Tag: Being Mortal

Recent Correspondence

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments

Letters to the Dead

Dear G,

At that last lunch, you presented me with your daughters, and I was so honored. So willing. But it wasn’t until your peaceful demise that I fully grasped your intentions. I don’t know if I’ve measured up. It’s complicated. The windows are streaked and dusty, but I’m still willing. And I miss you.

Love,

Rita

Dear Mick,

Before your unexpected death, you wrote that even though you didn’t go to church, I made you laugh at the magnitude of what’s asked of us, and you had no idea why you cried when I offered God seven onions. You said I should put these writings into a book. I loved you for that. We never met, but you’ve helped me keep afloat. Thank you.

Cheers,

Rita

Dear Brian, Cindy, Dan, Greg, Liz, Rex, Jim, P.J., and the lot of you,

The days are growing shorter, and the impending challenges of winter are leering at me. How dare you die? But then, how dare you not? Your absences make it harder, but you each cleared a faint trail through the wilderness and left deep, distinct snow angels behind. For that, I am grateful.

Warmest Regards,

Rita

A Note to the Living

Dear You Know Who You Are,

If you knew you’d be dead in a month, would you live differently? Well, for some among us, that is actually true. Therefore, let us recline in community and together partake in the Now—a dish best sparingly seasoned by the past, basted in its own juices, and constantly stirred over medium heat. (When the Now gets overheated by relentless fears of the future, the flavors diminish.) Here’s to the feast!

Sincerely,

You Know Who I Am

A Missive Sent in Smoke to the Noncorporeal

Dear Beyond and Within,

It has been said that there are no atheists in foxholes. This is incorrect. Foxholes create atheists. And rightly so. The mornings after are short on solace and long on dread. Nonetheless, when I lie flat on the undulating ground and pretend to close my eyes, I see your gnarly feet and hear the swish of silk across the tall autumn grass.

Corporeally yours,

Rita

A Reply

Dear Rita,

Infinity. Interiority. Insight.

Rivers. Ravens. Rain.

Photosynthesis.

Volcanoes.

Sacrifice.

Fire.

Color.

Redemption.

Dinosaurs. Dogs. Daylight.

Imagination. Intention. Infinity.

Yours to Unearth,

The One You Sometimes Call God

Ice Cold Beer

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My enlightenment began decades ago at the Yellowstone County Fair. Until that moment, I thought beer to be of questionable value when compared to Pepsi or Strawberry Fanta. But in the sweltering heat, someone handed me a red plastic cup filled with ice cold beer, I drank, and it was heavenly. No sticky sweetness. Just icy liquid bringing swift existential relief to my parched throat and weary soul. I finally understood the goodness of beer.

But the next time I took a big swig of one of the popular yellow brands, I nearly gagged. The evening was chilly, the campfire smoky, and the beer lukewarm. Ah ha, I thought to myself, sidling away from the keg. Nothing is good in and of itself. It is all relative.

And thus, for a moment, I was enlightened.

Or at least, that’s how I remember it. But now, I’m not so sure.

God clears their throat in the back of my mind. I open it, and they drift into the room like pollen, like music, like a fine piece of evocative art.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hello,” God says.

“How are ya?” I ask.

“Fine, thanks. Yourself?”

“Can’t complain,” I say.

That’s a lie. I can complain, and sometimes, I complain vehemently. But God knows everything, so it hardly seems like lying when I lie to God. Besides, I know God isn’t fine, so we’ve just engaged in a mutual lying ritual common to my culture. God’s not fine. I’m not fine. But who has time to listen to the truth of our miseries?

“They aren’t miseries,” God says.

“I beg to differ,” I say. “But misery shared is misery halved, so let’s share.”

“Cute,” God says. “And joy shared is joy multiplied, so let’s go turn some stones and see if we find a speck of joy.”

“It’s too hot out there,” I protest.

“C’mon. We’ll take some cold, dark beer,” God insists.

“Okay, fine,” I sigh. Then add sarcastically, “For you, Creator Darling, anything.”

“That’s the spirit!” God exclaims. “Same here.”

“I call bullshit,” I say.

“We do, too,” God says.  

And we laugh all the way to the river. There we leave most stones unturned, admire the speed and variety of spiders, and along with our beer, sip the bitter truth of fresh, clear water slipping without protest to the salty sea.

And for a moment, I am enlightened again.

Slightly Altered States

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

“Imagine me as a sensory deprivation tank,” God says.

I shiver. “Too claustrophobic. How about I imagine you as a cosmic county fair?”

“Hmmm,” God says. “Methinks you wouldn’t like that either.”

“Yeah. But if we’re talking extremes, I’d rather experience you as over-stimulated children and deep-fried cheese on a stick than the arctic chill of nothingness.”

God shrugs and mutters, “Massive.”

“Excuse me?”

“So much suffering. So much to clean up.” God sounds irritated.

“Wait a minute. You can embody any metaphor, idea, symbol, or myth, and you’re worried about a little housekeeping? You can be nothing and everything, whereas I’ve only got me.”

“Have you seen the satellite debris around your planet?” God’s voice implies this is my fault. “And do you know how many of my beloved are unsheltered right now?”

