Category: Visits with God

Big Comes By

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

As great chunks of what we’ve known to be good in our community, country, and world continue to crumble, grief and disbelief have paralyzed me. My Friend, Big, comes by to offer his shoulder to cry on, his gut to punch, his eye to blacken, his body to fold into.

“Too late, Big,” I shake my head. “They’ve got us this time. I’m giving up. It’s over.”

“Who’s got us?” Big demands, incredulous at my surrender.

“The demonic forces of primal instincts. They’ve won.”

Big grimaces. “Yeah. Everyone fears being rejected from the herd. I thought adding same-sex attractions and transgendered hearts to the mix would do the trick. I love continuums. You realize mutations, inclusion, and diversity are the heart of evolution, right?”

“No, we don’t realize that. In fact, we’ve made up commandments that keep everyone insecure and judgmental. Deep down, no one is sure their genitals are adequate. Thus, the thrill of the chase. Hatred. Domination. It’s all on flagrant display. It’s killing us.”

“Come here, Little,” Big says. “You’re sad. How about we make some lists?”

“What kind of lists?” I ask, wary.

“Ah, maybe a nice list of daily delights. Or generous things you could do today.”

My insides explode.

“GET OUT YOU FECKLESS FOOL!” I shout.

Big laughs. “Or maybe a list of numbers you could call to protest? Or signs to carry when you march?”

“OUT!” I stomp my foot.

“A list of gifts you could give your enemies?”

My eyes are blazing, my fuses blown.

Big raises his eyebrows and pounds a facetious fist. “Okay, darling.  How about a hitlist of humans we could sterilize, or drug and relocate?”

“Now you’re talking!” I yell, punch the air, . . . and burst into tears. “But my knives are dull,” I sob, impotence tightening around my neck. “Big, we’re lost. We’re really lost.”

Big steps way, way back and throws his arms around the dying planet. His breasts swell. He nurses the starving and anoints the suffering with oil. Dark children from the Cradle of Humanity stare into the abyss forming around us.

“Little,” Big says with a dramatic sigh. “I’m gonna miss this place.”

My jaw drops. Big folding? This can’t be true. He’s up to something.

“Me, too, Big. I’ll miss it too,” I counter, sly-eyed.

“Didn’t see that coming,” Big admits. “I thought pretending to give up would make you do something.”

“Two can play that game.” I say, proud of calling his bluff.

“Now what?” Big asks.

“Maybe I should buy my enemies more guns.” I say, grinning.

“Good one,” Big laughs and slaps his thigh so hard the planets realign. “But no.”

Attention!!

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“Folks, could I have your attention, please?”

This is a request you’ll never hear from The Evolutionary Force of the Universe. She won’t tap a glass or clap her hands. She won’t shout, whistle, or condescend to doing outlandish things. She won’t maneuver for clicks, and she’ll never go viral. She operates barely above discernable decibel levels.

She and I routinely argue about this damn reticence. “If you’re not going to grab the spotlight, speed things up, and save us, why don’t you just drop a cosmic bomb and get this extinction over with?” I demand.

“No can do,” she whispers from a pile of prehistoric bones. “I’m too busy.” She shakes the rug near the stove, and a cloud of cockroaches scuttle into the room.

“What the…?” I yell, jumping on the couch.

Evolution laughs. “They love an audience when they’re showing off.”

I am repulsed.

She continues to chuckle. “Paying attention is a powerful swing of energy.”

“So attention is a good thing?”

“Depends on the reasons and seeker,” she said. “That which you pay attention to grows. And most of you need attention because you’re feeling your way along. Attention is a feedback loop.”

In my mind, I climb on stage and begin to speak from the podium of my limited understandings. A curious quiet creeps over the crowd. I have their rapt attention. For one glorious moment, I feel fantastic. But then the fickle crowd begins to leave.

“Boring,” they pronounce as they take their attention elsewhere.

Give it back!  I scream. Give me your fawning attention. Or horrified attention. Any attention will do. I need it. I deserve it.

To my credit, even in my fantasy, I don’t stoop to lies or belittling anyone. I don’t threaten or seduce, but I’m sorely tempted.

I slap my face to bring myself back. It hurts. Withdrawal can be hell.

“See why I avoid the limelight?” The Evolutionary Force of the Universe asks. “Attention is addictive. It’s a false reassurance of importance. Managing attention is a huge responsibility, both seeking and giving. Cockroaches do okay with it, but they’ve had millions of years to practice. For humans, Attention-Seeking-Disorder is extremely dangerous. It can seriously damage the creative process. It mangles the conscience and kills the spirit.”

“But it’s so delicious,” I admit, still coming down from my imagined high. “Don’t you love those choirs and cathedrals? Synagogues and mosques?”

“Oh! Those aren’t mine!” Evolutionary Force says, shocked at the thought. “I don’t play to the crowd. I’m the still, small voice. The revealings of microscope and telescope. I’m the sacred welcome at the warm and modest fire.”

Tallies

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments 

How many pots have you scorched in pursuit 
of the good life, warm soup, or steamed greens? 
No worries. You’re often distracted by sparkling words.

How many scrapes and bruises have you endured 
because of hasty departures or overpacked plans? No sweat. 
You thought you could cut corners that cannot be cut.

Is your fastidious loading of the dishwasher 
a point of pride or a place to hide
because the terrain of shame is so steep?

You polish your resentments like silver. This isn't wise.
Pack them up and drag them to town. Melt them down.
The Blacksmith turns everything into serving bowls.

Conjure up some joy. Old is inescapable.
Young is no one’s fault. Apologize when you recognize
that your memories are wrong. Gently move along.

How many times must you be reminded
that only love is worth the extra weight?
One more time, you plead. One more time.

But what is love? A tally that tips the scales?
Count the stars in the heavens, the hairs on your head. 
Map the terrain of your body. Make a schema of your heart,

and when your beleaguered soul demands a list 
of what you’ve done that matters,
give it a cup of something warm and curl up for a nap.


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

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 
 
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

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

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.

The Light in Your Feet

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments


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