Tag: Compassion

Mr. Right

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

I

“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.”

Myth and Ritual

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“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.

And I loved them for that.

Praise and Thanksgiving

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

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.

And for this day, I am replenished.

When Your Inner Child’s a Biter

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

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.”

Who’s Vetting This Damned Mess?

Rita Sommers-Flanagan11 Comments

Here’s how vetting works: Unbiased authorities carefully examine the basis of claims and issue a verdict of accurate, unlikely, or bullshit to help average citizens determine what to believe. When we decide not to trust credentialed authorities, we are prone to mistake our opinions for facts and our personal beliefs for reality.

But there’s a painful tension between belief and reality. Believing a falsehood doesn’t make it true. Or does it? The placebo effect is powerful. Maybe it’s possible to believe lies into reality.

“Excuse me,” God says.  “Could you give us a minute?”

My ancestors, friends, and readers slip out of the conference room in my head and quietly shut the door. I’m alone with an edgy God.

“Now listen,” God says. “Blind faith is dangerous. Some people think there is such a thing as ‘the word of God.’ Maybe. Maybe not. But I am not the Great Vetter in the Sky. You’ve got to vet things yourselves.  It’s relatively simple…”

I hold up my hand. “Let me stop you right there. Nothing is simple or straightforward about seeking the truth, and you know it.”

“You have education, language, and history,” God says.

I frown. “Yeah, right. And there are people who deliberately teach lies.”

 “But you have scientific methodologies,” God says.

I glare. “And we have science deniers. There are billions who don’t believe in the existence of germs and think carbon dating is from the devil.”

“Well, good grief. You have common sense,” God says.

I shake my head. “Nah. We believe that which is convenient or matches our needs or leanings. Con artists do quite well politically and financially.”

“But you’ve got eyes and ears and beating hearts,” God says in a firm and final voice.

 He packs his briefcase. I stand at attention, eyes wide open, hand over heart while the honor guard of God marches by.

Then I pull my hand down and stare at it. What, exactly, was I saluting? My feet take me to the garden. My eyes behold the dry brown hills and smoke-filled skies. I dig into the honest dirt and listen for the pulse of reality, raw and unhindered.

Bullshit breaks down and fertilizes tender green things. What goes around comes around. It is the earth itself who will do the final vetting.

“Sorry I was so harsh. We are helping where we can,” the Creator whispers from a sad, small space under the chokecherries.

“I know, Precious,” I whisper back to the Bleeding Heart of the Universe. “Of that, I am sure.”

Glue Us In, Baby

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Three years ago, sudden and massive waters dropped a generous array of boulders near the newly cut riverbank. I’ve rolled these stones into a labyrinth and placed a recycled angel named Mary Magdalene at the center. Her arm fell off occasionally, but a fellow angel stopped by and glued it permanently in place.

Rafters appreciate Mary as they drift by, snapping thin lines through the air, hoping to catch and release innocent trout. Darth Vader and the Hulk stand guard, and I’ve added reading glasses.

Lately, besides sticks, stones, and angels, I’ve been drawn to shattered mirrors, discarded jewelry, and certain words–the ones used to deliver sucker punches: Bastard (someone born to an unwed mother); Bitch (a female dog); Fuck (to make love); God (a concept used to elevate oneself and control others).

“Wait!” God exclaims. “Don’t put us on that list.”

 I shrug. “You put yourselves on.”

“Hmmm. Well then, we’re taking ourselves off.”

“Good luck,” I shrug again. “I cross you off. You crop back up.”

“Fascinating,” God says. “What’s that about?”

“Consciousness. We’re at war. URGES. LIES. Still small voices. It’s Jiminy Cricket vs. Pleasure Island. We don’t want to humble ourselves and do the work necessary to be real.”

I step back from my collage and admire how the jagged and the smooth interact. The reconfigured shards reflect my splintered image.

“We love what you’ve done with your imperfections,” God says.

 “I rather like being cracked and shiny,” I admit. “Is that okay with you?”

An explosion of unadulterated laughter threatens to jiggle things loose. The glue isn’t quite dry.

