Tag: Compassion

Do-over Day

Rita Sommers-Flanagan9 Comments 

                     Do-over Day
       (for my exhausted compatriots)

Things happen when the truth gets too close to the surface.
People grow more defensive. For instance, last night 
the neighbors lit so many candles 
against the coming storm
that their house burned 
to the ground.

Do-over day.

Some of the children have chosen to fly too close 
to the sun, and their tender wings are undone, 
dripping wax down their arms, but maybe
it’s worth it for that kind of light,
that kind of spectacle,
that kind of end.

Do-over day.

Behold! That which is old has birthed something new,
And that which was new has now grown old.
If you hold love too close to your heart
it will explode from all that pressure.
Let it go. It will grow or perish
all on its own.

Do-over day.

You know this by the smell of ground coffee
and offerings burnt to perfection, and syrup
sweet and sticky, the pitcher too close 
to the edge. If it falls, it will shatter, 
and you will be tempted to say
I told you so.

Do-over day.

This is the time to go back to bed, cover your head,
and resolve to kick the bejesus out of anyone
who tries to get too close while you regroup
in the primordial soup where you began.
You speak softly to your bent reflection
but she’s asleep.

Let her rest.

IQ Test

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

If children ask for bread, do you give them a stone?

Meditation isn’t easy. Most mornings, I prefer monkey mind. Trying to control the breath makes me claustrophobic. Panic arises, and the Coauthor has to dance into the void and tickle my brain to save me from sinking into useless rants and bitter condemnations.

“How about we do an IQ test to help you get centered?” she suggests in a beguiling voice. “We’ll pretend there are no wrong answers.”

“Or we could pretend there are no right answers,” I snipe back.

“You’ve clearly lost the beat,” she says, and shoves me into an ancient classroom rapidly filling with Ethereal Beings.

 “Please find a seat,” she commands, tapping a baton on her podium. “I’ll read the questions. You may answer telepathically if you’d like.”

She begins.

  • If you lower yourself into a hot tub filled with bliss, and luxuriate until you completely dissolve, will the soup of your soul be a positive addition to the mix?

(Unlikely)

  • Do you gaze at youth and beauty with envy, spite, or joy? If the nubile youngsters gaze back, do you nod modestly or preen as if you’re still attractive?

(None of the above)

  • Would you rather build a fire, harvest carrots, or watch someone get murdered or raped on TV, assuming justice is eventually served?

(Carrots)

  • Why would someone invent a color that others can’t even see?

(To hide)

(Does anyone love you? Do you love anyone, and if so, what exactly does that mean?)

(Pass)

  • When the familiar collapses, will you run amok, join the choir, or sidle uphill to watch?

(Run amok)

  • Do you prefer approval or adventure? Acrimony or accolades? Whiskey or vodka? Breastmilk or beer?

(Beer)

  • Which moral platitudes cause you to choke on your whole wheat pasta?

(Pretty much all of them)

  • How often do you wash your hair or clean the wax from your misshapen ears?

(None of your business)

(If anyone does love you, or if you do love anyone, have you prepared for the next holocaust? Do you bake the occasional gluten-free pie?)

“Enough!” the Ethereal Beings yell in mock protest. “There’s real work to do.”

The Coauthor winks. “And what might that be?”

“Feed the hungry, silly.” They march out, laughing and singing, arms laden with bread. I remain seated in the last row, deep within the bowels of discordant realities, soaking in the terrifying harmonies of simple truths. My heart is pounding. I remind myself to breathe with my diaphragm.

The Coauthor motions me forward, takes my pulse, and hands me a drum. “Here you go, Maestro. Go find a parade.”

Missionary Position

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Certain faith systems send out missionaries to convert others to their way of thinking, and sometimes it works. Believers beget believers. This has been going for a very long time.

As a species, we search for meaning. And we want to belong. It’s far easier to convert or cling to a set of beliefs that guide and justify our behaviors than it is to be open, kind, and accepting. Some questions simply cannot be answered on this side of existence.

My Coauthor nods in agreement. This surprises me. I smile and begin making breakfast.

“When’s your next mission?” he asks in an innocent voice.  “And which bibles shall we print up?”

I should have known there’d be some smartass dimension to deal with.

“I’m no missionary,” I snap. “I’m a ‘live and let live’ kind of gal.”

My Coauthor cracks up. “In your dreams, Bossypants.”

“Ah, c’mon,” I protest. “It’s obvious there are better or worse ways to live. But I don’t insist. I don’t even shame people. . . very often.”

“But do you love them?”

