The scent of innocence, the vernacular of grace, written in the Mother Tongue
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...
How do you know you are loved? Does it mean you get everything you ever wanted? How do you prove your love to someone else? What in the heck is love anyway? Is it like porn? Do you know love when you see it? Feel it? Trust it? Will it? Choose it?
“Hello,” Love says. “Gaaa,” I say. “You’re not my grandma. Get away from me.” “Howdy there, little lady,” Love says with a swagger. “Don’t howdy me,” I snap. “I’m not your type.” “Find me. Trust me. Uncover me,” Love demands. “I can’t. I won’t. I don’t know how,” I shake my head, hands up, defensive.
“Good-bye,” Love says. “Where’re you going?” I ask, suddenly afraid. “Don’t know. Don’t care,” Love grins. “Want to ride along?” “How would I know what I want?” I ask. “Exactly,” Love nods.
Love settles on the couch. “Do you love anyone?” “I try,” I say. “But not very well, at least by your standards.” “And what are my standards?” Love feigns interest. I consider this for a long while. Love knits a blanket beside me, humming to herself.
“Well, endurance comes to mind,” I finally venture. The guess is flat. Two-dimensional. Endurance is not that sexy. “Good one,” Love says. “Say more.” “No, you say more,” I counter.
Love leaps up and begins a seductive belly dance. “Inward, outward. Yes. No. Not-you-ness. Enough. Letting go while hanging on. Balance. Acceptance. Sacrifice. Otherness. Oneness. Shall I go on?”
“Don’t bother,” I sigh. “It’s impossible.”
“Absolutely,” Love stops gyrating. “I adore that about myself. I’m a gorgeous trip to nowhere, a deceptively simple meal. Five sparrows with open mouths and winter on the horizon. I’m full of myself. Brimming, spilling, messy. I’m the first longing and the last drink.”
“Love,” I say plaintively. “There are so many cold days and crushed dreams. So many painful failures. Could I have that blanket when you’ve finished it?”
“No, honey,” Love says. “It’s not for you. You already have more blankets than you need.”
What? I am embarrassed. Outraged. My demons scream. The collective that I am rushes to the sea—the known and unknown, the just and unjust--intent on self-destruction. Intent on death. But Love calls to the heavens, and the entire crowd of me tumbles into the blue bowl of inverted sky.
Mick Jagger slides onto the curvilinear stage, clearly on a mission. “You can’t always get what you want,” he croons. I want to slap him silly but what’s the use? The truth is not his fault.
Oh, it’s so damn tempting to deny or excuse our own malice or mistakes, but this is a bad idea. Projecting failings onto enemies or loved ones doesn’t work, either. Deliberate unkindness or hidden imperfections cling to the soul and congeal into restrictive outer layers. As defensiveness dries in place, fault lines scar the surface. It often requires excruciating scraping to get back to original skin.
In my experience, it’s better to sit down and face those nasty shortcomings. I recommend having a dark beer in hand. I also make sure my Unifying Force is nearby, willing to listen and reason things through with me.
I usually lead with something like, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but lately, I may have been a little selfish, judgmental, and conniving.”
“Correct you if you’re wrong?” My Unifying Force bursts into belly-clutching gales of laughter. “Selfish, judgmental, and conniving?” She echoes my words between gasps for air. “Stop. You’re making me wet my pants.”
Sometimes, I use other words. Acknowledge other sins. But the ritual is the same. My Unifying Force hoots and snorts in mirth.
This is not infectious laughter. Nothing about this is funny. I don’t know why the Universe finds my confessions humorous, and I’m never sure whether to feel shame or claim vindication. I sit through the cosmic hilarity, setting my intentions, breathing, and yes, glaring and sweating a little.
The storm begins to subside, and I contemplate some form of forgiveness in exchange for another day. But I feel small. Diminished. I’m tempted to drown my sorrows, hop a freight train, or throw my puny body over a cliff. This is like transition time in birthing. Extreme dislocation.
Then, finally, the miracle. The punchline. The tonic. This sacrament is a circle dance. My shadow grabs my hand, and I remember the steps.
