Tag: Forgiveness

Systems Charge

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

Many thanks to the bison I ate last night. I hope it had a good life and a decent death. I needed the protein. Or at least I thought I did.

The killings I am party to usually have a rationale: I killed that rooster in self-defense. The bison and the housefly, the rooster and the rattlesnake, these I can explain.

As I reset the mousetrap near the firewood on our porch, the Source of Life appears clad in a wife-beater T-shirt, spewing putrid breath.

“Catch another one?” He picks his teeth with a splinter and leers at me.

The odors and images of decomposition rise in waves and begin to permeate everything I love. I rush to close the doors and windows, draw the shades, and mist the air with peppermint. The Source of Life orbits our shared reality and seeps through hairline cracks in a haze of moldy blue. She’s happy.

“I could use some help,” I tell It. Her. Him. They. And I include myself in case there’s some part of me unaware of the long line of lorries filled with insufferable demands and questionable aspirations stalled along the congested routes of my timeline.

“What’s up?” The Source of Life often exudes a certain nonchalance. Like a shill mining for clicks. Disarming on the surface. Deadly underneath.

“Um, well. I have too many shoes,” I stammer. “But none of them are quite right. And I’m not sure if I like sticks anymore. And I can’t seem to keep my fingernails clean or properly shaped.” (I come from a long line of proud fingernail tenders, so this failure is especially humiliating.)

“Diving deep, I see,” The Source of Life chuckles. “Got anything else?”

“I don’t even understand the Systems Charge on our power bill,” I wail in frustration.

The Source says nothing.

“You want a deeper dive?” I continue. “Fine.”

So many failings come to mind.. “How about we tackle pride, anger, envy, greed, and revenge?” I snap. Then add, “Or fear.” I look for an exit.

“And there we go.” The Source has morphed into a formidable Hawaiian woman. She blocks my retreat. The banquet table is set with fine wine, strawberries, grapes, apples, cheese, Portuguese sweet bread, and an array of manicure accoutrements, including a basin of scented holy water for the soaking and softening of cuticle and callous.

“Aloha,” I mutter, glancing sideways.

The mercy in her eyes turns my bravado to putty; I’m stricken and ashamed. My body revealed. My hands given over.

“There we go, beloved,” she repeats as she guides my aching fingers into the iridescent liquid. “There we go.”

Ancestry

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

My disposition this morning: 

             No matter how stout or frail, uphill or down, prophet or clown,
             the final hour will come.

             We’ll each be defined by what’s left behind so be kind, damn it.
             Be kind.

Maybe I should wait for a better mood to write, but it’s getting hot. I don’t hold out much hope for anything but modest hydration and loose-fitting clothes.

Desquamation is the shedding of the outermost layer of the epidermis. Living people do it all the time. It is natural. Essential. And the dust left behind varies in hue depending on race. 

David Sedaris wrote that he wants to crawl into crisp, clean sheets in his hotel bed every night. Does he know anything about the cost of hot water and the toxicity of chlorine? Does he fear his own white detritus?

We litter our days with legalized greed, leaving dirty dishes, hurt feelings, tattered aspirations, and false humility to churn around us as we drift downstream, laden with envy and small regrets.
   
One time, after climbing a famous butte in our region, our vegetarian friend was given a T-bone steak by accident. He left nothing behind but the gnawed bone which he took home to remember. For one sparkling moment, his plate was clean.

Our contradictions enlighten us. It is a blessed thing to circle back and forgive or be forgiven. Even more blessed to yell pshaw, slap our knees, and gleefully guffaw at the absurdity of trying to eradicate weeds.

Thus sayeth the Many: You cannot look away from a spiraling plane nor stop the impending crash. You cannot even slow the shedding of your lovely skin. 

Thus sayeth me: I know. But do you promise you’ll have the final Word? 

Thus sayeth Them: Yes.

Thus admidith me: Sorry, but I don’t believe you.

Thus reassureth Them: You’re not alone.

In the crowded photo booths of life, the ancestors show up as shadows, inclined toward simple guidance. Be honest. Be worthy, generous, and wise. But most of all, be kind, damn it. Be kind. 


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The Enormity of Managing Kefir

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

Gods are so innocent they wait for praise like children.
Praising, dear one, let’s be generous with praise.
Nothing is ours. We set our hands lightly on the necks
Of unbroken flowers….
                                --From Elegy by Ranier Maria Rilke
Here on the homestead, we make granola 
and resent each other when the supply dwindles. 
Making granola isn’t difficult, but once done, 
it seems like it should last indefinitely.

And don’t get me started on the challenges of kefir. 
There are living organisms involved. 
It’s nearly as demanding as sour dough or the chickens.

As the years roll by, we tell ourselves we deserve a break. 
We want to engage in leisurely travel, 
create praiseworthy works of assemblage art, 
write profound treatises on profound subjects, 
and land a bestseller. But time dwindles.

We rush home from our trip to the dump 
to feed the kefir grains or cover the squash seedlings 
due to the impending frost. 
Our fantasies rarely align 
with the mundane demands of existence. 
And who praises the mundane?

“How do you do it,” I ask Creative Force, my voice a little testy.
“Do what?”
“Let go. Remain background to the false foreground.”

Creative Force dissipates into a remarkably long exhale.
“Come back,” I beg.
A barbed silence ensues. Edgy. Meaningless. 

Sometimes, I imagine communal life 
as a way to lighten the load. Many hands. 
Light work.  In these sepia tinted dreams, 
I’m the Godmother of a magnanimous mafia 
dedicated to extorting the good in humanity, 
offering protection from existential angst 
for a modest fee. There are flaws in this vision.