I shrug. “What’s love?”

“A precarious tightrope that ends in a certain kind of death.”

“Scrambled or over easy?”

“Over easy, please.”

I serve the fertile eggs and sprouted wheat toast. We chew thoughtfully.

I break the silence in an uneasy voice. “I don’t know much about that precarious tightrope, but I do know something about death.”

“You know very little about death.”

“More coffee?”

“Yes, thanks. And feel free. Tell me what you know about death.”

My hand trembles. I refill his cup a little past the brim.

“I’ve been bedside of those passing. I’ve watched wasps writhe. Chard wilt. Bullets to the head of predators. Shovel to the neck of the snake. I’ve watched the light depart.”

The Coauthor nods. “And tell me what you know about love.”

My words fly away. I bow my head. I am the writhing wasp. The beheaded snake. The martyred lamb. The poisoned earth.

 My Coauthor is the dark night in whom I swim and drown. Food withheld, I starve. The constant laying down and taking up of life roils the waters.

 I am a missionary unto myself, but there is fluidity to my position. My body. My blood. Complicit and compliant. The most reluctant sacrifice you’d ever want to meet. The Coauthor is my broken heart, still beating.

I lift my eyes. A spectacular sunrise yanks me to the window and wraps me in the membranes of an apricot sky.

“Today.” I finally whisper. “Today is all I know about love.”

Seeing

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

Once in a while, the dead ask to borrow my eyes, and I almost always welcome them in. Sure, it can be sad and a little frightening, but it’s the least I can do. There’s nothing like the vision enjoyed by the living, and for the living, a briefly expanded view, though jarring, has its benefits.

When the dearly departed share my visual field, unsullied gratitude mingles with that vague longing triggered by the waning of summer.

My dead enjoy viewing fertile fields, mountain peaks, city streets, and tall trees. Some are in awe of babies, but others would rather watch a good football game, especially if their former favorites are playing.

You may wonder how this works. It’s not at all like being possessed. There are no ghosts. 

When I feel the light touch of a soul on my shoulder, I tilt my head ever so slightly and nod. The cataracts of being alive drop away, and the focus becomes eternal. It’s incredible. But such co-mingling must always be consensual.

So, I’m writing to ask a favor. When the time comes, would you consider loaning me a glance at the sunflowers and the cold, clear sky at night? Could I take a quick look at how the planet is doing from your preferred elevation?

In my experience, the dead are polite and cognizant of the demands of being alive. If you agree to my request, I’ll strive to be the same. True, in this life, I can be demanding, selfish, pigheaded, and insensitive. I suspect most of this will drop away as my body rejoins its origins. It is my intention to be thoroughly kind.

And if you want to follow my example and make similar requests while you still can, be my guest. No pressure, though. There are abundant alternatives. 

Older souls often borrow the eyes of donkeys, 
kittens, chickens, lions, puppies, bison, eagles, 
and even the occasional snake or bearded dragon. 

The dead frolic in memories 
and other succulent fictions. 
They are and they aren’t.  
And they don’t seem to mind 
one way or the other.

Even though I’m still temporarily alive, some mornings I touch the Shoulder of the Almighty, and she nods.

Goldfinches glow. 
Dust and ash sparkle. 
Gravity lifts.

We survey the rising hatreds, 
toeholds of courage, 
glimmers of benevolence, 
and black holes of despair. 

We stare into infinity, watching small endings and fragmented resurrections while the raspberries ripen, and a mournful dog howls in the distance.

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.

Unselfies

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments 

“No, turn your head this way.” The Creator pointed as she positioned her phone for one last shot. I felt silly playing along, but on the other hand, it’s unwise to alienate God first thing in the morning, so I tilted my head obligingly. 

The shift of perspective floored me. My eyes beheld my unformed substance at the base of the flowering clematis. The existential struggles of transformation were underway, and it was obvious that my role is miniscule. I matter and I don’t.

This was overwhelming. I grabbed the wings of sunrise and flew toward the ends of the earth. But there, I was greeted by the forces of good and evil. “Hello, Side-Effect,” they yelled cheerfully. “We saw your selfies. Not bad.”

“Those weren’t selfies,” I said. “And I’m not a side-effect.”

My Coauthor rode in in high on the breakers of an incoming tide, waving like royalty. The forces of good and evil waved back. I did not.

“Ah, why the long face?” my Coauthor asked.

“I don’t want to be a side-effect,” I said. “I want to be the pinnacle.”