“Mind?” God howls and contorts into a string of Mardi Gras beads, baubles, bones, and tubes of epoxy. “Glue us in, baby,” they chant. “Glue us in and hang us down near Mary.”

“But it’s dangerous down there. Floods. Trespassers. Unrelenting sun,” I warn.

In fact, my angel’s outer layer is peeling from constant UV exposure, and I could lose her to flooding or vandalism.

 “Then hang us high,” they laugh. “We’ve seen a flood or two in our day.” They begin singing an old camp tune. “You put your right arm in. You put your right arm out, you put your right arm in…. Let’s go!”

 I throw my arm over God’s shoulder, and we croon our way to the labyrinth. To Mary. To the river.

We put our whole selves in. We put our whole selves out. We put our whole selves in, and then we shake them all about. We do the hokey pokey, and we turn ourselves around.

And maybe. Just maybe, that’s what it’s all about.

Platitude Day

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

“I’ve still got it!” God exclaimed in a braggy voice. He stuck out his butt and raised his hands in a victory march around our uncomfortable orange couch.

“Still got what?” I steeled myself for a barrage of the absurd.

“Whatever it takes,” God answered.

“Oh, it’s Platitude Day,” I observed in a chilly voice.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” God said.

“And I don’t have to explain myself to you,” I retorted.

“That’s rich,” God laughed. “You can’t even explain yourself to yourself. Give it a try.

“Leave me alone,” I said.

“Never,” God said.

My eyes stung with absolutes and finalities. I didn’t want to cry, so I stared at the orange objects peppering my visual field. Then I moved to lime green. I took my pulse.

I wrote my funeral vows in the dirt with a long walking stick. One end had been whittled to a sharp point for balance and clarity. The other end was wrapped in rope for a better grip. It was a little tall for me. I shrink a bit every year and have to remember to downsize my expectations accordingly.

This passive acceptance caught God’s attention. “Outsourcing, not downsizing. Insourcing. Reverse osmosis. Whatever it takes.” He looked determined. “Too many killed waving white flags. Too many born to dead mothers. The holy will always be greater than the sum of its parts. You have less to remember than you assume.”

“You’re driving me insane. Please, please, please get out.” The tears spilled.

“There’s no out, baby,” the Insistent Presence whispered. “But then, there’s no in either. Go ahead and cry a little. I don’t mind.”

“DON’T MIND??” I yelled at the Organizing Principles of the Universe. “YOU DON’T MIND?” How could God not mind? I dried my eyes and took a breath. Two breaths. Counted to ten. I straightened my spine, got my hammer, put my shoulder to the wheel, and twirled my lariat overhead.

“Hold my beer,” I shouted. “I’ve still got it, too. You want a piece of me?”

“You’re right,” God chuckled. “It is definitely Platitude Day.”

He drank my beer. I painted him orange. We confessed our sins and rejoiced in small victories. We took tall orders and gathered no moss as we rolled downhill. We sat tight, broke a leg, and let it all go.

The Presence met the sick and dying at the door. I sang to them. And at the end of the day, in a mind-bending way, it all mattered just enough to matter.

“Would you like me to go now?” God asked.

“Sure,” I said. “But I’m going with you.”

God (and Dr. Bossypants) Speak

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Some astute readers may suspect that God is well-acquainted with Dr. Bossypants, and this is true. God and Dr. Bossypants had little tête-à-tête this week because they like making up rules that they believe will enhance people’s lives, and they generally like people. At least a little bit. Their combined hubris is something to behold. At times like this, I just sit back and take dictation. We all hope these suggestions will help more than hinder. I know a lot of us are a bit oppositional. Try to resist getting indignant about being bossed around. But if you must, that’s okay. God and Dr. Bossypants are both fairly forgiving.

Sticky Notes

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What would life be without sticky notes and lists? I jot reminders and post them helter-skelter around the house, hoping to remember who I am and what I need to accomplish in any given block of time. I float from dream to dream, idea to idea, task to task. Few are completed at one go and sadly, some won’t ever be. Completion does not come easy for me.

