Tag: Faith

Awakened by a Petulant God

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

“Hey, are you aware that we cut our teeth on climate change and invented belly fat as a little joke?” A Pouty Apparition startled me awake. I moaned. Petulant Voices chimed in, nodding. “We deserve a good laugh now and then, don’t we?”

I rolled out of bed and groped my way to the kitchen, fighting off the vertigo of a long life. People need sustenance before engaging in any meaningful way with a Peevish Universe.

Out the window, the ice-edged river flowed by while the coffee brewed. Petulant Voices started singing the national anthem. Dawn reversed itself as night rolled back in, and bombs bursting in air gave just enough light to locate the flag. A fierce Wind ripped it down and draped Old Glory across the backs of shivering calves being rounded up for slaughter. The Voices kept singing, “O’er the land of the free…”.

“Could you bring it down a notch?” I pleaded. This was not the kind of God any sane person would willingly deal with, but was there a choice?

“Of course and of course,” they declared. “There’s always a choice.”

An abrupt, unnerving calm settled as the Wind died down and the Voices faded into throngs of those silenced by extinction.

But it wasn’t over. “Don’t mind us,” they muttered. “We’ll just perch on this rock while you feed your face.”

I did not look up.

“We’ll just take a dip in the swimming hole while you guzzle beer.”

I rolled my eyes.

The Voices sighed in an elaborate show of patience. “We’ll just listen to a podcast while you get dressed.”

I shrugged, trying to keep my distance and hold myself together.

The Voices changed tactics and belted out a new song. A holiday favorite. “Do you hear what I hear?”

That did it. I gave up the pretense of sufficiency, looked into the dark eyes of death and bad choices, and said, “No. I do not hear what you hear. I do not see what you see. I do not know what you know. Would you mind leaving me alone now?”

“Not at all.” The Voices became the murmur of beating wings over untouched land, and finally, I could hear myself think.

“Come, let us reason together,” I said to what was left of myself.

“Oh, this ought to be good,” the Voices snickered. “Mind if we listen in?”

IQ Test

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

If children ask for bread, do you give them a stone?

Meditation isn’t easy. Most mornings, I prefer monkey mind. Trying to control the breath makes me claustrophobic. Panic arises, and the Coauthor has to dance into the void and tickle my brain to save me from sinking into useless rants and bitter condemnations.

“How about we do an IQ test to help you get centered?” she suggests in a beguiling voice. “We’ll pretend there are no wrong answers.”

“Or we could pretend there are no right answers,” I snipe back.

“You’ve clearly lost the beat,” she says, and shoves me into an ancient classroom rapidly filling with Ethereal Beings.

 “Please find a seat,” she commands, tapping a baton on her podium. “I’ll read the questions. You may answer telepathically if you’d like.”

She begins.

  • If you lower yourself into a hot tub filled with bliss, and luxuriate until you completely dissolve, will the soup of your soul be a positive addition to the mix?

(Unlikely)

  • Do you gaze at youth and beauty with envy, spite, or joy? If the nubile youngsters gaze back, do you nod modestly or preen as if you’re still attractive?

(None of the above)

  • Would you rather build a fire, harvest carrots, or watch someone get murdered or raped on TV, assuming justice is eventually served?

(Carrots)

  • Why would someone invent a color that others can’t even see?

(To hide)

(Does anyone love you? Do you love anyone, and if so, what exactly does that mean?)

(Pass)

  • When the familiar collapses, will you run amok, join the choir, or sidle uphill to watch?

(Run amok)

  • Do you prefer approval or adventure? Acrimony or accolades? Whiskey or vodka? Breastmilk or beer?

(Beer)

  • Which moral platitudes cause you to choke on your whole wheat pasta?

(Pretty much all of them)

  • How often do you wash your hair or clean the wax from your misshapen ears?

(None of your business)

(If anyone does love you, or if you do love anyone, have you prepared for the next holocaust? Do you bake the occasional gluten-free pie?)

“Enough!” the Ethereal Beings yell in mock protest. “There’s real work to do.”

The Coauthor winks. “And what might that be?”

“Feed the hungry, silly.” They march out, laughing and singing, arms laden with bread. I remain seated in the last row, deep within the bowels of discordant realities, soaking in the terrifying harmonies of simple truths. My heart is pounding. I remind myself to breathe with my diaphragm.

The Coauthor motions me forward, takes my pulse, and hands me a drum. “Here you go, Maestro. Go find a parade.”

