Tag: Environment

The Birds of the Air

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Some mornings, I am at peace with dusty shelves and streaked surfaces. Content to consider life in silence, fingertips touching, thumbs unopposed. These are the wiser times; each breath, a centering gift..

Such reverie never lasts. The inevitable interruptions are reminders that my eternal rest has not yet begun. Sometimes, it’s a friendly neighbor. Or a gust of wind blowing something over. This time, it’s a sickening thud on the window that disrupts the mood and ushers in a host of uninvited guests: the Holy Chorus of Fallen Birds.

“Oh, is somebody trying to be contemplative?” the Chorus chides. “Stop lounging around in your shallow safety and pathetic pajamas. We need protection from all that glass.”

I loathe this kind of intrusion. I want to plead ignorance, but the rising essence of millions of broken necks testifies to the credulous assumption of human supremacy. Panoramic views matter more than the lives of our feathered friends.

“But what can I do?” I whine, trying to shake off any culpability. “I don’t build skyscrapers or make the rules.”

“Is there a dead body under your modest, residential window?”

“Probably. But what’s one in the billion that die every year?”

“It’s One. In a billion.”

The answer is solemn. Not accusatory. Just solemn.

One in a billion is infinitesimal, I think to myself. I want to go outside and chuck the telltale body into the compost. But then it occurs to me that I am not even one in a billion, nor are any of you, dear compatriots. Even together, we are a handful in 8.3 billion of our kind. Is this an excuse or an accusation? Is it even comprehensible?

The sparrow falling, the raven drafting upward on thermal currents, the midnight broodings of a Saw-whet owl, yellow canaries littering the coal mines of our solipsistic ways; these are the harbingers of both glad tidings and funereal finalities.

The Holy Chorus of Fallen Birds performs at the break of dawn, but they rehearse through the darkest hours. There is no such thing as a silent night. Often, our worst wrecks are accidental and our denials naïve, but neglect is never actually benign. What if you amass enormous wealth, the best views, the most gold, but lose your soul?

As extinctions accelerate, The Mother Hen will sit on her nest through the fires, protecting her chicks unto death. But when the children emerge from under the charred body, what will await them?

This is yet to be determine. It may be mostly up to us, but The Chorus will sing to the end.

***** ***** *****

For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this one, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO (AMZN), and for a mere $13.99 you can torment your soul every day. Xoxoxo

Lower Lumbar Concerns

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Walking upright can be hard on the spine of average homo sapiens. Sure, maybe you happen to be thin, careful, pampered, having done yoga since kindergarten, but the other 80% of us are envious as we position our ice packs or heating pads after doing some badly executed heavy lifting.

When I mention this apparent design flaw to the Creative Forces of the Universe, they shrug, unwilling to accept responsibility. There are obvious mistakes in the meandering ways of evolution, but getting any godlike being to admit this is an uphill battle.

“It’s experimental and temporary,” they laugh. “We don’t take the outcomes all that seriously. There’s always another mutation around the bend. Besides, you appreciate your exceptional consciousness and your opposable thumbs, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” I snarl. “I mean, how could we have built weapons of mass destruction without opposable thumbs? Or opposable ideas? Or opposable neighbors? And consciousness? Yes, I like having choices, but collectively, we’re making bad ones.”

I’m a little worked up. It’s tough being part of a species actively bringing about its own extinction. The transition from quadrupedalism to bipedalism has created certain and predictable vulnerabilities. But consciousness and choice has enabled stupidity. We are free to lock down on false beliefs and ignore all evidence to the contrary.

“It’s two sides of the coin, honey. You like the view when you stand on your own two feet. You like having a sense of agency in matters of the heart or mind. But these advances come with a cost.”

I look hard into the eyes of Creation and see the terror of watching your beloved toddlers explore the edges of hatred. We both gasp as one of them plummets into the infinite unknown.

The Universe appears to be frozen.

“Use your wings,” I shout.  “REMEMBER YOUR WINGS!”

The Calm Voice of All Creation answers. “It’s you who’ve forgotten The Wings, little one. Keep exploring. We’ve got this.”

I shake my head. “I’m not a little one. I’m angular, unbalanced, and old. And I’m frightened of the fall.”

Creation nods. “Your fear is as common as low back pain. And we’re well aware of how unbalanced you are. But seriously, check out these wings.”

