Tag: Compassion

Systems Charge

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

Many thanks to the bison I ate last night. I hope it had a good life and a decent death. I needed the protein. Or at least I thought I did.

The killings I am party to usually have a rationale: I killed that rooster in self-defense. The bison and the housefly, the rooster and the rattlesnake, these I can explain.

As I reset the mousetrap near the firewood on our porch, the Source of Life appears clad in a wife-beater T-shirt, spewing putrid breath.

“Catch another one?” He picks his teeth with a splinter and leers at me.

The odors and images of decomposition rise in waves and begin to permeate everything I love. I rush to close the doors and windows, draw the shades, and mist the air with peppermint. The Source of Life orbits our shared reality and seeps through hairline cracks in a haze of moldy blue. She’s happy.

“I could use some help,” I tell It. Her. Him. They. And I include myself in case there’s some part of me unaware of the long line of lorries filled with insufferable demands and questionable aspirations stalled along the congested routes of my timeline.

“What’s up?” The Source of Life often exudes a certain nonchalance. Like a shill mining for clicks. Disarming on the surface. Deadly underneath.

“Um, well. I have too many shoes,” I stammer. “But none of them are quite right. And I’m not sure if I like sticks anymore. And I can’t seem to keep my fingernails clean or properly shaped.” (I come from a long line of proud fingernail tenders, so this failure is especially humiliating.)

“Diving deep, I see,” The Source of Life chuckles. “Got anything else?”

“I don’t even understand the Systems Charge on our power bill,” I wail in frustration.

The Source says nothing.

“You want a deeper dive?” I continue. “Fine.”

So many failings come to mind.. “How about we tackle pride, anger, envy, greed, and revenge?” I snap. Then add, “Or fear.” I look for an exit.

“And there we go.” The Source has morphed into a formidable Hawaiian woman. She blocks my retreat. The banquet table is set with fine wine, strawberries, grapes, apples, cheese, Portuguese sweet bread, and an array of manicure accoutrements, including a basin of scented holy water for the soaking and softening of cuticle and callous.

“Aloha,” I mutter, glancing sideways.

The mercy in her eyes turns my bravado to putty; I’m stricken and ashamed. My body revealed. My hands given over.

“There we go, beloved,” she repeats as she guides my aching fingers into the iridescent liquid. “There we go.”

Ancestry

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

My disposition this morning: 

             No matter how stout or frail, uphill or down, prophet or clown,
             the final hour will come.

             We’ll each be defined by what’s left behind so be kind, damn it.
             Be kind.

Maybe I should wait for a better mood to write, but it’s getting hot. I don’t hold out much hope for anything but modest hydration and loose-fitting clothes.

Desquamation is the shedding of the outermost layer of the epidermis. Living people do it all the time. It is natural. Essential. And the dust left behind varies in hue depending on race. 

David Sedaris wrote that he wants to crawl into crisp, clean sheets in his hotel bed every night. Does he know anything about the cost of hot water and the toxicity of chlorine? Does he fear his own white detritus?

We litter our days with legalized greed, leaving dirty dishes, hurt feelings, tattered aspirations, and false humility to churn around us as we drift downstream, laden with envy and small regrets.
   
One time, after climbing a famous butte in our region, our vegetarian friend was given a T-bone steak by accident. He left nothing behind but the gnawed bone which he took home to remember. For one sparkling moment, his plate was clean.

Our contradictions enlighten us. It is a blessed thing to circle back and forgive or be forgiven. Even more blessed to yell pshaw, slap our knees, and gleefully guffaw at the absurdity of trying to eradicate weeds.

Thus sayeth the Many: You cannot look away from a spiraling plane nor stop the impending crash. You cannot even slow the shedding of your lovely skin. 

Thus sayeth me: I know. But do you promise you’ll have the final Word? 

Thus sayeth Them: Yes.

Thus admidith me: Sorry, but I don’t believe you.

Thus reassureth Them: You’re not alone.

In the crowded photo booths of life, the ancestors show up as shadows, inclined toward simple guidance. Be honest. Be worthy, generous, and wise. But most of all, be kind, damn it. Be kind. 


