Tag: Compassion

Getting to Yes

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

On one of my all-time favorite British sitcoms, The Vicar of Dibley, there was a character who answered any inquiry with no, no, no, no, no, no, no…. Then his oppositional stuttering would shift abruptly to something like, “Yes, sounds good.” This made the vicar roll her eyes and the audience laugh. Every time.

That sums up my relationship with my Coauthor fairly well. I look at the deep divisions in the world, the absolute necessity of being loving and forgiving, shake my head, and say No, no, no, no, no. Then I breathe, consider the options, and say Yes. Not because anything looks or sounds all that good. It’s just that Yes is the best answer available.

And the audience laughs. Every time.

The vultures laugh. The sparrows laugh. Friends and enemies laugh. The feasting deer lift their heads and laugh. Secure in the lap of forever, the souls of the brutally departed laugh. Fire-setters, firefighters, funeral directors, midwives, engineers, artists, jailers with rings of keys, pilots with bombing planes, producers of poison, planters of organic seeds.

Laughing. Every time.

But what’s so funny? The knee-jerk string of NOs? The pivot to YES?

“It’s all funny,” my Coauthor says. “Every bit of it.”

“I beg to differ,” I say.

“Of course you do,” my Coauthor chuckles. “See? Now, go ahead and get to yes.”

 “No, no, no, no, no,” I say, shaking my head.

“There’s a Yes in there somewhere,” God insists, sneaking toward me with tickle fingers, making ridiculous, nostril-flaring faces, tossing popcorn in the air to catch in his mouth—the Clown of Heaven, the Fathomless Fool.

“YES!” I yell. “Stop! You’re absurd.”

“No,” God laughs. “No, no, no, no, no.”

“Very funny,” I say. “Now, go ahead and get to yes.”

“Already there,” God smiles. “C’mon in. I’ve got wine and fresh bread.”

The Yes propels me forward. I take my place at the table and break the loaf open, crusty and warm. The wine is bitter, but there are carrots sweetened by the frost and a steaming cup of tea. I am grateful despite the costs and challenges in such wanton communion.

“Yes,” I say, soberly, allowing my eyes to see.

“Yes,” God nods with compassion.

And the day begins. It will be filled with divine comedies, embodied tragedies, the futile and the fulfilling. Most of the doors will be left unlocked, swinging freely in the wind.

Certainties

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“The mythical versions of you are far more palatable than the possibility of you,” I told God who was lurking in the predawn shadows. My mind was slightly disheveled, body and soul stiff and creaky. A mouse scrabbling in the closet had yanked me awake. Troubling uncertainties leaked from the murky remnants of deep sleep.

“No they’re not,” God answered, flitting like a sparrow from idea to idea. “Mythical versions are made by humans. They’re fear-based and jagged.”

“Some are,” I agreed. “But some portray you as all light. Soft, loving, pliable, and boundless.”

“Really?” God asked. “I guess I’m not familiar with all my renditions.”

“This is an absurd conversation,” I said to the deep-eyed leper who has stared at me through the same nonglare glass for 40 years. “It is impossible to know God,” I said to the pewter angel from my mother-in-law’s collection. “I did not ask to be born,” I told the yellowing leaves. “And you’ve made a terrible mistake,” I said to the mouse.

None of my declarations stopped the digital clock from flashing up new numbers. My small victories mattered little to the wind. The earth is still quaking, and there are those awaiting the death of God with a certain eagerness. They rub their hands in anticipation, planning ways to distribute what’s left behind. Sometimes, I am among them.

“All ye in need of rest, I have a hammock,” God declared. “All ye without a cause, I have some little gods for sale.”

“Are you certain that’s how you want to start this day?” I asked.

“Certainty is over-rated,” God said, sharp teeth gleaming through the fleeting crimson sunrise.

I fought my way out of bed, fended off the vertigo, baited the mousetrap, and opened the fridge gingerly, as if I were lifting the seventh seal—the final seal—the ultimate pandora’s box—the well-earned wrath of a frustrated deity. In truth, all I wanted was my dark beer, but it’s better to be ready for anything.

“It’s always the end times and the beginning,” God said.

“I know,” I sighed. “But that’s hard for linear creatures like us.”

“You’re tougher than you look!” God said.

“So are you,” I said, wary but alive. We exchanged respectful nods and made our way into the rapidly forming substance of another day.