Darkness descends. A great wind arises as The Forces swoop under me. I let myself tumble off my broomstick into the surprisingly soft heart of the Universe, but I swallow a couple of ibuprofens just in case. One can never be sure of smooth landings.

Time is Money and Money is Everything

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“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.”

Shoulder Rub

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments
Big History Project

“Why do you bother with me anyway?” God asked, petulant. It was still dark, but I could see the hazy outline of his dejected posture. He sounded depressed and antagonistic. Oh, great, I thought. One of those moods.

“Do I have a choice?” I mumbled from my twisted blankets. I didn’t want to play this game. The answers never change. I bother with God because God bothers me, and dealing with the plague of God is my way of chopping a path through the underbrush of life.

People who believe in some form of a creator tend to give thanks for the good things or ask for favors. They bank on God’s better side, fawning over him with praise, thanksgiving, or strange offerings that range from doves to virgins. Some twirl, some tithe. Some pray constantly, some five times a day. Some use ancient supplications, others improvise. I assume they think this will please or appease. Perhaps they imagine they can influence The Entity to send rain, heal a loved one, or save us from making the planet uninhabitable. I guess it’s worth a shot. But I’ve grown more and more familiar with the underbelly of God–the tender, desperate Alpha, the grief-stricken Omega, the wily Wonderment, the inexplicable Everlasting–and I’m not so sure.

I held perfectly still under the covers, waiting for God to intrude into my head with a comment or retort, but for once, God didn’t seem to be tuned in. He was folded, self-absorbed. This did not bode well for the hours of light and toil ahead of us. Was God going to sulk all day, slimy and bleak like pond mud? Would he harden by evening, cracking in the heat of a merciless sun? And when night falls, will he leave this planet, once and for all, tired of the ignorance and blame?

I sat up. “Come here,” I said. “You know a lot of us are sorry, don’t you?” My eyes were open and steady. I motioned for him to sit on the floor beside the bed. He looked suspicious but complied, and I began rubbing his shoulders. My hands tingled as they sank down into the trapezius muscles of a tense God. I kneaded the flesh like I knead bread, my fingers probing the sore spots, my palm pressing down into the transient tangibility; a form of prayer. Easy, without words.

The body of God relaxed and bravely gave way, softening into malleable clay. I let my hands rest on the uneven, brooding surface of dawn. Billions of years stood by, talking among themselves, just loud enough to remind me that there was work to do. Today. This day.

“Let’s get a move on Sweetheart,” I said to God, giving the shoulders one last squeeze.

God shrugged, stood, and straightened himself to his full height. “Fine,” he said. “You’re the boss.”

Downhill

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

My downhill acceleration is alarming some days, but I reduce the gravitational pull by using switch backs and sensible shoes. God is one of my better switchbacks. She decreases the angle of decline and therefore the risks of freefall. Even though she refuses to make anybody immortal, she doesn’t mind being used as a switchback. Life on earth is unpredictable; sometimes brutal, sometimes disappointing, often too short, on occasion, too long. It is a brief opportunity to practice being kind.

I’m watching a couple of male deer lock horns in the snowy field, but I’m their only audience. Wisely, the females are focused on breaking through the crusty snow and grazing while they can. Sheltered in place, I like the visibility of dirt in the vacuum and the splintered wood with tough knots and gnarly twists waiting for the fire. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Day to day. Hand in hand.

On the other side of the pell-mell race that will never have a winner, the shimmering Now is a breakfast of excellent coffee, a blueberry scone, a vision beyond my nose, and the kind of silence that holds no threat. No demand. No promise. No direction. Only an abundance of breathable air.

God has moved into view carrying my best boots. She kneels and helps me slip them on. She’s shoveled a path through the snow that leads toward a certain horizon, but I linger over my scone. “Don’t make me move,” I beg God. “This might be the last blueberry I’ll ever taste.”

“Yes, it might,” God agrees. She pulls my snow pants down over the boots and tightens the drawstrings at the bottom. “And it might not.” She pats my thigh. “Either way will be fine.” She points to the hills and begins to die the thousand deaths required of her every day. She’s running a temperature, struggling to breathe, and there are gaping holes in the ozone.

On 9/11, the passengers on Flight 93 decided to bring the plane down rather than let it crash into the White House or the Capitol. Passenger Todd Beamer was recorded saying, “You guys ready? Let’s roll.” With whatever they had at hand, they stormed the cockpit. Right now, the cockpit is filled with plastics, poisons, hatred, and greed.

