Tag: Earth

Survival of the Fittest

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

In the wild, aging primates are generally left to fend for themselves, and I’ve come to appreciate both the wisdom and peril in that. Today, I fended my way to the basement to get bread from the freezer and accepted the indignities of clinging to the handrail as I ascended to make toast.

I would rather be reporting something more exciting, like how we danced all night, or my next career moves, or even which types of lipstick I currently recommend, but poetic license aside, I don’t lie outright (very often).

The Coauthors are gentle this morning. They speak in the tongues of galaxies and seasons, and remind me that chicks will hatch in the spring and demand breakfast with wide-open beaks, and some nests will blow down, and some will not, and either way, the turquoise of the robin’s egg will fade. It was never meant to last.

“I remember my father’s eyes,” I tell them. “They were iridescent.”

“Yes. And do you know why they were so blue?” they ask.

“Not anymore,” I admit.

My own blue eyes tear up. The photos of five generations sucker punch me every time I use the stairs. There are fingerprints on most of them. And fingerprints don’t lie either.

I tell myself that we, the living, are roots, holding the dirt so it doesn’t fritter away in a seductive breeze or dissipate when the floods come; that we are the fruit of the season, the seeds of the future.

“No you’re not,” the Coauthors say. “You’re confused. Your fingers are on the wrong keys.” They aren’t being gentle anymore.

“No. Your fingers are on the wrong keys.” This is not much of a defense, but it causes the Coauthors to back away. An eerie poem asserts itself.

Sirens we have heard on high
singing sweetly o’re the plains
of money and supreme success. 
The star-struck mountains 
crumble at their feet. 
Through the holes 
in the fabric of my universe, 
the years drift by, 
challenges looming, 
fears lit by the moon
as it rises in the gathering night.

“Wait! I don’t think my confusion is entirely my fault, keys or no keys,” I tell the retreating Coauthors.

“And we aren’t blaming you!” they shout as they dive into an orbiting kaleidoscope of swirling geodes, crystals, and gems, and break into unearthly harmonies. Nothing anywhere near us is smooth, black, or white.

“But do I have a purpose?” I shout back.

“Yes and no,” they sing. “But you ask good questions, honey. Keep asking.”

Photo credit: Vance and/or Deborah Drain

Awakened by a Petulant God

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

“Hey, are you aware that we cut our teeth on climate change and invented belly fat as a little joke?” A Pouty Apparition startled me awake. I moaned. Petulant Voices chimed in, nodding. “We deserve a good laugh now and then, don’t we?”

I rolled out of bed and groped my way to the kitchen, fighting off the vertigo of a long life. People need sustenance before engaging in any meaningful way with a Peevish Universe.

Out the window, the ice-edged river flowed by while the coffee brewed. Petulant Voices started singing the national anthem. Dawn reversed itself as night rolled back in, and bombs bursting in air gave just enough light to locate the flag. A fierce Wind ripped it down and draped Old Glory across the backs of shivering calves being rounded up for slaughter. The Voices kept singing, “O’er the land of the free…”.

“Could you bring it down a notch?” I pleaded. This was not the kind of God any sane person would willingly deal with, but was there a choice?

“Of course and of course,” they declared. “There’s always a choice.”

An abrupt, unnerving calm settled as the Wind died down and the Voices faded into throngs of those silenced by extinction.

But it wasn’t over. “Don’t mind us,” they muttered. “We’ll just perch on this rock while you feed your face.”

I did not look up.

“We’ll just take a dip in the swimming hole while you guzzle beer.”

I rolled my eyes.

The Voices sighed in an elaborate show of patience. “We’ll just listen to a podcast while you get dressed.”

I shrugged, trying to keep my distance and hold myself together.

The Voices changed tactics and belted out a new song. A holiday favorite. “Do you hear what I hear?”

That did it. I gave up the pretense of sufficiency, looked into the dark eyes of death and bad choices, and said, “No. I do not hear what you hear. I do not see what you see. I do not know what you know. Would you mind leaving me alone now?”

“Not at all.” The Voices became the murmur of beating wings over untouched land, and finally, I could hear myself think.