“Hey, could you give me a hand?” God yelled from the trunk of the ancient crabapple tree.

I nodded. Last night’s storm had twisted the hammock into knots. It took us forever to straighten it out.

Seven

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Here’s a fun fact: forgiving others is highly advisable for our own well-being. There are various sayings addressing this basic truth. My favorite is: Let that shit go, man. It’s killing you.

Over the centuries philosophers and theologians have written about the topic. In one source familiar to many, the Greek is a tad unclear. How many times are we supposed to forgive the same stupid insults, injuries, or mistakes? Seventy times seven (490)? Or just seventy plus seven (a mere 77)? It’s translated both ways, but honestly, I can’t see why it matters since it’s unlikely many of us make it past two.

Unforgiveness, grudges, and plans for revenge are personal treasures that clatter along behind us like tin cans tied on the back of the “Just Married” car.

“That racket makes me crazy,” God says. “For the life of me, I don’t see why you do this to yourselves.”

“Ah, but remember, we’re not like you. We have our self-esteem to protect. We get all tangled up in righteous indignation and strategic self-defense whereas you can just la-la-la along embodying benevolence and good cheer. We’re fragmented, weaker,” I pause and then add with a sly grin, “and more complex.”

God starts laughing. Side-splitting gale force laughter spreads over the space-time continuum. I can’t help but join in. The leaves turn and fall. The garden harvests itself. The cows come home. Imagined or real offenses blow away, and my sword and shield melt like candle wax. God howls.

“Stop it, God,” I beg between gasps. “I’m going to wet my pants.”

It doesn’t stop. My life flashes before my eyes, and it’s perversely hilarious. I see all the forgivenesses I could have requested or granted. I see all the burdens I could have offloaded and all the joys I could have experienced. It seems like this should make me sad, but it doesn’t. God and I just keep laughing.

Finally the seventh day arrives, and we rest from our laughter. I make a soft, downy bed of my many sins and shortfalls, intending to sleep the sleep of the grateful dead. The Incarnation of Forgiveness snuggles in beside me, pulls the quilt up to our chins, and whispers, “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. Love never ends.”

“That’s nice,” I murmur. “And I forgive you.”

God snorts, and the laughter threatens to start again. But I gently put my finger on God’s lips. “Shhhh,” I whisper. “Relax, buddy. We gotta get some sleep.”

The Parade

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God and I have been working on reining in our expectations. This is even harder for God than for me. It’s strangely comforting to know that the pain of my life’s chronic disappointments will end when I end. Not so for God. God’s unmet expectations and foiled hopes repeatedly jump the guardrails and roll around like bowling balls, bruising the same spots over and over. God’s tenacity and bravery are astonishing. Who else would willingly sign on for such endless frustrations?

“Aw, it’s not that bad,” God says, clearly pleased with my empathy and sincere admiration. “I do have a buttload of setbacks and disappointments to lug around but look at all the counterbalancing joys and successes.”

When God says things like buttload my adolescent self starts giggling, and my perspective shifts: The idea of everything going my way seems silly; fears and unfulfillments shrink; and my expectations shelve themselves in the basement pantry.

I take a few deep breaths, slap myself on the side of the head, and tell myself to grow up. But I can’t seem to stop. Buttload, I chuckle to myself, causing another hysterical outburst. I’m like a child who wants to keep laughing for the sheer delight of laughing.

“Hey goofball,” God says. “Pull yourself together. You’re late for the parade.”

What? Parade? I am instantly defiant. “I don’t like parades,” I say firmly.

Back in the day, I played saxophone in the high school marching band, waved at the crowds from homemade floats, tossed candy, handed out fliers, and once, I twirled a baton for seven miserable blocks while unimportant people clapped and cheered. I’m over all that. I’m not going.

God shrugs. “Either you go to the parade, or the parade comes to you.”

I hear the drums in the distance. On the horizon, the silhouettes of a flag-bearing honor guard move in lockstep. The floats begin to roll by, festooned with banners held aloft by my ancestors and dearly departed friends. Tears spill down my cheeks. Sheesh. What is wrong with me?

DO WHAT YOU CAN! the banners proclaim. ENJOY EVERYTHING! EXPECT NOTHING!

“Okay, God,” I sob. “You win.”

I grab a rusty frying pan and a hefty stick of driftwood. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll beat my own damn drum.”