“Breakfast is over,” I say to my well-clad feet. “Let’s roll.”

Public Meeting

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

IMG_6251 (3)

Last night God and I attended a public meeting. The images and verbal snippets lodged in my brain and ruined my sleep. Through the night, I wanted to check in with God, but she was slumbering soundly. I had to toss and turn, rage and grieve on my own.

Everyone I know (except God) is the product of sperm and egg, about nine month incubation, and a birthing. But these shared origins guarantee little when it comes to getting along. Are some of us programmed to be mean? Violent? Hateful? Unable or unwilling to be civil? The animosities in the room sharpened the atmosphere until it felt like I was breathing knives.

Those smirking, disrespectful, smug, lie-believing fools were so offensive I had to fight to remember that they are members of my species. Conspiracy theories were in full bloom. There were glib reassurances that the corporations in question care deeply about the earth and are managed with love for all humanity. As if. So much posturing and paranoia. No one should be able to tell anyone else what to do–especially if there’s money to be made. Facts be damned. The common good be damned. We vote and hate. Or don’t vote and hate.

And while we attack each other in our nanoscopic corners, the earth warms its hands over the fire of our denial-fueled rush to extinction, waiting to be rid of us so the healing can begin.

God continued to snooze as I seethed. I gave her a gentle shake. She’s so beautiful at rest, with her feral hair flowing every direction–and much tamer when her eyes are closed. Maybe it’s better to let sleeping Gods sleep, but I couldn’t. I needed perspective. Connection. I shook her shoulder a little harder.

Her eyes flew open. She bolted upright and shouted, “You gotta hit hard and clean. Double-fisted.” She rubbed her forehead. “Egads, what a dream! I was a boxing coach. The little people were in a fight with the Goliaths again. No sling shots in sight.”

“So you had them slugging it out?” I asked.

“Yeah.” She looked a little sheepish.

“We have guns and nuclear bombs now, you know,” I reminded God as I handed her some coffee.

“Mmmm,” God said. “Yeah. Probably not the best idea. But it was only a dream.”

“I wish,” I said, and punched the air. I double-punched a sofa pillow.

“That’s good,” God said. “But move your feet. Fancy little dance steps work the best.”

I shuffled my feet, still focused on my fists.

“No. Dance,” God said again. “I mean it. Dance.”

“I can’t,” I said, ashamed. “There’s no music.”

God gave me a look and dissolved into a chorus of insects and meadowlarks, a string quartet, a crystal-shattering soprano, three warbling old women. The heart of God pounded, waves crashed, wind screamed, billions of people sobbed and laughed. The howler monkey, the cicadas, coyotes, the bullfrogs and molecules, neutrinos and nightmares—an astounding choir.

The Maestro’s baton slashed the air, wild hair snapping in circles around her head. “There you go, love,” she yelled above the din. “I forgive you. Now dance.”

Wrestling Match

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

IMG_1513

I’m lost in a pile of morning words, thrashing like a rainbow trout that has taken the bait, uncertain if I am a victim of catch and release or soon to sizzle. The bait? Fame and fortune. Vast influence. The ultimate saving of the planet. Or at least meaning beyond pulling the stubborn cheat grass in the raised beds. The strawberries are in trouble and the chives. Even the mint is being overtaken.

“What if I were the governor or a movie star?” I think to myself.

“You’d still die,” God thinks back.

“What if I were rich beyond measure?” I think to myself.

“You are,” God thinks back.

“But I could be richer,” I counter with narrow eyes.

“Sure, but why? Even the outer limits are limits.”

“I don’t like that.” I shook my head.

“I know.” God smiled.

So apparently this day is going to inch forward and end–like every other day and no other day. It’s hardly begun, but as I argue with God, each moment slips quietly into the past. I watch the wind move the new leaves. They’re relatively secure for the coming season, assuming no tornadoes or killing frosts. What a brilliant celebration of all that is transitory.

“God,” I said, “You are a pain in the butt.”

“So are you,” God said as she sat down in one of the chairs that scratch the floor if you move around very much.