*******


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Plug-in Hybrid

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment 

We’re considering buying a bright red car from Wisconsin. 
This would necessitate a change in driving habits, 
but it might be worth the effort to invest in transportation 
that will run at least partially on energy collected from the sun. 

Yes, there are toxic batteries involved, 
and our miniscule efforts won’t save the planet,
but if generations to come somehow survive, we hope
to make things a little easier for them. 

The Ever-Convulsing Creator gags her way into my consciousness. 
She’s on all fours, throwing up again. 
I sling the new car fantasies aside, drop to my knees, 
and hold a wet cloth to her forehead.

We sit on the banks of the diminishing river. 
She wipes holy vomit from her lips and chin 
and lays back on the bank, exhausted.

“You’ve got to stop drinking that poison,” I admonish, my voice judgy. 
The demons of the waterways nod.
She holds up her hand, a signal that this is not the time to scold. 

The Creative Force of the Universe is suffering severe abuse, 
cheap shots to the kidneys and liver, veins diverted to canals, 
and the forced ingestion of chemical concoctions 
that crack the bones of the Mother 
so we can suck out the last bits of marrow.

Her immune systems are so weakened that she falls prey to everything 
from Ebola to avian flu. She willingly dies a thousand deaths 
every second of every day. 

“Maybe it’s time for you to move on,” I mumble 
with fear and trembling. Abandonment is beyond imagining. 
Even the demons shudder. But it’s neither fair nor kind 
to expect the Artist to hang around 
and watch her creation trashed.

I’ve touched a nerve. Her head snaps up, eyes flash, 
and she becomes darkly multitudinous. They take over the dance floor, 
stiletto heels clacking, red capes snapping. 

“We don’t move on,” they shout in unison. “We don’t give up. 
We amend, upend, transform and rest. 
In the heat of summer, mimosas. 
In the dead of winter, hot toddies. 
Boundaries soften and in those infinite shades of twilight 
we reinvent the way.”

I shake my head, skeptical. “We might be getting a red car,”
I say with false bravado. “I could give you a lift.”

“Thanks,” they chuckle, a thousand eyes twinkling, 
a billion planets spinning. “But we have our own ride.”

“Okay, then. How about I hop in with you?”

A lot of nudging and snickering ensues. 
I overhear one saying to another, “Doesn’t she realize 
she’s been in the back seat all this time?” 

I blush and buckle up. The road ahead looks rugged.


*******



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The Saving

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Because our species is prone to greed, fear, and cruelty, most of us are vaguely aware that we need continuous course correction or maybe even redemption. This is dangerous. It spawns lies and idols, tall tales and archaic formulas. Sometimes, it engenders groveling and the beating of one’s chest.

This false humility is not helpful. Ironically, genuine humility is exactly what The Saving requires of you.

The Saving is amorphous. A process. An ache beyond our intellect but not beyond our collective intuitions. It is animated kindness, the substitute for sacrifices we should make ourselves. The Saving is a band of travelers singing songs, slinging seeds, only some of which will grow to shade the paths we cannot help but take.

The Saving is a river and an ocean. A hunger for justice. Merciful shelter when all hell has broken loose. The Saving is permission to seek peace. To rest assured. To regroup and begin again.

The Saving springs from the mind of Zeus, the whirling of dervishes, the Splintered Singularity of universal grace. It has neither creed nor crescendo. The Saving is the Whole. The Many. The Few. The One. The Saving has beautiful feet. Washed. Sandled. Ready.

The Saving is the Women who forever watch the essence of their offspring wafting upward in the futile heat of war. The Saving has no weapons. None.

When you call upon The Saving, it is an evolutionary plea, a mantra to the Truth, chanting that centers the chaos of the night. The Saving unsettles and then sometimes soothes the soul.

The Saving is a classroom in a tent, a nursing home short-staffed, new wine, old beer, anticipation so eternal we often call it hope. The Saving is a name for all messiahs, a congregated force, a twinkle in the Eye.