“You bet,” God says, and falls in beside and around me, a swirling rainbow, a cloud of witnesses, shaking ancient tambourines. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The Ten Suggestions

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Yesterday, Big Fella handed me a tattered scrap of paper and said, “Could you take a look at this?”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Just some ideas I’ve been rolling around in my head forever. Need a new set of eyes. I’ll pay you.”

Me, edit for God? I was honored. I should know better.

TEN SUGGESTIONS FOR A HAPPY LIFE

You might want to stop worshipping anything or anyone that promises an easy life. Suffering and death are part of the plan. I am the Process. Love is the whole story.

It’s foolish to imagine Me in your own image. Embrace Mystery.

Cuss and swear all you want, but if you do something cruel, selfish, or hateful, do not claim to be doing it for or with Me. That’s ridiculous and offensive.

It’s wise to rest in the majestic beauty of creation. You will thus be renewed.

Being kind and respectful to those who cared for you as a child is good practice. They weren’t perfect, but then, who is? Individuate but don’t be nasty about it.

Killing each other is a terrible idea.

Try to keep your promises. For instance, if you pledge monogamy, don’t sneak around having sex with others. This is a very hurtful form of lying.

Don’t take or damage what isn’t yours (and by the way, the earth isn’t yours). Own as little as possible. Pay your taxes. Be as just and fair as you can.

Always tell the truth. No cheating.

Jealousy will make you miserable and prone to stealing, lying, cheating, killing, and denying love. Endeavor to be content.

I handed the paper back. “Pretty good. A little bossy and repetitive.”

Big Fella shrugged. “Maybe I could shorten it, but it’s a road map to a well-lived life. You simply need to choose the most loving possible choice every time you move, think, or act, even if it involves a little sacrifice or self-control. Is that too much to ask?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Way, way too much!”

“I knew it!” Big Fella exclaimed and threw down his hat. “That’s what I was afraid of when I introduced consciousness.”

I picked up the hat, intending to hand it back and say something reassuring about the editing process, but Big Fella was gone and in his place were three newborn kittens. I moved toward them but then realized they weren’t kittens. They were unexploded bomblets from a cluster bomb. My heart sank. I knew I had to try to defuse them.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Big Fella whispered.

 “I’m afraid,” I whispered back.

“I know,” Big Fella said. “I’m right here.”

Time is Money and Money is Everything

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“You’re pretty thick-skinned,” I tell God as we sip our morning beers. “I’m jealous.”

God sighs. “Don’t be ridiculous. My skin is so thin it’s translucent. You can see my veins pulsing.”

“Ugh!” I exclaim. “I don’t like talking about veins.”

“I know,” God says. “So let’s talk about that man on the news that got you all riled up.”

“The one who said time is money and money is everything?” I ask. “Because yeah, I hated that. For your sake.”

God laughs. We clink bottles and watch as the river rises and the earth gasps for breath. How much money would it take to clean up our mess? To feed a billion children? What does it cost to build tanks, drones, and bombs? How much, God? How much money to defeat evil or save a single soul?

God raises an eyebrow. “Money does not buy redemption or defeat evil.”

“I know,” I snap. “But it buys food. And weapons. Like Mark Twain said, I’ve been rich, and I’ve been poor. Rich is better.”

“So you’re saying money is everything?” God asks.

“I don’t know what I’m saying,” I admit.

God’s cadence slows. “Money and time are seductive, addictive distractions, but time is not money, and of course, money is not everything. Money might buy you votes or a short journey through the house of distorted mirrors, but life eventually comes down to focus and flow. Acceptance and gratitude. Servanthood and humility. Depending on motive, a vow of poverty can be as pointless as vaults full of gold.”

I gaze at the Servant on my sofa who repeatedly urges me to choose generosity and compassion. She’s a willow with rotting roots, a hatched egg in a dislodged nest, erosion, eruption, and an ever-expanding circularity.

“Are you on my side?” I ask.

“No,” the Servant says, laughing again. “Are you on mine?”

“I would be if I knew what your side was,” I say.

“Well-said,” the Servant nods. “But I need no one on my side. I’m God. You need to be on your own side. The side that might save this little planet you call home and this funky species you call human.”

“But we need help!” I say, anger rising in my throat.

“Yes, you do,” God agrees. “That’s why I’ve sent the drag queens, the nonbinary, the folk of color, the truth-speakers, the scientists, the artists, the poor, the meek, and the gentle.”

