Category: Visits with God

Survival of the Fittest

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

In the wild, aging primates are generally left to fend for themselves, and I’ve come to appreciate both the wisdom and peril in that. Today, I fended my way to the basement to get bread from the freezer and accepted the indignities of clinging to the handrail as I ascended to make toast.

I would rather be reporting something more exciting, like how we danced all night, or my next career moves, or even which types of lipstick I currently recommend, but poetic license aside, I don’t lie outright (very often).

The Coauthors are gentle this morning. They speak in the tongues of galaxies and seasons, and remind me that chicks will hatch in the spring and demand breakfast with wide-open beaks, and some nests will blow down, and some will not, and either way, the turquoise of the robin’s egg will fade. It was never meant to last.

“I remember my father’s eyes,” I tell them. “They were iridescent.”

“Yes. And do you know why they were so blue?” they ask.

“Not anymore,” I admit.

My own blue eyes tear up. The photos of five generations sucker punch me every time I use the stairs. There are fingerprints on most of them. And fingerprints don’t lie either.

I tell myself that we, the living, are roots, holding the dirt so it doesn’t fritter away in a seductive breeze or dissipate when the floods come; that we are the fruit of the season, the seeds of the future.

“No you’re not,” the Coauthors say. “You’re confused. Your fingers are on the wrong keys.” They aren’t being gentle anymore.

“No. Your fingers are on the wrong keys.” This is not much of a defense, but it causes the Coauthors to back away. An eerie poem asserts itself.

Sirens we have heard on high
singing sweetly o’re the plains
of money and supreme success. 
The star-struck mountains 
crumble at their feet. 
Through the holes 
in the fabric of my universe, 
the years drift by, 
challenges looming, 
fears lit by the moon
as it rises in the gathering night.

“Wait! I don’t think my confusion is entirely my fault, keys or no keys,” I tell the retreating Coauthors.

“And we aren’t blaming you!” they shout as they dive into an orbiting kaleidoscope of swirling geodes, crystals, and gems, and break into unearthly harmonies. Nothing anywhere near us is smooth, black, or white.

“But do I have a purpose?” I shout back.

“Yes and no,” they sing. “But you ask good questions, honey. Keep asking.”

Photo credit: Vance and/or Deborah Drain

Awakened by a Petulant God

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

“Hey, are you aware that we cut our teeth on climate change and invented belly fat as a little joke?” A Pouty Apparition startled me awake. I moaned. Petulant Voices chimed in, nodding. “We deserve a good laugh now and then, don’t we?”

I rolled out of bed and groped my way to the kitchen, fighting off the vertigo of a long life. People need sustenance before engaging in any meaningful way with a Peevish Universe.

Out the window, the ice-edged river flowed by while the coffee brewed. Petulant Voices started singing the national anthem. Dawn reversed itself as night rolled back in, and bombs bursting in air gave just enough light to locate the flag. A fierce Wind ripped it down and draped Old Glory across the backs of shivering calves being rounded up for slaughter. The Voices kept singing, “O’er the land of the free…”.

“Could you bring it down a notch?” I pleaded. This was not the kind of God any sane person would willingly deal with, but was there a choice?

“Of course and of course,” they declared. “There’s always a choice.”

An abrupt, unnerving calm settled as the Wind died down and the Voices faded into throngs of those silenced by extinction.

But it wasn’t over. “Don’t mind us,” they muttered. “We’ll just perch on this rock while you feed your face.”

I did not look up.

“We’ll just take a dip in the swimming hole while you guzzle beer.”

I rolled my eyes.

The Voices sighed in an elaborate show of patience. “We’ll just listen to a podcast while you get dressed.”

I shrugged, trying to keep my distance and hold myself together.

The Voices changed tactics and belted out a new song. A holiday favorite. “Do you hear what I hear?”