Your beliefs provide no wavers nor do they justify your judgments. The bylaws have been simplified. Be honest and courageous. Let your heart be lifted, neither troubled nor afraid.

The Saving has collected so much dross along the Way that a great and awful swelling has begun. The skin across the belly of the earth has purple stretch marks. The Saving breaks the membranes and drinks the holy waters in our stead.

The Saving is the laughter of the martyrs, the scapegoat of the wayward, the surrender. The Saving whispers those sweet nothings everyone longs to hear. Most days, this brings some comfort.

But when you weaken and speak in the tongues of the entitled or the petty, The Saving snaps your head off and replaces it with petunias and geraniums until you forgive your lesser selves and start the day anew.

Road Work

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Meditation, prayer, or even simple quiet times are thought to be beneficial, but there are no guarantees. In timeout, stimulation is reduced to the view of the corner and the scooting of the chair upon which the offender fidgets. This consequence of naughtiness is supposed to reduce agitation and encourage reflection, but it often visits holy hell on the mind screaming for more adrenalin. Try it sometime. Naps don’t count.

Staring off into space is somewhat different. The body slumps. The eyes glaze over. Brain activity appears to be reduced to breath and balance. Scientists have yet to determine if the space being stared into is internal or external, just as they cannot completely verify the source of dreams.

“These are dusty byways,” Road Grader interjects. “On certain neural pathways, the ruts can get deep and dangerous. The gravel sluffs off to the sides. Sometimes, a load of crushed rock has to be hauled in.”

Unfortunately, I understand what Road Grader is saying. When access to meaning is choked off by franticality or self-indulgence, even primitive stillnesses might provide a faint trail back to intentionality. But these accidental down times can go wrong, or peter out into the vast nowhere, leaving you uncertain where to stand.

Road Graders of the Soul do precision work, leveling, removing debris, and clearing the Way. If the Road Grader roars into your blank stare and begins widening your consciousness, don’t panic. Offer pastries and fuel.

“Now that’s some good advice,” Road Grader declares, slapping me on the back a little too vigorously.

“Ow!” I yell. “I’m not a monk in training. No hitting.”

“Sorry,” she says. “But I like having your attention.”

“Why?” I ask, still smarting from the slap.

“What else would you be paying attention to?” she asks.

I stall. She waits.

“Okay. Fine. My attention drifts to the sorry state of the world, my list of things to do, my ailments, and/or how to consume less sugar. I might even ruminate on revenge or rehearse edgy rebuttals. I can’t go around immersed in lovingkindness all the time.”

“Of course not. But you can go around making things a little easier for those in need.” Road Grader pats her lap and beckons. I climb aboard like a thrilled little kid. She won’t allow me to maneuver the levers that adjust the blade, but she lets me steer, and for hours, we level the playing field beneath us in deliberate, glorious circles.

“This might be my new calling,” I exclaim joyfully. “Just smoothing the way. Removing bumps.”

“Maybe,” Road Grader grins. “But don’t forget about backhoes. Digging in is fun, too.”

_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_

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Staring into the Fire

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

The singular life you’re living is an astonishment. A statistical improbability. And yet, here you are, doing what you’re doing. People are goose-stepping in a military parade in North Korea, singing alto in a choir in Kenya, or smoking weed in a field of daisies in the Alps. Someone is starving in Cuba, bombed out in Lebanon, or issuing psychotic threats designed to make the ultimate deal.

       “We like to think of y’all as one seething miracle,” God chuckles.
       “And I like to think of this hot mess as a rotting pile of shit. With the occasional shiny moment.”
       This cracks God up. After they catch their breath, they tell me, “It’ll all come out in the wash.”
       “What wash?” I ask.
       “The Wash of the Ages. The Blazing Baptism of Infinity.”
       “No one likes the sound of that,” I say. 
       “Listen anyway. And look directly at the fire.”

