Short visits with an honest God
The scent of innocence, the vernacular of grace, written in the Mother Tongue
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!!
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.”
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
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.
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.”
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.
(Unlikely)
(None of the above)
(Carrots)
(To hide)
(Does anyone love you? Do you love anyone, and if so, what exactly does that mean?)
(Pass)
(Run amok)
(Beer)
(Pretty much all of them)
(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.”
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.
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.”
In the stillness following a midnight storm
my eyes move across the surface of morning.
First light reveals innocent branches bent low
from the weight of the wet, unseasonable snow.
Her eyes follow mine.
At least the fire danger has dropped, She notes.
You could burn all those files and broken pallets now.
Yeah. If I could find them, I say, with some resentment.
There are discernable undulations on the surface,
but the sharp edges of old ideas and things gone wrong
are hidden under this pure white shawl,
and I’d rather leave them buried.
Oh, you can find them, She says.
And with some accelerant,
you could have one hell of a bonfire.
Perfect conditions for that kind of heat.
Where would I even begin?
I ask, but I don’t want an answer.
Twigs. Wadded up pages ripped from your journals.
Start with the small stuff.
Right, I echo. Start with the small stuff.
You’re going to ignore me, aren’t you? She smiles.
Yes, I am. I grin back.
I need to feed the chickens and shovel the walks.
Of course you do, She nods.
And I need to change the colors of the leaves.
She hands me an ancient paintbrush streaked with sunrise.
You’re welcome to help if you end up with extra time.
And in that moment, I see our destiny:
to be refracted like light
into pigments so beautiful and pure
we won’t recognize our hands anymore.
Chopping hollyhock skeletons in the wind guarantees a shower of fertilize seeds scattering every which way. Far too many will attempt to germinate no matter where they’ve landed.
Hollyhocks are cross-breeders. Mutators. They mix it up. It’s impossible to predict which colors they’ll sport if they successfully root and grow. Lavender, salmon, yellow, white, pink, red, and magenta. In moderation, they are spectacular, but like the unwanted and displaced everywhere, their attempts to flourish indiscriminately must be attenuated. This, I do not enjoy.
There is weariness in managing opportunists, weeds, and predators,
in seeking balance against exuberant or shameful excess.
There is tedium in finding words, choosing words, creating words.
Like hollyhock seeds, there are too many fertile words
jostling for position in our limited thoughts.
Especially in the fall, when everything is browning
and dropping and preparing for winter
as if another spring is guaranteed. As if lying is acceptable.
“Preheat the oven,” my Coauthor says. “We need to hurry.”
I glance at the clock and shake my head. “Too late. We’ll have to go without the bread.”
Disappointed and crabby, my Coauthor helps load the car. We put the sweet batter in the fridge for later baking and our resentments on hold for later resolution. Not every day can roll out smoothly. The smell of cinnamon cannot infuse every moment. No one lives forever.
That doesn’t stop us from blaming each other.
“God,” I say sternly. “You could’ve heated up the oven on your own.”
God glares out the window. We drive the muddy roads a little too fast, but we make it in time to be of help.
There is weariness in brushing the remaining strands of hair,
in mumbling hollow phrases of comfort.
There is tedium in searching for ways to say I love you,
fare thee well, and goodbye.
The first skiff of snow on the mountains
is the last gasp of the summer that promised never to end.
As the light wanes, the transformation of pleasant evenings
into the inevitable pitch-black night is softened
by a moon that is no longer out of reach.
Short visits with an honest God 