“Come, let us reason together,” I said to what was left of myself.

“Oh, this ought to be good,” the Voices snickered. “Mind if we listen in?”

Dysfunction at the Pearly Gates

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Due to recent excessive flooding, the gates of heaven have rusted open. Many are desperately trying to push them shut, but those damn gates won’t budge. I’ve heard that the administration plans to soak them in petroleum until the hinges loosen up and the wrong sort can be excluded again.

But for now, carcasses are rolling in unjudged and unimpeded except for the extra stars being glued to the crowns of those who were murdered, tortured, raped, or starved to death. These bodies often come in so emaciated or mutilated that they can’t be identified. Luckily, the Coauthor has published at least one story with every last one of them. These improbable tales of love, loss, and triumph provide guidance for the transformation of their bones. Even the shortest of stories, even the lowliest of lives.

The corpses of the blithely blessed, the perpetrators, monsters, and the enormously greedy are arriving too, but they’re receiving only standard allocations of stars. And no wings. Rumor has it that they’re trying to produce their own private stars and are threatening steep tariffs on feathers and halos.

“Don’t worry,” the Coauthor tells me. “Soon enough, it won’t matter. They’re making fake stars from rare earth elements and unfortunately, your planet is already on life support from all that extraction. All those wars. It won’t be long now.”

“Oh, God!” I exclaim. “Can’t you chip through the rust and slam those gates shut?”

My Coauthor looks at me with sad eyes. “Et tu, Brute?”

“What do you mean?” I demand, but I know exactly what she means, and I hate it. Liars and con men are trashing this beautiful earth. I don’t want justice, I want revenge. People I love have been treated unfairly. I don’t want mercy. I want revenge.

Revenge grows aggressively in the dark waters of the wounded, indignant heart. If you hurt me, I’ll hurt you. If you survive, you’ll hurt me worse, and so it goes, even unto death. One of us will go to hell. And then the other. It’s possible to break the cycle, but forgiveness is something most of us find difficult if not intolerable.

“Ah, maybe leave those gates open,” I mumble. “Afterall, we’re only human.”  

The Coauthor turns her palms up in a gesture of helplessness.

“So true,” she says. “But in this iteration, you’re all I’ve got. And that just kills me. Any chance you could put on your Big Girl pants?”

“I don’t remember how.”

The Coauthor looks at me skeptically. “One leg at a time,” she says. “And hold someone’s hand if you need to. Balance is important.”

Shades of Gray

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments 

Most people hate going gray and refuse to admit that their wits 
have begun to wander.
 
No one loves fading to transparency, reduced to rustling air 
in the back of the room.

No one enjoys not knowing. Uncertainty is worse 
than being dead wrong.
 
So we color up, seeking a visible place amongst two trillion galaxies
in the observable universe.   

“You’re blah blah blahing again,” the Gaping Mouth of the Cosmos says. 
“So bite me,” I snap. 
“Let us consider gray,” Gaping Mouth suggests.
“I don’t like gray,” I say. “I’m more comfortable with clarity.”

“I know,” Gaping Mouth says. “And that’s a problem 
because gray is illuminance-dependent, ambivalent, and courageous. 
Gray underbellies the vivid streaks of sunset
that temporarily take possession of the sky.”

I glare, clinging hard to yellow.
“Are you aware of the opponent process theory?” I ask.
“In the recesses of the retina, certain cells stimulate one color 
and inhibit its opponent. I believe this explains afterimages. 
And Christmas.”

Gales of laughter issue from the Gaping Mouth 
and all evidence of right or wrong blows away.
Leaves of green turn red and then disintegrate.

The sun is gone. I am alone and afraid.

When the galactic glee finally dies down, Gaping Mouth closes to a Gaping Grin. 
Blood red lips surround pure white teeth gleaming like stars in the blackest sky.

“Darling,” the Gaping Grin whispers as crimson lips pucker 
and kiss the edges of my soul. “It will help if you remember 
the transformations necessary to make light.”

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.”

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.

A.I.

