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 Big Bang

Rita Sommers-Flanagan12 Comments

The Big Bang slammed me awake last night. I leapt up, disoriented by the interplay of light and dark.

“Where’s that damn cloaking device?” The Voices of God bellowed as they rushed around the cosmos, causing huge dust storms and limited visibility. “There are incoming attributions and false narratives. Cheap bombs, shrapnel, black holes, and clusterfucks. Get under the bed and dig, baby, dig.”

In times like these, God never makes literal sense, but the urgency was palpable. I grabbed a robe and raced for the hills. Everything was coming apart. Suffering shimmered in the frigid air, obscuring the path, garbling the few words that meant anything.

The ark capsized. Creatures great and small swam to shore and thundered uphill behind me, trying to escape inbound tsunamis of ignorance and the cruel waves of degeneration. God’s hair was on fire, flames licking the heavens dry.

I tossed the cloaking device to the Creators and shouted, “Get out while you can.”

God disappeared into a flock of starlings that lifted from tree to sky, rejoicing. Their seamless undulations blocked the sun, blinding everyone below. Soldiers on both sides dropped their guns, and we wrapped ourselves in white. There was nothing left to do but lie flat and let the earth cradle our slim and innocent hopes.

To God, we are an exotic species, endangered and angular. We bend light and draw fire in unpredictable ways. As singularities, we’ve been extinct from the beginning, but in limited multiplicities, we eke out tenuous lives in tents pitched on the banks of an ever-rising river.

“Who are you?” a curly-haired child tugged on my sleeve; brown eyes luminescent. Green eyes, piercing. Blue eyes glinting black. The child was hungry but did not ask for food.

“What are you doing?” an old man demanded, his beard blazing red, his legs blown off. It seemed clear that I did not meet with his approval.

“Are you my father?” I whispered, frightened by the familiarity of it all. “Are you my child?”

The cloaking device deactivated. The scales fell from my eyes. The child ate. The old man laughed and slapped my back. The starlings landed and began nesting in the warm cleavages of Abraham’s lovers: Hagar; Sarah; Keturah. Other Mothers appeared: Adishakti; Mary; Kali; Maya; and of course, and always, Grandmother Eve.

“So many Mothers in one place,” I said. “You’re in big trouble.”

“I can handle it,” the Idea of God waved dismissively. “Go back to sleep.”

I grabbed the weathered hands and shook my head. “You’re going to need some help. I’m staying.”

Grandmother patted the bench beside her. “It won’t be long either way,” she smiled. “Suit yourself.”

The Soul is a Hand Dug Well

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This day begins thirsty, with snippy inner voices arguing
while I await the arrival of Some Words.

I am grateful for water.

We’re alive, but mostly liquid,
with skin so thin and porous, we’re always parched.

Clean water is rare and costly.

Some quench their thirst by lapping up the toxic surface run-off,
gamboling about as if impervious to poison.

Others sip from the bitter sponge, lifted to their lips
while they hang on self-inflicted crosses, arguing.

God arrives and sighs.

Listen, all you secret selves, all you conflicted creatures
fearfully hiding on easy street.

The soul is a hand dug well.

The way forward is always down, rocky and hot.
And at times, it will seem lonely. But you’re never digging alone.

Remember that. You’re never digging alone.

Be It Resolved

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“Hey, Atomic Invaders,” I said to some less well-known representatives from the Holy Collective. “In our miniscule corner of Your Vastness, a new year is upon us. Could you help me make some resolutions?”

“Why us?” the Atomic Invaders groaned in unison. “We’re busy being the better part of God.”

 “Ah, come on,” I glared. “You’re inscrutably tiny, dynamic, and mostly empty space. But you always act all big and determinate, so go ahead; boss me around.”

“You have no sense of proportion,” they said dismissively. “And no grasp of what it means to be empty. We need to take you shopping.”

Suddenly, we were in a giant box store, and I was afraid of their intentions. I unsheathed my glowing lightsaber and circled the Invaders, searching for a vulnerable place to stab, illuminate, or behead.

“Your footing is precarious,” the Invaders warned.  “And you should pinch your cheeks. You need to look like you’re worth saving.”

