The Coming of the Winter

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments 

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.

What Rapture Really Looks Like

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

The Holy Intruder just elbowed into my psyche and is taking up precious cognitive space usually reserved for judging others, feeling sorry for myself, nursing grudges and disappointments, or composing acerbic speeches to have ready when forced to engage with stupidity.

“Let it go,” Intruder whispers. “Nothing matters.”

“You’re wrong,” I whisper back. “What about shooters, liars, and war?”

“Exactly,” Intruder nods. “What about them? In the end, they will be Nothing.”

“All that suffering. All those dead. All that fucking shoot-em-up big truck lunacy? You’re wrong. This can’t be the way. It matters.”

“Okay. Fine. It matters. And it doesn’t. The guest list keeps growing. Atoms, neutrinos, critical masses, haters, and innocent wisps of life–I’m building bigger ballrooms all the time. Biggest ballrooms anyone’s ever seen.” Intruder grins.

“NOT FUNNY,” I yell as I run for the river.

In a frenzy, I dig newly exposed rocks out of the cracked riverbed to make higher walls for my labyrinth. Here among brittle, twisted roots and silent spiders, I can scream. Here I can hide and pretend. Here I can beg the Force of Life to get it over with quickly. The great decline is upon us.

Intruder appears with a platter of caramel apples and an entourage of angels and demons.

She says, “To arrive beyond, you must love the contradictions. Swim in the yins and yangs, square pegs, round holes, turning and tipping points, collaboratives, kibbutzim, and killing fields.”

These words threaten to crack me open, but I resist. Like a young Palestinian, all I have is rocks to defend myself. With what’s left of my throwing arm, I pelt her without mercy.

The Holy Intruder kneels, naked. I throw and throw. Welts rise; bruises turn black and purple. She waves a million arms in surrender, bows her head, and closes her many eyes. The demons surround the body and tend to her wounds, but it’s over. The angels and I link arms and dance the Hora. “Hava Nagila,” we shout. “Let us rejoice.”

She awakens into seven Celtic witches of great beauty; their melodies and harmonies take flesh, burning bright and gentle against the coming night.

We are the fatted calves. We are the scapegoats dashing for the wilderness. Burdened by the vile sins of our kind, we run amok. The Holy Intruder runs with us, surrounds us, and turns the stampeding masses toward dawn. We are one ascendent mass of punctured tires and chromosomal abnormalities.

The escape route is circular. We’re in the parade whether we like it or not. The Holy Intruder lifts the baton, and we’re off. It appears to be  another day.

Here and Now

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments 





In front of me, red curtains, 47 paint brushes, and a few years.

Alongside, turquoise drapes too long for the window wells,
a boiled skull, three wishbones, a pink phone, 
and the idea that I am loved.

Behind me, a life. 

Around me, The Idea loosely wrapped, permissive.
Another fall day. Chilly. Firewood stacked, dry and reassuring,
not necessary yet because

I have added layers. A down vest. Scarves.

If you read these lines and do not take stock
I’ve not reached my intended audience.
This is not uncommon. Perhaps there are too many

double negatives.

Above me, asbestos held in place by sheetrock.
Sky held in place by rain.
Gates flung open, releasing all the promises, broken or not.

I wish them all soft landings, my lips dyed crimson for a final kiss.







			




			
				


	


					
Walking Meditation
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		













Last night, I tried to calm my restless body by changing my mental focus from doomscrolling to consciously observing each muscle involved in rolling over. Impossible. There are so many intricacies in even such mundane movements that my mind gave up and wandered back to the terrors facing humanity.





At a silent retreat decades ago, I learned about walking meditation. You progress at a snail’s pace, noticing each miniscule dimension of your body moving forward. As the foot comes up, are the calf and quad engaged? Does the foot adjust its angle, ready to be placed forward on the floor? Is the surface level? What are your eyes doing?





Gradually, the lifted foot glides down, settles, and the process shifts to the other side.





Such deliberate awareness requires concentration, patience, and time. And if a novice sees a daddy long-legs climbing up her jeans, her reflexes will override all that consciousness, and the sequence will be blown to smithereens. Trust me on this.





Humans are a bundle of electrical/chemical communication systems, most of which we neither notice nor understand. Our neurotransmitters interact with electrical impulses to give us motion, thoughts, and feelings, some of which are based in reality, some of which are not.





If you imagine a slice of lemon on your tongue, you’ll likely salivate. The salivation is real, but there’s no lemon there. It’s the power of mind over body. But our bodies can send signals that are open to interpretation. The power of body over mind. We’re a jungle of actions, reactions, reasons, biases, and instincts. Though we think we make conscious decisions, somewhere near 95% of the forces that influence what we do, think, and feel are outside our awareness (including the latest evolutionary mutation: algorithms).





