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...

Gun Racks to Book Shelves

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 



My computer indicated it needed to be restarted this morning and then it wouldn’t stop. I would have panicked and forced a shutdown had not James, the patient man from the repair shop, assured me these things take time. “Chill,” he said. “Have some breakfast.”

James did not realize that I’d already eaten two breakfasts and downed my morning half-beer. I did not share this with James. Instead, I made myself putter, peeking at the screen every five minutes for two hours.

And voilà! The computer finally stopped restarting and seems docile and responsive enough to risk writing some words.

During that down time, I distracted myself with housekeeping which led to some rearranging ideas. The Coauthor appeared as I emptied a shelf unit and started to push it to the door.

“Don’t try to move that alone,” she scolded. “It’s too heavy for you.”

The shelf in question was an old gun rack I’d converted to a bookshelf in my efforts to bring about world peace 35 years ago. It has grown uglier, and the world has grown more vicious. I want to donate both the shelf and the world to an unwitting charity and start over.

“It doesn’t work that way, sweetheart,” the Coauthor said sympathetically.
 
I cried a little. My increasing incapacities are deeply disturbing. 

“You move it then,” I said, defiant. “Or else I’ll keep trying, and it will fall on me, and I’ll die a slow death pinned under my own stupidity.”

“That’s how most of you will die anyway,” she laughed.

“Not funny,” I said and threw a paisley orange pillow at her. She caught it, and we sat down on the worn and disconnected sectional (my latest attempt at the perfect couch).

“Let’s go,” she said.
“Let’s not,” I said.

But I was outvoted, and the cosmic train pulled into the station. 

We dissolved into waves of symphonic sound. Timpani drums made from the skins of scapegoats boomed like bombs bursting in air. The bass moaned low and mournful, the cellos and violins sobbed as they were deported. But somehow, life itself was beautiful beyond words.

“How can this be?” I asked the Coauthor. But I knew. The celestial choir had dismembered me, and my atoms were dancing shamelessly inebriated in the variegated light.

Eternity receded. I resisted reassembling, but here I am, alone with my keyboard, an empty bookshelf, a list, and a plan. Somewhere, in another time, another place, I am an oboe.

A leopard. 
A mollusk. 

I am puffed cheeks blowing out fifteen candles and the first gasp of a new planet. 

And at some incomprehensible level, I trust that all will be well.


Runoff

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Lately, I’ve been fixated on guttering. We have a lot of unguttered or badly guttered buildings. When rain falls on impervious surfaces and is not guttered or sloped away, it pools up and erodes old foundations.

Water may seem innocuous. Innocent. But it is the (almost) universal solvent. According to the Khan Academy, “Water is key to the vast majority of cellular chemical reactions essential to life. Water molecules are polar, with partial positive charges on the hydrogens, a partial negative charge on the oxygen, and a bent overall structure.”

A bent structure may sound unattractive or dangerous, but in fact, it’s the magic that allows the embodiment of both the negative and the positive to coexist and dissolve nearly anything. 

But even with the threat of dissolution, rain is not the essential problem. Too many impenetrable surfaces are. 

Thus: guttering. The precious rainwater is renamed runoff and routed to centralized locations such as sewers or storage tanks. This creates the potential for stagnation or downstream flooding.

 As humans, we long for shelter from the storm. Impenetrability is tempting. It’s hard to be vulnerable, receptive, and thankful; harder still to lovingly accept rejection and scorn.

But we live in a world where the Coauthors and the Dancers cause the rain to fall on the just and unjust. The sun shines on the kindly folk as well as the cruel, selfish fools.

Many of us feel quite indignant about this. We seek justice but often end up plotting revenge. This storyline has no happy ending. In fact, it has no ending at all. Revenge is self-perpetuating.

Bullies, tyrants, and other impervious souls have developed gutters that shunt kindness and forgiveness off as if they were wastewater. The resulting pools putrefy due to the contaminants they’ve picked up, testifying to the toxicity of fear.

Watching sacrifices go down the drain or get routed to a holding tank where good intentions become sludge is painful.

Even so, the stubbornly resilient make plans (that will no doubt go awry) and dig deep into linty pockets to offer the widow’s mite.

The Holy Role-Models of Resilience are chaotic, redundant, and flighty. They live in the gutters and fix broken toys. And while wildfires rage, they shelter frightened families under scorched wings.

