News flash: There’s a deadly outbreak of malice spreading rapidly. We’re all at risk. The Belt of Truth is too tight on our fat bellies. We’ve armed ourselves with swords of scorn and hatred. Most days, I am sick with fear.
“Ice cream?” God offers. “Roses? Chocolate? A little nap?” I make the sign of the cross and turn away. She continues, “Wanna shoot some hoops? How ‘bout them Celtics?” “Leave me alone. Go smite someone or something,” I say. “I’ll help.”
“Nah. That’s nonsense,” she laughs. “As I’ve explained many times, I don’t smite. That’s all projection, poetry, and myth.” “But doesn’t it matter?” I argue. “Isn’t something true?” “Well, yes, fables have morals, and there is such a thing as poetic justice,” God agrees and rambles on.
“But that’s like when you trust a dead branch and it breaks. Chicken Little was not famous for laying eggs, and the boy who cried wolf missed his cue.”
“Did I miss my cue?” I ask. I’m dizzy.
A cold wind has picked up, distorting the faint clarion call I’ve been straining to hear. It sounds like a flute. “Tune it out,” God says. “It’s the seduction of ravenous rats. And there are self-anointed royalty riding golden calves, herding innocent swine into the sea. It’s a rave. A goddamn rodeo.”
The ordinary disintegrates as the storm intensifies. Finally, God is joined by God. And God. They’re closing the Interstate, rerouting traffic onto narrow byways. Rusting tanks and trucks stalled with rotting food aid line both sides of the road. It’s not scenic. Drivers look straight ahead to avoid these views, but even now, there are children playing in the streets. It takes skilled swerving to avoid catastrophe.
I’m driving our oldest vehicle, a Chevy from the 60s.
“Get in,” I shout to the Gods and the children.“We’re making a break for it.” They pile in, and I stomp on the gas. Our necks snap as the Chevy lifts off and we achieve cruising altitude. “Ouch!” the Gods complain. “Whiplash!” “Oh yeah?” I flash a sinister smile. “I’ll show you whiplash.” I tilt the wheel straight down, and we plummet back to earth.
We crash land in Gaza. Sudan. Ukraine. Congo. We smash into infirmaries and food banks with empty shelves. We crawl out, wounded and dead. The sky has fallen.
Chunks of heaven are thundering toward Gomorrah and the Fat Boy is screaming WOLF while the wolves remove their bonnets and fling their sheep’s clothing aside.
It is time to gather at the river, wash the discarded wool, spin the yarn, and knit ourselves back together. It’s going to be a long, cold winter.
What’s your favorite Bible verse? The Still Small Voices asked.
Are you crazy? I answered. Leave me alone. May we suggest Father forgive them for they know not what they do? No, you may not, I said. No. How about Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord? Depends, I said. What do you have in mind?
This is a fetus, not a child, sayeth the Lord. And this is a child, not a weapon. This planet is not a mercantile, and the least among you are starving. You have access to clean water and compassion, but you’re choosing hate. Vastly greedy fools are lifting glasses to their own demise. The lights are on, but soon, and very soon, no one will be home.
Do you think I am unaware of these things? I asked, the dog in my lap, warm.
You’ve gotten too big for your britches, They said. You make us laugh. And you’ve gotten too small to matter, I answered. So go ahead. Laugh. They began to sing. Let us laugh with the wren and walrus, the willow, the whale. I had a sudden change of heart. Laugh with me, I begged. Nah, They said. You’re not that funny.
But you said I made you laugh. You contradict yourselves. That we do, the jovial Voices admitted. That we do. And you’re obviously pleased with yourselves, I added. That we are. The Voices agreed. That we are. What about me? I whined. Can’t you be pleased with me?
Are you pleased with yourself? The Voices asked, sly as devils. Are you a forgiver?
But how do I forgive when no one is sorry? I asked, sullen. They shrugged. The sky slipped from their shoulders, pooling blue at their feet. All the world’s a stage, They said. And everyone stands naked at the end. Forgiveness will flow like lava, burn like cheap bourbon, and the party will end in ashes.
The airstrikes began again. The Voices gathered their belongings and joined the surging throng of refugees and overburdened donkeys. Don’t go, I whispered. Come with us, They said. I shook my head, but I knew eventually, I would. We are all fleeing something. Some of us linger. Some look back. Some don’t.