All the Unifying Forces sing lullabies to the babies, foxtrot around the graves, and dwell deep in the dung of human fallibilities. Beside us and within us, they shoulder the blame and share the exaltation. Best efforts fail. Bladders leak. Our fingernails are broken and unclean.
But this is how it’s meant to be. Who can tend a garden and stay perfectly pristine?
Sometimes, the Beyond and I find ourselves in agreement on human nature and human agency. And then we write a poem. WordPress makes poetic formatting a serious challenge, so we finally did a screenshot instead. Grandma Margaret often said, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” She didn’t add that the way would be rugged and nearly impassable sometimes–both in the realm of formatting AND in the realm of forgiving.
I was reading up on amoeba and discovered to my horror that there are brain-eating amoeba floating around in fresh water ready and eager to devour human grey matter. I have an active imagination. I think I let some in. They’ve eaten what I would have written. In their single-celled existence, they may have achieved world peace by simply following their destiny
I am neither single-celled nor invasive, but every fiber of my being and all 30 trillion cells are inflamed. Sometimes, I can grasp the interconnectivity of all things, but I don’t relate well to thieving neighbors, deadly viruses, fascism, or pastries made with refined sugar and bleached flour.
Most mornings I arrive at consciousness gradually, in disbelief at the insolence, ignorance, and greed snarling just outside our door. The warm blankets and the dent my body makes in the mattress form a Godlike exoskeleton that I am loathe to surrender.
I linger, considering amoeba reproduction. Under favorable conditions, the amoeba divides in two. When things aren’t favorable, the amoeba body produces around 200 spores and then disintegrates. Even those lucky enough to gorge on human brains ultimately disintegrate. Maybe they produce smarter spores. I don’t know. Who cares?
“OMG,” God laughs. “Are you trying for the worst set of excuses ever? You aren’t an amoeba, and there are none in your brain. Amoebas have very few choices. You have many.”
“That’s the problem,” I sigh. “Humans pretend to cherish freedom, but choices that require sacrifice are hard. It appears that many would rather trust the wealthy or have a Big Daddy Dictator make choices for us: Define the bad guys. Kill them. Reduce tax burdens, increase buying power and meet our every need because we’re special.”
“You aren’t an amoeba. I’m not the Big Breast in the Sky. Dictators are not benevolent. There are no easy answers. And it’s time to get up.”
This is true. It is time to get up. I don’t want to leave my safe space, but as the saying goes, you can’t take it with you.
I dress for the day and turn to God.
“You coming?” I ask her.
“Always,” she nods. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Dictator brains on toast,” I mumble.
God laughs. “Amoeba envy?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “Some days, it’s hard to be evolved.”
“Ha! Well, regression is always an option.” God slugs my shoulder. “But it’s more interesting to put one foot in front of the other and lean in.”
I am aware this means to lean into compassion, joy, and sacrifice. I grimace, stare into the abyss, and offer God more toast, but she’s already gone. I take one last bite and hurry to catch up.
“Why can’t people just admit when they’re wrong?” I asked Mr. Right. It was early, but the new day was already blemished by the news. I found him having coffee with entities from other galaxies. He was holding forth on various topics, especially focused on the fatal errors humans are making.
Mr. Right shrugged. “How would I know?” He turned to his comrades with a smile. “Any of you ever been wrong?”
“We thought we were wrong once, but then it turned out we were right,” the Pleiades joked. Everyone groaned.
My eyes were already watering from wildfire smoke and the consequences of hateful lies, but real tears of frustration rolled down my cheeks. I wiped them away, angry at myself and the awful fragility of rightness/wrongness and all other painfully destructive hierarchies and dichotomies we live within.
Mr. Right produced a handkerchief and gallantly handed it to me. I slapped it out of his hand, and he drew his gun.
“Take the hanky, bitch,” he said.
II
“Could I buy a little time?” I asked the cashier at the convenience store outside a national park. She was luminescent. Exhausted.
“Don’t I wish, honey?” she sighed. “We don’t stock perishables. How about some everlasting chips and a soda?”
I laughed. Then asked, “So, why are you here?”