It sometimes seems that Creation has grown weary of us, and the exhausted Dancers have lost the beat. I honestly don’t know.

But in this briefest of moments, some of us have the great good fortune of being lilies of the field, hoping no one sprays us with a broad leaf herbicide as we turn our open faces to the cleansing rain and rejoice when sunlight breaks through.

Too Many Jesuses

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If I speak in the tongues of angels and women, of cancers, mildew, and broken teeth, but have not love, nothing much happens. Most platitudes are contradictions. Old mirrors and darkened glass neither reflect nor foretell with any degree of accuracy.

Some mornings are especially challenging. The tension created by too many Jesuses is barely offset by the comfort of familiar bedding and my jar of pencils. Sometimes, deep in the night, I try summoning one of them to ward off the neurotoxicities of unwanted wakefulness, but it never works. The Jesuses are neither respectful nor tethered to any particular reality. They argue among themselves noisily and without end. I regret inviting any of them in. I want them gone.

“I see where you’re coming from,” my Coauthor comments as she seats herself cross-legged, leaning back against the bookshelf. She shoos the contentious Jesuses away. “Go on outside. The water’s clear. The sky is lifting. The cranes could use a visit.”

I stare at my Coauthor. She stares back.

“Do you really see where I’m coming from?” I ask, hoping for sympathy and unequivocal adoration.

Her slight nod is unsympathetic. She’s sizing me up. I do not feel adored.

“And I see where you’re going,” the Voice of Creation adds.

Sunday school rears its ugly head. Dread hot-flashes through my body.

“The cross?” I squeak.

“Yes,” my Coauthor nods. “The one by the highway and the three on the hill to the south. Cut them down. The cultish homage to human brutality offends me.”

My eyes widen. “Well, that’s not very nice. What about loving thy neighbor? What about redemption?”

She laughs. The Jesuses crowd back in.

“The cranes are fine,” they report. “And the air is sweet. Everything that ever bloomed is blooming and there’s a wild greening underway.”

 I want to be the sweetness in the air. I want to be a wild greening.

“Ah-ha! You’re an anti-zealot,” one of the Jesuses points with derision.

“Am not,” I retort, uncertain of what that would even mean.

“Leave her be,” my Coauthor commands, glaring at the accusing Jesus. “I brought you into this world. I can take you out.”

The Jesuses exaggerate snapping to attention. Their eyes twinkle, their lips twitch.

Then one of them shouts, “Dogpile!” and we all jump on the Coauthor, trying to tickle her into a better mood.

“Hey, I made rhubarb banana bread yesterday,” I holler above the fracas. “Let’s have some for breakfast.”

We sort ourselves out, clamor to the heart of the kitchen, and break the moist bread together, dipping morsels in milk and drizzling stolen honey into our strong black tea.

Friendly Fire

Rita Sommers-Flanagan11 Comments 
Each moment is a drink of water,
a green ball bouncing down
the gravel road, a quandary as simple

as kindness, the idea of more stars.
There’s nothing to fear 
but the snapping of branches in the wind.

To live as a split infinitive is a sign of courage, 
a matter of style. Nothing is absolute.
To live now, half-formed, 

circling like a sharp-eyed hawk
is to accept an unnamed infinity
and a sense of chronic dislocation.

We are pages in a book of promises,
lies that come true, wishes that don’t,
dawns that arrive, nights that fall.

Give me your time. I’ll give you mine. 
After the danger of frost has passed
we’ll plant tomatoes and roses and basil

and go through the motions of poetry.
As the meaning soaks in we will succumb
to the vast and friendly fires of the sun.

Familiars

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Photo credit: Anonymous Friend

My body is only vaguely familiar this morning. We greet each other suspiciously, as if one of us hails from the Deep State and the other from Nirvana. We shake hands, staring at our knobby knuckles and prominent veins, and try to agree on a reasonable plan for the day.

We’re joined by a Holy Threesome. My body and I glance at each other, wondering if we should genuflect or drop to our knees.

“Do you like the curled posture of prayerful supplicants? Knees bent, hands folded, head bowed?” we ask the Ubiquitous Coauthors.

“Not especially,” they shrug. “Reminds us of chained prisoners being shaved.”

“Did you hear that?” I ask my ears sarcastically. “Maybe they were just praying.”

My ears have become accustomed to hearing lies. Incredulity is our new constant.

