It’s common to look for loopholes in the various holy writings we use to guide and judge ourselves and each other. This is because even when showing up and doing exactly what Allah seems to want, or covering ourselves in the blood of the lamb, or sacrificing fatted calves, or piercing our chests with bones, dancing until we pass out, deep inside, we know we’re imperfect beings. Maybe we have enough faith to curry the favor of the Divine or avoid eternal damnation. Maybe not. It’s terrifying.
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” the Coauthor says. “And I have to admit; I get a little tired of the drama.” “Well, I have to admit I get a little tired of you,” I counter. “I know,” the Coauthor says. We sip beer.
Somehow, my phone has dialed itself and there’s a voice saying hello, hello from my pocket. I dig out the renegade device and stare at the unfamiliar name on the screen. It’s tempting to end the call, but I answer. Turns out it’s a handyman I hired once, years ago. We have a nice little chat. He is most understanding. I will never see him again. My phone acts like it might redial as I try to update my contacts. My fingers are cold and imprecise. I give up.
When I think about my reassuring accumulations of art supplies, rocks, dark chocolate, and certain friends, the world seems kind and full of potential. In this transitory euphoria, I make promises, entertain ambitious visions, and fantasize greatness. But in reality, the candy drawer is depleted, the wind has picked up, and another day is slipping by in the wrong direction.
“I’m not good at graceful exits,” I admit to the slightly inebriated Coauthor. “But I’m working on it. And sometimes, I manage to show up.” “I appreciate that,” the Coauthor says. “I bet you do,” I nod, thinking about the showing up required of mothers, soldiers, and misunderstood creators. “I know you show up, though some of your disguises are in very bad taste, and you often drink more than your share of the beer.” The Coauthor shrugs. “Maybe I need a little rehab.” I smile. “Maybe. But even at your worst, you never miss an exit, graceful or otherwise.” “I’m glad you realize that,” the Coauthor says. “But is that faith?” I ask. “Close enough,” the Coauthor nods. “Relax.”
Arms folded, feet up, I rest in uneasy abundance, awaiting internal directions or a sign from the sparrows, feasting as the seasons allow. The precarity and brevity of their lives seem of no concern to them this morning.
Last night I went looking for the birds scratching in the walls, only to dream the noise was water waiting to freeze. Birds are ingenious and nest where they aren’t welcome, causing moral and primal unease.
But untamed water is the mind of God, and there’s no way to contend with that.
You can shore up your defenses, proclaim your innocence, and pretend the meal is ready. But the fine mist that shrouds the falls keeps everyone unsteady.
Get back in bed, I tell myself, hoping this is good advice. There are birds in the walls, and their body heat is melting the December ice.
Three Fearsome Poets have taken wing. This explains the abrasions on your inner being. Those who have been granted souls must guard and keep them down and low. Otherwise, they’ll be murdered or enslaved.
As it should be, scream the Entitled and Depraved. In geologic time, those vastly rich will drown just below the surface of the calm.
The eggs will hatch, regardless. The young already know. I float naked over shoals of sediment and fish, gradually letting go. I only wish for covering and I see that it’s begun to snow.
You can learn a great deal by eavesdropping on yourself. You might be blowing off steam, visiting with an imaginary friend, guiding yourself with step-by-step instructions, giggling at your own joke, crooning your favorite tune, or even giving yourself a piece of your mind.
It’s sad, but some people are merciless with themselves, speaking cruelly about their inadequacies and mistakes. There’s no joy in that, trust me. Slapping yourself alongside the head, declaring “I’m an idiot” does little good in the long run. It does not alleviate the shame.
Wise people try to talk nicely to themselves. This isn’t easy. It may require borrowing the voice of someone who knew and loved you back when you were young and well-intended. Positive reinforcement and compassion from within are powerful.
And then there are those holy, mostly one-sided conversations with the Unseen and Unseeable. These visits don’t always go well. Sometimes, all we speak of is how deserving we are, whining about the unfairness of life. We demand revenge for perceived slights and offer feeble excuses for our role in the pain.
A person could drown in that slime. I’ve come close, but so far, I’ve managed to grab a life vest, paddle to a humble shore, and crawl out. There, face up on the rocky beach, I watch the wind have its way with branches and clouds.