Missionary Position

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Certain faith systems send out missionaries to convert others to their way of thinking, and sometimes it works. Believers beget believers. This has been going for a very long time.

As a species, we search for meaning. And we want to belong. It’s far easier to convert or cling to a set of beliefs that guide and justify our behaviors than it is to be open, kind, and accepting. Some questions simply cannot be answered on this side of existence.

My Coauthor nods in agreement. This surprises me. I smile and begin making breakfast.

“When’s your next mission?” he asks in an innocent voice.  “And which bibles shall we print up?”

I should have known there’d be some smartass dimension to deal with.

“I’m no missionary,” I snap. “I’m a ‘live and let live’ kind of gal.”

My Coauthor cracks up. “In your dreams, Bossypants.”

“Ah, c’mon,” I protest. “It’s obvious there are better or worse ways to live. But I don’t insist. I don’t even shame people. . . very often.”

“But do you love them?”

I shrug. “What’s love?”

“A precarious tightrope that ends in a certain kind of death.”

“Scrambled or over easy?”

“Over easy, please.”

I serve the fertile eggs and sprouted wheat toast. We chew thoughtfully.

I break the silence in an uneasy voice. “I don’t know much about that precarious tightrope, but I do know something about death.”

“You know very little about death.”

“More coffee?”

“Yes, thanks. And feel free. Tell me what you know about death.”

My hand trembles. I refill his cup a little past the brim.

“I’ve been bedside of those passing. I’ve watched wasps writhe. Chard wilt. Bullets to the head of predators. Shovel to the neck of the snake. I’ve watched the light depart.”

The Coauthor nods. “And tell me what you know about love.”

My words fly away. I bow my head. I am the writhing wasp. The beheaded snake. The martyred lamb. The poisoned earth.

 My Coauthor is the dark night in whom I swim and drown. Food withheld, I starve. The constant laying down and taking up of life roils the waters.

 I am a missionary unto myself, but there is fluidity to my position. My body. My blood. Complicit and compliant. The most reluctant sacrifice you’d ever want to meet. The Coauthor is my broken heart, still beating.

I lift my eyes. A spectacular sunrise yanks me to the window and wraps me in the membranes of an apricot sky.

“Today.” I finally whisper. “Today is all I know about love.”

Come Winter

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments 

Sometimes when I listen to the lyrics or melodies of songs, I choke up. The depth, the artistry, the pathos—it is a profound gift to experience music.

Other times, I can be moved to tears by the clanking of the trailer stacked with haybales. My brother drove by early today pulling a load of 14 round bales back to the main ranch. Thousands of pounds of food for the cattle, baled and stacked against the coming of the winter.

My brother loves music. I wonder what station he was listening to as he navigated the sharp turn onto the highway. I doubt the DJ was playing the tune that had popped into my head as I watched him go by.

“Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go…” 

Yes, it may be hard to believe, but as I’d sat mulling the redundant demands of the changing seasons, the seven dwarves had marched into my brain. They’re all here now, milling around, mocking my somber mood.

“How about I recite some your favorite verses from Ecclesiastes?” Happy asks. “What do we gain by all the toil at which we toil under the sun?” He grins sarcastically and adds, “All is vanity and a striving after the wind. But you can be happy if you’ve a mind to.”

“I’m past all that,” I snap.

Grumpy sneers at me. “Liar!” Bashful gasps at such rude directness, and Sneezy begins to huff and puff. Doc grabs Dopey and Sleepy by their ears and yanks them straight into the line of fire. A seismic sneeze blows our shelter to smithereens and sends us tumbling down the hill, spilling our woefully inadequate pails of water. It’s been a dry August.

“I have people,” I reassure myself as I get up and brush off. “They’d take me in.”
“Thou dost have people,” sayeth the Lord. “But thou shalt not ask to be taken in.”
“Stop talking like that,” I grin. “You sound silly. But you’re right, I’m still sufficient.”

I’ve been harvesting weeds. Sonchus oleraceus (Sowthistle), for instance. The flowers are hermaphroditic. It’s edible, nutritious, and one of the five bitter herbs humans are commanded to eat on all the nights of Passover. Every one of us. The whole rainbow. The old young small and large of us. It’s the best way to remember the cruelty of slavery, the absurdity of dichotomies, and the joy of emancipation.