I hung my head. “I’m not sure I’m worth saving, and I don’t like it here. Everything costs more than I can afford.”

“Don’t be silly,” the Invaders said. “You’re in the wrong aisle.”

I looked up. Sure enough. I had wandered down the Aisle of Insistent Demands and Guaranteed Outcomes. Greedy shoppers yanked things from each other’s hands, spilling precious minutes all over the floor. I tried to back up, but it was slick and crowded.

“Pay it forward,” the Invaders advised.

I emptied my pockets, handed my coins to children, and followed the Atomic Invaders out the automatic door, where we sat ourselves down on a weathered bench with a view of the endless parking lot. The Atomic Invaders crossed their legs and threw their arms over each other’s shoulders.

“So, Ms. Empty Pockets, what shall we resolve?” they asked in a conciliatory tone.

I surveyed the lay of the land. “Smaller house, bigger shoes?”

The Atomic Invaders conferred among themselves, glancing at my feet.

“Yes,” they said as time sped forward, and the sun sank. “That’s an excellent plan. Sell what you can but keep what you must. The footing will not get less precarious.”

I felt resentful and sad. Not that long ago, I was the mountain goat hopping across rockslides, gracefully navigating the steepest slopes. I was the builder of ever-larger houses. Now I wear sensible shoes.

“How can you love diminishment?” I asked.

“Wrong word,” they said in cheery voices. “It’s transformation.”

“Sure it is,” I said sarcastically. “I’ll try to remember that.” I pulled on my large, stable boots to shovel the snow.

Christmas Aftermath

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As seasonal tributaries, the Humans are neither endpoints nor accidents. Because of this, the Humans often snarl in selfish indignation. The Gods snarl back and fling a flailing baby into a gaggle of haggling businessmen or a throng of women practicing self-defense.

The snarling ceases. The Gods remove a turban to swaddle the infant, and by yet another route, the rich young rulers resume their deadly journey home. Those on the continuum don purple robes, line up on the risers, and sing the hallelujah chorus at the top of their expansive lungs.

The Gods are not an elegant solution to the shrinkage of age, the drying of oranges or tomatoes, or the rancor of opportunities lost to love or hate. The Gods do not guarantee you’ll be safe on that ladder or the other side of consciousness.

The Humans call the Gods simplistic names, contort the Gods into shapes that looks like heaven, and attempt to squeeze the Gods into skulls, thickened with fear. But the Sheer Force of Life is hot and untouchable, eternally erupting, convulsing, and bringing forth.

In the bleak pre-dawn, I use my fingers to count anxieties and losses, but as morning arrives, I find my hands tickling the Child. I make faces at the fragrant Baby Jesus, gently rub the head of the Little Buddha nursing, and mark the calendar so I’ll remember when to plant potatoes. It’s already too late for garlic. And too dry.

The Humans are a comedy of errors and assumptions, but they also dance with gay abandon. They can be forgiving and hospitable. Sometimes, they prepare a room in the inn, choose the fatted calf for a barbeque, and offer the best wine to wayward guests and nasty neighbors.

The fault is neither in the stars nor the fallen Samaritan. The Sheer Force of Life can be brutally redemptive. The Humans are repeatedly fed unleavened bread, milk, and honey, white rice, brown rice, sticky rice, and the chewed fat of the fallen walrus. As the grapes of wrath are crushed, the mortal hands and feet turn purple, but the sacred fermentation continues with every holy birth.


https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/video/scientists-capture-first-light-big-bang/


A Thousand Hands

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A Thousand Hands woke me, waving feather dusters, exasperated. 
“We're forever cleaning up after you”
“That’s rich!” I said. “I could say the same about you.”
“Oh, don’t even try that ‘blame God’ thing. 
We’re not responsible for these terrible messes.”
“How about the raw material? Where’s all the dust come from?”
I asked. But I already knew.

A Thousand Hands grabbed my hands and stared at my palms. 
“We see a long, productive life. Children. Soulmate. Gardens and compost piles. 
Students. Eight or nine remodels. Trees. Books. Friends. 
Logs. Dogs. Pigs. Sticks. Stones…an unwieldy number of stones.”
I grinned and pulled my hands back to look for myself. 