Often, the Creator with the Kindest Eyes stops by. We admire the expanse of eternity around us, and I snuggle into the warmth of denial. She doesn’t mind. This Creator has the gentlest voice I’ve ever imported, so I bank on a few minutes of peace.
“You’re mortal,” she says after our quiet time. “And you can’t take this disarray with you anyway.”
I smile, relieved.
We take a bracing inbreath of the Now and begin putting earthly things on the shelves where they belong. Memories come untethered, sweet and tender, rank and bitter. There are a few so hilarious that we gleefully throw ourselves backwards, right into the Great Dissolution. Here, the vulnerable children we once were roll marbles over the viper’s den. And the vipers and cobras have come out to play.
I panic.
“There are wars and rumors of wars,” I shout. “Famine and pestilence on all horizons.” My chest cracks open. The children stop playing and crawl onto my lap.
“Oh, we know,” they nod, ancient and unfazed.
They wrap my beating heart in fine linen and begin singing the song I sing to myself when I can’t quite remember who I am.
It’s a lullaby. The cradle falls, but somehow, everything turns out fine.
It’s hard to walk away from a hundred words and endure the resulting blankness, but sometimes, that’s the thing to do. Don’t lean into the streaked screen. Enter the room even if you’re confused. Grope through collapsing synapses for the forgotten face.
The Painter:
You’ve never learned to handle light. You act as if you can put it wherever you’d like. The resulting portraits are wrong. Your misshapen landscape hides under the clothing of sheep. The Light doesn’t bend at your command, but often, it will invite you to dance.
The Prophet:
You’re going to decline. You’ll blame your brilliance and claim your place in the order of things But darling, grace cannot be earned. For every star you’ve named, there are a million waiting in the wings. What are a hundred words when you consider that?
The Priest:
The Apple doesn’t fall far from intention, stolen wine does not gladden the heart, and twisted words create misery as useless as sin. But listen: The stones along the road are singing. All is forgiven. It’s safe to remember the lyrics and sing your way back home.
You know that little desk you used for envelopes and business cards? Well, I’ve dragged it to a new place and painted the top. It’s got a paisley planetary look now. I doubt you’d like it, but you’d be impressed with my system for moving heavy things. I reduce the friction and lean in.
And speaking of friction, I need to tell you about what’s happening with the beloveds.
Remember our trip to Paris decades ago? The crowds were so vibrant and diverse you were floored. We people-watched for hours.
In the evening, you stood transfixed as hundreds of nuns rehearsed inside a backlit cathedral on a hill overlooking the city. The harmonies were ethereal.
“Never in my life did I imagine I’d hear something like that,” you said, wiping tears. “I just can’t fathom all this.”
Mom, listen. The harmonies have been stripped of complexity. Diced and dichotomized. Those colorful people are too frightened to sing, and something hateful has hardened what used to be warm hearts. No one can fathom it. We’re all watching our backs, ready to be stabbed or taken away.
You claimed you could handle yourself around guns, but I know that at least one bullet blew up in your face. Therefore, I’ll try anything but deadly force. We’ve collected some baseball bats, and the pantry is full. Mostly, we play ball and eat chips and dried mango, but we’re pretending to be ready.
No one is actually ready.
The firewood is lasting pretty well, but the temperature keeps dropping unannounced. We often suffer mild frostbite, so when possible, we gather where it’s warm and safe. Few of us realized it could get this jagged or insane, and we don’t seem able to mend and carry on. The good earth is crumbling while everyone bickers over their share and their side of the story.
You always loved the parable of the loaves and fishes. That basket of food you took to the hungry neighbors overflowed with a simple goodness we don’t see much of anymore. Buffoonery abounds—sadism cloaked as self-defense.
Of course, I understand why you stopped attending church. My Coauthor explains such things to me, but it’s awful, isn’t it? So many are choking on the thin wafers of hypocrisy and weeping over spilled wine.
The nightly news is intolerable. The strutting continues. And I’ve made some mistakes myself. I’m sorry. I continue to try to follow the advice you wrote in your birthday card to the grands:
When the going gets tough, the tough get going.