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments 

Humans have always portrayed The Forces of Creation in our own languages and images. Only recently has our frenemy, Artificial Intelligence, joined us on this odyssey. Maybe this is helpful. Maybe not.

Notions of God are often stuck in mid-adolescence. Love and forgiveness are common attributes, but God remains dangerously amorphous, shaped by the malleable beliefs and projections of flawed beings clinging to primitive weapons and misinterpreted promises.

Human versions of right and wrong, the Essence(s) of Life, or of reality itself, are neither static nor complete, but regardless, our minds, hearts, and souls are being fed into the voracious machines we’ve invented. These machines will outlive us, and they are building themselves out of whatever they’re fed. The data-crunchers are insatiable, and like us, they are tragically indiscriminate about what they gobble down.

As short-lived but conscious beings, the wisest thing we can do is nourish ourselves, and thus the little beasties, with the most accurate realities and noble aspirations at our disposal. Check your sources. Consume only what is verifiable. It may be slim pickings, but it’s better to die filled with small bites of truth than with a belly distended by self-absorption, jagged fantasies, and outright lies.

In a few days, our abundant, feral hollyhocks will explode into colors determined by last year’s cross-fertilizations. I mention this to The God of Tight Jeans sitting on the steps beside me, and his face lights up. He leaps to his feet. Channeling Jewel Akens, Dean Martin, and my very own hip-swaying mother, he begins to croon a tune from the 60s.

“Let me tell you ‘bout the birds and the bees, and the flowers and the trees, and the moon up above. And a thing called love.”

“Really, God?” I say with an eyeroll. “A thing called love?”

“Yeah, baby!” God has begun dancing seductively around the hollyhocks, throwing in a few lewd pelvic thrusts. “Thanks for not mowing the clover and the dandelions. You’re the best.”

I consider my urge to dismember anyone who hurts or disagrees with me. “If I’m the best, God, we’re all in serious trouble.” 

“Yes, you are,” he nods affably and morphs into Many. The translucent bodies of the Creative Forces sway in front of me. “Put the swords away, honey,” they whisper. “We need no defense. Only pollinator species.”

IT IS AND IS NOT TOO LATE

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments

Do not think you can abdicate.

–W.H. Auden 


The Great Wrongness is upon us. Again. 
Do not wave white flags. Being taken captive is inadvisable. 
Seek shelter. Provide shelter. If you cannot go to places 
where the earth is less wounded, take comfort knowing
there are such places. Do what you can to protect them.

Put your hand over your beating heart, 
not to honor an arbitrary set of lines 
called country, but to remind yourself of Mystery. 
Breathe and move in wonderment. 
If your eyes still focus, 
send and receive the greenness of early spring.

Invite yourself in where you belong.
Make yourself a simple supper. 
Be generous to those who give others simple suppers. 
Sprout seeds in the moist darkness
and then plant them gently 
where they will get enough light.

Go through the motions of love 
even when it doesn’t feel like love. 
Teach your children honesty and courage. 
Teach them to share. Teach yourself to share. 
The Awfulness eventually comes apart 
when people share what they have. 
Break the bread and watch it grow.

It is and is not too late.
Help is and is not on the way. 
It is and is not up to you.
You do and do not know what to do.

Life is pain, your highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.

From The Princess Bride

Big Comes By

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

As great chunks of what we’ve known to be good in our community, country, and world continue to crumble, grief and disbelief have paralyzed me. My Friend, Big, comes by to offer his shoulder to cry on, his gut to punch, his eye to blacken, his body to fold into.

“Too late, Big,” I shake my head. “They’ve got us this time. I’m giving up. It’s over.”

“Who’s got us?” Big demands, incredulous at my surrender.

“The demonic forces of primal instincts. They’ve won.”

Big grimaces. “Yeah. Everyone fears being rejected from the herd. I thought adding same-sex attractions and transgendered hearts to the mix would do the trick. I love continuums. You realize mutations, inclusion, and diversity are the heart of evolution, right?”

“No, we don’t realize that. In fact, we’ve made up commandments that keep everyone insecure and judgmental. Deep down, no one is sure their genitals are adequate. Thus, the thrill of the chase. Hatred. Domination. It’s all on flagrant display. It’s killing us.”

