the retrograde picture of the lined-up women.

“Ah, those were the days.” God says. “Would you mind saving me a seat?”

“You know it doesn’t work that way,” I say as I gather my burdens. “See you in Montana?”

“You betcha.” God smiles and stretches his legs out so long I can no longer see his feet. “And you can leave your carry-ons with me if you’d like.”

Feet

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My feet are propped comfortably in front of me. Morning light plays over the intricate curves and delicate runs of bone, cartilage, joints, digits, nails, veins, and varying hues of smooth, innocent skin. From this angle, the lumps and bumps don’t show. I’m caught in the magic of backlit flesh, sad that it is such a transient reality.

“Ah, don’t cry,” the Artist says, but it’s obvious she’s gratified by my reaction. Art is about emotion and recognition. It solves problems by simplifying and causes problems by revealing. At this moment, my feet are perfect. They don’t belong to me.

Perfection dwells in the twinkling of the eye, not the tally of a lifetime. It never lasts, but it leaves telltale signs: a smear of sacrificial blood wiped away, a cruel thought left unexpressed, a knowing glance, a long, hard day. Perfection is when traffic stops both directions to let a single ray of sunlight reach a dark place.

“God,” I say, pulling my achy feet back under me, reclaiming their imperfections. “These feet remind me of you. You’re both getting less reliable. Why did you choose evolution and entropy for design motifs?”

“I love entropy!” God declares with no hint of apology. “Random loss, chaos, the gradual decline into disorder; these spawn the next iterations of myself. You can’t expect me to convert everything into predictable mechanical work. Sometimes, thermal energy must stay put so there’s room for wonder.”

“Oh, that’s so you, God. Cold. Self-absorbed. Molecular. Can’t you stop for a minute and sympathize? Even if decline is fodder for the future, even if transition is the ground source of wonder, it’s still tough.”

“Well, it’s just as tough being eternal and waiting around,” God retorts. “But that’s not the point. Of course, it’s hard. The challenge is to grow softer and wiser. In the short run, denial makes things easier. But never better. Be brave.”

“Fine,” I say with a dismissive wave. I’ve heard it all before. I get up and put on my favorite red socks. They will help me venture into a mundane day. “I suppose you expect me to be grateful for things like warm socks and a working automobile.”

“Of course, I do,” God says with a self-satisfied smile. “And mind if I ride along? I need to check some inventories.”

“Not at all,” I say. “But bundle up. It’s wicked cold out there.”