I bow my head in prayer, hoping the holy Non Sequitur will leave me alone. I wish I could hire someone to give my life an extra lick of meaning.

“What’s your hourly rate?” I ask the One who will not go away.

“Winner takes all,” God answers.

I sigh. Humans do not appear to be winning. There is little doubt the great collapse is coming. The heavenly workforce has thinned, and the eyes of this galaxy are closing. God has woven a casket of willow saplings for the salty residue of existential misery. I should be more grateful. More sympathetic. But I’m resentful

“I don’t even have me, do I?” It isn’t a question. It’s a resigned acknowledgment.

“That depends,” God says. “I’m always willing to share.”

“Why?” I ask. “Obviously, you don’t have to.”

“Well, expansion is my roller coaster. Unconditional love is my triple-shot latte, and forgiveness, my full-body workout.” God sounds momentarily energized. “But of course, I get lonely sometimes.”

“Aw,” I say. I throw my arm over the shoulder of this stubborn lunkhead of impossibilities. “Let’s go for a nature walk.”

The Lonely Lunkhead nods and a terrifying, tangled wilderness appears. Why didn’t I suggest golf and whiskey? Happy hour. Something numbing and contrived. A nice, slightly altered state.

Lunkhead laughs. “You’re always slightly altered.”

Being known that well makes me less afraid. I smile and things lighten up.

“Shall we bring the casket along?” I ask. “I noticed it has wheels. And plenty of room for a cooler and a six-pack.”

Balance

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

God was clipping her nails this morning and a luminescent fragment the shape of a crescent moon landed in the backyard: a beautiful asteroid, a source of light, the end of the raspberries.

 My entire garden is now filled with holy DNA. If this were a crime show, I could easily make a positive identification, but would there be a conviction? Even with humans, that’s never a sure thing. With God, highly unlikely.

“Sorry about that,” God says as she lifts the massive sliver of fingernail from earth and tosses it into the cosmos. “Careless of me to clip so close.”

“You could’ve wiped me out,” I say in an accusatory tone. “I can’t handle these jagged leavings and dangerous castings off.”

“I said I was sorry.” God can be a little defensive sometimes. She pauses, then adds. “Ah, c’mere. You don’t look so good.”

“Yeah, I’m not feeling all that well,” I admit as I crawl into the downy nest that God and I have created for the coming hibernation.

“Me neither,” God says with a sniffle. “Probably just a cold, but with all the upheaval, it’s hard to know for sure.”

“Isn’t it peculiar that before execution, the prisoner can choose a last meal?” I ask as we snuggle in. I ignore God’s quizzical look and continue. “So, what would you order?”

God is silent for a minute, then asks, “Sometimes, you’d like to kill me off, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “You’re precarious and whimsical. Inscrutable and endless. I need something easier. Less promise. More substance.”

Again, silence. Then, “I’d have nuts and berries mostly. Goat cheese. A little pasta. And three or four stiff drinks. White Russians, maybe.”

I whack God with a roll of political flyers from the recycle pile and offer her a megadose of vitamin C. She flinches dramatically, smiles, and takes two of the chewable tablets.

“How ‘bout a siesta?” she asks.

I shake my head. “You go ahead. I’ve got to transplant the rhubarb and that poor little pine tree.”

“Oh, good grief,” God says. “Can’t you leave well enough alone?”

The pine tree is a sore subject. I’ve moved it four times because I keep changing the layout of the garden and it’s in the way again. I want it to thrive but only where I want it to thrive.

To my chagrin, I start to cry a little. “I’m tired of everything,” I say. There’s a catch in my voice. “Especially myself.”

“I know, honey,” God says. “That’s why a little nap is such a good idea.”

Thin Ice

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

My religious friends keep warning me that God and I are skating on thin ice. Especially when God names himself Prostitute or Fat Boy. Especially when she manifests as many, and the guarantees are few. We shrug. It’s what we do.

A man named Mick once told me that our postings make him laugh until he cries. He was puzzled as to why. He reads them every Sunday in an alley where an apple tree drips fruit to no avail, and he sips a yellow beer for communion.

The peyote that is God brings paralysis. The river that is God brings release. It’s the author God who writes you using metaphor and mint, drawing symbols in the sand for your protection, throwing ashes to the wind to guide you home.

We are mostly made of water: a fluid interaction between energy and thirst, a form of transportation, a sacrificial lamb. A sheer veneer of ice embodies danger with a certain kind of grace. But the pace of truth exhausts me, and I’m tempted to give up.

God removes his mittens. Offers me bare hands. The crowd of God applauds as I stand on shaky skates and push off using boulders and other people’s dreams. The sheen of God beneath me, the sky of God above, I am hypothermic mercy and cold, defiant love.

My remaining bones grow brittle with God’s blessing. I no longer take the time to make my bed. God shakes her head. When salt dissolves in water, ions form electrons, positively charged. With saline in my veins, the poison makes a promise that I’ll live another day.

Fat Boy tries to juggle. My Prostitute wears pink. She says, “Look at me, I’m funny, and when I’m cold, I’m slick.” But when I look, it’s only water and a wiser way to die. There’s thunder in the distance. And like Mick, I start to laugh. Until I cry.