Tag: Earth

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.”

The Big Bang

Rita Sommers-Flanagan12 Comments

The Big Bang slammed me awake last night. I leapt up, disoriented by the interplay of light and dark.

“Where’s that damn cloaking device?” The Voices of God bellowed as they rushed around the cosmos, causing huge dust storms and limited visibility. “There are incoming attributions and false narratives. Cheap bombs, shrapnel, black holes, and clusterfucks. Get under the bed and dig, baby, dig.”

In times like these, God never makes literal sense, but the urgency was palpable. I grabbed a robe and raced for the hills. Everything was coming apart. Suffering shimmered in the frigid air, obscuring the path, garbling the few words that meant anything.

The ark capsized. Creatures great and small swam to shore and thundered uphill behind me, trying to escape inbound tsunamis of ignorance and the cruel waves of degeneration. God’s hair was on fire, flames licking the heavens dry.

I tossed the cloaking device to the Creators and shouted, “Get out while you can.”

God disappeared into a flock of starlings that lifted from tree to sky, rejoicing. Their seamless undulations blocked the sun, blinding everyone below. Soldiers on both sides dropped their guns, and we wrapped ourselves in white. There was nothing left to do but lie flat and let the earth cradle our slim and innocent hopes.

To God, we are an exotic species, endangered and angular. We bend light and draw fire in unpredictable ways. As singularities, we’ve been extinct from the beginning, but in limited multiplicities, we eke out tenuous lives in tents pitched on the banks of an ever-rising river.

“Who are you?” a curly-haired child tugged on my sleeve; brown eyes luminescent. Green eyes, piercing. Blue eyes glinting black. The child was hungry but did not ask for food.

“What are you doing?” an old man demanded, his beard blazing red, his legs blown off. It seemed clear that I did not meet with his approval.

“Are you my father?” I whispered, frightened by the familiarity of it all. “Are you my child?”

The cloaking device deactivated. The scales fell from my eyes. The child ate. The old man laughed and slapped my back. The starlings landed and began nesting in the warm cleavages of Abraham’s lovers: Hagar; Sarah; Keturah. Other Mothers appeared: Adishakti; Mary; Kali; Maya; and of course, and always, Grandmother Eve.

“So many Mothers in one place,” I said. “You’re in big trouble.”

“I can handle it,” the Idea of God waved dismissively. “Go back to sleep.”

I grabbed the weathered hands and shook my head. “You’re going to need some help. I’m staying.”

Grandmother patted the bench beside her. “It won’t be long either way,” she smiled. “Suit yourself.”

A Thousand Hands

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 
 
A Thousand Hands woke me, waving feather dusters, exasperated. 
“We're forever cleaning up after you”
“That’s rich!” I said. “I could say the same about you.”
“Oh, don’t even try that ‘blame God’ thing. 
We’re not responsible for these terrible messes.”
“How about the raw material? Where’s all the dust come from?”
I asked. But I already knew.

A Thousand Hands grabbed my hands and stared at my palms. 
“We see a long, productive life. Children. Soulmate. Gardens and compost piles. 
Students. Eight or nine remodels. Trees. Books. Friends. 
Logs. Dogs. Pigs. Sticks. Stones…an unwieldy number of stones.”
I grinned and pulled my hands back to look for myself. 

A Thousand Hands turned palms up. I gasped.
“I see glaciers melting. The beautiful quaking of planets,” I said. 
“I see moons rising over the pockmarks of black holes and mass graves. 
There are streams of gleaming molecules ascending, 
my own and those of everything, ever.” 
I glanced skyward. “You aren’t safe in any way, are you?”

A Thousand Hands knit their fingers together, creating shelter over my head. 
Deep lines crisscrossed the firmament, blocking the ordinary sun. 
The only light remaining was the radioactive residue of the unrevealed.
“No. Not safe in any way,” A Thousand Hands agreed. 
Ominous shadows fell hard around the edges.
.
“I’m a little bit afraid,” I said.
“So are we,” the Hands admitted. “And weary to the bone. But we’re not giving up.”
“Why not?” I asked. “The messes are getting worse.”
“It’s the role-model thing,” they smiled. “We’re setting a good example.”

And it was evening. And it was morning. But I had lost count of the days.

Because I’m preoccupied about planning for the end, 
I’ve surveyed the old homestead 
and chosen a spot to decompose. 
But until recently, I was unaware 
that family pets were already buried there. 
Turns out, when the time comes, I’ll be surrounded by well-loved bones.

“You already are.” A Thousand Hands squeezed my corporeal shoulders, 
knuckles cracking so loud I thought the house had caught fire. 
“Now let’s finish cleaning so we have time to play.”

“Fine,” I said. “What shall we play?” 
“Handball,” They declared, gleefully slapping a thousand thighs.
“Not funny.” I shook my head.
“C’mon, sport,” They teased. “You’ll have the home court advantage.”

I nodded toward my rock collection. In the dead of winter, 
thin layers of ash collect on the rugged surfaces, blurring the subtle distinctions. 
We grabbed a thousand rags and scrubbed until the stones floated home
in interstellar joy.

"Time to play," the Hands declared. And I agreed. 
It was time to play.

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.”