Tag: Beloved

Strong Nuclear Force

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Earlier this week, God and I were deep into a discussion about the aptly named Strong Nuclear Force which is the force that holds subatomic quarks together and is thus responsible for the stability of matter. Because people often anthropomorphize God, I suggested that maybe she should change her name to Strong Nuclear Force. She pretended to consider this before concluding that she preferred other names, such as Lambkins, Alpha, Omega, or The Beloved.

The discussion ended, and the week steamrolled over me the way some weeks do. That brief exchange was unsettling, but I didn’t have time to revisit it. I barely had time to drink beer or exercise or contemplate how to save our tottering democracy. And the weeds took advantage of my frantic pace and went to seed as rapidly as they could.

I accept these harsh realities and the finite linearity of time. With what I consider to be enormous self-discipline, I’ve now seated myself in the old blue recliner, ready to center on the Center. The gardening and vacuuming will have to wait.

“So, you don’t have to go around calling yourself Strong Nuclear Force if you don’t want to,” I say, as my opening volley. “But I don’t like calling you those other names. Especially The Beloved. It sounds obsequious and weak.”

“No worries,” God smiles. “It’s just that I don’t like limiting myself. The nuclear scientists were quaking in their boots when they realized they could break the hold of the Strong Nuclear Force and set protons free. They wondered if once unleashed, the chain reactions would convert all matter to a kind of selfish, toxic energy that would end existence as you all define it.”

“And they detonated anyway,” I sigh. “We’re in so much trouble.”

“Yes, you are. You can see why the basics are so central, right?” God asks.

“Yeah,” I say, wondering which basics she means.

“Love,” she says.

“Too simple,” I say. “Undefined. Mushy. I don’t like that idea anymore. I want to roar and maim and shake people until their heads fall off.”

Strong Nuclear Force lifts her skirts and leaves.

The protons are free to crash.

The rich tell lies and steal from the poor.

The frightened arm themselves with weapons and hatred.

The young flounce. The old stiffen.

“Come back,” I yell. “You win. The Beloved is a fine name.”

“I always win,” she smiles.

“Maybe,” I say. “But that’s not readily apparent. Love is a tall order.”

“I know,” Lambkins says. “I’m often in disguise, but I’m taller than you think.”

Guests

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Upstream from us, there’s an old guy who’s been known to shoot off his rifle when rafters float by. I don’t do that. But it does throw me off when God lands on our sandy bank and strides to the house, excessively tattooed, dreadlocks flowing, a nearly naked wife and a gaggle of chattering children trailing behind. My compassion wriggles away like a garter snake in tall grass. I am wary and antagonistic. God is far less challenging as a superhero or a ray of light.

I rally and force myself to be nice to this God of awful multiplicities and entitled bearing. It’s a shallow nice, verging on phony. This is God the Other. No wonder humans so readily fear and hate The Other.

“Welcome,” I say, half-heartedly. “Would you all like something to drink?”

“Sure. Sweet tea if you have it,” God says. “Nice place you got here.”

My suspicions flare. Are they casing the joint? Am I under surveillance? Will my hospitality be repaid by something nefarious, manipulative, or even deadly? Will I be poisoned?

“Oh, you’ve already been poisoned,” God chuckles.

“Snack?” I say, offering a tray of fresh vegetables with hummus. Snap peas, green peppers, and little carrots.

The children make gagging noises and demand bacon. I hate the smell of bacon, and God knows this. They open the fridge and stare. I don’t like the door open. I don’t like my leftovers being examined.

God runs the hot water too long, pees in the garden, and dominates the conversation. There are wet socks everywhere.

As I make lunch for them, they mention taking a little siesta.

“It isn’t even noon,” I protest.

“Yeah, but it’s so hot. We’re tired. Could you unload the raft while we put our feet up for a spell?”

Unload the raft? My heart sinks. God appears to be moving in. I have no space for this. No bandwidth. There’s not a charitable thought in my head.

A gentle breeze cools the heat of my rapid-fire fears and defenses. It’s God.

“Center,” she whispers. “Deep breath. You can do this.”

“I know,” I hiss back. “But why, God? Why?”

“Practice,” God grins. “Do you think we enjoy being so unsettling? You’re our neighbor, honey. We love you. We do this for you.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” God says. The entire Collective grabs the plate of cookies. Crumbs fly as they gobble more than their share. Then they curl innocent and nap like cats in the sun.

The crumbs are holy, I remind myself, sweeping the kitchen, surprisingly calm. The crumbs are holy, and I am loved.

Envisioned but Unexpressed

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments

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I have a lot of sway-backed shelves sagging under the weight of my various anxieties and accumulated supplies–tins of sardines, bags of rice, quinoa, pasta, and popcorn. My internal ambiance closely resembles my outer surroundings—disorganized abundance within and without. For instance, you would not believe my hoard of art supplies. Found objects. Brushes. Half-used, mostly dried paint and ink. Reclamations and creations at the ready; envisioned, but unexpressed.

“Nice,” God says as she surveys the scene. “Envisioned but unexpressed. I like that.”

“I don’t,” I say. “How many recycled canvases, wooden boxes, odd-shaped bottles, and smooth rocks do I need? What I need is time. Inspiration. Discipline. Not more words, and definitely not more clutter.”

“You sound like your own mother,” God says. “I’m a little jealous. Isn’t that my job?”

“Maybe,” I say, in breezy tone. “But I don’t mind. I’m highly skilled at self-denigration and shallow despair.”

“Oh good grief,” God says. “Some days I don’t think you’ve even made my acquaintance. Shut up already.”

I’m a little startled. Who wouldn’t be? But after I get over my surprise, I feel honored. How many people does God tell to shut up? Maybe I’m special. I wait, respectfully silent. Expectant. Ready to hang on every word.

And…you guessed it. Silence. Utter silence. The kind of silence that waits on the other side of the mirror. If you’re brave enough to hold your own stare, you’ll learn a great deal from the pigment in your irises and your soulful black pupils steadily pulling the outer light in. We’re momentary shades of inherited longing, hoping for an impossible permanence.

Oh so gently, God takes away the mirrors and windows. The shelves and drawers are bare. No canned milk, no lentils, no cereal, no chocolate. My closet echoes in its emptiness. My art supplies are gone. I have nothing left. Even the walls are gone. I stand stark naked, unable to move or see.

“God,” I whisper. “What color am I now?”

“Baby blue,” God whispers back. I can see it in my mind; the delicate color of untouched sky.

“And God,” I add. “Are there any words left?”

“One,” God says. “There’s one. There’s only ever been one.”

“It’s my name, isn’t it?” I ask, stricken. Terrified. It’s the name I can’t remember. God shakes her head.

“Not now, sweet thing,” she says, handing me my T-shirt and jeans. “But someday. And when the time is right, you’ll remember.”