“What if I bought a camper van and drove to DC and parked and protested for the rest of my life? Huh? What then? Would that fix things? What if I piled my possessions on the sidewalk and labeled them ‘FREE’? What if I shaved my head and wore a robe? What if I climbed a tree and sat in the limbs on hunger strike? What if I chained myself to the wall? What if I gave everyone the right kind of light bulb? What if I broke all the glass in sight, shattering everyone’s phony security? What if, God? What if?”

“Sure,” God said. “Those all sound feasible. Which wall and how big of chain?”

I swore and threw my beer bottle at God. God ducked, spun around, and rammed a shoulder into my stomach. We fell like children wrestling in green grass and dandelion fluff. We shouted and shrieked in glee, startling a magpie and the neighbors. Our molecules were drunk on a bacterial invasion that made us come apart. To my surprise, I liked disintegrating. God and me. Me and God. The Great I AM. The Jokester, the Coyote, the Source of All That Is. And me. Me.

“Don’t forget the bacteria,” God said as we lied on our backs, panting. I shrugged.

“You know, God, I’m kind of artistic,” I said.

“True,” God said. “Maybe go with that.”

 

What the Worms Know

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

IMG_5790

Clear sky. Clear blue sky. Warm sun. Dark, wet soil. Worms at work underneath. Fat worms, translucent. Harmless. Grass. Green and growing aggressively. Dandelions with long roots. Grass with longer roots. Mint and iris, competing, roots and bulbs and a very blue sky. Me with a shovel. Me with dirt. Rich dirt, fully alive with whatever creatures live in dirt. Hello, creatures. Hello sun. Hello God. The backyard, dancing a circle dance, hands joined, feet first, collapsing into the arms of spring. Laughing. Not menacing, not hysterical, not messed up. There’s always rain in the forecast, blight on the horizon. But Now is perfect. Cautious, but perfect.

“Not quite,” God said. She was digging. “Drop the caution. Therein lies perfection.”

“Wrong,” I said. “Therein lies foolishness. Therein lies disappointment. Therein is falling on my face. I prefer a bit of caution with my Nowness.”

“Sorry to be insistent,” God said. “But I’m right on this one. Perfection exists only without caution. Let it go.”

“God,” I said. “Look at this worm. Have you ever seen a fatter, happier worm?” I didn’t want to keep arguing. God either wins outright, or my day gets all tangled up. Avoidance is an excellent strategy.

God took the worm in her hands and examined it. “No. Or at least hardly ever.” She gave the worm a holy kiss and ate it. “Thanks,” she said, licking her lips.

“Gross,” I said. “Why do you have to do things like that?”

“Protein,” God said. “Pure protein.”

“Yeah, but why not a nice charbroiled steak?” I said. “Or at least rice and beans? There’s something twisted in you, God. Very twisted.”

“YES!” God said, twirling around the raised beds, her skirt flaring, her eyes flashing fire. “Twisted. I am a twisted, uncautious dude. Therein lies my perfection. C’mon.” She held out her hand.

I was tempted. Sorely tempted. Overly tempted. The dirt was warm and welcoming. The melody, ancient, familiar. I took the hand of God and we joined the circle, dancing like folks at the end of a wake, loosened by liquor, sorrow, and song. It was a wake for all that is dead, all that is dying, all that will be born anew. It was my own wake, and I was dancing. It was a wake for what I’ve known and destroyed. We danced more and more frenetically. God and I. It was beyond. We were somewhere and nowhere. I couldn’t let go. I won’t let go.

“Fall,” God said. “Fall on your face.” I hesitated. She wasn’t taunting. She was serious.

“Okay,” I said. I was delirious. Intoxicated. I fell in the mud, naked and without excuse. I rolled in rotten leaves, ate the bitter buds of dandelions–and I was saved! Just like that. Saved.

 

Through the Broken Looking Glass

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

IMG_1016 (2)

It isn’t an easy morning. I’m washing someone else’s dishes, angry at yet more news from the legislature. “I cannot keep trying to love these idiots,” I think to myself. I hate trying to love my enemies. They are many, and loving them is a terrible, horrible, sickening task. They do not deserve it. They deserve to be drawn and quartered, humiliated, silenced, tarred, feathered, squished like the ugly insects and reptiles that they are.