“But they aren’t enough,” I say, despairing.

“So it appears,” God agrees sadly. “So it appears.”

Weeding

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

God and I are in jovial moods today, philosophizing aimlessly as we work in the garden. My new thrift-store pants are perfect for pulling weeds on my knees, and the weeds are loose because it’s muddy.

I don’t love weeding, no matter how easily the weeds pull. I wonder if there are robots programmed to pull weeds yet. I bet they won’t like it either. Or will they?

“Will robots eventually have souls?” I ask God. “Or do they already?”

“Depends on what you mean by soul,” God says. “Do you think soul is a limited commodity? Soul flows into whatever you touch, play with, or program. It isn’t confined. It isn’t zero-sum.”

This does not surprise me. I talk to rocks, and sometimes in their own ways, they mirror back an answer. I pat the dashboard of my vehicle. I thank my eyes, ears, and knees for hanging in there, and I swear at the Internet, mildew, and uneven surfaces as if they are choosing to cause harm or hurt me. I speak politely to Alexa.

Notions of soul, volition, culpability, choice, and human cruelty roll around in my head. There are people far worse than invasive weeds. I think of them as soulless.

“Is it possible to spring a soul leak and dry up?” I ask.

“Yes, unfortunately, soul hemorrhaging happens,” God says. “It’s usually caused by fear or the lust for power. But unlike O-negative blood, there’s an endless supply of soul, available for the asking.”

The image of God at a soul-donation center, sleeve rolled up, needle forever embedded in the rich vein, liters of soul being rushed out the door…this makes me laugh. And cry. And even though I often donate my O-negative blood, I’m needle-phobic, so this imagery is making me a little woozy.

God notices me fading and embodies the mountains to distract me. Warms into sunlight to comfort me. Uses the iris to top off my soul with a generous splash of purple. This steadies me. I rise to the occasion of the unfolding day, knowing it will require kindness when I don’t feel kind. Patience. Generosity.

“Hey, God,” I say. “Could you make sure whoever is programming whatever is coming next values compassion over profit, mercy over revenge, humility over victory, and collaboration over hierarchy?”

“It can’t be absolute, sweetheart,” the Programmer says. “But these will always be options. Always have been. Always will be.”

Audacity

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The first day of another week arrived and God declared it good. The chickens have learned to use their new ramp and now vie with the pigs for attention and treats. The pigs are smarter; the chickens are faster and more easily airborne. Relationships always require compromise and tradeoffs. Even God’s and mine.

God is smarter, faster, and more easily airborne. But I’m tenacious.

“So am I,” God declared. “Let’s just enjoy these old lilacs for a bit, shall we? They’re as tenacious as we are.”

We sat on displaced cement steps going nowhere and marveled at the prolific purple blooms, blue sky, apple blossoms, and the speed of dandelion growth. Because I associate lilacs with Memorial Day, I brought to mind dead friends and wondered when I would be joining them. God brought to mind babies and urged me to consider their fat little legs kicking, their loose, drooly mouths smiling.

Thanks to the expansive air and insistent green of spring, I found I could hold the babies and my dead loved ones in the same space, and a profound sense of gratitude arose that surprised God as much as it surprised me.

“Nice,” God said. “That’s some impressive space you’re holding there.”

“I know. Some days, I’m so damn impressive I can hardly stand it.”

“But other days…” God gave me a look. Was it shaming? Understanding? Predictive?

I shot God an equally quizzical look. “What are you getting at?” (If you want to maintain healthy relationships, it’s better to ask than assume. But with God, there will often be too many answers or none at all.

Our newest apple tree has not recovered from the wind-whipped trip home. We should have protected it better. The hours remaining in my life will bring opportunities for despair, kindness, contemplation, meanness, largeness, smallness, giving, and withholding. The pigs will demand more food than is good for them. They’ll squeal and squabble. The chickens will scratch for worms. There will be blooming and going to seed.

God is the pollinator, the fertile idea, the distorted reflection, the broken door. How could I possibly expect a coherent answer?“

“Ah, but you keep asking, and I adore you for that,” God said. “You’re not just tenacious. You’re audacious.”

God’s right. How dare I break my realities into so many pieces, or twist verbatims into poems? But with such a photosynthetic God, how dare I not?