My favorite is Jesus wept, I shouted at their vanishing outlines. Jesus wept.
The properties of light are complex, like the bones in your feet. All streams flow to the sea, so the wise ones grow more secretive. Discreet. They disguise the halting steps, callouses, and short, distorted dreams.
It takes a practiced eye to spot the game and take aim. The cleanest shot is often a long line of honking geese, gliding unaware of their bodies as sustenance or warmth. Long necks slice thin air, innocent. Provocative.
Is the twinkle in God’s eye First Light? Does the venom of the snake create the ache that comes from walking home? I mean the long ways home, the ways of those beloved or betrayed, afraid to be together, afraid to be alone.
First rights of refusal come with dawn, but the last rights of twilight are bereft. The fall of night allows us to exchange the little we have left, and our eyes adjust so few of us plummet to sure death. Just yet.
The light you see at midnight has traveled a long time. Its name is love, its only crime, refusing to be known. So beautiful, the feet of those who bring good news, who bring the light.
Goose down fills our rainbow-colored coats, and our lamps are thus defiled with scented oil. Winter has arrived across our shoulders. We’re blinded by the light across the snow, but the demons in our feet are bound by joy.
So do not be afraid, you weary hobos. Our blessings are a song with bitter words. We’re nourished by the plants we thought were weeds. Oh, may our days be long, our feet be strong upon this land. This day. This light. These feet.
Our planet and our better ways of being continue to evolve primarily because of pinky fingers bravely stuck in dangerous holes. The nasty waters of ignorance and greed are thus momentarily, but only momentarily, held at bay.
All dikes and dams eventually fail, and when they do, those trying to help are slimed, tossed about, and contaminated. Ground is lost and only rarely regained. If you wish to do some good in your lifetime, learn to swim in sewage.
“C’mere,” whispers the Supplier of All Pinkies. “Let me clean that mud off your face.”
“Probably not mud,” I admit, embarrassed. “It’s likely chocolate. I’ve been sucking down chocolate so fast that sometimes, I lose control. Good chocolate melts at body temperature.”
The Hound of Heaven licks my face and nods. “Yeah, it’s chocolate.”
I put my hands over my eyes, trying to make it all go away. No luck. The hands come down, palms up in surrender. I stare at the angular pinkies. Such humble, powerless appendages. On its own volition, the left pinky waves. My entire right arm twists to wave back.
The Universe gently takes both hands. Mortal bones glow in the piercing gaze of the Magnificent.
“It’s over, isn’t it?” I ask. “A very bad ship has sailed. We’re awash in human failings.”
“Yes, the ship has sailed,” the Universe agrees. “The ship has always sailed, and it’s always over. That’s not the question.”
Mournful cries of mothers and fathers rise like the scent of decomposing leaves, and the paths of least resistance are worn bare. Tall grass hides the bodies of soldiers, terrified and soon to be sacrificed.
“There are seasons,” the Universe says. “A time for swimming lessons. A time to swim.”
“I’ve had too many blessings,” I say, as the dark storm rolls in.
I run for the shed filled with life jackets, fishing gear, matches, paper, wood, and goggles. The driving rain stings like bullets. I slip and fall. The shed lifts, breaks, and floats away.
“I got nothing,” I shriek to the fading Universe. “Nothing, nothing, nothing.”
But in my hand, I find a chocolate bar. The label claims the cocao beans were not harvested by slaves.
“Eat it slowly and cry. Salt preserve things beyond their expiration date,” the Universe murmurs.
“That’s it?” I say, incredulous. This cannot be all. This cannot be right. I look down. I’ve grown very thin. The ancestors are relocating. They wave from distant horizons, inviting me along.
“I’m staying a while longer,” I yell. “I have opposable thumbs and a bit of chocolate left to savor.”
Then I dog paddle into the murky water, hoping to find my goggles. Hoping to find my way.
How do you know you are loved? Does it mean you get everything you ever wanted? How do you prove your love to someone else? What in the heck is love anyway? Is it like porn? Do you know love when you see it? Feel it? Trust it? Will it? Choose it?
“Hello,” Love says. “Gaaa,” I say. “You’re not my grandma. Get away from me.” “Howdy there, little lady,” Love says with a swagger. “Don’t howdy me,” I snap. “I’m not your type.” “Find me. Trust me. Uncover me,” Love demands. “I can’t. I won’t. I don’t know how,” I shake my head, hands up, defensive.