“Me neither,” God says. “But that’s not all bad. There’s something to be said for process. Say, could I borrow some toenail clippers?”

I lean back and imagine managing the overgrown toenails of the living God. I see rippled volcanic lava, gradually and graciously colonized by umbilicate lichens drifting in and attaching for the great breaking down. Lichens are neither plant nor animal. They’re a union between fungi and algae, like gay cowpokes enduring unbelievable conditions just to dance. Their symbiotic version of the two-step may be our last, best hope for shaping the wild eruptions of creation, for taming the deadly individualisms and cult-like allegiances poisoning the downstream waters.

“Sure,” I say. “I have a lot of clippers, but none of them work very well. Are you still limber enough to get at your toes? It’s easy to lose your balance at your age.”

“Ha!” Creation smiles lime green and orange through all the particular lichens rejoicing in rain-induced frenetic growth, doing their magical photosynthetic work. Reindeer and slugs, ibex and snails, feasting. Lava, giving way. Breaking down. I’m jealous of all that power.

“Let it go,” God says. “Envy does not become you.”

“But what should I do?” I ask. “I want to be helpful. Your nails are atrocious.”

“You flatter me,” God laughs. “But seriously, give up on the sticky notes. Expose your upper cortex to light. And when things dry up, let the wind take you where it will.”

I comb my fingers through my bedhead hair. “I’ve tried,” I say. “I just can’t.”

Doubt and fear cloud my mind. I don’t know what to say to myself. God slides in, calms the turbulence, and builds us a nest in an old growth forest. Sage gray lichen grows thick and innocent on the bark of the chosen tree.

The slow shape of Compassion crawls toward the primordial soup, a sea turtle of advancing years and infinite patience.

 “Wait!” I shout, running toward the Turtle. “Are there words for this?”

The Turtle just blinks and dives, leaving the shore littered with outdated phrases, false depictions, sharp chunks of lava, and long, irrelevant lists. I settle among this brokenness and wait for the tide to come in.

The tide always comes in.

Monday Monday

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Most Mondays (the start-over day) I grope my way to coffee and toast, check the weather, listen to the news, and pause to consider the wonderment and demands of another day. Then I prowl around considering which room to declare sacred for the next couple of hours, which chair will be most inspirational, and which accoutrements might help me face the blank screen and a recalcitrant Coauthor. We have a deal. On Mondays, we will string together a set of words that speak to the human condition.

Usually, I settle into one of our old recliners, expand into everything, fold into nothing, and die a couple of times while my Coauthor courses through my circulatory systems, both physical and psychic. She glints off the shiny surfaces of my remaining life and prances naked desires across my ever-changing visual field.

I shield my eyes.

Plug my ears.

Duck my head.

Doesn’t matter.

It’s an Internal, Infernal Presence.

There’s no escape.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone had a comfy recliner like you?” my Coauthor asks as she peeks from an array of books on the bookshelf and strums seven painted driftwood sticks glued to a canvas as if they were strings on a cello. As if she has become Yoyo Ma. As if this complex web of existence is intentional. As if I am among the intentions.

“Sure. Go for it,” I snap. “Whip up 7.9 billion recliners. Make them compostable and fireproof. Make sure they can serve as flotation devices and bomb shelters and can be eaten during famine. Make them vibrate with joy and catch mice and roll across all the floors of the world without leaving marks.”

“Brilliant!” she declares, clapping her many hands. “I’ll put a solar panel on the back of each one, and they’ll pivot to follow the sun.”

She gives me a meaningful glance.

“No,” I say. “I will not pivot to follow the sun.”

“Oh, my silly little minion,” she laughs. “You’ve always pivoted to follow the sun. And you always will.”

I could protest this ludicrous claim, but with the Internal, Infernal Presence, there’s no winning, no losing, and definitely, no escape.

The sun is one of billions of stars orbiting the center of the Milky Way. Every 230 million years, an orbit is completed. In our heart of hearts, all silly minions know this. The Mondays will come and go until they don’t. Nothing is static. Nothing is certain. Tomorrow may rain, but in the end, we’ll follow the sun.