“I have no idea,” she said, biting at a hangnail. “Anyways, what would you do if I could sell you some time?”
“Make things right,” I said.
“How?” she asked.
I could tell she did not expect an answer.
III
There are giant women making taffy in the kitchen. The Largest One smiles at me.
“Do you remember how hard it is to get the consistency right and judge when it’s cool enough to pull?” she asks.
I nod. Making taffy was my favorite childhood slumber party activity, but I often ended up with blisters.
“Well, sweetheart” she continues. “The truth is like taffy. The viscosity of the truth thickens due to internal friction. It’s difficult to know how to handle it.”
I stare down at my hands, recalling the scent of cinnamon and peppermint.
She continues. “The truth is sweet for those who forgive themselves, but it’s dangerous for the thinly defended.”
One of The Smaller Ones hands me a wad of taffy to pull. “Be careful,” she warns. “It’s still pretty hot.”
Our final pilgrimage to my favorite Goodwill was a resounding success, but it was twinged with the usual autumn sadness. My father died in the fall when I was nineteen. For whatever reasons, I began shopping at thrift stores shortly after. Maybe I needed to prove I could take care of myself. Or maybe I wanted to give discarded items one last chance at usefulness. A selective resurrection.
Whatever the origins, it’s a spiritual practice now.
Time ceases to exist as Original Source and I sort through bins of castoffs and misfits, keeping in mind the needs and tastes of everyone we love. The possibilities are endless. Our cups and our carts runneth over.
Unpacking is less rewarding. Original Source abdicates as I face the flood of questions:
How did this get in my cart? What, dry-clean only? Why didn’t I check this zipper? Where’s the other boot? Will this really fit her? Oh, dear, are scarves out of style? Aren’t they still worn by Germans and movie stars?
Then, the recriminations:
You have too much stuff. Red is not your color. You’re a hoarder, a second-hand capitalist. You idiot, here’s the other boot, and they’re both for the left foot. Five aprons will not make you a better cook. There’s no room for more coats. And this candle stinks!
Next, the defenses:
You can’t have too much hand sanitizer, and red looks better with a little blue. That stain might come out. It’s hard to find a gold lamé shawl when you need one or Halloween pajamas, for that matter. Single boots make quirky, boho vases, and if the electricity goes out at night, you can locate that candle by smell alone.
Finally, action:
It’s all sorted. Little futures line the halls like wallflowers. I sidle up, dressed for any occasion, hoping Someone will ask me to dance. My imagination has a touch of arthritis, but I can still feign elegance and squeeze my feet into glass slippers.
Here’s the truth: Glass slippers offer no support whatsoever and shatter easily.
The sound of breaking glass attracts Cinderella’s attention. She glares from her repurposed throne, fanning herself.
“No worries,” I tell her. “I’ll glue the shards into a collage and call it Happily Ever After.”
Prince Charming and I bring in the last load of laundry.
“Warm for this time of year,” he says, mopping his brow with a silk bandana.
Cinderella sashays over in a chiffon gown, and Prince Charming tenderly takes her hand. Original Source takes mine, and the orchestra begins playing my grandmother’s favorite waltz. I have no idea how close we are to midnight, but I don’t care.
Some books have forewords by famous or knowledgeable persons who offer praise and guidance about the author and the content of the book. You can often alleviate confusion if you read the foreword before diving into the story.
Wouldn’t it be great if we were all born with forewords? Most of us would welcome a little prophetic commentary about our potential coherence and skillsets, and of course, hints about who’s who, what to expect, the plot, subplots, and dead ends.
God clears her throat, leans one elbow on the counter for balance, and kicks off her crocs to rub the soles of her malodorous feet. I startle and stare at the unshapely, overweight, gray-haired specter in my kitchen.
“I’m beat,” she groans. “Cashiered all night. We were so slammed I hardly had time to pee.”
“Nice costume!” I sneer. “You look great in polyester and frump. Makes me want to fall down and worship you right now.”
“Go ahead, Ms. Sarcasm. But you might confuse people. It’s not in your storyline.”