Sometimes, we invite neighbors over 
to eat rhubarb banana bread and join us 
in our search for the essence of life. 
But they rarely come.

Perhaps it’s the wording of our invitations. 
Rhubarb is not a crowd fav. And they have pets. 
Children. Unfinished businesses. 
Or ailments that impede movement 
or prohibit such topics of conversation.

Creative Force has reconfigured themselves 
into a small flock of sheep grazing by the river. 
I approach with caution.
“Are you here to eat grass?” I ask.
 
Our pasture is overgrown; the grazing would be a gift.
I yearn to gaze into those liquid brown eyes 
and offer unconditional adoration, 
but they don’t even lift their heads. 

A sudden, wrong-headed hunger overtakes me. 
Humans cannot convert grass to protein. 
To quell this rising panic, I begin the long trek home, 
aware that I may perish along the way. I accept that. 
But I am also aware that there’s a chance I’ll make it 
and there’ll be a little granola left. 

For now.
For which I shall offer praise and thanksgiving.




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

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The Saving

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Because our species is prone to greed, fear, and cruelty, most of us are vaguely aware that we need continuous course correction or maybe even redemption. This is dangerous. It spawns lies and idols, tall tales and archaic formulas. Sometimes, it engenders groveling and the beating of one’s chest.

This false humility is not helpful. Ironically, genuine humility is exactly what The Saving requires of you.

The Saving is amorphous. A process. An ache beyond our intellect but not beyond our collective intuitions. It is animated kindness, the substitute for sacrifices we should make ourselves. The Saving is a band of travelers singing songs, slinging seeds, only some of which will grow to shade the paths we cannot help but take.

The Saving is a river and an ocean. A hunger for justice. Merciful shelter when all hell has broken loose. The Saving is permission to seek peace. To rest assured. To regroup and begin again.

The Saving springs from the mind of Zeus, the whirling of dervishes, the Splintered Singularity of universal grace. It has neither creed nor crescendo. The Saving is the Whole. The Many. The Few. The One. The Saving has beautiful feet. Washed. Sandled. Ready.

The Saving is the Women who forever watch the essence of their offspring wafting upward in the futile heat of war. The Saving has no weapons. None.

When you call upon The Saving, it is an evolutionary plea, a mantra to the Truth, chanting that centers the chaos of the night. The Saving unsettles and then sometimes soothes the soul.

The Saving is a classroom in a tent, a nursing home short-staffed, new wine, old beer, anticipation so eternal we often call it hope. The Saving is a name for all messiahs, a congregated force, a twinkle in the Eye.

Your beliefs provide no wavers nor do they justify your judgments. The bylaws have been simplified. Be honest and courageous. Let your heart be lifted, neither troubled nor afraid.

The Saving has collected so much dross along the Way that a great and awful swelling has begun. The skin across the belly of the earth has purple stretch marks. The Saving breaks the membranes and drinks the holy waters in our stead.

The Saving is the laughter of the martyrs, the scapegoat of the wayward, the surrender. The Saving whispers those sweet nothings everyone longs to hear. Most days, this brings some comfort.

But when you weaken and speak in the tongues of the entitled or the petty, The Saving snaps your head off and replaces it with petunias and geraniums until you forgive your lesser selves and start the day anew.

Staring into the Fire

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

The singular life you’re living is an astonishment. A statistical improbability. And yet, here you are, doing what you’re doing. People are goose-stepping in a military parade in North Korea, singing alto in a choir in Kenya, or smoking weed in a field of daisies in the Alps. Someone is starving in Cuba, bombed out in Lebanon, or issuing psychotic threats designed to make the ultimate deal.

       “We like to think of y’all as one seething miracle,” God chuckles.
       “And I like to think of this hot mess as a rotting pile of shit. With the occasional shiny moment.”
       This cracks God up. After they catch their breath, they tell me, “It’ll all come out in the wash.”
       “What wash?” I ask.
       “The Wash of the Ages. The Blazing Baptism of Infinity.”
       “No one likes the sound of that,” I say. 
       “Listen anyway. And look directly at the fire.”

This particular moment, shiny or otherwise, is yours. It, too, is an astonishment. Lift your eyes from these words slowly. Stare straight into the void that is your future. Settle. Don’t cry. Don’t scream. Don’t laugh. Do nothing but warm your hands and be honest.
       “I’ve got four horsemen fleeing, three gods in waiting, two doves turned away at an artificial border, and one faithful moon reflecting every bloody thing.” God shrugs as if this is all passé. 
       “You’re being difficult this morning,” I complain. “Where’s your downy underbelly?”
       “You’re my downy underbelly.”
       “No. I want to be greatness and glory,” I protest. “Not soft.”
        “Everyone softens over time. But you must also be steady and brave.”

You’ve been sworn to a secrecy so wild and profound that it is beyond memory. Laced with magic, ladened with love. You once were and will again be a swirl of sparks and pigments. But for now, nothing has ever mattered so much as justice and mercy. Welcome your longings and ignorance, your power and fear. Tend to the prairies and the oceans. Temper your greed with compassion. Admire the mountains and the sun. Circle the moon. And wear your courage like armor over your tender heart.

*** *** ***

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Showing Up

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments 

        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.

The Coming of the Winter

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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.

When You Talk to Yourself, Listen

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

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

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment 

The Poet:

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.

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Those Letters We Should Write

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Dear Mom,

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.

Love you, and see you soon.