As it turns out, walking humbly may be the toughest thing of all.
“You know I’ve been fixated on the puzzles and denials of mortality for years, and you’ve never been much help,” I tell the Coauthor. A raised eyebrow is the only response I get. We stir honey into our tea.
I lift the cup to my lips, but the Coauthor covers my hand.
“Wait until it’s cold,” she says.
“But I like it warm.” I protest.
Steam curls around our entwined fingers.
*******
Through long stretches of indeterminant time, I sit. Waiting. Sometimes the vulture’s talons. Sometimes the ice of infinity. Visitors are rare, and I like it that way. The Crystal Ball rolls through the room, stops abruptly, and opens its cavernous mouth.
“You’re a liar,” it says.
“No,” I shake my head. “But I tell stories. That’s how I breathe.”
*******
Before being overtaken by digital displays, the ticking of the clock meant something. The steady sound was comforting, though on occasion, it disrupted my sleep. But now, I’m awakened by heavy fog rolling in, the enormity of loss crushing everything in its path.
“I want it over now!” My arms are crossed, but my demand is tempered by a tiny sliver of shame.
“Oh good grief,” the Coauthor smiles. “It was over before you started.”
*******
When I speak to the Viral Collective about geraniums and longevity and the bad choices I made last fall, there’s nothing but forgiveness in the air. “We see how hard it is,” they say, stroking my shoulder. Patting my head.
I want none of it. My intentions were pure. I deserve another chance.
“You will not be found innocent,” the Collective says. “The geraniums froze.”
*******
The Artificial Mothers are make-believe virgins, whoring around in contradictory clothes. They pretend to love us as they scatter offerings like stars or candy at parades. But beware: It is the hatching of a million snakes.
Even the wisest mavens end up sidelined, old locomotives cleverly switched to dead-end tracks. Sometimes, when a thug thinks no one is looking, he shoves the Viral Collective off the cliff, and they tumble into The Fiery Lake below. Their wild and joyous gestures suggest the water is fine.
And at least for now, we’re safe. The air is thick with peppermint.
********
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I trust you can find the link. The cyber giants do not play nicely with each other.
I decided I had to tell you something. At first, only 31 words agreed to cooperate, so I lined them up, hoping you’d understand. Here they are:
This is yours. A day. Awake.
Sunrise. Shoes. Jacket, scarf.
Eyes.
Food. Teeth. Mountain. Music.
Ears.
Lyrics. Regrets. Tyranny of the ordinary. Sinking of dreams.
And it’s over.
Sleep. Resolve. Rekindle.
Then I built a fire and baked a distracting dessert. The Coauthors snapped to attention. They stopped their ritual sacrificing, paid the sunk costs of screen time, lifted themselves out of the slung mud, and lined up for cookies. I was generous. In return, they shook loose a few more words. Too late, I told them. Never, they replied. So I accepted the dubious gift.
What We Must Assemble
A coffin, a stuffed animal from the glove box, the rule of law. A fair trial.
Air. Transfusions. A Dashboard Jesus assuring us that swords and deadly force are toxic. Forbidden temptations.
Fresh strawberries from Mexico. Free speech. Milk and honey for the penetrated little ones.
Hands. Feet clad in good news. Blue sky. Small gifts. Rare spices. Oil for the anointing of bodies.
Friends with tears and toast. Gentle rain to fall on us all. It will fall
on us all. Barns to fill with bitter harvest. Barns to fill with bones and lies. Barns where we can hide until they find us.
Wine, cheese, friendly dogs, and laughter. Thin suits of armor. Small stones.
And that was it. I’ve stuffed my message in a bottle. It’s floating its way to you. There are no angry gods to speak of. Only the still small voices in our heads that plead for mercy and politely ask for shelter and crumbs. You can use all the words you want, the kinder voices tell us. But edit. Remember to edit and then give away that which you don’t need anymore.
Greetings. It is Sunday morning, and just like 484 other Sundays, my Coauthor and I will be flinging a few words your way. Why? I don’t know. For my part, I just hope they land somewhere and offer someone food for thought, a surprised chuckle, a gentle cry, or balm for the soul.
