Tag: Being Home

Hats

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

To avoid doom scrolling, I browse through the infamous “Marketplace” and notice a lime green shed for sale. I’m drawn to sheds, and I love lime green.

(And why would you need another shed? I ask myself.)

For a small fee, the seller will help load. It’s 8 x 12. All it needs is a door and paneling to cover the exposed insulation. All I need is a trailer and a reason.

(Well, it might be nice for the ducks, I think. Or I could store things in it.)

A Stern-Faced Elder, a Waxing Gibbous Moon, a Cackling Hen, and a Clear-eyed Version of God all crowd into my consciousness and, without a word, begin amputating my whimsical fantasies.

(If I find the right shoes, maybe there’s still a marathon in my future; if I find the right words, a best-seller.)

To my credit, I do not try to reattach the longings as they fall away. But I don’t completely let go.

(If I put these ideas in the freezer, maybe someday, someone will find them nicely preserved and ready to bake. I should map the terrain of the plumbing and wiring, the hiding places and perennials. If I can just keep the labyrinth free of weeds, enlightenment will follow.)

The Clear-eyed Version of God and the Waxing Gibbous Moon help the Stern-Faced Elder to her feet. The Hen has disappeared, and it looks as though the others are preparing to leave. I dread the emptiness. They’ve cleared away so many of my disguises, promises, and obstacles. I will have to endure the echo chamber of my naked self.

But what’s this? They aren’t leaving! They’ve found my hat collection and they’re trying on hats, giggling and pointing at each other.

And without permission, they begin parading to the river, each wearing two or three of my hats. They march straight into the icy water near the stones I’ve rolled into circles. I trail behind.

“C’mon in,” they cry, exuberant.

“Nah, I hate cold water. And I’ve gotta make an offer on that shed.” I grin.

“No more enclosures!” They laugh, shaking their heads. The hats tumble off and float away.

“Get my hats!” I yell in a mild panic.

“Not worth it, honey. They don’t fit that well anymore,” the Stern-Faced Elder says. The Waxing Gibbous Moon nods and adds, “They’re needed downstream anyway.”

(Well, I can find more if I want to, I comfort myself.)

As I watch my hats bob away, I center myself among the boulders near the uprooted cottonwoods.  

(Maybe we could use these stones to make a sauna, I think. Or a sweat lodge.)

The Hen cackles in the distance.

Gifts

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

God’s car crept down our gravel lane as the evening light faded. I could see the headlights of the old Subaru dipping into the deep spring potholes that cause me such great vexation. We’ve spent an enormous amount of time and money on our roads, but it’s a constant fight. They stay smooth a nanosecond, and then the ruts reappear, the gravel sluffs off, the rain and snow do their thing, and the surface deteriorates. Nature likes neither straight lines nor smooth roads.

The Subaru backed in beside the new garage–the one that nearly blew down in the gale-force winds last month. God got out, stretched, opened all four doors, and lifted the tailgate. The car was packed to the brim with what appeared to be nicely wrapped gifts, but twilight was so thick I wasn’t sure. I grabbed my boots and my well-worn vest, a thick hat, and some ratty mittens. We’ve had a few warm days, but it drops well below freezing by nightfall.

“Hi, God,” I yelled as I stepped out the porch door. “Could you use some help?” I walked toward the car. God was bent over, body halfway into the back seat.

“Oh, hello,” God said, her head snapping up. “Happy Birthday! I was going to surprise you.”

I was instantly wary. My birthday is months away, and God knows this better than anyone. Something was up. “You’re early,” I said. “By about seven months.”

God grinned and filled my arms with odd, misshapen packages. I started toward the house, but God said, “Wait, Sweetie. The party’s out here.” We rolled river stones into a circle, and she built a fire out of fallen branches and rotting wood. Then the party commenced. God clapped and sang as I unwrapped the gifts, one by one, sobbing and laughing. The pain was equal to the joy, the absurdity of the blaze lightened the sadness of the ever-shrinking River, and I found that the Great Mysteries aren’t as menacing when shrouded with gratitude, perfectly situated in endless sky.

The embers were still glowing when God stood up and said, “Well, I better get going. That lane of yours is something. I can only drive about two miles an hour in this old rig.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I said, hypnotized by the fire. “It’s a never-ending battle. We’ll keep working on it.” I didn’t want God to leave or the party to end, but I know that’s how things work. I watched as the smoke followed God to the car. Then I managed to get to my feet, turn from flames, and say, “Thanks for coming, God. This was amazing.”

God got in, switched on the headlights, and rolled down the window to wave good-bye. “You bet,” she said. “Thanks for being home.”