This particular moment, shiny or otherwise, is yours. It, too, is an astonishment. Lift your eyes from these words slowly. Stare straight into the void that is your future. Settle. Don’t cry. Don’t scream. Don’t laugh. Do nothing but warm your hands and be honest.
       “I’ve got four horsemen fleeing, three gods in waiting, two doves turned away at an artificial border, and one faithful moon reflecting every bloody thing.” God shrugs as if this is all passé. 
       “You’re being difficult this morning,” I complain. “Where’s your downy underbelly?”
       “You’re my downy underbelly.”
       “No. I want to be greatness and glory,” I protest. “Not soft.”
        “Everyone softens over time. But you must also be steady and brave.”

You’ve been sworn to a secrecy so wild and profound that it is beyond memory. Laced with magic, ladened with love. You once were and will again be a swirl of sparks and pigments. But for now, nothing has ever mattered so much as justice and mercy. Welcome your longings and ignorance, your power and fear. Tend to the prairies and the oceans. Temper your greed with compassion. Admire the mountains and the sun. Circle the moon. And wear your courage like armor over your tender heart.

*** *** ***

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Geraniums

Rita Sommers-Flanagan11 Comments

A devoted Buddhist once told me that he practices dying every night. Due to his oddly belligerent demeanor I didn’t ask for details. But it gave me ideas.

To die well requires less practice and more conscious forethought. A laissez-faire attitude toward mortality is common. But “dealing with things” long before your time comes is a kindness to the planet and your beloveds.

For instance, embalming fluids hold your placid smile in place for viewing, but they eventually leak out, and they’re poison. Sadly, though less toxic and land-consuming, cremation adds around 550 pounds of carbon dioxide to your carbon footprint.

So my newest idea involves compost (I hear my loved ones sighing, “Of course, it does.”) But they’ll thank me someday. I have a plan, and it’s simple.

My favorite quilter will help me create a colorful body wrap with handles and bright yellow ties to ease the burden of moving me to my chosen resting place.

There’s a boggy spot just behind the open-faced calving shed on the family ranch. It has a magical circle of aspen. As a child, I recognized this was a thin place between worlds. With any luck, I’ll die while the ground is warm and active, so a small backhoe can dig a shallow hole.

When I first began my own “dealing with things,” I had my friend built a coffin of rough-cut lumber, but now I realize that coffins are unnecessary. Cotton cloth is enough. I want the fewest barriers possible between me and the rich, good earth.

I want nothing to impede the dissolution or the dream.

My brooding seems to trigger the Not-God. “What about a headstone, you fool?” she shrieks. “How will your offspring find you in times to come?”

My Coauthor and I surround her with understanding arms, and the purple bruising of fear fades to ivory. We hold each other safe in the center of the Holy Dialectic. “My offspring have already found me,” I tell the Not-God. “And I them.”

In her clear contralto, my Coauthor begins to sing, “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.” The Not-God covers her ears and shouts, “What will you do with that coffin, then? And all those stones you’ve gathered?”

I turn toward into the Shadow that she inhabits. “I’ve been lining the Path with smooth stones for years. And my former coffin will make a beautiful planter. Someone gave me some geraniums, and I feel certain they will be easy to propagate.

“What colors?” the Not-God whimpers.

“All of the colors,” I smile. “Do you have a favorite?”

“Pink,” she brightens and grins like a child. “Hot, hot pink.”

—

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Showing Up

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments 

        It’s common to look for loopholes in the various holy writings we use to guide and judge ourselves and each other. This is because even when showing up and doing exactly what Allah seems to want, or covering ourselves in the blood of the lamb, or sacrificing fatted calves, or piercing our chests with bones, dancing until we pass out, deep inside, we know we’re imperfect beings. Maybe we have enough faith to curry the favor of the Divine or avoid eternal damnation. Maybe not. It’s terrifying.

        “Well, that’s ridiculous,” the Coauthor says. “And I have to admit; I get a little tired of the drama.”
        “Well, I have to admit I get a little tired of you,” I counter. 
        “I know,” the Coauthor says.
        We sip beer.

        Somehow, my phone has dialed itself and there’s a voice saying hello, hello from my pocket. I dig out the renegade device and stare at the unfamiliar name on the screen. It’s tempting to end the call, but I answer. Turns out it’s a handyman I hired once, years ago. We have a nice little chat. He is most understanding. I will never see him again. My phone acts like it might redial as I try to update my contacts. My fingers are cold and imprecise. I give up.