We invite the Coauthors to join us for morning libations. All the Interdimensional Beings in the vicinity appear because the day is gray, and they have little to do. The Coauthors introduce my body and me as the hosts.

“And what are your names?” I ask as I pass around a plate of digestives.

They laugh. Crumbs fly from the communion table and the dogs happily lick them up.

My former selves also arrive uninvited. The supply of digestives, toast, and beer dwindles. My memories are conflicted, insights constrained, and my collective reach no longer exceeds my collective grasp. The raucous chatter irritates me.

“Quiet!” I demand. “I have a question for the Coauthors.”

I square my shoulders, face the Creative Force of the Universe, and ask, “Could you tell us the truth?”

“That’s a big ask,” they say. “Members of your species are busily denying history, science and common sense. Not sure what we can do about that.”

The Interdimensional Beings and my multiplicities gasp. “There has to be something you can do!” they shout.

The Coauthors shrug. My multiplicities look for ways to escape. The Beautiful Beings flap their wings, and panic shimmers in the heavy air. Our shared pulse is racing.

There’s a crash and then silence.

“I can’t breathe,” one of the Beings whispers.

My body remembers fainting when giving blood: the shrinking of my visual field, the removal of the tangible, the fight to fill my lungs.

We surround the Being. It’s a bird with a broken neck. The Glass it crashed into was not visible, but it was real. Is this the truth I asked for? The harsh realities of cause and effect?

“Where will you go now that you’ve shattered?” we asked the Being. Her body is disintegrating, her wings no longer discernable.

“Home,” the Being said. “Supper at six. See you then.”

Go Gently

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The world is filled with natural stompers. This is not destination dependent. No matter where the stompers think they’re going, their determined stride sends shock waves up their legs and into their surroundings. I happen to know that it’s possible to override the habitual stomp and consciously place one foot in front of the other. But beware: The resulting quiet can be unnerving. The rush to nowhere is noisy but comforting.

And why take the risk of treading lightly anyway? The Rain falls on the just and the unjust, the stompers and the dawdlers, the mindful and the misguided. The Rain falls without resistance or judgment. It clears the air for both rich and poor. On the upturned faces of lovers, the Rain falls with joy.

A beloved poet once insisted we should rage against the dying of the light, but I say to myself don’t hide from the darkening sky. Seek out the eye of the storm and walk upright in your bones, bold and welcoming. But don’t stomp. Go gently. Go with such grace that even your precariously stacked stones will start to sing, and the dry, angular roots you’ve gathered will dance like nymphs around the open tombs.

But I’m never sure of the way. There are so many trails and byways, so many routes home. I tell myself there’s no harm in wandering and no singular way to be redeemed.

But the Rain begs to differ. Surrender, she whispers. Break. Fall apart, tender. If you still have yarn or wire, you can knit yourself back together for a spell. But remember, you have gills and wings. You are the blind man tapping, the enthroned queen, and the missed opportunity. You are your own final act. You are the drunk driving victim, and you were driving the car.

I cannot accept that, I say to the Rain.

Oh, but you can, the Rain murmurs as she slides down the sides of my soul.

I admit that there are times I’m tempted to march out there and shake my fist at the distant thunder, but my boots would surely slip on the slick surfaces and even these well-formed bones would snap.

There is a certain hosanna available to those who fold their umbrellas and accept whatever comes. The relentless downpour will baptize everyone to the point of drowning, but as the flood recedes, that which remains will be a sunlit robin patiently awaiting a worm.

Eyes For Eyes

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We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if mankind is to survive. –Albert Einstein

Little Ralphie slugged Little Lana in the stomach, and she fell. He punched her in the face and broke her nose. Blood spurted. She curled inward. He kicked and stomped on her leg. She screamed.

Adult responses:

  1. Yank Little Ralphie up and commence beating him.
  2. Drag Little Ralphie to the edge of town and stone him.
  3. Castrate Little Ralphie so he cannot reproduce his own kind.
  4. Let Little Lana do to Ralphie what was done unto her.
  5. Lock Little Ralphie up and while starving him to death, fine his parents, and give the money to Little Lana.

But wait. Little Ralphie had found Little Lana using a cattle prod on his beloved grandfather. Little Lana was howling with laughter as the grandfather twitched in his wheelchair and cried out for help. While torturing him, Little Lana taunted the grandfather. “You’re a worthless, helpless pile of shit. Pathetic. I hate you.”

