Tag: Easy answers

Come Hell or High Waters

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

Even though my highly evolved frontal lobe allows me to weigh alternatives, it’s hard to live equivocally, think critically, or keep an open mind. It’s so tempting to explain away contradictions and cling to naïve or wrong-headed beliefs. I suspect most of us do this, come hell or high waters.

And at least in my case, Hell-or-Highwaters usually come, claiming they intend to save me from myself. They go by many names; Hell-or-Highwaters is not my favorite.

“So, what are we defending or pretending today?” they ask as they remove themselves from the sticky wicket of being defined and strip down to an array of naked, undulating possibilities.

“Stop it!” I demand, holding up my hand. “You’re making me sick.”

They shrug. “Nothing wrong with a good vomit now and then.”

“I’m going to have to kill you,” I respond, my voice cold and calm. “All of you.”

“We know, honey,” they nod. “Let’s get on with it.”

Their phony acquiescence is not helpful. “You know I can’t get on with it. I’m not brave enough to be an atheist.”

They seem to find this hilarious. Guffaws rise from the Laughing Buddha in the garden. The winds of Shakti howl. Allah and the Living River giggle like teenagers flirting at a kegger. The hills hold their quaking sides, and brilliant streaks of sunrise release into mirth with such force that the planet is knocked sideways.

This reaction adds insult to injury. “I NEED ONE SURE THING,” I bellow.

“We’re so sorry,” the Choir sings. “But we’re not a thing. We’re a process. A fragile set of evolving constructs. A far, far beyond.”

I make a hateful face and mock their words.

No response.

Of course, no response.

Somehow, I finish typing and lower my leg rest.

 “Let’s roll,” I say to the Iridescent Shadows.

Todd Beamer said those very words as he led the suicidal downing of Flight 93 on 9/11, and with that, the plane intended to be a weapon became a sacrifice. Lives were suddenly ended. Other lives, randomly prolonged. These truths are as brutal as the equations.

Fanatic fervency is not faith, and blind allegiance is not love. The energy we call God is embodied in intricate complexities and barely traceable connections. Thus, we are destined to live amid holy but ineffable words and die in the arms of unlikely possibilities.

“My, my, aren’t we profound today?” Yahweh jokes as the solitary black chicken scratches for worms in the compost. She’s new to the flock, relocated because her sister hens were all killed by a wily racoon. She survived. But understandably, she’s a little skittish.

My Way or the Highway

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

Arguing is easier than listening, even internally. It’s hard to ask myself why I believe what I believe and then to admit that sometimes, I just believe what I want to believe, whether it’s true or not.

And sadly, I’m not alone. Being wrong can be so devastating that even in the face of serious contradictory evidence, people will defend themselves to the point of absurdity, poisoning conversations and relationships as they dig ever deeper holes.  

“Are you including me in this scathing indictment?” Big Guy asks.

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

“Well, that’s just wrong,” he says, chuckling.

I give him a phony smile. “Tell me more,” I say, sidestepping conflict with my excellent listening skills.

“You don’t have excellent listening skills,” Big Guy counters. “And I won’t tell you more until you’re ready.”

“I’ll be the judge of when I’m ready,” I say, arms crossed, temper flaring.

“And that’s what I fear the most,” he sighs. “You, judging. You, thinking you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?” I ask, but I’ve lost track of my original premise. Arguing with Cosmicity is disorienting. Big Guy continues to chuckle, which is not helpful.

 I hate the thought of being gullible. Or wrong. My protective cloak of self-righteousness has worn spots. I need to be dead right about something. Anything. What if I’ve wasted my life swinging like Tarzan from belief to belief, only to have the final vine break? What if I’m a naïve fool? What if I grow bitter for erroneous reasons? What if I’ve leaned the ladder of success against a false wall? What if I’ve taken too many supplements all these years?

Big Guy is howling, holding his gut, peeing his pants. “You’re the best, honey. I needed that.”

“Needed what?” I ask, red-faced and defensive.

“I needed to watch you drink from the chalice of uncertainty. Elixir of the Gods, right there. Confessional magic. The meek and humble are my last hope for humanity’s continued existence.”

“So glad I could be of help,” I lie. Big Guy seems to think he’s winning an argument. He’s relishing my chagrin.

“No, and no,” he says. “I don’t relish, and I don’t win.”

“And I don’t get it,” I admit.

“Oh, but you do,” Big Guy says.

Every cliché in the known universe is screaming at me. Platitudes and blind faith parade by, tossing sweet assurances. There are cookies baking, robin eggs hatching, children laughing, ice cream melting, rounds of stiff drinks on God. So little time. So many simplicities.

“You’re ready, little one,” Big Guy whispers.

“I know,” I whisper back. “But hurry. It never lasts for long.”

Settling

Rita Sommers-Flanagan10 Comments

There are short-lived truths that go sour, longer truths that offer comfort but eventually wear out like a well-loved quilt, and eternal truths that hide among the bulrushes, debts, and sanctuaries. Physical punishment or harsh words will stop unwanted behavior in its tracks, but the motives will dive underground and propel from below.

“Ok,” God says, “Then grace is like a shovel.”

Your offspring don’t own you, and you don’t own your offspring, and we are all the offspring of many. Boundaries are a constant negotiation, but we trundle along, fostering and adopting, breaking and healing, astonished and befuddled; the urges and joys of reproduction writ large.

“Of course,” God says. “My image in the darkened glass.”

There are forces that undermine balance, reduce generosity, and recast restraint as shameful. The meaning of enough is flattened by trucks exceeding the speed limit. Avarice can be dressed up to look like self-care, and acquisition is a seductive master, a damsel in distress, a mirage of power.

“Yes,” God says. “And forgiveness is a home-cooked meal.”

Fear is a natural response to the threat of pain, death, or humiliation. Belligerence is also a natural response. Hatred is the venom produced by fear and belligerence. The poison flows both directions—outward and inward.

“True,” God sighs. “And the antidote…”

God’s voice fades. I lean in, hoping God just needs to clear her throat or something. God is going to say the antidote is love, right? Or maybe compassion, or courage, or sacrifice? Silence reigns. No singing river. No chattering birds. No traffic. No wind. Not even the distant opening or closing of doors.

“Is this it? The antidote is nothing?” I think to myself.

“Noooo,” my inner self protests. I realize I’m dangerously close to settling for a short truth, even if i know it will grow bitter with time, even if I know it will lose its shape like cheap underwear. As long as it disguises the taste of the poison in my mouth–I don’t care.

I look straight into the vibrant universe and hope for a reassuring word.

“Sorry,” God finally says. “I’m all out of platitudes.”

“I don’t mind,” I say, thrilled that God has spoken. “I can handle that. Have a nice day.” I chuckle.

“You crack me up,” God says, laughing. We stand face to face, our foreheads touching, eyes closed, breathing. Then we link arms and walk to the garden to plant a few more marigolds among the rows of kale.