The lilac branches swayed as God summoned a flock of goldfinches, and together they flew toward the glaring, generative sun, leaving me and my audacious tenacity sitting content in a fragrant lavender haze of seedlings and ancestors.

Monovision

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Due to my astigmatism, I wore hard contact lenses early in life, and those darn little things were easy to lose. It took a long time to get a replacement, so I’d wear the remaining lens and become a one-eyed wonder until the new one arrived. This practice trained my brain to be tolerant of monovision—one eye feeds tolerably clear visual information into the brain while the other contributes only fuzzy approximations.

Decades later I had laser surgery and made this arrangement permanent. One eye tells me about things further away. The other allows me to read without glasses. I suspect my brain works overtime to sort this out, but I’m not conscious of that effort.

Monovision is cool. By simply closing one eye, I can remind myself nothing is ever exactly as it seems. My take on reality is based on the way I see things, but it’s not the whole picture. It’s just one view.

“Right on!” God chimed in as I was mulling this recently. “You would not believe how I look to a housefly.”

“True,” I said. “I don’t even believe how you look to me.”

“Is that so?” God asked. “I thought we were on better terms.”

I closed my left eye. Then the right. I tipped my head and considered looking at God upside down, but the thought made me queasy.

“What are you seeing?” God asked.

“Oh, the usual. Needs, vacancies, denial, anger, fear.”

“No, I mean what do I look like?”

“Old. Improbable. Vast. I wish you looked softer and safer, but you’re too vague.”

“Are all your eyes open?”

“I think so.”

“You’re wrong,” the Ultimate Optometrist said. “But I know you’re trying. Let me adjust these lenses for you.”

“No!” I yelled and backed away. Who wants God adjusting the way they see things? In my haste, I failed to glance behind, so I tripped and fell.

God rushed to my side and helped me up. “Are you hurt?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. My pride was bruised, my fears, fully activated, my body felt fragile and clumsy, but was I hurt?

“That depends on what you mean by hurt,” I said finally. Then with my two eyes open, I looked straight at what I see to be God and added, “Are you real?”            

“Oh, I love how you set me up,” God chuckled affectionately. “That depends on what you mean by God.”

Vertigo

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

God is a dizzy dame who throws her head back and laughs from her gut. Droplets of saliva sparkle in the air. No politely covered mouth for this One. She’s extravagant, repulsive, and contagious. Early in life, I came down with a bad case of God, and it permanently deformed my worldview. To stay balanced, I learned to compensate.

But now, the crystals in my inner ear randomly come untethered and reality spins like a rolodex. I no longer trust any surface or deity presenting itself as stable or defined.

“Remember that coiled rattler under the burdock?” God chuckles as she guzzles Hutterite rhubarb wine. “That was me!” She’s drunk and proud and dancing.

“I’ve never doubted that,” I say, sober and serious.

“And remember how I taught you to breathe?”

I shake my head. God takes credit where credit may not be due. But who am I to question the Source? To protest the inconsistencies, incoherence, and impossible dialectics? The Sophie’s choices and failed states?

God clicks her castanets, sways her hips, and stomps her high-heeled feet. “Yes!” she exclaims. “That’s the question. Who are you?”

The frenzied beat moves her past the limits. The sky gathers force, and hailstones strip her naked. She throws her head back again, her joy maniacal, her hair, a den of vipers, awakened and writhing.

I am unfazed. Bemused. I’ve seen it all before.

“No,” I say calmly. “The question is who are YOU?”

The scene shifts. God is Tevye, singing as if I were Golda.

“But do you love me?” His voice is gravelly. Vulnerable.

“Do I have a choice?” I ask.

“Do you have a telescope? Or microscope? Can you alter DNA? Of course, you can. But if you plant carrot seeds, do you harvest corn?”

I settle in for a long ramble of nonsensical obfuscations, but God chucks me on the chin and becomes Dr. Seuss, reading from his book Oh, the places you’ll go. “You have brains in your head, feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose.”

Despite my instabilities, I know this is true.

“I have no sheep, but there are eight chickens, two pigs, a tiny slice of land, and some hateful, deluded neighbors to care for. Will that suffice?”

“Yes!” Dr. Seuss says. “Oh, love what you love and then love some more. Love so much that your muscles get sore…”

“Shazam. Poof. Be gone!” I wave God away with a smile. “I’ve got work to do.” God winks and squeezes back into that slinky gown. “Me, too,” she says with a toothy grin. “See you around.”