That did it. I gave up the pretense of sufficiency, looked into the dark eyes of death and bad choices, and said, “No. I do not hear what you hear. I do not see what you see. I do not know what you know. Would you mind leaving me alone now?”

“Not at all.” The Voices became the murmur of beating wings over untouched land, and finally, I could hear myself think.

“Come, let us reason together,” I said to what was left of myself.

“Oh, this ought to be good,” the Voices snickered. “Mind if we listen in?”

MIDWEEK SURPRISE

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

You can now order this book for $13.99 on our favorite giant company’s website.

What a nice gift idea. What a great way to welcome another year. What a smart way to remember your favorites…

I’ll happily be reminding you of this in coming posts. In the meantime, stay warm. Find peace. And partake of the NOW.

Thank you!!!

Rita

PS: When I try to put a link to AMAZON, it doesn’t something odd. Google Amazon, when on the page that lets you search, type in my name as author….and Good Luck!! https://www.amazon.com/Whos-What-Starlight-Might-Skin/dp/B0G6WBX1L1/ref=sr_1_1?crid=35VTKWYK6CB29&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9._c8JOXCmYORl45-wR_qRk4GejZrB94jck–pEo7sdm45DkVv73jYfl6YTZWBNIVEIvUtp1YQwXcqV0iSO-C7Yc6DCFDYShWBX4El6Zv-7ECqIF8LVZPz9DZ3gVPkDbyIZrXRCqC7S-pHDV6gxFQQVkUoIoiTm2EH2oKY88lR7Wtys_51-e1GA1sjVzD6lCNr5V_VkfmbsQCr_OkEyqn4_XlDpe0EoNbR52PVu3VnlhE.Z40_c0t3A_LSGu7jrktB26gF7XrB9_MkfjTt__uP5A4&dib_tag=se&keywords=rita+sommers+flanagan+book&qid=1766250997&sprefix=rita+sommers+flanagan%2Caps%2C195&sr=8-1

Dysfunction at the Pearly Gates

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Due to recent excessive flooding, the gates of heaven have rusted open. Many are desperately trying to push them shut, but those damn gates won’t budge. I’ve heard that the administration plans to soak them in petroleum until the hinges loosen up and the wrong sort can be excluded again.

But for now, carcasses are rolling in unjudged and unimpeded except for the extra stars being glued to the crowns of those who were murdered, tortured, raped, or starved to death. These bodies often come in so emaciated or mutilated that they can’t be identified. Luckily, the Coauthor has published at least one story with every last one of them. These improbable tales of love, loss, and triumph provide guidance for the transformation of their bones. Even the shortest of stories, even the lowliest of lives.

The corpses of the blithely blessed, the perpetrators, monsters, and the enormously greedy are arriving too, but they’re receiving only standard allocations of stars. And no wings. Rumor has it that they’re trying to produce their own private stars and are threatening steep tariffs on feathers and halos.

“Don’t worry,” the Coauthor tells me. “Soon enough, it won’t matter. They’re making fake stars from rare earth elements and unfortunately, your planet is already on life support from all that extraction. All those wars. It won’t be long now.”

“Oh, God!” I exclaim. “Can’t you chip through the rust and slam those gates shut?”

My Coauthor looks at me with sad eyes. “Et tu, Brute?”

“What do you mean?” I demand, but I know exactly what she means, and I hate it. Liars and con men are trashing this beautiful earth. I don’t want justice, I want revenge. People I love have been treated unfairly. I don’t want mercy. I want revenge.

Revenge grows aggressively in the dark waters of the wounded, indignant heart. If you hurt me, I’ll hurt you. If you survive, you’ll hurt me worse, and so it goes, even unto death. One of us will go to hell. And then the other. It’s possible to break the cycle, but forgiveness is something most of us find difficult if not intolerable.

“Ah, maybe leave those gates open,” I mumble. “Afterall, we’re only human.”  

The Coauthor turns her palms up in a gesture of helplessness.

