Tag: Failure

Fallibility: The Ultimate F-Word

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Oh, it’s so damn tempting to deny or excuse our own malice or mistakes, but this is a bad idea. Projecting failings onto enemies or loved ones doesn’t work, either. Deliberate unkindness or hidden imperfections cling to the soul and congeal into restrictive outer layers. As defensiveness dries in place, fault lines scar the surface. It often requires excruciating scraping to get back to original skin.

In my experience, it’s better to sit down and face those nasty shortcomings. I recommend having a dark beer in hand. I also make sure my Unifying Force is nearby, willing to listen and reason things through with me.

I usually lead with something like, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but lately, I may have been a little selfish, judgmental, and conniving.”

“Correct you if you’re wrong?” My Unifying Force bursts into belly-clutching gales of laughter. “Selfish, judgmental, and conniving?” She echoes my words between gasps for air. “Stop. You’re making me wet my pants.”

Sometimes, I use other words. Acknowledge other sins. But the ritual is the same. My Unifying Force hoots and snorts in mirth.

This is not infectious laughter. Nothing about this is funny. I don’t know why the Universe finds my confessions humorous, and I’m never sure whether to feel shame or claim vindication. I sit through the cosmic hilarity, setting my intentions, breathing, and yes, glaring and sweating a little.

The storm begins to subside, and I contemplate some form of forgiveness in exchange for another day. But I feel small. Diminished. I’m tempted to drown my sorrows, hop a freight train, or throw my puny body over a cliff. This is like transition time in birthing. Extreme dislocation.

Then, finally, the miracle. The punchline. The tonic. This sacrament is a circle dance. My shadow grabs my hand, and I remember the steps.

All the Unifying Forces sing lullabies to the babies, foxtrot around the graves, and dwell deep in the dung of human fallibilities. Beside us and within us, they shoulder the blame and share the exaltation. Best efforts fail. Bladders leak. Our fingernails are broken and unclean.

But this is how it’s meant to be. Who can tend a garden and stay perfectly pristine?


Oh, Baby

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

This is the narrowest time. Night has loosened its grip, and old wine is poured out as libation to the rising sun. My head slumps to my chest, and my shoulders curl inward to make the passage less painful. Less prolonged. To the east, a thin blaze of orange takes hold. With kindling gleaned from around the chopping block, I light a fire so I can immerse my hands in the warm liquid of another day.

“What sayest thou?” I ask the newly arrived Sandhill cranes.

“What thinkest thou?” I ask the rising river.

The answers come on the in-breath and dissipate before I can inscribe an adequate translation. I will have to ask again and try to be worthy of the answers.

My inner audience isn’t kind. The promise of spring is shrouded in snow, and for some reason, the fire is burning more reluctantly than usual. I suspect it’s the blessing and curse of the thick bark still clinging to these beautifully split logs.

Before I slept last night, someone told me they loved me, and someone told me they hated me. The raucous rise of the north wind relieved the barometric pressure of leftover miles. There was just enough time to make a cursory inspection of my seashells, sticks, and rocks before the paralysis set in. Even then, I had to lean into God to make it to the safety of my flannel sheets.

Now, alert and alive, we are filled with equal amounts of dread and joy.

“Oh, baby,” God sighs. “Oh, baby.”

“Oh, God,” I say, pushing back a little. “Oh, God.” I look into myself as far as I can. “I wish you wouldn’t sigh at me. Go sigh at someone else.”

This elicits a smile. We sip coffee, eat toast, and raise our glasses to the trains arriving, the trains departing, journeys beginning, journeys ending. These simple routines grease the wheels, and we’re off.

Who can guess the length of their days? Who can predict the hard hatreds and easy loves? No one knows their own soul very well, let alone the redemptive mind of God at rest in the protective bark of scorched and fallen trees. We cannot be expected to do any better than we can.

“Oh, baby,” The Cosmic Drama Queen sighs again, so inclusive, so determined. Her obsidian eyes are sparkling, her broad shoulders squared. “Oh, baby.”