“So, am I real?” the Intruder asks in a sly voice.





“You’re a figment. A fragment. An iron fist and a fuzzy notion. There’s definitely something real about you,” I answer, defenses at the ready.





“And do you love me?”





My teeth begin to grind. To love the Other Within runs against the grain of most conscious urges. We’re built to procreate, not sacrifice. We’re a me-first, guilt-ridden species.





“Is that a look of panic on your face?” my Coauthor asks with fake innocence.





I freeze. 





“Relax,” She continues. “We’ve written a little Psalm that may help.”





 What you know may not be true.
You see mostly what you want to see.
Insisting that you’re right is wrong.
Choosing to be loving is like sucking lemons.
But the alternatives are worse.
Trust me on this.





God beams and slugs my shoulder. I flinch a little and slug back. We walk.


			




			
				


	


					
A Fortunate State of Existence
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		













In Montana, we have 5.6 million square feet per person, slightly more than the 4.8 million square feet per person for the whole United States. In India, there’s just over 100 square feet per person. That’s smaller than most bedrooms in our middle-class lives. Selah.





This bit of trivia was provided by something called Artificial Intelligence, or AI for short. AI is a voracious information gathering machine, still in its infancy, but rapidly gaining ground. Since I made these inquiries, I’ll be deluged with ads for birth control or real estate.





And if you’re wondering what Selah means, AI will explain it to you, and your ads will have a distinctive Hebrew flavor for a while.





How does it feel to be that well-known? I don’t like it. Sure, it’s helpful to be alerted to a smarter route for our romantic date to Fishtail. (Seriously? Construction delays getting to Fishtail?) AI is market-driven and ostensibly helpful, but there’s a lot more to it than that.





I cross my arms, and do a little Selah-ing myself. Scriptures are always being rewritten under the auspices of the great and powerful Oz. I wonder how the AI algorithms might edit the beatitudes for our times. I think I’ll give it a try.





The Creator crowds into my brain. I push them aside and write my draft:





    

  • Blessed are the wealthy, for they can purchase great swaths of the kingdom and eat what they want while others starve.
    • 




  • Blessed are those who avoid mourning. There is little reason to focus on loss.
    • 




  • Blessed are the aggressive. They will obtain power.
    • 




  • Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for the bodies of the young. If they are rich, they shall have them.
    • 




  • Blessed are those without mercy. They can thus dehumanize the poor and displaced.
    • 




  • Blessed are those who lie to themselves. Their hearts will be darkened, their shame erased.
    • 




  • Blessed are the makers of war. It is the essence of human history.
    • 




  • Blessed are those who deny hard truths. There are alternative facts in abundance.
    • 




  • Blessed are the sadistic. They shall be satisfied.
    • 




  • Blessed are you who deport your neighbors. Who avoid looking in the mirror. Who refuse to forgive. Rejoice in your momentary existence. Assuming the earth survives your terrible ravishing, you will die leaving it tragically damaged.
    • 






The Crowd clears their throats.





“Step away from the keyboard,” they command. A bouquet of holy hands reaches for me.





“No!” I yell. I unplug the charger and dash for the door.





“We have a runner,” they declare gleefully.





I fall down. This is painfully funny. We all laugh. 





“Thanks,” they say as they help me up. “We needed that.”







			




			
				


	


					
Advice From The Quilter
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		








Use it up
Wear it out
Make it do
Or do without





Everything has an expiration date. All the forethought in the world won’t change that. All the planning, lying, and scheming. All the willful ignorance. Even the highest aspirations.





You can plant and maybe, you’ll harvest. Or maybe before things come to fruition, you’ll be the one planted. What’s fruition anyway?





How dare you make it your business to tell someone how to decorate, alter, or use their own body? Or worse, assume it’s yours to use? Cast those evil urges into the outer darkness. Be nice. Be kind. Be patient and humble as you rip out some of the crooked seams.





If somehow, in your vague longing for the truth, you manage to dislodge pieces of the log in your eye, tell the tale because others might be inclined to lower their own blinding defenses. Either way, keep chipping away at yours. Start a small fire with the splinters. Warm your hands. Invite the neighbors. Even the vicious ones.





It’s fear, baby. Fear. You’ve spent so many days of your life shielded by the wrong armor. Those days aren’t coming back. Bless them as they recede into oblivion. Bless your many selves and your best intentions.





Clean the floors. Contemplate the cobwebs before you brush them down. They were once liquid silk, spun into webbing by those with more eyes than you will ever have.