Adult responses:

  1. Grab the cattle prod and begin shocking Little Lana.
  2. Cage Little Lana up.
  3. Sterilize Little Lana so she cannot produce children like herself.
  4. Roll the grandfather to a safe place and then shake Little Lana to death.
  5. Rape Little Lana to put her in her place.

But wait. Little Lana has already been raped. Repeatedly. By the grandfather, of course. And he’d just tried to pull her onto his lap, calling her his favorite slut, whispering that he was going to sell her to his neighbor. He said he had pictures of her woo-woo and she’d bring a decent price.

Adult responses:

Make a violent, erotic movie about the whole sequence. Wring hands. Donate to a charity. Introduce tariffs on pornography, fentanyl, and wheelchairs. Sell more guns. Fantasize living on another planet. Rape the grandfather.

Bam

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this whacked out,” my Coauthor observes.

“Is extermination the correct adult response to our species?” I snarl.

“Maybe yes. Maybe no. Remember, you’re just illusions of organized molecules,” Coauthor smiles.

“And sometimes, you’re just a Bad Idea.” I turn away. “This illusion of molecules is going to distract herself with something beautiful.”

“Excellent!” Bad Idea exclaims. “I’ll come with you.”

We kneel in the garden where a tulip has bloomed blood red and watch molecules shaped like Little Ralphie and Little Lana care for their offspring. I scream the names of the Baby Gods dead in Gaza and dread the adulthood of those who survive.

Methane continues to escape from the warming permafrost. Bullets fly. Bombs drop. Idiots rule. I dissipate into a momentary dream of justice. My Coauthor dissipates with me. Therein lies my only hope.

S’mores with Demons: An Easter Story

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“So, someone said you’re a mystic, huh?” an evil little bastard snarled, red eyes glowing. “There’s a special place in hell for people like you.”

I remembered the story of Pilate quizzing Jesus about being King of the Jews and how Jesus turned the question back. Then the sophisticated defense strategies of adolescence came to mind: If I’m a dumb ass you’re a dumb ass.

“No, you’re a mystic,” I said. I pulled my blanket tighter and dozed off. The wind howled its midnight discontent. I was where I wanted to be. Asleep.

But the earth continued turning, dawn arrived, and my sanctuary was greatly diminished.

An ancient walking stick helped me keep my balance as waves of morning hatred rushed in. I fought my way through the putrid sludge to an island where love was freely available with toast and coffee.

“The haters are doomed,” a sweet dog reassured me with the wag of its tail. “With so many self-destructive choices, lies, and pathologies, they’re going to lose.”

“But I don’t want them to lose,” I protested. “I want them to find their way through the Molasses Swamp and arrive at the Candy Castle with the rest of us.”

“Sure, you do,” my red-eyed bastard guffawed from across the table.

“No, seriously, I do,” I said.

“Ain’t gonna happen.” Her voice dripped with disdain. “Drop the hopes and prayers. Try introducing legislation.”

 “You can’t legislate forgiveness. Or reason. Or redemption,” I said. “You’re a fool.”

“That I am,” she said. “A fool for reality-based behaviors. That’s why I hate mystics of all stripes and colors.”

“You can hate all you want,” I said. “But we’ll love you back.” I was on my third piece of toast, feeling feisty and fit.

The red-eyed bastard screamed like the witch that Dorothy splashed as she doused the burning Scarecrow with water. I held her tight as she writhed.

“We’re going to love you back.” I repeated. And I meant it.

It’s hard to look down from the places we’ve been nailed and ask forgiveness for the gloating executioners, liars, lynchers, shooters, and those who’ve tied us to the stake. They don’t even want forgiveness. But revenge risks igniting the final blaze–the one that would burn the parched world down. Without absolution from the cooling waters of compassion, we’re lost.

The intense heat of an ongoing resurrection shimmered around my companion.

“Burn, baby, burn,” she yelled, spitting hot coals from her lips into a campfire fed by pruned branches.

I cheered her on. We sat hip to hip, watching the flames die down. We had everything we needed to make S’mores.

Escape

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Edvard Munch 1893


What makes you happy when you wake up alive?
You only need one, but you can name up to five.
The dog, your shoes, your home, or the sun?
A good cup of coffee? A cinnamon bun?