“Come here, Little,” Big says. “You’re sad. How about we make some lists?”

“What kind of lists?” I ask, wary.

“Ah, maybe a nice list of daily delights. Or generous things you could do today.”

My insides explode.

“GET OUT YOU FECKLESS FOOL!” I shout.

Big laughs. “Or maybe a list of numbers you could call to protest? Or signs to carry when you march?”

“OUT!” I stomp my foot.

“A list of gifts you could give your enemies?”

My eyes are blazing, my fuses blown.

Big raises his eyebrows and pounds a facetious fist. “Okay, darling.  How about a hitlist of humans we could sterilize, or drug and relocate?”

“Now you’re talking!” I yell, punch the air, . . . and burst into tears. “But my knives are dull,” I sob, impotence tightening around my neck. “Big, we’re lost. We’re really lost.”

Big steps way, way back and throws his arms around the dying planet. His breasts swell. He nurses the starving and anoints the suffering with oil. Dark children from the Cradle of Humanity stare into the abyss forming around us.

“Little,” Big says with a dramatic sigh. “I’m gonna miss this place.”

My jaw drops. Big folding? This can’t be true. He’s up to something.

“Me, too, Big. I’ll miss it too,” I counter, sly-eyed.

“Didn’t see that coming,” Big admits. “I thought pretending to give up would make you do something.”

“Two can play that game.” I say, proud of calling his bluff.

“Now what?” Big asks.

“Maybe I should buy my enemies more guns.” I say, grinning.

“Good one,” Big laughs and slaps his thigh so hard the planets realign. “But no.”

Attention!!

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

“Folks, could I have your attention, please?”

This is a request you’ll never hear from The Evolutionary Force of the Universe. She won’t tap a glass or clap her hands. She won’t shout, whistle, or condescend to doing outlandish things. She won’t maneuver for clicks, and she’ll never go viral. She operates barely above discernable decibel levels.

She and I routinely argue about this damn reticence. “If you’re not going to grab the spotlight, speed things up, and save us, why don’t you just drop a cosmic bomb and get this extinction over with?” I demand.

“No can do,” she whispers from a pile of prehistoric bones. “I’m too busy.” She shakes the rug near the stove, and a cloud of cockroaches scuttle into the room.

“What the…?” I yell, jumping on the couch.

Evolution laughs. “They love an audience when they’re showing off.”

I am repulsed.

She continues to chuckle. “Paying attention is a powerful swing of energy.”

“So attention is a good thing?”

“Depends on the reasons and seeker,” she said. “That which you pay attention to grows. And most of you need attention because you’re feeling your way along. Attention is a feedback loop.”

In my mind, I climb on stage and begin to speak from the podium of my limited understandings. A curious quiet creeps over the crowd. I have their rapt attention. For one glorious moment, I feel fantastic. But then the fickle crowd begins to leave.

“Boring,” they pronounce as they take their attention elsewhere.

Give it back!  I scream. Give me your fawning attention. Or horrified attention. Any attention will do. I need it. I deserve it.

To my credit, even in my fantasy, I don’t stoop to lies or belittling anyone. I don’t threaten or seduce, but I’m sorely tempted.

I slap my face to bring myself back. It hurts. Withdrawal can be hell.

“See why I avoid the limelight?” The Evolutionary Force of the Universe asks. “Attention is addictive. It’s a false reassurance of importance. Managing attention is a huge responsibility, both seeking and giving. Cockroaches do okay with it, but they’ve had millions of years to practice. For humans, Attention-Seeking-Disorder is extremely dangerous. It can seriously damage the creative process. It mangles the conscience and kills the spirit.”

“But it’s so delicious,” I admit, still coming down from my imagined high. “Don’t you love those choirs and cathedrals? Synagogues and mosques?”

“Oh! Those aren’t mine!” Evolutionary Force says, shocked at the thought. “I don’t play to the crowd. I’m the still, small voice. The revealings of microscope and telescope. I’m the sacred welcome at the warm and modest fire.”