“You’re both,” God smiled. “Life itself is a side effect of passion. But don’t worry. Every side effect is different. Even desperately desired descendants don’t turn out exactly as imagined, and clones individuate. Each blade of grass is a pinnacle.”

She pulled her phone out of her waterproof fanny pack, threw an arm over my shoulder, and took a series of selfies as we emerged from the depths. 

“Choices,” God said. “Even side effects have choices. And those choices will have choices. That’s why I take so many pictures.”

“And that’s why I always feel like I’m to blame,” I moaned. “Choices are hard.”

“Innocence and intention coexist,” God said. “Culpability is a carriage with draped windows pulled by a team of wild horses. It’s a rough ride.”

“Aren’t you angry with the choices we’re making?” I asked.

“A little,” the Holy Hungry Immigrants shrugged. “But we’ve already laid ourselves down on the tracks. Now, we just wait for the train.” 

They handed me a phone. “Could you snap a couple shots of us?” they asked. “No one will believe this back home.”

I heard the train in the distance. “Get up,” I shrieked. “Don’t be stupid.”

“We can’t.” They gazed lovingly at my horrified face. “You know we can’t.”

Hearts on Fire

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 
When your heart is on fire smoke gets in your eyes

Death rolls in, a thousand acres, flaming,
thick smoke drifting south. 
We are blinded by the slow burn of a million lies. 
Nothing trickles down. 

The poor belong among us.

And we are among ourselves on a finite planet 
on an infinite journey with a wee small chance 
of getting it right. 
Love is right. Violence is not.

The greater good is an apple tree the voles left alone
because we pulled the mulch away from the trunk.
Sometimes, winter should not be diminished.

What comes to everyone over time
are thirteen birds, four horsemen,
and an appetite for sweets and salt. 
The indulgences and the seven deadly sins 
are always calling. Try not to answer.

Stare down, instead 
and watch where you place each foot.
Wish each other well.
We are stardust and ashes,
and we neither live nor die 
without fire.

Gun Racks to Book Shelves

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 



My computer indicated it needed to be restarted this morning and then it wouldn’t stop. I would have panicked and forced a shutdown had not James, the patient man from the repair shop, assured me these things take time. “Chill,” he said. “Have some breakfast.”

James did not realize that I’d already eaten two breakfasts and downed my morning half-beer. I did not share this with James. Instead, I made myself putter, peeking at the screen every five minutes for two hours.

And voilà! The computer finally stopped restarting and seems docile and responsive enough to risk writing some words.

During that down time, I distracted myself with housekeeping which led to some rearranging ideas. The Coauthor appeared as I emptied a shelf unit and started to push it to the door.

“Don’t try to move that alone,” she scolded. “It’s too heavy for you.”

The shelf in question was an old gun rack I’d converted to a bookshelf in my efforts to bring about world peace 35 years ago. It has grown uglier, and the world has grown more vicious. I want to donate both the shelf and the world to an unwitting charity and start over.

“It doesn’t work that way, sweetheart,” the Coauthor said sympathetically.
 
I cried a little. My increasing incapacities are deeply disturbing. 

“You move it then,” I said, defiant. “Or else I’ll keep trying, and it will fall on me, and I’ll die a slow death pinned under my own stupidity.”

“That’s how most of you will die anyway,” she laughed.

“Not funny,” I said and threw a paisley orange pillow at her. She caught it, and we sat down on the worn and disconnected sectional (my latest attempt at the perfect couch).

“Let’s go,” she said.
“Let’s not,” I said.

But I was outvoted, and the cosmic train pulled into the station. 

We dissolved into waves of symphonic sound. Timpani drums made from the skins of scapegoats boomed like bombs bursting in air. The bass moaned low and mournful, the cellos and violins sobbed as they were deported. But somehow, life itself was beautiful beyond words.

“How can this be?” I asked the Coauthor. But I knew. The celestial choir had dismembered me, and my atoms were dancing shamelessly inebriated in the variegated light.

Eternity receded. I resisted reassembling, but here I am, alone with my keyboard, an empty bookshelf, a list, and a plan. Somewhere, in another time, another place, I am an oboe.

A leopard. 
A mollusk. 

I am puffed cheeks blowing out fifteen candles and the first gasp of a new planet. 

And at some incomprehensible level, I trust that all will be well.


Runoff

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

Lately, I’ve been fixated on guttering. We have a lot of unguttered or badly guttered buildings. When rain falls on impervious surfaces and is not guttered or sloped away, it pools up and erodes old foundations.