“Good-bye,” Love says. “Where’re you going?” I ask, suddenly afraid. “Don’t know. Don’t care,” Love grins. “Want to ride along?” “How would I know what I want?” I ask. “Exactly,” Love nods.
Love settles on the couch. “Do you love anyone?” “I try,” I say. “But not very well, at least by your standards.” “And what are my standards?” Love feigns interest. I consider this for a long while. Love knits a blanket beside me, humming to herself.
“Well, endurance comes to mind,” I finally venture. The guess is flat. Two-dimensional. Endurance is not that sexy. “Good one,” Love says. “Say more.” “No, you say more,” I counter.
Love leaps up and begins a seductive belly dance. “Inward, outward. Yes. No. Not-you-ness. Enough. Letting go while hanging on. Balance. Acceptance. Sacrifice. Otherness. Oneness. Shall I go on?”
“Don’t bother,” I sigh. “It’s impossible.”
“Absolutely,” Love stops gyrating. “I adore that about myself. I’m a gorgeous trip to nowhere, a deceptively simple meal. Five sparrows with open mouths and winter on the horizon. I’m full of myself. Brimming, spilling, messy. I’m the first longing and the last drink.”
“Love,” I say plaintively. “There are so many cold days and crushed dreams. So many painful failures. Could I have that blanket when you’ve finished it?”
“No, honey,” Love says. “It’s not for you. You already have more blankets than you need.”
What? I am embarrassed. Outraged. My demons scream. The collective that I am rushes to the sea—the known and unknown, the just and unjust--intent on self-destruction. Intent on death. But Love calls to the heavens, and the entire crowd of me tumbles into the blue bowl of inverted sky.
Mick Jagger slides onto the curvilinear stage, clearly on a mission. “You can’t always get what you want,” he croons. I want to slap him silly but what’s the use? The truth is not his fault.
I was reading up on amoeba and discovered to my horror that there are brain-eating amoeba floating around in fresh water ready and eager to devour human grey matter. I have an active imagination. I think I let some in. They’ve eaten what I would have written. In their single-celled existence, they may have achieved world peace by simply following their destiny
I am neither single-celled nor invasive, but every fiber of my being and all 30 trillion cells are inflamed. Sometimes, I can grasp the interconnectivity of all things, but I don’t relate well to thieving neighbors, deadly viruses, fascism, or pastries made with refined sugar and bleached flour.
Most mornings I arrive at consciousness gradually, in disbelief at the insolence, ignorance, and greed snarling just outside our door. The warm blankets and the dent my body makes in the mattress form a Godlike exoskeleton that I am loathe to surrender.
I linger, considering amoeba reproduction. Under favorable conditions, the amoeba divides in two. When things aren’t favorable, the amoeba body produces around 200 spores and then disintegrates. Even those lucky enough to gorge on human brains ultimately disintegrate. Maybe they produce smarter spores. I don’t know. Who cares?
“OMG,” God laughs. “Are you trying for the worst set of excuses ever? You aren’t an amoeba, and there are none in your brain. Amoebas have very few choices. You have many.”
“That’s the problem,” I sigh. “Humans pretend to cherish freedom, but choices that require sacrifice are hard. It appears that many would rather trust the wealthy or have a Big Daddy Dictator make choices for us: Define the bad guys. Kill them. Reduce tax burdens, increase buying power and meet our every need because we’re special.”
“You aren’t an amoeba. I’m not the Big Breast in the Sky. Dictators are not benevolent. There are no easy answers. And it’s time to get up.”
This is true. It is time to get up. I don’t want to leave my safe space, but as the saying goes, you can’t take it with you.
I dress for the day and turn to God.
“You coming?” I ask her.
“Always,” she nods. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Dictator brains on toast,” I mumble.
God laughs. “Amoeba envy?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “Some days, it’s hard to be evolved.”
“Ha! Well, regression is always an option.” God slugs my shoulder. “But it’s more interesting to put one foot in front of the other and lean in.”
I am aware this means to lean into compassion, joy, and sacrifice. I grimace, stare into the abyss, and offer God more toast, but she’s already gone. I take one last bite and hurry to catch up.
“Why can’t people just admit when they’re wrong?” I asked Mr. Right. It was early, but the new day was already blemished by the news. I found him having coffee with entities from other galaxies. He was holding forth on various topics, especially focused on the fatal errors humans are making.