A Thousand Hands turned palms up. I gasped.
“I see glaciers melting. The beautiful quaking of planets,” I said. 
“I see moons rising over the pockmarks of black holes and mass graves. 
There are streams of gleaming molecules ascending, 
my own and those of everything, ever.” 
I glanced skyward. “You aren’t safe in any way, are you?”

A Thousand Hands knit their fingers together, creating shelter over my head. 
Deep lines crisscrossed the firmament, blocking the ordinary sun. 
The only light remaining was the radioactive residue of the unrevealed.
“No. Not safe in any way,” A Thousand Hands agreed. 
Ominous shadows fell hard around the edges.
.
“I’m a little bit afraid,” I said.
“So are we,” the Hands admitted. “And weary to the bone. But we’re not giving up.”
“Why not?” I asked. “The messes are getting worse.”
“It’s the role-model thing,” they smiled. “We’re setting a good example.”

And it was evening. And it was morning. But I had lost count of the days.

Because I’m preoccupied about planning for the end, 
I’ve surveyed the old homestead 
and chosen a spot to decompose. 
But until recently, I was unaware 
that family pets were already buried there. 
Turns out, when the time comes, I’ll be surrounded by well-loved bones.

“You already are.” A Thousand Hands squeezed my corporeal shoulders, 
knuckles cracking so loud I thought the house had caught fire. 
“Now let’s finish cleaning so we have time to play.”

“Fine,” I said. “What shall we play?” 
“Handball,” They declared, gleefully slapping a thousand thighs.
“Not funny.” I shook my head.
“C’mon, sport,” They teased. “You’ll have the home court advantage.”

I nodded toward my rock collection. In the dead of winter, 
thin layers of ash collect on the rugged surfaces, blurring the subtle distinctions. 
We grabbed a thousand rags and scrubbed until the stones floated home
in interstellar joy.

"Time to play," the Hands declared. And I agreed. 
It was time to play.

Mean People

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Sitting with my half-beer and laptop after a bad night’s sleep puts me in touch with my lack of girth or influence, and I long to escape to Mexico or India or anywhere of color. I need the distraction of vibrancy.

Bullies and idiots are at the helm of the Mothership, humanity is sinking toward extinction, and I take up way too little space to make a difference. Mean people are grabbing whatever they want with impunity, but it’s  never enough. They will die hungry. I’m afraid we will all die hungry.

“Did you put meanness in our DNA?” I ask a gathering of Wiser Ones, among them the Wily Coyote, the Matriarch Elephant, the Eager Beaver, and the Seductive Holy Turkey Buzzard.

“Probably,” they admit. “Design flaw?”

“DUH!!” I exclaim. “How do you like it when someone slugs you in the gut? Twists your words? Belittles you? Steals your lunch money?”

They confer. I wait.

Finally, Mother Lion reports. “We don’t know if we like it. If someone is mean to us, we eat them. It’s all about transformation.”

“Yeah,” the Elder Sea Turtle adds. “They taste funny, but we hardly ever get sick.”

“Well, have I got a meal for you!” I declare. “A banquet.”

“Sorry. We’re not hungry,” they say. “Besides, we’re being deported.” They stampede away, kicking up golden heels, flapping iridescent wings.

If only mortals could exit like that, I say to myself. I envision a meal of roasted bully. Minced meanie. My stomach churns. Clearly, cannibalism isn’t the answer. But I do wish our short lives could end in kindness. Fulfilled.

I take another swig of the dimly lit substance I think of as soul. It’s dark and fermented. Various human mutations are duking it out in the roped-off ring of evolution. The meek always appear to be losing, but meekness has several adaptive attributes. Occasionally, bullies go down for the count, and the Referees call it for compassion.

When this happens, the Netherworld Pep Band strikes up a rousing rendition of Sweet Georgia Brown, and all manner of heavenly hosts storm the dance floor, shaking their booties, hooting with joy.

On these rare occasions, I dress myself in purple and try to squeeze through the eye of the needle to join the party, but the log in my eye is often too big.

“Let us help you,” the Little Bouncers offer.