Water may seem innocuous. Innocent. But it is the (almost) universal solvent. According to the Khan Academy, “Water is key to the vast majority of cellular chemical reactions essential to life. Water molecules are polar, with partial positive charges on the hydrogens, a partial negative charge on the oxygen, and a bent overall structure.”

A bent structure may sound unattractive or dangerous, but in fact, it’s the magic that allows the embodiment of both the negative and the positive to coexist and dissolve nearly anything. 

But even with the threat of dissolution, rain is not the essential problem. Too many impenetrable surfaces are. 

Thus: guttering. The precious rainwater is renamed runoff and routed to centralized locations such as sewers or storage tanks. This creates the potential for stagnation or downstream flooding.

 As humans, we long for shelter from the storm. Impenetrability is tempting. It’s hard to be vulnerable, receptive, and thankful; harder still to lovingly accept rejection and scorn.

But we live in a world where the Coauthors and the Dancers cause the rain to fall on the just and unjust. The sun shines on the kindly folk as well as the cruel, selfish fools.

Many of us feel quite indignant about this. We seek justice but often end up plotting revenge. This storyline has no happy ending. In fact, it has no ending at all. Revenge is self-perpetuating.

Bullies, tyrants, and other impervious souls have developed gutters that shunt kindness and forgiveness off as if they were wastewater. The resulting pools putrefy due to the contaminants they’ve picked up, testifying to the toxicity of fear.

Watching sacrifices go down the drain or get routed to a holding tank where good intentions become sludge is painful.

Even so, the stubbornly resilient make plans (that will no doubt go awry) and dig deep into linty pockets to offer the widow’s mite.

The Holy Role-Models of Resilience are chaotic, redundant, and flighty. They live in the gutters and fix broken toys. And while wildfires rage, they shelter frightened families under scorched wings.

It sometimes seems that Creation has grown weary of us, and the exhausted Dancers have lost the beat. I honestly don’t know.

But in this briefest of moments, some of us have the great good fortune of being lilies of the field, hoping no one sprays us with a broad leaf herbicide as we turn our open faces to the cleansing rain and rejoice when sunlight breaks through.

Eyes For Eyes

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if mankind is to survive. –Albert Einstein

Little Ralphie slugged Little Lana in the stomach, and she fell. He punched her in the face and broke her nose. Blood spurted. She curled inward. He kicked and stomped on her leg. She screamed.

Adult responses:

  1. Yank Little Ralphie up and commence beating him.
  2. Drag Little Ralphie to the edge of town and stone him.
  3. Castrate Little Ralphie so he cannot reproduce his own kind.
  4. Let Little Lana do to Ralphie what was done unto her.
  5. Lock Little Ralphie up and while starving him to death, fine his parents, and give the money to Little Lana.

But wait. Little Ralphie had found Little Lana using a cattle prod on his beloved grandfather. Little Lana was howling with laughter as the grandfather twitched in his wheelchair and cried out for help. While torturing him, Little Lana taunted the grandfather. “You’re a worthless, helpless pile of shit. Pathetic. I hate you.”

Adult responses:

  1. Grab the cattle prod and begin shocking Little Lana.
  2. Cage Little Lana up.
  3. Sterilize Little Lana so she cannot produce children like herself.
  4. Roll the grandfather to a safe place and then shake Little Lana to death.
  5. Rape Little Lana to put her in her place.

But wait. Little Lana has already been raped. Repeatedly. By the grandfather, of course. And he’d just tried to pull her onto his lap, calling her his favorite slut, whispering that he was going to sell her to his neighbor. He said he had pictures of her woo-woo and she’d bring a decent price.

Adult responses:

Make a violent, erotic movie about the whole sequence. Wring hands. Donate to a charity. Introduce tariffs on pornography, fentanyl, and wheelchairs. Sell more guns. Fantasize living on another planet. Rape the grandfather.

Bam

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this whacked out,” my Coauthor observes.

“Is extermination the correct adult response to our species?” I snarl.

“Maybe yes. Maybe no. Remember, you’re just illusions of organized molecules,” Coauthor smiles.

“And sometimes, you’re just a Bad Idea.” I turn away. “This illusion of molecules is going to distract herself with something beautiful.”

“Excellent!” Bad Idea exclaims. “I’ll come with you.”

We kneel in the garden where a tulip has bloomed blood red and watch molecules shaped like Little Ralphie and Little Lana care for their offspring. I scream the names of the Baby Gods dead in Gaza and dread the adulthood of those who survive.

Methane continues to escape from the warming permafrost. Bullets fly. Bombs drop. Idiots rule. I dissipate into a momentary dream of justice. My Coauthor dissipates with me. Therein lies my only hope.