“Maybe. But remember the grieving summer when we danced naked in that abandoned house? Or the night I laid flat in the hayfield, digging my fingers into October dirt, dedicating every ounce of my being to whatever good we could do?”
God lifts a skeptical eyebrow, limps to the living room, plops down on the reclining couch, and raises the footrest.
“Ah, that’s better,” she says. “How’s your supply of Budweiser?”
Somehow, I knew this would be the next request. Does God have a predictable plotline? My own narrative favors dark beer, but I have leftovers from recent guests.
“How about a dusty IPA?”
She shrugs. “Fine. And maybe a bite to eat?”.
I rustle up what I’ve got. She chugs the beer, gobbles a few cheesy crackers, and falls asleep, mouth slack, crumbs on her chin.
The snoring of the exhausted poor permeates the dawn. I stare at the fallen arches and callouses of every worker, every waitstaff, at faces twisted into smiles, hoping for generous tips. Hoping for a raise.
The rich are gathered in the dining room, eating from the hands of domesticated children. They help themselves to precious metals, surcharge fuel, food, and basic necessities, and savor the best of the milk and honey.
My humble guest rouses herself and pats the cushion beside her. I collapse into our shared weariness and contemplate my chances (or anyone’s chances) of writing a happy ending.
“It seems like the last chapters almost write themselves,” I mumble, my heart heavy.
“True. Though judicious editors can make a world of difference.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But most people hate being edited.”
“You don’t like being referred to as Myth and Ritual, do you?” I asked my friend, Myth and Ritual, as September settled around us.
“Not really,” Myth and Ritual answered. “But people do what they have to do. I do what I have to do. Very little is predetermined, but very little is conscious choice.”
This didn’t surprise me. I want to think people have choices. That God has choices. But it’s never that simple.
Take death, for example. Over 6,000 people will die during the hour I spend writing this morning. Not many of them will have chosen to die, but nonetheless, they will pass gently or violently, awake or asleep, young or old, into what humans call death.
“Yes, choice appears to be a rather limited concept,” I echoed. “So whose calling the shots?”
“Ah, there are so many friends invited to that party. There’s Immune System. She’s an erratic one. And those nasty twins, Greed and Poverty. Genetics is always primping in the nearest mirror, giving Folly and Fate the evil eye. War, Famine, and Pandemics all elbow in on the action. Even the occasional virus or mosquito.”
“Enough!” I shook my head. “Those are just excuses.”
“It’s all the same. When Myth or Ritual fail, we step in as the Mother of all Excuses.”
“I am absolutely not calling you that,” I said.
Myth and Ritual laughed. “Got a better idea?”
“Yeah. Today, I’m going to call you Sparky,” I said. “We’re all just walking tinder boxes. You could fan us into flames with a glance.”
“Sparky,” they said. “We like that.”
“I figured you would,” I said. “People chop you into human size chunks and then try to defend you. It’s volatile.”
“That’s outlandish and dangerous!” Sparky declared. “A true deity needs no defense.”
“But good things seem to need defending,” I said. “And bad things need explaining.”
“Yes.” Sparky looked smug. “A dialectic.”
“So, we’re back to Myth and Ritual,” I said.
Sparky frowned. “Maybe. But the horses are saddled. They know the way.”
“To where?” I asked, disoriented by all the non sequiturs.
“To fruition.” Sparky’s voice had mellowed to water. “To peace.”
“How will I know which one to ride?” I asked.
“Different times, different horses,” Sparky murmured. “They’ll come when you call them by name. Courage. Forgiveness. Compassion. Joy. And. . .” Sparky paused. “You might not like the last one.”
Outside my window, fiery autumn foliage was blowing around.
“It’s Acceptance, isn’t it?” I whispered.
The trees swayed and held their ground even as the wind stripped them bare.
Most of us doubt our worth or the value of what we do, and like heat-seeking missiles, we home in on praise, affirmations, and empathy.
Oh, yeah.
It feels so nice to be told we’re doing well, we’re special, we’re understood. Our slip-ups are forgiven. Our intentions are recognized as good even in the face of bad outcomes. Our efforts are applauded, our failures explained away
I had a grandmother who loved me like that.