If I manage to nod, my vision clears, and I am allowed to enter the cosmic celebration, regardless of how small I feel. Once there, I always notice that even the big are very, very small.

What to Pack

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What’s your favorite Bible verse? The Still Small Voices asked.

Are you crazy? I answered. Leave me alone.
May we suggest Father forgive them for they know not what they do?
No, you may not, I said. No.
How about Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord?
Depends, I said. What do you have in mind?

This is a fetus, not a child, sayeth the Lord. And this is a child, not a weapon. 
This planet is not a mercantile, and the least among you are starving.
You have access to clean water and compassion, but you’re choosing hate.
Vastly greedy fools are lifting glasses to their own demise. 
The lights are on, but soon, and very soon, no one will be home.

Do you think I am unaware of these things? I asked, the dog in my lap, warm.
 
You’ve gotten too big for your britches, They said. You make us laugh.
And you’ve gotten too small to matter, I answered. So go ahead. Laugh.
They began to sing. Let us laugh with the wren and walrus, the willow, the whale.
I had a sudden change of heart. Laugh with me, I begged.
Nah, They said. You’re not that funny.

But you said I made you laugh. You contradict yourselves.
That we do, the jovial Voices admitted. That we do.
And you’re obviously pleased with yourselves, I added.
That we are. The Voices agreed. That we are.
What about me? I whined. Can’t you be pleased with me?

Are you pleased with yourself? The Voices asked, sly as devils. Are you a forgiver?

But how do I forgive when no one is sorry? I asked, sullen.
They shrugged. The sky slipped from their shoulders, pooling blue at their feet.
All the world’s a stage, They said. And everyone stands naked at the end.
Forgiveness will flow like lava, burn like cheap bourbon,
and the party will end in ashes.

The airstrikes began again. The Voices gathered their belongings
and joined the surging throng of refugees and overburdened donkeys. 
Don’t go, I whispered.      Come with us, They said.     I shook my head,
but I knew eventually, I would. We are all fleeing something.
Some of us linger. Some look back. Some don’t.

My favorite is Jesus wept, I shouted at their vanishing outlines. Jesus wept.


The Light in Your Feet

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The properties of light are complex, like the bones in your feet.
All streams flow to the sea, so the wise ones grow more secretive. Discreet.
They disguise the halting steps, callouses, and short, distorted dreams.

It takes a practiced eye to spot the game and take aim. The cleanest shot
is often a long line of honking geese, gliding unaware of their bodies
as sustenance or warmth. Long necks slice thin air, innocent. Provocative.

Is the twinkle in God’s eye First Light? Does the venom of the snake create
the ache that comes from walking home? I mean the long ways home,
the ways of those beloved or betrayed, afraid to be together, afraid to be alone.

First rights of refusal come with dawn, but the last rights of twilight are bereft.
The fall of night allows us to exchange the little we have left,
and our eyes adjust so few of us plummet to sure death. Just yet.

The light you see at midnight has traveled a long time.
Its name is love, its only crime, refusing to be known. So beautiful,
the feet of those who bring good news, who bring the light.

Goose down fills our rainbow-colored coats, and our lamps are thus defiled
with scented oil. Winter has arrived across our shoulders. We’re blinded
by the light across the snow, but the demons in our feet are bound by joy.

So do not be afraid, you weary hobos. Our blessings are a song with bitter words.
We’re nourished by the plants we thought were weeds. Oh, may our days be long,
our feet be strong upon this land. This day. This light. These feet.


Amen

Come Hell or High Waters

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Even though my highly evolved frontal lobe allows me to weigh alternatives, it’s hard to live equivocally, think critically, or keep an open mind. It’s so tempting to explain away contradictions and cling to naïve or wrong-headed beliefs. I suspect most of us do this, come hell or high waters.

And at least in my case, Hell-or-Highwaters usually come, claiming they intend to save me from myself. They go by many names; Hell-or-Highwaters is not my favorite.

“So, what are we defending or pretending today?” they ask as they remove themselves from the sticky wicket of being defined and strip down to an array of naked, undulating possibilities.

“Stop it!” I demand, holding up my hand. “You’re making me sick.”