Heigh-ho, heigh-ho. It’s off to death we’ll eventually go. But before we arrive, let’s savor the harmonies, complexities, and wonderments. Let’s feed the cattle. And stoke the fire. And eat the bitter herbs.

Gun Racks to Book Shelves

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 



My computer indicated it needed to be restarted this morning and then it wouldn’t stop. I would have panicked and forced a shutdown had not James, the patient man from the repair shop, assured me these things take time. “Chill,” he said. “Have some breakfast.”

James did not realize that I’d already eaten two breakfasts and downed my morning half-beer. I did not share this with James. Instead, I made myself putter, peeking at the screen every five minutes for two hours.

And voilà! The computer finally stopped restarting and seems docile and responsive enough to risk writing some words.

During that down time, I distracted myself with housekeeping which led to some rearranging ideas. The Coauthor appeared as I emptied a shelf unit and started to push it to the door.

“Don’t try to move that alone,” she scolded. “It’s too heavy for you.”

The shelf in question was an old gun rack I’d converted to a bookshelf in my efforts to bring about world peace 35 years ago. It has grown uglier, and the world has grown more vicious. I want to donate both the shelf and the world to an unwitting charity and start over.

“It doesn’t work that way, sweetheart,” the Coauthor said sympathetically.
 
I cried a little. My increasing incapacities are deeply disturbing. 

“You move it then,” I said, defiant. “Or else I’ll keep trying, and it will fall on me, and I’ll die a slow death pinned under my own stupidity.”

“That’s how most of you will die anyway,” she laughed.

“Not funny,” I said and threw a paisley orange pillow at her. She caught it, and we sat down on the worn and disconnected sectional (my latest attempt at the perfect couch).

“Let’s go,” she said.
“Let’s not,” I said.

But I was outvoted, and the cosmic train pulled into the station. 

We dissolved into waves of symphonic sound. Timpani drums made from the skins of scapegoats boomed like bombs bursting in air. The bass moaned low and mournful, the cellos and violins sobbed as they were deported. But somehow, life itself was beautiful beyond words.

“How can this be?” I asked the Coauthor. But I knew. The celestial choir had dismembered me, and my atoms were dancing shamelessly inebriated in the variegated light.

Eternity receded. I resisted reassembling, but here I am, alone with my keyboard, an empty bookshelf, a list, and a plan. Somewhere, in another time, another place, I am an oboe.

A leopard. 
A mollusk. 

I am puffed cheeks blowing out fifteen candles and the first gasp of a new planet. 

And at some incomprehensible level, I trust that all will be well.


Familiars

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Photo credit: Anonymous Friend

My body is only vaguely familiar this morning. We greet each other suspiciously, as if one of us hails from the Deep State and the other from Nirvana. We shake hands, staring at our knobby knuckles and prominent veins, and try to agree on a reasonable plan for the day.

We’re joined by a Holy Threesome. My body and I glance at each other, wondering if we should genuflect or drop to our knees.

“Do you like the curled posture of prayerful supplicants? Knees bent, hands folded, head bowed?” we ask the Ubiquitous Coauthors.

“Not especially,” they shrug. “Reminds us of chained prisoners being shaved.”

“Did you hear that?” I ask my ears sarcastically. “Maybe they were just praying.”

My ears have become accustomed to hearing lies. Incredulity is our new constant.

We invite the Coauthors to join us for morning libations. All the Interdimensional Beings in the vicinity appear because the day is gray, and they have little to do. The Coauthors introduce my body and me as the hosts.

“And what are your names?” I ask as I pass around a plate of digestives.

They laugh. Crumbs fly from the communion table and the dogs happily lick them up.

My former selves also arrive uninvited. The supply of digestives, toast, and beer dwindles. My memories are conflicted, insights constrained, and my collective reach no longer exceeds my collective grasp. The raucous chatter irritates me.

“Quiet!” I demand. “I have a question for the Coauthors.”

I square my shoulders, face the Creative Force of the Universe, and ask, “Could you tell us the truth?”

“That’s a big ask,” they say. “Members of your species are busily denying history, science and common sense. Not sure what we can do about that.”

The Interdimensional Beings and my multiplicities gasp. “There has to be something you can do!” they shout.

The Coauthors shrug. My multiplicities look for ways to escape. The Beautiful Beings flap their wings, and panic shimmers in the heavy air. Our shared pulse is racing.

There’s a crash and then silence.

“I can’t breathe,” one of the Beings whispers.