It is all to be venerated. The warp and woof, the tiny stitches, the walking sticks, the wailing walls. The joints swollen round as crystal balls, the doomed attempts to achieve perfection; it’s all as essential as the broken strands and stolen lands. This is all there is. Make do.





Imagine your face in someone’s hands. Your neck on the line. Your severed limbs pulled from the rubble. Imagine you’re an endangered species or hieroglyphics on papyrus, a contaminated river, or a resilient weed. It’s time to try acquiescence instead of acquisition. Let the bee sting. The dog bark all night. Stand in the gap, arms at your side. Absorb the blows in silence. Loan the victims your voice. 





Behave as if there’s a future, and you want things to be better for the least among you. Become the least among you. Offer what you can. Consume what you must.





Use all you have
And all you know
Try your best
Then let it go







			




			
				


	


					
Give It Up
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		













If you were the only Omnipotent Force in the universe, one would hope you’d have a certain sense of humor: the kind without any of the usual mean or sarcastic twists. A good laugh is one thing. Cruel guffaws, another.

If you’ve been born only once, one would hope you’d carve your coordinates into the bark of the nearest tree. Hurry. You will be exiled, left to find your own way home. If you calm yourself, you will realize that you already know.

If you were born accidentally, knowing more than you can handle, you might wish for an easy exit. Instead, you are destined to watch your mountains come down, one by one. There is no safe distance. Even the act of observing changes the outcome.

Those who were born amphibious reproduce in obscure complexities. The permeability of skin, the need to be near still waters; this is where shades of gray form a rainbow. If you are brave enough, you can touch your own inner longings.

Darkness is an absence of bioluminescent beings flitting from branch to branch, swimming from cave to cave. Of course, you once had gills. Your sorrow is justified and holy, but it will drag you down. Peer steadily through the cracks to find the light.

Heat-seeking missiles zero in on warm hearts, but you’ll only bruise yourself trying to escape. Soften your eyes. Clutch the amulet you were given in another life. Make the signs of various crosses and give it up for the godlike being playing the cello.

And give it up for the rising sun and low hanging fruit. And the shivering murmur of laughing hyenas hunting in the neighborhood. Give it up for molds, yeasts, fungi and friendship. Revel in the divine but fleeting salvations of any given day.







			




			
				


	


					
Posting Bail
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		








Ignacio Manteca






Humans are being bought and sold this morning. I’ve placed a bid on one, but we’ll have to wait and see how it comes out. I’m having trouble with the messaging systems. 

A voicemail is heard in Ramah — lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted—for her children are gone. I suspect the children of Leah, (Rachel’s sister-wife), and Bilhah and Ziphah, (the handmaidens), are gone as well. 

So damn gone. Pushed down the slick, disgusting slope of vengeful, wrongful incarceration. Deportation. So much money to be made. Phone calls prepaid by the broken.

There are too few places to put my rage. In the back seat of the old, malfunctioning car? At the borders that define us? In the pocket of the officer who lied about the handcuffs? 

It’s easy to be indignant from a distance and then order dessert. Tempting to wash my hands of this murky, oily, filth and focus on harvesting carrots. This evening, we can yuck it up about, oh, I don’t know. Privilege? Wokeness?

And this God Thing. 

Maligned, manipulated, ridiculous. Should we wash our hands of it, too? Would we behave any better if we had no fall guy? No excuse?

“Thing,” I scream. “Are you paying attention?”
“Trying to,” Thing mumbles. “Got a black eye. Dislocated shoulder. Bleeding.”
“Stop bleeding! There’s a cleaning fee.”
“Got no money.”
“They’ll go after your spouse and children.”
“Got no spouse.”
“They’ll beat it out of you.”
“Got no body.”
“Just stop bleeding. The sight of your misery makes us sick.”

Thing raises its piercing eyes to mine. “Don’t stop looking. You’re meant to see.”
“Oh, I see, all right. I see the idolatry of young girls with golden hair.”

Thing sighs.
 I continue.

“Some fucked up stuff is being done in your various names.”
“I have no name.”
“Well, they’ve named you some horrific names.”
“I’m beyond your alphabets.”
“Doesn’t matter. They’re using you to justify war. Cruelty. Wealth.”
“So, I should just disappear? Wrap things up and move my concept along?”
“Yeah, I think so. It would be better.”

Thing shakes its head.

“Then who will suffer with you?”
“We can do that by ourselves.”
“Bad idea. And impossible.”

Thing puts its fractured arms around me.
Splinters slice my flesh.
Tears roll down our cheeks.

We mourn the hatred.
We mourn the debasement.
We mourn the children.

“We have to stop crying,” I say. 
“They’ll see that we’re weak. They’ll hurt us.”