Why didn’t God nip Lucifer in the bud? Of what use are serpents? Tricksters? Mosquitoes? Isis fighters? Greedy, cruel, old white men? There’s something seriously wrong with a God who lets powerful strangers destroy the earth, force unwilling women to stay pregnant, torture fellow humans, kill other species (and each other) for sport, withhold basic shelter, food, and health care to those without resources. Resources. Fuck resources. Who owns anything? I think I’ve earned the things I own, but I don’t think about it for long because I might have to give it all away. To my enemies.

A soapy glass slips from my hands and hits the porcelain sink. I stare at the shards. Glass is a slow moving liquid, but at high enough temperatures, it flows visibly—a scalding stream of unbearable light. The gods made of glass are dangerous, but gods made of greed will eat you and your offspring and their offspring. So many voracious gods crunching through the bones. I am fixated on broken glass. The kitchen blurs.

“Am I invited to this party?” God says, appearing as a vial of nerve gas in the corner. I back away. “Could I have a hug?” God asks, from the mouths of leaders who amass wealth rather than serve. “Kiss me?” God slurs the words before passing out drunk on the floor.

I run to the stinking body and kiss the molten forehead. I empty the vial of nerve gas on my feet, bury my head in my hands, and pray ferociously for a bigger God or an easier way.

Outside, the complex trill of a meadowlark rises, an anthem of defiance. A declaration of independent joy–of pure seduction. I slide my body off the crowded altar, comb the familiar hairs on my head, and cake myself with thick, wet clay.

“Recognize me?” I whisper to the meadowlark who is God who is spring who is not long for this earth. “I’m under here, and I’m okay.”

I am of no use to the meadowlark, but she sings for me anyway. The clay bakes and cracks and falls away, toxins neutralized, abrasions healed. She sings as evening gathers force. The sparks from a burning cathedral light the sky. Reveal the truth. Illuminate the little moment I’ve lived in, with its soft walls and tiny peek-holes.

“I like what you’ve done with this place,” God says. “But you could use a few more windows.”

“I know,” I say. “But there’s a problem with structural integrity.” And I try to believe myself.

State of the Union

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

edit First pair blue hair

“I love scientists,” God said, sipping herbal tea, relaxed and open. “I just love them. They try so hard to understand, reveal, predict, and invent. Aren’t they something? Such visionaries.”

“Yeah,” I said. We sat for a while. Then I added. “You know, I’m somewhat of a scientist myself.

“Hmmm,” God said. “I don’t often think of you that way, but now that you mention it, I can see a little scientific mindedness in you. More artist, but sure, a little scientist.”

Well.

My eyebrows bent down, but I pushed them back up to the level of civil discourse. “I love scientists, too,” I said. “But doesn’t it bother you that you’re kept out of the equations so often?”

“What?” God said. “Are you nuts? I don’t have to be recognized to be present. In fact, I get a lot of exercise jogging around in equations and hypotheses. They’re great places to work out. Science-types are like moles, digging into creation. They examine air, stars, creatures deep in the sea. I love that burning desire to understand.” God paused, looking like a proud parent, and added, “I never dreamed they’d come up with the idea of splitting an atom! Wow. Just wow.”

I was aghast. “God!” I yelled, “You know what we’ve done with split atoms, right?”

God gave me that “duh” look and said, “Children take things apart, and sometimes, they can’t get them back together. It’s part of the long, long walk.” God’s voice faltered. I could tell I’d hit a sore spot, but I was unrepentant.

“It’s more than that,” I said, my voice deadly serious. “And you know it.”

God sighed. “Okay. True. Divide and conquer is a primitive strategy. Bringing things together is a more advanced skill than taking them apart.”

If I could’ve held it together, I would’ve given God a “duh” look back. But I lost it and slid into my usual slash and burn. I stomped back and forth on our concrete floor until I gave myself shin splints. I growled until my throat hurt. I punched the air. I kick-boxed with God. My heart rate moved past the aerobic range. I shouted, “We are tragically fractured, and we just keep fracturing further. Human trafficking, walls and greed, gutted landscapes, forced pregnancies, prolonged suffering at the end of life. War. Torture. Starvation. Nuclear waste. And you sit there, admiring scientists and spouting off about bringing things together?”

“Yes,” God said in a stubborn voice. She appeared to be unfazed. “Exactly.”

She sat down and took a sip of tea, trying to hide her tears. I hid mine, too. A long moment passed. Then, a cruel storm blew up, and fierce as a mother eagle, God flung her powerful, protective wings around the cosmos. My reach is maddeningly limited, but I tried to do the same.