My body remembers fainting when giving blood: the shrinking of my visual field, the removal of the tangible, the fight to fill my lungs.

We surround the Being. It’s a bird with a broken neck. The Glass it crashed into was not visible, but it was real. Is this the truth I asked for? The harsh realities of cause and effect?

“Where will you go now that you’ve shattered?” we asked the Being. Her body is disintegrating, her wings no longer discernable.

“Home,” the Being said. “Supper at six. See you then.”

Go Gently

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments

The world is filled with natural stompers. This is not destination dependent. No matter where the stompers think they’re going, their determined stride sends shock waves up their legs and into their surroundings. I happen to know that it’s possible to override the habitual stomp and consciously place one foot in front of the other. But beware: The resulting quiet can be unnerving. The rush to nowhere is noisy but comforting.

And why take the risk of treading lightly anyway? The Rain falls on the just and the unjust, the stompers and the dawdlers, the mindful and the misguided. The Rain falls without resistance or judgment. It clears the air for both rich and poor. On the upturned faces of lovers, the Rain falls with joy.

A beloved poet once insisted we should rage against the dying of the light, but I say to myself don’t hide from the darkening sky. Seek out the eye of the storm and walk upright in your bones, bold and welcoming. But don’t stomp. Go gently. Go with such grace that even your precariously stacked stones will start to sing, and the dry, angular roots you’ve gathered will dance like nymphs around the open tombs.

But I’m never sure of the way. There are so many trails and byways, so many routes home. I tell myself there’s no harm in wandering and no singular way to be redeemed.

But the Rain begs to differ. Surrender, she whispers. Break. Fall apart, tender. If you still have yarn or wire, you can knit yourself back together for a spell. But remember, you have gills and wings. You are the blind man tapping, the enthroned queen, and the missed opportunity. You are your own final act. You are the drunk driving victim, and you were driving the car.

I cannot accept that, I say to the Rain.

Oh, but you can, the Rain murmurs as she slides down the sides of my soul.

I admit that there are times I’m tempted to march out there and shake my fist at the distant thunder, but my boots would surely slip on the slick surfaces and even these well-formed bones would snap.

There is a certain hosanna available to those who fold their umbrellas and accept whatever comes. The relentless downpour will baptize everyone to the point of drowning, but as the flood recedes, that which remains will be a sunlit robin patiently awaiting a worm.

Vocabulary

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

This morning, I’ve been making up words. Having the right word can be helpful in times like these. For instance, Ludiaucracy (loo-dee-awe-cracy): an ill-fated form of government led by the ludicrous. And Vengectomy: a surgical procedure necessary for the evolution of the human species. It involves removing the urge for revenge.

“Interesting,” the Universal Remote says. “What tools will we need to amputate revenge? And where is it located?”

“No idea. It doesn’t show up on X-rays, MRIs, or PET scans. I’ve even done cavity searches.” I grimace.

“What? You searched mouths? The stuff coming out of there can be toxic. I hope you washed your hands.”

“It was revolting. And I didn’t find the origins. Revenge is malignant, but the location is illusive. Maybe it’s untethered, slouching around the corpus at will. Or it might be an allergic response that floods the body with histamines and hate.”

Universal Remote makes a show of sharpening knives. “Good thing you thought of this Ectomy. I’ve always said vengeance was mine. I’ll find where it’s hiding, cut that entitled sucker out, and cauterize the wound. It doesn’t belong in the genome anymore. Probably never did.”

“Well, that should take care of that,” I roll my eyes and shudder, imagining the smell of my own scorched flesh. “And what’ll we do about the Ludiaucracy? Can we amputate that while you’re at it?”

“No. that’s more of a dietary problem,” Universal Remote says. “You’re going to be eating your just desserts for some time to come. There will be massive indigestion. Howling bowels. Ludiaucracies thrive on ignorance and greed—shameful abdications of compassion. They are darkening all the cities on all the hills.”

“Stop it!” I glare. “The voters have spoken. That ship has sailed.”

“Ah, maybe. But it isn’t seaworthy. The voters’ self-interests were not enlightened and are no longer connected to the circulatory system. Gangrene is setting in. I’m sorry. I’ve tried.”

The metaphors are making me dizzy, but I know we’re in very bad trouble. “Try harder,” I beg.

“No, you try harder. I’m Universal. And Remote. Hahahaha.”