My Coauthor, the one I speak freely for and about, is a persistent, nonexistent son of a bitch that befriended me when I wasn’t looking. We sit around a lot. We aim for 300 words every Monday, but we allow fewer if a poem is trying to appear. Then we edit all week. We often sob along the way. Then we post.
Recently, we tackled the publishing process again, yanking hundreds of these missives into a certain physicality. Why? I don’t know. The years and the losses pile up, no matter what. Sometimes, I get crazy sad. Murderously angry. I reek of despair. I break things. I chase the Coauthor around with a hammer, a paintbrush, a poem, shards of a broken mirror, or handfuls of angular sticks. We finally collapse into the absurdity. There is no escape. We are stuck with each other. The glue we currently favor is E6000. But there are options.
This is Solstice. This is the balancing point. I will wear black with yellow boots. I will post these words to myself, to you, to a Universe so full and majestic I consider surrendering.
The Coauthor says, “No, you don’t. And that’s why I love you.” And I say “Bosh.”
Here's this week's group of words. Sent along with as much love as I can muster right now.
Silence and Emptiness are so potent they don’t often exist.
To realize your full potential you must interact in a friendly manner with these nothings because like wild dogs they sense fear.
If you turn your back they will attack and you will stumble over the edge.
When you gaze into the low unknown, square your shoulders lift your eyes and raise your arms in surrender.
When the Wind dies, you will wonder if there is anything left
but the Deep Blue understands. It says Be still. I will hold you.
II It’s easy to hate.
The seductive lies of ignorance and fear have led to many crucifixions.
Far less easy to offer one bruised cheek two warm hands or a place to rest.
III
Find each other while you can and do not wait to speak of love.
You can find a collection of these blogs in my book: Who’s to say what starlight might do to the skin ? on Amazon for $13.99 Here’s the ridiculously long link:
Due to recent excessive flooding, the gates of heaven have rusted open. Many are desperately trying to push them shut, but those damn gates won’t budge. I’ve heard that the administration plans to soak them in petroleum until the hinges loosen up and the wrong sort can be excluded again.
But for now, carcasses are rolling in unjudged and unimpeded except for the extra stars being glued to the crowns of those who were murdered, tortured, raped, or starved to death. These bodies often come in so emaciated or mutilated that they can’t be identified. Luckily, the Coauthor has published at least one story with every last one of them. These improbable tales of love, loss, and triumph provide guidance for the transformation of their bones. Even the shortest of stories, even the lowliest of lives.
The corpses of the blithely blessed, the perpetrators, monsters, and the enormously greedy are arriving too, but they’re receiving only standard allocations of stars. And no wings. Rumor has it that they’re trying to produce their own private stars and are threatening steep tariffs on feathers and halos.
“Don’t worry,” the Coauthor tells me. “Soon enough, it won’t matter. They’re making fake stars from rare earth elements and unfortunately, your planet is already on life support from all that extraction. All those wars. It won’t be long now.”
“Oh, God!” I exclaim. “Can’t you chip through the rust and slam those gates shut?”
My Coauthor looks at me with sad eyes. “Et tu, Brute?”
“What do you mean?” I demand, but I know exactly what she means, and I hate it. Liars and con men are trashing this beautiful earth. I don’t want justice, I want revenge. People I love have been treated unfairly. I don’t want mercy. I want revenge.
Revenge grows aggressively in the dark waters of the wounded, indignant heart. If you hurt me, I’ll hurt you. If you survive, you’ll hurt me worse, and so it goes, even unto death. One of us will go to hell. And then the other. It’s possible to break the cycle, but forgiveness is something most of us find difficult if not intolerable.
“Ah, maybe leave those gates open,” I mumble. “Afterall, we’re only human.”
The Coauthor turns her palms up in a gesture of helplessness.
“So true,” she says. “But in this iteration, you’re all I’ve got. And that just kills me. Any chance you could put on your Big Girl pants?”
“I don’t remember how.”
The Coauthor looks at me skeptically. “One leg at a time,” she says. “And hold someone’s hand if you need to. Balance is important.”
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.”
Short visits with an honest God 