Mr. Right shrugged. “How would I know?” He turned to his comrades with a smile. “Any of you ever been wrong?”
“We thought we were wrong once, but then it turned out we were right,” the Pleiades joked. Everyone groaned.
My eyes were already watering from wildfire smoke and the consequences of hateful lies, but real tears of frustration rolled down my cheeks. I wiped them away, angry at myself and the awful fragility of rightness/wrongness and all other painfully destructive hierarchies and dichotomies we live within.
Mr. Right produced a handkerchief and gallantly handed it to me. I slapped it out of his hand, and he drew his gun.
“Take the hanky, bitch,” he said.
II
“Could I buy a little time?” I asked the cashier at the convenience store outside a national park. She was luminescent. Exhausted.
“Don’t I wish, honey?” she sighed. “We don’t stock perishables. How about some everlasting chips and a soda?”
I laughed. Then asked, “So, why are you here?”
“I have no idea,” she said, biting at a hangnail. “Anyways, what would you do if I could sell you some time?”
“Make things right,” I said.
“How?” she asked.
I could tell she did not expect an answer.
III
There are giant women making taffy in the kitchen. The Largest One smiles at me.
“Do you remember how hard it is to get the consistency right and judge when it’s cool enough to pull?” she asks.
I nod. Making taffy was my favorite childhood slumber party activity, but I often ended up with blisters.
“Well, sweetheart” she continues. “The truth is like taffy. The viscosity of the truth thickens due to internal friction. It’s difficult to know how to handle it.”
I stare down at my hands, recalling the scent of cinnamon and peppermint.
She continues. “The truth is sweet for those who forgive themselves, but it’s dangerous for the thinly defended.”
One of The Smaller Ones hands me a wad of taffy to pull. “Be careful,” she warns. “It’s still pretty hot.”
“You don’t like being referred to as Myth and Ritual, do you?” I asked my friend, Myth and Ritual, as September settled around us.
“Not really,” Myth and Ritual answered. “But people do what they have to do. I do what I have to do. Very little is predetermined, but very little is conscious choice.”
This didn’t surprise me. I want to think people have choices. That God has choices. But it’s never that simple.
Take death, for example. Over 6,000 people will die during the hour I spend writing this morning. Not many of them will have chosen to die, but nonetheless, they will pass gently or violently, awake or asleep, young or old, into what humans call death.
“Yes, choice appears to be a rather limited concept,” I echoed. “So whose calling the shots?”
“Ah, there are so many friends invited to that party. There’s Immune System. She’s an erratic one. And those nasty twins, Greed and Poverty. Genetics is always primping in the nearest mirror, giving Folly and Fate the evil eye. War, Famine, and Pandemics all elbow in on the action. Even the occasional virus or mosquito.”
“Enough!” I shook my head. “Those are just excuses.”
“It’s all the same. When Myth or Ritual fail, we step in as the Mother of all Excuses.”
“I am absolutely not calling you that,” I said.
Myth and Ritual laughed. “Got a better idea?”
“Yeah. Today, I’m going to call you Sparky,” I said. “We’re all just walking tinder boxes. You could fan us into flames with a glance.”
“Sparky,” they said. “We like that.”
“I figured you would,” I said. “People chop you into human size chunks and then try to defend you. It’s volatile.”
“That’s outlandish and dangerous!” Sparky declared. “A true deity needs no defense.”
“But good things seem to need defending,” I said. “And bad things need explaining.”
“Yes.” Sparky looked smug. “A dialectic.”
“So, we’re back to Myth and Ritual,” I said.
Sparky frowned. “Maybe. But the horses are saddled. They know the way.”
“To where?” I asked, disoriented by all the non sequiturs.
“To fruition.” Sparky’s voice had mellowed to water. “To peace.”
“How will I know which one to ride?” I asked.
“Different times, different horses,” Sparky murmured. “They’ll come when you call them by name. Courage. Forgiveness. Compassion. Joy. And. . .” Sparky paused. “You might not like the last one.”
Outside my window, fiery autumn foliage was blowing around.
“It’s Acceptance, isn’t it?” I whispered.
The trees swayed and held their ground even as the wind stripped them bare.
Most of us doubt our worth or the value of what we do, and like heat-seeking missiles, we home in on praise, affirmations, and empathy.
Oh, yeah.
