Tag: Belonging

To Be a Bird

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

Reassurance is hard to come by these day, but immediate dense caloric intake helps me cope with the onslaught of morning news. Not long ago, breakfast included a half bottle of dark beer, but it isn’t worth the hassle anymore. The untouched supply of porter in the pantry speaks to the acute nature of the troubles. A swig or two of leftover wine is about all I can handle.

So tell me, kind companion, how is it with you in the morning?

I’m trying to accept my fate, but I cannot wait to be a bird. I’d like to be a magpie, but a crow or raven would be fine. Sparrow. Starling. Even an Arctic Tern. I just need wings and an internal map that reveals the direction of each season. Also, if I fall from the nest, the Big Hand will be there to scoop me back up.

Some may assume I’m referring to the hand of their God, but I’m not. The merest touch of those exclusive Gods leaves a dangerous odor that risks rejection from the protective flock. Like anyone who makes meaning from ancient texts, I twist scripture, hoping to curry favor with the Source and thus ensure an orderly eternity.

Tell me, beloved, how is it you curry such favor?

The Good Graces have gone missing. There are grave implications for a universe careening out of control. Harsh, lonely, and forever. No maestro. No emcee. Therefore, I’m learning to speak the languages of stone and helpless infants. Of microbes in the soil. Of fatted calves, long thin beans, and garlic.

Tell me, friend, what languages are you working on?

In my native tongue, I ask repeatedly about the saving of us all, but things remain inconclusive. We’re not easily preserved. We’re shaped like eggs with shells that break from within and without.

We drape ourselves in colorful flags to signal unity: Queer, straight, soldier, snake. The Jolly Roger, Old Glory, and the Union Jack. Loyalties rigidify. Edges fray.

Tell me, cherished one, is belonging worth the cost?

Today I will partake as I’m able and drape myself in whatever comes. It may be the blessing of purple linen or the banality of polyester. Most likely, it will be the wrong size. I’ll roll up the sleeves, pin the waist, and tighten the buckles. Or rip a seam to ease the pressure of something too small.

Someday, I’ll need nothing but feathers. With bones hollowed and wings unfurled, I’ll rise up, gracefully negotiating the downdrafts. This is what I’m awaiting.

So tell me, my dearest, what is it you’re awaiting? And what is it you believe?

Membership

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

Once in a while, book clubs invite an author to visit. God prefers anonymity, so she always declines. Not me. Often, it’s a nice experience, but on rare occasions, things get awkward. Members who’ve read only the title and back cover take the opportunity to share views tangential or even hostile to the essence of the book. Others fawn over the author, more focused on affiliation than analysis.

And speaking of awkward, I know of a romance writer who finagled an invitation to join her neighborhood book club. Because she published under a pen name, no one realized who she was. When it was her turn to choose a book, she held up her latest bodice-ripper, the slick cover burbling with cleavage and low-slung jeans. Everyone burst into laughter, thinking this was a joke. The author stomped out, never to return. They did not read the book.

“Well, they should have,” God says. “Romance is a billion-dollar industry.”

I roll my eyes. “I prefer murder mysteries. They do less damage.”

God leers at me. “Ah, come on. What’s wrong with a little erotic fantasy? Steamy scenes, orgasmic encounters, soulmates finally licking or sucking just the right spots…”

“Stop!” I interrupt. I don’t enjoy talking about sex with God. “Could we change the subject?”

“Sure,” God says. “But what is the subject?”

I pause and then admit, “I don’t know. And you know I don’t know.”

“Maybe we should talk about who gets invited,” God says.

“To what? Book clubs?”

“No. To anything. You all want to belong, don’t you?”

“Not necessarily. We want to belong to our tribe. People who look and think like we do, believe what we believe, read the same books, and share similar realities.”

“Then don’t invite me!” God snorts. She pulls on her turtleneck sweater. “You’re strangling yourselves. Loosen up, you judgmental little speck.”

“Don’t worry,” I snap. “You are definitely not invited. And don’t call me speck.”

Evening is approaching. The daylight remaining is not straightforward.

“Speck. Dot. Flicker. Flash. You realize that like rain, fire and light do not discriminate, right? So, instead of speck, how about I call you light of the world?”

This is a seductive but perilous proposal. God is the Ultimate Refractive Substance. As light passes through God, it splays and changes directions. That’s why stars twinkle. If I agree, I will be bent and fractured. My membership anywhere will be in question.

“Let me think on that,” I say, hedging.

We curl up on the couch and continue reading our book club’s latest selection, Sun House, by David James Duncan. As usual, I’m a little behind.

Is you is or is you ain’t?

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

For the past 45 minutes, God’s been following me around while I fuss and mutter my way through the large piles of rocks in our house. It’s time to clean and sort. Smooth, thin, striped, white, broken, odd-shaped, heavy, pointed, round, speckled, flat, agate, sandstone, granite, petrified wood. I’m blessed with an inexhaustible supply of rocks. It’s awful. Blessings always come with a dark side. In this case, I have to sort and judge my rocks. Which stay? Which go? Sheep or goat? Precious or plebeian? In or out? Evil or good? Worthy or worthless?

I’ve been lazily indiscriminate about rocks, but there are limits. Life demands at least some discernment, and as we all know, discernment easily slides to judgment. Humans have many sayings about this.

  • One person’s treasure is another person’s junk.
  • Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. …And of course, there’s this one:
  • Do not judge, or you too will be judged. In the same way you judge others, you will be judged.

I hold an amber crystal and a friendly river rock in my hand, overcome with doubt. What makes anything or anyone precious? What makes anyone or anything worthless? Who or what belongs anywhere?

God sighs. His jazz band materializes and sets up in the kitchen. God positions himself on a stool, and in his sultry, seductive voice, begins singing that old Louis Jordan classic: Is you is or is you ain’t my baby? He sips bourbon. I’m afraid he’s planning to light up a cigarette. Clearly, he’s in one of his sarcastic moods. I briefly consider throwing the bum out.

The mood fades. The band packs up, leaving the kitchen littered with peanut shells and shot glasses stained with oily lipstick. God lingers and watches me clean. He’s smiling. Humming. Waiting. I’m a little put out, but God has cleaned up after me more times than I can count. And he’s always done a stellar job.

He’s unpredictable, unruly, unjudgable, stereotype-proof—but whatever God does, he does well. I know because I have a memory of perfection. An infinitesimal fraction of me was present when God and his jazz band crooned the Universe into being; when stars burst out of their atomic skins, when the planet I call home began to cool. In fact, we were all there—which puts us in the same boat—which makes judgment futile.

I wash the last glass; God sweeps the floor and opens the north facing window to a blast of late-November air. I endure the chill while I search through the rocks. I’m on a mission.

God laughs. “I don’t need a rock,” he says, accurately reading my mind.

“I know,” I say. “But I’d like to give you something anyway.” I feel nearly desperate to find the perfect rock.

“Okay, baby,” God says. He holds out his hand.