(The alphabet rotates through my mind as I search for words that rhyme, trying to escape the horror of the current holocausts. I slip into doggerel. Clever ditties. Slanted lines, good times, shallow sips through thin-set lips, the scream rising in the back of my throat.)

We’re a tiny planet floating in space,
killing each other at the usual pace.
A few are too rich, billions, too poor.
What, exactly, are we fighting for?

(I watch my fingers jump around the keyboard, my chest steadily rising and falling. How can I possibly live this day as if I’m entitled to all this good fortune? All this potential? There is Greenness ascending with a name that is on the tip of my tongue.)

Yesterday, the sky was so blue
I lay on my back with the privileged few
and gazed at infinity somewhat at ease
in my long conversation with rivers and trees.

(I’m increasingly able to see the end, but I don’t want to. It’s not a gift I requested. And I grasp the fallacies of simplistic faith with its tragic outcomes and cruel justifications for suffering. Which is what we do. We suffer. More than anything else, we suffer.)

Can I buy you a drink? The Trickster arrives.
Oh, hello, I say, and then break out in hives.
I’m sorry, I say. I don’t know what to do.
Oh stop, grins the Trickster. It’s not about you.

 (I’d like to believe that, but I’m stuck in my bones, and it is about me, at least for now. On the other hand, wouldn’t it be nice if the apparition of skin melted away more gracefully, and the scales fell from our eyes so we could behold our unformed substances mingling?)

What makes you ready to meet your own end?
The kindness of strangers, the love of a friend?
You can answer this once, or twice, or thrice.
But whatever you do, could you try to be nice?

(The Trickster nods. That’s a big ask, honey. It’s easy to crush and kill and lie and hoard. It’s tempting to pound your chest, bully others, and demand the best. But the minutes tick away regardless. I nod. Three crows land on the fence. They caw and nod as well.)

Vocabulary

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This morning, I’ve been making up words. Having the right word can be helpful in times like these. For instance, Ludiaucracy (loo-dee-awe-cracy): an ill-fated form of government led by the ludicrous. And Vengectomy: a surgical procedure necessary for the evolution of the human species. It involves removing the urge for revenge.

“Interesting,” the Universal Remote says. “What tools will we need to amputate revenge? And where is it located?”

“No idea. It doesn’t show up on X-rays, MRIs, or PET scans. I’ve even done cavity searches.” I grimace.

“What? You searched mouths? The stuff coming out of there can be toxic. I hope you washed your hands.”

“It was revolting. And I didn’t find the origins. Revenge is malignant, but the location is illusive. Maybe it’s untethered, slouching around the corpus at will. Or it might be an allergic response that floods the body with histamines and hate.”

Universal Remote makes a show of sharpening knives. “Good thing you thought of this Ectomy. I’ve always said vengeance was mine. I’ll find where it’s hiding, cut that entitled sucker out, and cauterize the wound. It doesn’t belong in the genome anymore. Probably never did.”

“Well, that should take care of that,” I roll my eyes and shudder, imagining the smell of my own scorched flesh. “And what’ll we do about the Ludiaucracy? Can we amputate that while you’re at it?”

“No. that’s more of a dietary problem,” Universal Remote says. “You’re going to be eating your just desserts for some time to come. There will be massive indigestion. Howling bowels. Ludiaucracies thrive on ignorance and greed—shameful abdications of compassion. They are darkening all the cities on all the hills.”

“Stop it!” I glare. “The voters have spoken. That ship has sailed.”

“Ah, maybe. But it isn’t seaworthy. The voters’ self-interests were not enlightened and are no longer connected to the circulatory system. Gangrene is setting in. I’m sorry. I’ve tried.”

The metaphors are making me dizzy, but I know we’re in very bad trouble. “Try harder,” I beg.

“No, you try harder. I’m Universal. And Remote. Hahahaha.”

“Could you stop that? I don’t like that guise. I’m frightened.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” the Voice of the Mother Ship whispers. It scoops me into Now. “Wow. You’ve gotten heavy!” she adds.

“So have you,” I sigh. “It’s the barnacles of billionaires. We’re listing to the far right.”

The Mother Ship nods. “Must be time for a little scraping. But let’s remember to protect the hull.”

“What’s the hull?” I ask.

“Scar tissue and tears. History and hope. Imperfect resistances standing arm-in-arm, candles lit, singing.”

“Got it,” I nod. “Let’s scrape.”