They shrug. “Nothing wrong with a good vomit now and then.”

“I’m going to have to kill you,” I respond, my voice cold and calm. “All of you.”

“We know, honey,” they nod. “Let’s get on with it.”

Their phony acquiescence is not helpful. “You know I can’t get on with it. I’m not brave enough to be an atheist.”

They seem to find this hilarious. Guffaws rise from the Laughing Buddha in the garden. The winds of Shakti howl. Allah and the Living River giggle like teenagers flirting at a kegger. The hills hold their quaking sides, and brilliant streaks of sunrise release into mirth with such force that the planet is knocked sideways.

This reaction adds insult to injury. “I NEED ONE SURE THING,” I bellow.

“We’re so sorry,” the Choir sings. “But we’re not a thing. We’re a process. A fragile set of evolving constructs. A far, far beyond.”

I make a hateful face and mock their words.

No response.

Of course, no response.

Somehow, I finish typing and lower my leg rest.

 “Let’s roll,” I say to the Iridescent Shadows.

Todd Beamer said those very words as he led the suicidal downing of Flight 93 on 9/11, and with that, the plane intended to be a weapon became a sacrifice. Lives were suddenly ended. Other lives, randomly prolonged. These truths are as brutal as the equations.

Fanatic fervency is not faith, and blind allegiance is not love. The energy we call God is embodied in intricate complexities and barely traceable connections. Thus, we are destined to live amid holy but ineffable words and die in the arms of unlikely possibilities.

“My, my, aren’t we profound today?” Yahweh jokes as the solitary black chicken scratches for worms in the compost. She’s new to the flock, relocated because her sister hens were all killed by a wily racoon. She survived. But understandably, she’s a little skittish.

The Humble Pinky

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Our planet and our better ways of being continue to evolve primarily because of pinky fingers bravely stuck in dangerous holes. The nasty waters of ignorance and greed are thus momentarily, but only momentarily, held at bay.

All dikes and dams eventually fail, and when they do, those trying to help are slimed, tossed about, and contaminated. Ground is lost and only rarely regained. If you wish to do some good in your lifetime, learn to swim in sewage.

“C’mere,” whispers the Supplier of All Pinkies. “Let me clean that mud off your face.”

“Probably not mud,” I admit, embarrassed. “It’s likely chocolate. I’ve been sucking down chocolate so fast that sometimes, I lose control. Good chocolate melts at body temperature.”

The Hound of Heaven licks my face and nods. “Yeah, it’s chocolate.”

I put my hands over my eyes, trying to make it all go away. No luck. The hands come down, palms up in surrender. I stare at the angular pinkies. Such humble, powerless appendages. On its own volition, the left pinky waves. My entire right arm twists to wave back.

The Universe gently takes both hands. Mortal bones glow in the piercing gaze of the Magnificent.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” I ask. “A very bad ship has sailed. We’re awash in human failings.”

“Yes, the ship has sailed,” the Universe agrees. “The ship has always sailed, and it’s always over. That’s not the question.”

Mournful cries of mothers and fathers rise like the scent of decomposing leaves, and the paths of least resistance are worn bare. Tall grass hides the bodies of soldiers, terrified and soon to be sacrificed.

“There are seasons,” the Universe says. “A time for swimming lessons. A time to swim.”

“I’ve had too many blessings,” I say, as the dark storm rolls in.

 I run for the shed filled with life jackets, fishing gear, matches, paper, wood, and goggles. The driving rain stings like bullets. I slip and fall. The shed lifts, breaks, and floats away.

“I got nothing,” I shriek to the fading Universe. “Nothing, nothing, nothing.” 

But in my hand, I find a chocolate bar. The label claims the cocao beans were not harvested by slaves.

“Eat it slowly and cry. Salt preserve things beyond their expiration date,” the Universe murmurs.

“That’s it?” I say, incredulous. This cannot be all. This cannot be right. I look down. I’ve grown very thin. The ancestors are relocating. They wave from distant horizons, inviting me along.

“I’m staying a while longer,” I yell. “I have opposable thumbs and a bit of chocolate left to savor.”  

Then I dog paddle into the murky water, hoping to find my goggles. Hoping to find my way.