“Too bad you didn’t turn out to be more like her,” Unkind Voice says in my head.
“Rough night?” I ask with a knowing smile. “Coffee?”
Unkind Voice sits stiffly, clearing her throat. Sipping. Breathing. Trying to accept the day as it is.
I can see the battle playing out in the muscles around her mouth and eyes. They soften and tighten, soften and tighten.
“Stop watching me,” she demands. Then clenches her teeth and adds, “I’m very strong. I’m stronger than most people realize. I’m very, very strong. No one has seen anyone stronger than me.”
I wink across the room to the rising sun, the petunias, the geraniums. I nod to the brown and steady hills and refill her cup. “You are very strong,” I agree. “Tough as nails.”
Then I consider my survival. What can I give away today? What’s something nice I could do? This usually helps.
“You have nothing to give,” Unkind Voice interrupts my internal recalibrations. “Nothing of substance. You’re a self-absorbed ingrate.”
For a split second, she has drained me. The saccharine sweetness of revenge threatens a toxic bloom in my soul. But no.
No.
The soothing voice of Grandmother rescues me. “You’re not perfect, sweetheart,” she reassures me. “But you’re better than this.”
I take heart. With intention, I recenter. This is not easy. In limited light, Grandmother stitches her patchwork quilt made of scraps I remember well. Grandfather gathers eggs and prepares breakfast for the cousins and hired hands.
The fruit is ripening, but the vines still need tending. They’re dry, and the weeds have not given up their greedy ways.
I give Unkind Voice a kiss on the cheek. She pulls back.
“Don’t feel bad,” I murmur. “You gave it your best shot, but I’m not going down.”
She howls and bangs her head on the table as I slip out to the larger world. “We’ll meet again tonight,” I add, leaving her to finish her own vicious meal.
The heat of the day engulfs me. As I tend the waning garden, I offer thanks and praise to all the sources of thanks and praise. I fill baskets and address envelopes to the future.
“Do you ever get tired of posing for selfies?” I asked the Creative Force of the Universe (CFU for short).
“Nah, I don’t mind selfies,” she answered, fluffing up some passing clouds as if she were gathering them for a pose. “But I struggle with the autographs. What can I possibly write that would make any difference? It’s all been said before.”
I shrugged. “Just tell people what they want to hear. Wish them well. That sort of thing.”
CFU shook her head. “I can’t. I feel this pressure to be honest.”
“And scare the poop out of them? Make them angry and defensive? Good plan.”
I gazed out the window, hoping CFU wasn’t planning to be honest with me anytime soon.
“Hey, the truth is more complex than that. Why do you always assume the worst?” she asked.
“It might be complex, but there are some hard realities that a lot of people, including me, don’t want to face. It’s the suffering and our role in all the troubles. And then, sometimes, when I work up the courage to tell the truth, it’s misunderstood or twisted and used against me.”
“I see your point,” CFU nodded. “That happens to me, too. It’s awful. And that’s exactly why I’m hesitant to do autographs.”
Another silence ensued.
“What are you doing at midnight?” she finally asked.
“Sleeping,” I answered in a cool voice.
It sounded like she was asking me out. We’ve dated off and on. It’s never gone well, but we keep trying.
“Too bad,” she said. “It’s going to be a clear night if you happen to be awake. I’ll be stargazing on the deck.
Almost despite myself, I slipped out at midnight and stared up into the fiery blanket of infinity.
“Hello, little consciousness!” CFU greeted me joyfully, throwing succulent September air around my shoulders. “I dressed up in case you decided to join me. We could take some selfies if you have the right equipment.”
“Well, I don’t,” I shrugged as I settled in. “My lenses are all cracked and distorted.”
“Who cares?” she exclaimed, flinging her arms so wide they sent a few stars tumbling. “I’ll remember this night forever.”
“Oh, good grief,” I laughed, tickled as hell. “Sometimes your exuberance is a little over the top.”
“I know,” she sighed dramatically. “Once in a while, the Northern Lights almost do me in.”
Short visits with an honest God 