“I know,” Thing says. “Cry anyway.”







			




			
				


	


					
Come Winter
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments		

			


	

		











Sometimes when I listen to the lyrics or melodies of songs, I choke up. The depth, the artistry, the pathos—it is a profound gift to experience music.

Other times, I can be moved to tears by the clanking of the trailer stacked with haybales. My brother drove by early today pulling a load of 14 round bales back to the main ranch. Thousands of pounds of food for the cattle, baled and stacked against the coming of the winter.

My brother loves music. I wonder what station he was listening to as he navigated the sharp turn onto the highway. I doubt the DJ was playing the tune that had popped into my head as I watched him go by.

“Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go…” 

Yes, it may be hard to believe, but as I’d sat mulling the redundant demands of the changing seasons, the seven dwarves had marched into my brain. They’re all here now, milling around, mocking my somber mood.

“How about I recite some your favorite verses from Ecclesiastes?” Happy asks. “What do we gain by all the toil at which we toil under the sun?” He grins sarcastically and adds, “All is vanity and a striving after the wind. But you can be happy if you’ve a mind to.”

“I’m past all that,” I snap.

Grumpy sneers at me. “Liar!” Bashful gasps at such rude directness, and Sneezy begins to huff and puff. Doc grabs Dopey and Sleepy by their ears and yanks them straight into the line of fire. A seismic sneeze blows our shelter to smithereens and sends us tumbling down the hill, spilling our woefully inadequate pails of water. It’s been a dry August.

“I have people,” I reassure myself as I get up and brush off. “They’d take me in.”
“Thou dost have people,” sayeth the Lord. “But thou shalt not ask to be taken in.”
“Stop talking like that,” I grin. “You sound silly. But you’re right, I’m still sufficient.”

I’ve been harvesting weeds. Sonchus oleraceus (Sowthistle), for instance. The flowers are hermaphroditic. It’s edible, nutritious, and one of the five bitter herbs humans are commanded to eat on all the nights of Passover. Every one of us. The whole rainbow. The old young small and large of us. It’s the best way to remember the cruelty of slavery, the absurdity of dichotomies, and the joy of emancipation.

Heigh-ho, heigh-ho. It’s off to death we’ll eventually go. But before we arrive, let’s savor the harmonies, complexities, and wonderments. Let’s feed the cattle. And stoke the fire. And eat the bitter herbs.







			




			
				


	


					
Poems and Dialectics
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments		

			


	

		










Dear Readers,

Odd week this week. Odd week every week. Here are three poems to consider. The first by Shel Silverstein. The second and third by me, struggling to respond to such an awful, open invitation.

          ------------------------------------------------

Invitation

If you are a dreamer, come in
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you're a pretender, come sit by the fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!

******************************************************





                                                              No Words

We have no words but carrots and beets. The corn is tasseling. There’s nothing else to report. An outbreak of peace would be nice. But outbreaks of endless revenge threaten to end it all in a flash.

We have no words of our own. Every thought is on loan, and our hands are tied. Our feet take us places we don’t want to go. All of this is prophetic. Pathetic. We don’t know where to turn. 

We have no words but longings and love. Perhaps we could bake some bread and tenderly explore where it hurts. The diagnosis will be indeterminate, so we’ll remain afraid. The little we possess never includes the right words.

We have no words. Only weeds and misconceptions. Obsidian-tipped news that once flew fearless now lies twisted and broken. Redacted. Redundant. The few remaining meanings have hidden themselves.

We cling to words as if we own them and they will save us. But Words are guests. Real Words ring free and true like bells. Rods and staffs may bring comfort, but the Truth speaks softly and carries no stick. No salvation and no stick.

********************************************************





                                          What We Serve On Platters

Come in, you old-skinned bastions of wrinkles and droopy eyes.
Come in, youngsters drifting in the increasingly salty sea.
Come in, bruised souls walking littered paths to nowhere.

Come in. Come in.

Here is a place at the table. Here you can relax and break bread.
Here you can dream. Here you can practice forgiveness.
Here your shame turns to dust. Your sharp fears grow dull.

Here.

Come in, you resistant bastards of the cruel ways, you of the emptiness.
Come in, you liars who torture and violate. Who consume and destroy.
Come in, monsters, devils, seekers of vengeance. You’re already burning in hell.

Come in. Come in.

Here you will be taken apart. Served in pieces at the feast.
Here you will be the sacrifice you always wanted to be.
Here your story will be rewritten, and you’ll return as a bird.

Here.

What is it you’re looking for?
Why are you skimming? It’s all here. 
Stop. Breathe. Stop. Sit.

Come in.