“So true,” she says. “But in this iteration, you’re all I’ve got. And that just kills me. Any chance you could put on your Big Girl pants?”

“I don’t remember how.”

The Coauthor looks at me skeptically. “One leg at a time,” she says. “And hold someone’s hand if you need to. Balance is important.”

Board Meeting

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Just before the holidays, my Selves call our annual board meeting. Attendance is mandatory. In years past, the little ones stayed outside to play, but now the young at heart hold prominent positions and are often honored with songs or gifts.

Strong coffee, milkshakes, dark beer, green smoothies, herbal tea, and vast amounts of filtered water are available all day and into the night. Everyone brings a favorite dish to share. Unless by choice, no one goes hungry, but Healthy Self can be a little picky.

We begin by sharing things we’re grateful for. Then Little Miss Despair gives her yearly guilt-inducing speech about worldwide needs and horrors. The weeping and rending of outer garments is built into the schedule. It isn’t pleasant, but the wiser among us insist that atrocities be witnessed and spoken of. Besides, Righteous Recycler gathers the scraps of sackcloth and makes them into quilts or collages. Nothing goes to waste.

My few Ascendent Selves have Coauthors who take notes throughout the proceedings. They sip expensive wine and nibble on sweetbreads (the pancreas or thymus glands of young animals). Few of us are enamored of sweetbreads or veal, but then few of us are vegan either. We face our hypocrisies bravely.

Historically, there were multitudes at the table, but my numbers are dwindling. The attrition of Selves is always on the agenda. We frame it as positively as we can: Fewer mouths to feed and minds to tend.

The Coauthors neither dwindle nor diminish. If an Ascendent Self fades or disappears, they choose another to ascend. Sometimes, they disrupt the meeting by waving their holy hands until called upon. For instance, last year they took the floor.

“Fantasies of Fame has given up the Ghost,” they called out. “We nominate Still Has Her Teeth.”

Awkward discussion ensued. Someone moved that we buy her an electric toothbrush. Motion carried. Still Has Her Teeth and her Coauthor are now major players in the Ascendent Selves subcommittee assigned to ride herd on the What the Hell triplets.

Compassion and Self-sacrifice often need to leave early due to utter exhaustion. Their Coauthors carry them to their vehicles and drive them home. This is good because the Coauthors have far better night vision than most of my Selves. I’m Confused  and Ms. Know-it-all can be annoying backseat drivers, but even in blizzard conditions, we try not to grab the wheel.

“Guard rails are a matter of the heart,” the Coauthors remind us passengers. They open the doors and bow like the classy chauffeurs of the rich and famous. Those of us who are able stumble home to rest, determined to face another year standing as tall as nature allows.

Drinking Water in the Dark

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Drinking Water in the Dark

No one is ever fully embodied, hydrated, or sure of the way. We cope by using various hilarious defenses, but the joke is on us. And most of the time, it does not seem all that funny.

One foot, then the other. One meal, then the next. One face melting in your hands. Your own two hands. You do what you can, which should be enough, but it’s never enough.

Regrouping

Consider the options. Choose two or three and try them on. Personally, I like that purple gown, but the itchy wool sweater will always be available. Jump suits are impractical, especially for the aged or those too young for zippers.

You can carve the turkey or carve your name into a place that is mistakenly called history. But remember you are surrounded by a raging sea. Saltwater makes most choices irrelevant.

Getting Along

 Give away what you can. Keep what you must. Break bread not promises. Find yourself out walking with a colorful umbrella and murmur thanks to the Makers of Rain. Make fun of your ulterior motives and make light of the pain.

Take the heavier loads apart and see what can be shifted. Carry the burdens wisely and be mindful of your knees. You weren’t born yesterday.

Circling Back

As you were, so shall you never be again. Someday, you will touch your chest and notice that you no longer exist in any meaningful way. The relief will be palpable. Your exile, over. Your failings, forgiven.