It feels so nice to be told we’re doing well, we’re special, we’re understood. Our slip-ups are forgiven. Our intentions are recognized as good even in the face of bad outcomes. Our efforts are applauded, our failures explained away
I had a grandmother who loved me like that.
“Too bad you didn’t turn out to be more like her,” Unkind Voice says in my head.
“Rough night?” I ask with a knowing smile. “Coffee?”
Unkind Voice sits stiffly, clearing her throat. Sipping. Breathing. Trying to accept the day as it is.
I can see the battle playing out in the muscles around her mouth and eyes. They soften and tighten, soften and tighten.
“Stop watching me,” she demands. Then clenches her teeth and adds, “I’m very strong. I’m stronger than most people realize. I’m very, very strong. No one has seen anyone stronger than me.”
I wink across the room to the rising sun, the petunias, the geraniums. I nod to the brown and steady hills and refill her cup. “You are very strong,” I agree. “Tough as nails.”
Then I consider my survival. What can I give away today? What’s something nice I could do? This usually helps.
“You have nothing to give,” Unkind Voice interrupts my internal recalibrations. “Nothing of substance. You’re a self-absorbed ingrate.”
For a split second, she has drained me. The saccharine sweetness of revenge threatens a toxic bloom in my soul. But no.
No.
The soothing voice of Grandmother rescues me. “You’re not perfect, sweetheart,” she reassures me. “But you’re better than this.”
I take heart. With intention, I recenter. This is not easy. In limited light, Grandmother stitches her patchwork quilt made of scraps I remember well. Grandfather gathers eggs and prepares breakfast for the cousins and hired hands.
The fruit is ripening, but the vines still need tending. They’re dry, and the weeds have not given up their greedy ways.
I give Unkind Voice a kiss on the cheek. She pulls back.
“Don’t feel bad,” I murmur. “You gave it your best shot, but I’m not going down.”
She howls and bangs her head on the table as I slip out to the larger world. “We’ll meet again tonight,” I add, leaving her to finish her own vicious meal.
The heat of the day engulfs me. As I tend the waning garden, I offer thanks and praise to all the sources of thanks and praise. I fill baskets and address envelopes to the future.
It may take a village to raise a child, but some villages do better than others. And what about the Walt Whitman multitudes within each of us? Who’s in charge of those inner children?
For instance, when things aren’t going her way, or malevolent forces get too close, my own inner child growls and nips like a protective dog. I scold and apply sanctions. Sometimes, she’s contrite. Other times, she clamps her teeth down on my forearm and leaves marks of unrepentance.
God babysits occasionally. My inner child likes to sit on his lap, braiding his beard, poking at his eyes, and pulling on his large, floppy earlobes. The entwined snake tattoo on his temple is one of her favorites, but his various piercings bother her.
Yesterday, she was having a tough time, so she found God and crawled up for a cuddle. He was dozing, a summer novel splayed across his chest. He didn’t rouse himself fast enough to suit her, so she grabbed his limp hand, bit him, and squirmed away. God sat up, put his finger in his mouth, and lumbered after her like the ancient, doting grandfather he is.
“You don’t need to bite, honey,” he said. “That’s not what those pretty teeth are for.”
“How would you know what my teeth are for?” she retorted, pointing at her gleaming incisors. She’s feisty like that.
Gently, God put his hand over her gaping mouth. She kicked him in the shin.
“So that’s how it is,” he said. He winked at me and began dancing around like a boxer. My inner child wore herself out swinging and missing. She finally dropped to the ground, winded and sweaty, her fists still punching at nothing, her ruffly dress torn and dirty.
“I hate you,” she screamed. “You’re a nasty old man. A pervert. Don’t touch me again or I’ll call the police.”
God leaned down and handed her his phone. “Go ahead, sweetheart,” he said.
She slapped the phone from his hand and dissolved, howling and gnashing her teeth. She knew she was bested, but she didn’t seem able to stop the tantrum.
At last, night fell around her, stars came out in forgiving droves, and a holy breeze cooled her miserably enraged body. She and her demons rested in the arms of the river. God stretched himself out on the sandy shore, forearms cushioning his head.
“I love that little hellion,” he said, as if talking to himself. But he knew I could hear him from my mature hiding place in the willows.
“You can come out now,” he added, his voice tender. “She’s asleep.”
Short visits with an honest God 