Tag: Earth

What to Pack

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

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 Light in Your Feet

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments


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.


Amen

The Humble Pinky

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

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.

Estate Planning

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

“I’ve been updating my will,” God said the other day.

I wrinkled my nose. Estate planning is no one’s idea of fun, and I react negatively when the subject is mentioned. But then I did a double take. “You’re doing WHAT?”

It was confusing, not to mention deeply troubling, to think of Alpha, Omega, Parent, Child, and Still Small Voice documenting their final wishes. Who are the heirs? And what would these heirs do if they inherited creation because The Creator ceased to exist?

“Like we said, we’re doing some estate planning,” they said. “We have a long list of nonprofits to consider.”

“Is this some kind of game?” I asked. Occasionally, God uses absurdity to make a point.

God chuckled and kept typing.

I persisted. “Look, you’re a lot of things, but mortal isn’t one of them. By definition, whoever or whatever you are is forever, right?” My voice had gone from suspicious to panicky.

God ignored my uncertainty and asked. “What would you like to inherit?”

I hate questions like that. I hemmed and hawed, aware of a selfish longing to inherit everything, but unwilling to admit it. Instead, I said, “You know, someone once said that the meek would inherit the earth.” Then I added with a grin, “Luckily, I’m not that meek.”

 God grinned back. “Maybe we should change that so the liars and greedy inherit what’s left of the planet. But that’s not what I asked. What do you want?”

I backed away. The God of the Hardest Questions backed away with me.

I stopped, aware of some rising indignation. “The gifting goes both ways, you know. Once, I gave you everything. And you returned it to me slightly stained, but basically untouched.”

“Ah. So that’s how you remember it?” The Many Faces asked. “That’s funny. We forget how linear and language-bound you are right now.” Then they sang a little ditty.

Everything is yours.

Everything is mine.

Everything is nothing.

And everything is fine.

“Oh, that’s so cute,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “When all else fails, write a little poem. Sing a little song.”

“All else hasn’t failed, Little Buddy,” God said. “Relax.” Then they began to sing again.

Finish this parable.

Be of good cheer.

Decorate your coffin.

Drink your beer.

“Sure thing, Skipper,” I lifted my glass, took a long sip of the inexplicable, and in my last edit, added, “If you ever do kick the bucket, I’d like to inherit your irony.”

“Sure thing,” God laughed and hit the Save button. “It’s all yours.”

Flags

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

As consciousness ascends
the grin of the devil lingers.
My down comforter and fluffy pillows
smell like smoke.

I had intended to repair the tattered flag in the corner
but I see now that it cloaks the evil twins:
Blind allegiance and false promises.
Riches are blinders, not blessings.

A small plane drones through the dawn’s early light
strewing herds of animals hither and yon
for the pleasure of predators at the top of the chain.

“This is better than husking corn,” one of them says.

The corpses sanctify the trampled sod, now saturated with blood.
The resulting meals may justify giving thanks
but the trophies are pure vanity.

War is the thing to prepare for,
bodies the thing required.

“Not this pig,” wrote the poet
before passing to the place of all poems.
We nod to the sentiment, slicing ham
and chopping bacon bits for the salad.

Bless us, oh lord, and these thy gifts…
runs on automatic replay
as I watch people refuse to sign the petition
for reproductive rights.

I’m not fooled by false equivalencies. I sign.

To live is brief. To die is certain.
This lonely insight flays the rays of morning
into the arc of promised justice
I barely believe in anymore.

“Wake up, little one. You have Now,” the Rainbow says.
“And the gossamer of Indigo.”

“But Indigo has begun to unravel,” I protest.
“And I’ve lived too long as a parable to engage with Now.”

Silence.

I polish surfaces in the kitchen
hoping for an accurate reflection.
But the granite is forest green;
the dishwater, troubled; the beer, murky.

The Distortion laughing up at me is God.

“I hope you didn’t pull yourself together on my account,” I say.

“Of course I did,” the Distortion answers.
“No one can live on Indigo alone.”

Misperceptions

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Birds crash into our southern windows at (literally) breakneck speeds. A few die instantly. Some bounce and fly away, wobbly and mortally wounded. We’ve taken steps to mitigate these errors in bird judgment, but why, oh why does this happen in the first place?

“You can fool all of the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time. But you can’t fool all of the people all of the time,” Creator murmurs to herself, mesmerized by the old neckties fluttering outside our windows.

“Who said that?” I ask. “Abe Lincoln or P.T. Barnum?”

“Does it matter?  Birds get fooled. People get fooled. That’s a sad fact. Manipulating perception can be both profitable and fatal.”

“Profitable?” I asked.

“Duh,” Creator says. “Conspiracy theories sell guns. False claims sell addictive, brain-altering drugs. Naïve people, with inadequate media literacy, donate to malevolent causes or con artists. Birds swoop toward something they want, not realizing that the transparent barrier is a mirage of their desires.”

“I feel for the birds,” I say. “One time, I hit a side window so hard I fell to the floor in front of a restaurant full of people.”