No one is the best at anything for long, but the Choreographer loves imperfection, raw emotions, and pods of dolphins who, like us, are doomed but defiant.

Shades of Gray

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments 

Most people hate going gray and refuse to admit that their wits 
have begun to wander.
 
No one loves fading to transparency, reduced to rustling air 
in the back of the room.

No one enjoys not knowing. Uncertainty is worse 
than being dead wrong.
 
So we color up, seeking a visible place amongst two trillion galaxies
in the observable universe.   

“You’re blah blah blahing again,” the Gaping Mouth of the Cosmos says. 
“So bite me,” I snap. 
“Let us consider gray,” Gaping Mouth suggests.
“I don’t like gray,” I say. “I’m more comfortable with clarity.”

“I know,” Gaping Mouth says. “And that’s a problem 
because gray is illuminance-dependent, ambivalent, and courageous. 
Gray underbellies the vivid streaks of sunset
that temporarily take possession of the sky.”

I glare, clinging hard to yellow.
“Are you aware of the opponent process theory?” I ask.
“In the recesses of the retina, certain cells stimulate one color 
and inhibit its opponent. I believe this explains afterimages. 
And Christmas.”

Gales of laughter issue from the Gaping Mouth 
and all evidence of right or wrong blows away.
Leaves of green turn red and then disintegrate.

The sun is gone. I am alone and afraid.

When the galactic glee finally dies down, Gaping Mouth closes to a Gaping Grin. 
Blood red lips surround pure white teeth gleaming like stars in the blackest sky.

“Darling,” the Gaping Grin whispers as crimson lips pucker 
and kiss the edges of my soul. “It will help if you remember 
the transformations necessary to make light.”

IQ Test

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

If children ask for bread, do you give them a stone?

Meditation isn’t easy. Most mornings, I prefer monkey mind. Trying to control the breath makes me claustrophobic. Panic arises, and the Coauthor has to dance into the void and tickle my brain to save me from sinking into useless rants and bitter condemnations.

“How about we do an IQ test to help you get centered?” she suggests in a beguiling voice. “We’ll pretend there are no wrong answers.”

“Or we could pretend there are no right answers,” I snipe back.

“You’ve clearly lost the beat,” she says, and shoves me into an ancient classroom rapidly filling with Ethereal Beings.

 “Please find a seat,” she commands, tapping a baton on her podium. “I’ll read the questions. You may answer telepathically if you’d like.”

She begins.

  • If you lower yourself into a hot tub filled with bliss, and luxuriate until you completely dissolve, will the soup of your soul be a positive addition to the mix?

(Unlikely)

  • Do you gaze at youth and beauty with envy, spite, or joy? If the nubile youngsters gaze back, do you nod modestly or preen as if you’re still attractive?

(None of the above)

  • Would you rather build a fire, harvest carrots, or watch someone get murdered or raped on TV, assuming justice is eventually served?

(Carrots)

  • Why would someone invent a color that others can’t even see?

(To hide)

(Does anyone love you? Do you love anyone, and if so, what exactly does that mean?)

(Pass)

  • When the familiar collapses, will you run amok, join the choir, or sidle uphill to watch?

(Run amok)

  • Do you prefer approval or adventure? Acrimony or accolades? Whiskey or vodka? Breastmilk or beer?

(Beer)

  • Which moral platitudes cause you to choke on your whole wheat pasta?

(Pretty much all of them)

  • How often do you wash your hair or clean the wax from your misshapen ears?

(None of your business)

(If anyone does love you, or if you do love anyone, have you prepared for the next holocaust? Do you bake the occasional gluten-free pie?)

“Enough!” the Ethereal Beings yell in mock protest. “There’s real work to do.”

The Coauthor winks. “And what might that be?”

“Feed the hungry, silly.” They march out, laughing and singing, arms laden with bread. I remain seated in the last row, deep within the bowels of discordant realities, soaking in the terrifying harmonies of simple truths. My heart is pounding. I remind myself to breathe with my diaphragm.