        When I think about my reassuring accumulations of art supplies, rocks, dark chocolate, and certain friends, the world seems kind and full of potential. In this transitory euphoria, I make promises, entertain ambitious visions, and fantasize greatness. But in reality, the candy drawer is depleted, the wind has picked up, and another day is slipping by in the wrong direction.

        “I’m not good at graceful exits,” I admit to the slightly inebriated Coauthor. “But I’m working on it. And sometimes, I manage to show up.”
        “I appreciate that,” the Coauthor says.
        “I bet you do,” I nod, thinking about the showing up required of mothers, soldiers, and misunderstood creators. “I know you show up, though some of your disguises are in very bad taste, and you often drink more than your share of the beer.”
        The Coauthor shrugs. “Maybe I need a little rehab.” 
        I smile. “Maybe. But even at your worst, you never miss an exit, graceful or otherwise.”
       “I’m glad you realize that,” the Coauthor says.
       “But is that faith?” I ask.
       “Close enough,” the Coauthor nods. “Relax.”

        Arms folded, feet up, I rest in uneasy abundance, awaiting internal directions or a sign from the sparrows, feasting as the seasons allow. The precarity and brevity of their lives seem of no concern to them this morning.

It’s Hard to Walk Away From a Hundred Words

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment 

The Poet:

It’s hard to walk away from a hundred words and endure the resulting blankness, but sometimes, that’s the thing to do. Don’t lean into the streaked screen. Enter the room even if you’re confused. Grope through collapsing synapses for the forgotten face.

The Painter:

You’ve never learned to handle light. You act as if you can put it wherever you’d like. The resulting portraits are wrong. Your misshapen landscape hides under the clothing of sheep. The Light doesn’t bend at your command, but often, it will invite you to dance.

The Prophet:

You’re going to decline. You’ll blame your brilliance and claim your place in the order of things But darling, grace cannot be earned. For every star you’ve named, there are a million waiting in the wings. What are a hundred words when you consider that?

The Priest:

The Apple doesn’t fall far from intention, stolen wine does not gladden the heart, and twisted words create misery as useless as sin. But listen: The stones along the road are singing. All is forgiven. It’s safe to remember the lyrics and sing your way back home.

                                ......................................................................................................................................................
I

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Remember Who You’re Not

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments 
       
       

       “You are not Rupert Murdoch,” The Cosmos said in a smug voice early this morning. “And you’re not Taylor Swift.”
       “Uh, come again?” I frowned, sleepy and irritated by this authoritative announcement. “Why would you stop by to point that out? Don’t you have anything better to do?”
       “Nope. Nothing better. And sometimes it’s important to remember who you aren’t.”

       It’s cold today. I smudge my forehead with ashes before I start the fire. My nobodiness is both indictment and exoneration. Burden and relief.

       Every evening, a host of witnesses comes home to roost in their insulated shed. As the light wanes, a plexiglass panel slides shut to protect them from the terrors of the night. Once in a while, one of the witnesses lollygags outside until after the door has closed, and she’s forced to spend the night awake, perched on the other side of safety, exposed to predators and the elements. She usually survives.

       Let us pause and consider what we’ve been taught about faith. In the tongues of angels, witches, pricks, and liars, from the mouths of shape shifters and reptiles, from the words of the prophets written on the railroad cars, the definition is disturbingly clear

       Faith without feeding the hungry is dead. Sacrifice without love is pointless. And believing that life should be free of suffering is tragically naïve.

       “We can’t make something true by believing as hard as we can, right?” I asked The Flock. 
       “Right,” The Cosmos answered. “You cannot. So be sure to believe only that which you know to be true.” 
       This made me laugh. And then cry.

       “Why don’t you show us where it hurts?” whispered the demons with eyes all aglow. “So we’ll know where to bite you.”
       “No,” I shook my head. “I’m not Rupert Murdoch. I have to take care of myself.”