“Could you stop that? I don’t like that guise. I’m frightened.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” the Voice of the Mother Ship whispers. It scoops me into Now. “Wow. You’ve gotten heavy!” she adds.

“So have you,” I sigh. “It’s the barnacles of billionaires. We’re listing to the far right.”

The Mother Ship nods. “Must be time for a little scraping. But let’s remember to protect the hull.”

“What’s the hull?” I ask.

“Scar tissue and tears. History and hope. Imperfect resistances standing arm-in-arm, candles lit, singing.”

“Got it,” I nod. “Let’s scrape.”

On the Bright Side

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Let’s keep it light today, I suggest to The Interaction. 
Great idea, she nods happily. You go first.
Right. Me. Well, I could fill this day with music.

The Interaction feigns interest. I laugh. I have a playlist called
Music for Dogs Riding in Cars. This is because the dogs I know best
like to ride in cars and get treats from drive-through vendors.

The drool of a dog on the dashboard speaks to anticipation
and delight. Even the managers at the landfill keep a supply of treats.
Perhaps defensively, perhaps lovingly. Doesn’t matter to the dog.

Our senses evolved to perceive the fragile majesty of creation.
The earth has thus evolved with unspeakable splendor.
Perhaps defensively, perhaps joyously. Doesn’t matter.

How am I doing? I ask The Interaction.
She is a spritely old woman, prone to praise and bouts of hilarity.
I’ve never been sure of her sanity. Neither has she. Doesn’t matter.

Oh, so good. So tasty.  So dangerous, she says. Irreverent in the extreme. 
Real people have been martyred for less. She pumps a fist. You go, girl.
Okay, I smile. You Daughter of a Drooling Dog. Let’s roll that stone.

I’ve never been sure of my own sanity or the point of it all, 
and I don’t know if we’re opening a grave or joining Sisyphus. 
But we only roll stones that are ready. Stones that want to be rolled.

We begin this new endeavor with glee. We’re at the County Fair.
Guess the weight of the stone, the Barker barks. Win a Teddy Bear.
That would be cheating, I tell him. We already know the weight of the stone.

The Interaction and I link elbows. We’re drinking dialectical lemonade
squeezed from a stone I painted yellow. Sweetness mediates bitterness.
None of this matters to the imaginary lemon. We savor every sip.

Who You Talking To?

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R: Hey, G. It’s way below zero. You planning to show up today?
G: I always show up. I live in the thermometer. It’s your job to recognize me.
R: Yeah. But your guises and costumes are confusing.
G: So? What are you afraid of? Strike up a conversation. Take a risk.
R: With a thermometer?
G: With it all. You never know.
R: It’s embarrassing to walk up to someone you think you know and then be wrong.
G: Sorry, but I can’t relate. I always know.
R: Very funny. And not helpful.

The barely visible mercury. The snap of the fire. The murmur of the icy river, the taste of dark beer, the sound of shuffling objects indicating my beloved is nearby, the settling of dust and ash, the brain interpreting visual input as both beautiful and fatal. The skeletal view of truths I do not want to accept.

Acceptance itself. 

R: Why do you bother to animate? To engage? 
G: To quote your grandmother, 'Honey, it’s no bother at all.'
R: She lied sometimes.
G: I don’t.
R: I wish you did. I wish you issued false reassurances so I could be calm and happy.
G: You can be calm and happy without lies.
R: Platitudes and promises.
G: Dutch ovens and sour dough.
R: Could you just stay in your lane?
G: It’s a long race, R. And I love switching lanes.
R: No, seriously, G. Many of us realize you don’t exist the way we wish you did.
G: Finally.

Unknowability shelters me from dogma and ill-advised faith. If there’s no rhyme or reason, if there’s no hell or heaven, if all we have is mercy, then let me be merciful. If all we have is kindness, then let me be kind. If all we have is this day, this moment, this breath, then let me breathe.

G: Who are you praying to?
R: Delicacies and dialectics. Oxymorons and overtures.
G: But not me?
R: Oh, I suspect it’s you. The last line of defense.
G: And the first ray of light. Within. Around. Through.
R: Ah, so humble.
G: You think I overdo it?
R: Yeah. But that’s just me. You don’t have to change a thing.
G: And yet I do. Change is my circulatory system. You want me to stagnate?
R: Nah, don't mind me. Go ahead. Change, animate, dissemble all you want.
G: Thank you. You won’t regret it.
R: I already do.