The Coauthor motions me forward, takes my pulse, and hands me a drum. “Here you go, Maestro. Go find a parade.”

An Ode to Assemblage

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments 

In my latest arrangement, Ms. Piggy flirts 
with the dirty old man. She leans back, at ease
on the sheepskin rug, legs crossed. Seductive. 
The ICE agent, the Lamb, and Nemo bear witness, pleased

with their soft contradictions, thus suggesting there’s a God.

For most of us, it really doesn’t matter.
The packing has begun. Be sure to take out the trash 
before your ride arrives
to drive you to the Pearly Gates.

In the meantime, we should all be gluing agates and bones 
to broken glass, carefully framing what we use.
Have you made the acquaintance of sticks and stones?
Their suspended animation is a ruse. 

We are all embodied ashes. 
We are all embodied dust.
It’s what we think we know that keeps us going
and what we throw away that tells the truth.

We must sand the imperfections and dig the soft decay
from the twisted roots and branches we’ve dragged in.
The storm creates a crazy kind of hunger in our guts.
This shale with tiny fossils is no match for vicious wind.

So let us wander to the busy beastly kitchen 
and scrounge for scraps we can eat and comprehend. 
When leftovers are reheated, they become 
more than when they started, and there’ll never be an end.

Julian of Norwich is seated at our table.
All shall be well, and all shall be well,
And all manner of things shall be well, 
she tells our inner selves.

That which falls apart shall reassemble. Ashes cleanse the glass
and enhance the unruly garden we call home.
And when the holy storms die down, dust settles into sediment,
congealing under pressure back to stone.

Missionary Position

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Certain faith systems send out missionaries to convert others to their way of thinking, and sometimes it works. Believers beget believers. This has been going for a very long time.

As a species, we search for meaning. And we want to belong. It’s far easier to convert or cling to a set of beliefs that guide and justify our behaviors than it is to be open, kind, and accepting. Some questions simply cannot be answered on this side of existence.

My Coauthor nods in agreement. This surprises me. I smile and begin making breakfast.

“When’s your next mission?” he asks in an innocent voice.  “And which bibles shall we print up?”

I should have known there’d be some smartass dimension to deal with.

“I’m no missionary,” I snap. “I’m a ‘live and let live’ kind of gal.”

My Coauthor cracks up. “In your dreams, Bossypants.”

“Ah, c’mon,” I protest. “It’s obvious there are better or worse ways to live. But I don’t insist. I don’t even shame people. . . very often.”

“But do you love them?”

I shrug. “What’s love?”

“A precarious tightrope that ends in a certain kind of death.”

“Scrambled or over easy?”

“Over easy, please.”

I serve the fertile eggs and sprouted wheat toast. We chew thoughtfully.

I break the silence in an uneasy voice. “I don’t know much about that precarious tightrope, but I do know something about death.”

“You know very little about death.”

“More coffee?”

“Yes, thanks. And feel free. Tell me what you know about death.”

My hand trembles. I refill his cup a little past the brim.

“I’ve been bedside of those passing. I’ve watched wasps writhe. Chard wilt. Bullets to the head of predators. Shovel to the neck of the snake. I’ve watched the light depart.”

The Coauthor nods. “And tell me what you know about love.”

My words fly away. I bow my head. I am the writhing wasp. The beheaded snake. The martyred lamb. The poisoned earth.

 My Coauthor is the dark night in whom I swim and drown. Food withheld, I starve. The constant laying down and taking up of life roils the waters.

 I am a missionary unto myself, but there is fluidity to my position. My body. My blood. Complicit and compliant. The most reluctant sacrifice you’d ever want to meet. The Coauthor is my broken heart, still beating.

I lift my eyes. A spectacular sunrise yanks me to the window and wraps me in the membranes of an apricot sky.

“Today.” I finally whisper. “Today is all I know about love.”