“Did you blame the glass for being there? For being too clean?”

I grin a sheepish grin. “Nah,” I say. “But I wanted to.”

Creator smiles. “Well, well. There may be hope for humanity yet.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” I say, backing away. “Do not pin hope for humanity on me. Nope.”

“People have a tough time admitting their ignorance or misperceptions,” Creator continues, ignoring my disclaimer. “The evidence smacks them in the face, but they drum up far-fetched explanations and take another run. Even when they break their stiff necks, they blame the glass.”

My hand automatically goes to my neck, and I do some yoga stretches to keep it limber. Yes, I occasionally engage in denial and blame, but glass is glass. Doors are doors. Truth is truth. And one clear truth is that humans make mistakes.

“Course-corrections are possible,” Creator adds in a quiet, sad voice. “I realize humility is not a popular virtue, but you don’t have to keep flying into the glass.”

“Do you think the meek will actually inherit the earth?” I ask.

“I think so,” Creator answers. “But the steep cost of repairs will be as unnecessary as all those broken necks.”

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.

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.”

A Rose by Any Other Name

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

Sometimes, it’s easier if I don’t call it God. I call it good haircut. I call it washed dishes. Three Macintosh apples on a spindly tree. I call it undisplacement, deep sleep, minty water, solved problem, kind gesture, and silence. I call it insight. Green light. Resolution. Red light. Arthritis. Absolution. Glimmers of compassion, splinters of life, and unwelcome but comforting absolutes. Containment.

The larger sky is impossible to grasp in its entirety, and the names we give the constellations are revealing and projective. The vertigo inducing stomach turning mind exploding body shrinking cosmos intoxicates and decimates.

It’s all so nothing and so everything. Time is a bioluminescent pebble that burns through the palm of my hand, and briefly—oh so briefly–illuminates the steps ahead.

The hollyhocks have outdone themselves this year, and the sunflowers are outrageous. Last year’s seeds, woven into a rowdy celebration of soil, rain, and light. A summer soiree. I slip in surreptitiously. There are earwigs, slugs, wasps, and other unsavory characters among the invited guests.

The sting of consciousness is unmistakably God. The cries of the cranes are God. The rich organic matter is God. The path I use to get away is God. The offer to come back is God. But most days, it’s easier to call it something else.

 “I don’t mind at all,” God assures me. And assures me. And assures me. But I am not assured. Chronic doubt, the evening news, a sudden downpour, unrelenting hunger, fire, suffering, and war—these all complicate what could be simple. Between Alpha and Omega there’s an alphabet with gaping holes and identifiable threats.

And yet.

The day we once called tomorrow has arrived and desperately needs attention. Shall we call it Now? At the subatomic level, there’s an unnamed unity. If we call it love, we might have another chance.

The Ever-presence knows how hard we try to make it fit into our calendars and fears, our agendas and excuses. It flits among the fragments and festivities. It blooms and goes to seed. A circular salvation forms like beads of dew, and without our even asking, it forgives. And forgives. And forgives.

I found a ripe tomato hidden in the weeds, round and red as blood.  

“Help yourself,” God said. And I did.

Between Firmaments

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

And God made the firmament and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament…And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.

Post hoc weather report: For two days in a row the wind didn’t blow. When this happens and there’s sun, I tend to forget about adversity. There’s nothing to lean into or ward off or hide from. I lose focus and get dangerously, gloriously expansive. I know this about myself so on the first windless day, I remained mindful, took a walk and hung up laundry.

But the second day was too much. I dragged everything out at once and balanced it between brilliant sky and deep waters, the firmaments of heaven and hell. I sang along with Bob Marley, beat on the blue barrels, and danced from possibility to possibility, arm in arm with an adolescent God. It’s often God’s fault when I get ecstatic and reckless like that.

We opened cans of paint, glued odd-shaped scraps of wood together, and redid the driftwood bouquet, adding antique marbles and sparkly broken glass I’d swept up after the wind slammed the garage door a couple years ago. The door had been double-paned, but on impact, the inner pane shattered into light aqua beads. I knew they’d be perfect for something. And the door still works. In fact, the remaining pane mirrored God slinking by, a black dog with a stick. Eternally hopeful.

I threw the stick a few times but then asked God to help me take some selfies near the old typewriter that sits among my outdoor sculptures on a massive stump that looks dead but isn’t. Every spring, I remove the hopeful shoots. I don’t want a tree there.

We did the selfies and examined our hands. So many angles, so many ways to see what could be. We briefly reviewed the reasons for self-restraint and then shelved them near my collection of dull saw blades and dented mailboxes. We were giddy from the fumes of liquid nails and high gloss varnish.

The elasticity of our joy stretched into the evening and when it was time to call it a day, we did. We called it the second day and rested.

But the earth wobbled in the night, and the vicious wind is back. I have awakened to stinging dust. Swirling ash. Things old and broken have lost the sheen of potential. I’m tempted to start a fire to rid myself of these burdens, but I can’t. With this much wind, it could burn the whole world down.