Tag: Generosity

Be It Resolved

Rita Sommers-Flanagan11 Comments

“Hey, Atomic Invaders,” I said to some less well-known representatives from the Holy Collective. “In our miniscule corner of Your Vastness, a new year is upon us. Could you help me make some resolutions?”

“Why us?” the Atomic Invaders groaned in unison. “We’re busy being the better part of God.”

 “Ah, come on,” I glared. “You’re inscrutably tiny, dynamic, and mostly empty space. But you always act all big and determinate, so go ahead; boss me around.”

“You have no sense of proportion,” they said dismissively. “And no grasp of what it means to be empty. We need to take you shopping.”

Suddenly, we were in a giant box store, and I was afraid of their intentions. I unsheathed my glowing lightsaber and circled the Invaders, searching for a vulnerable place to stab, illuminate, or behead.

“Your footing is precarious,” the Invaders warned.  “And you should pinch your cheeks. You need to look like you’re worth saving.”

I hung my head. “I’m not sure I’m worth saving, and I don’t like it here. Everything costs more than I can afford.”

“Don’t be silly,” the Invaders said. “You’re in the wrong aisle.”

I looked up. Sure enough. I had wandered down the Aisle of Insistent Demands and Guaranteed Outcomes. Greedy shoppers yanked things from each other’s hands, spilling precious minutes all over the floor. I tried to back up, but it was slick and crowded.

“Pay it forward,” the Invaders advised.

I emptied my pockets, handed my coins to children, and followed the Atomic Invaders out the automatic door, where we sat ourselves down on a weathered bench with a view of the endless parking lot. The Atomic Invaders crossed their legs and threw their arms over each other’s shoulders.

“So, Ms. Empty Pockets, what shall we resolve?” they asked in a conciliatory tone.

I surveyed the lay of the land. “Smaller house, bigger shoes?”

The Atomic Invaders conferred among themselves, glancing at my feet.

“Yes,” they said as time sped forward, and the sun sank. “That’s an excellent plan. Sell what you can but keep what you must. The footing will not get less precarious.”

I felt resentful and sad. Not that long ago, I was the mountain goat hopping across rockslides, gracefully navigating the steepest slopes. I was the builder of ever-larger houses. Now I wear sensible shoes.

“How can you love diminishment?” I asked.

“Wrong word,” they said in cheery voices. “It’s transformation.”

“Sure it is,” I said sarcastically. “I’ll try to remember that.” I pulled on my large, stable boots to shovel the snow.

Praise and Thanksgiving

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Most of us doubt our worth or the value of what we do, and like heat-seeking missiles, we home in on praise, affirmations, and empathy.

Oh, yeah.

It feels so nice to be told we’re doing well, we’re special, we’re understood. Our slip-ups are forgiven. Our intentions are recognized as good even in the face of bad outcomes. Our efforts are applauded, our failures explained away

I had a grandmother who loved me like that.

“Too bad you didn’t turn out to be more like her,” Unkind Voice says in my head.

“Rough night?” I ask with a knowing smile. “Coffee?”

Unkind Voice sits stiffly, clearing her throat. Sipping. Breathing. Trying to accept the day as it is.

I can see the battle playing out in the muscles around her mouth and eyes. They soften and tighten, soften and tighten.

“Stop watching me,” she demands. Then clenches her teeth and adds, “I’m very strong. I’m stronger than most people realize. I’m very, very strong. No one has seen anyone stronger than me.”

I wink across the room to the rising sun, the petunias, the geraniums. I nod to the brown and steady hills and refill her cup. “You are very strong,” I agree. “Tough as nails.”

Then I consider my survival. What can I give away today? What’s something nice I could do? This usually helps.

“You have nothing to give,” Unkind Voice interrupts my internal recalibrations. “Nothing of substance. You’re a self-absorbed ingrate.”

For a split second, she has drained me. The saccharine sweetness of revenge threatens a toxic bloom in my soul. But no.

No.

The soothing voice of Grandmother rescues me. “You’re not perfect, sweetheart,” she reassures me. “But you’re better than this.”

I take heart. With intention, I recenter. This is not easy. In limited light, Grandmother stitches her patchwork quilt made of scraps I remember well. Grandfather gathers eggs and prepares breakfast for the cousins and hired hands.

The fruit is ripening, but the vines still need tending. They’re dry, and the weeds have not given up their greedy ways.

I give Unkind Voice a kiss on the cheek. She pulls back.

“Don’t feel bad,” I murmur. “You gave it your best shot, but I’m not going down.”

She howls and bangs her head on the table as I slip out to the larger world. “We’ll meet again tonight,” I add, leaving her to finish her own vicious meal.

The heat of the day engulfs me. As I tend the waning garden, I offer thanks and praise to all the sources of thanks and praise. I fill baskets and address envelopes to the future.

And for this day, I am replenished.

Who’s Show Is It, Anyway?

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Be thou comforted, little dog:

thou too in Resurrection shall have a little golden tail.

                                                                                                     –Martin Luther

Host: Why are dogs so popular with people?

Mystery Guest: Only certain people.

Host: Fine. Why are dogs so popular with certain people?

Mystery Guest: They’re a warm, reflective surface. They’re loyal without condition.

Host: But people spend more on dogs than they donate to feed hungry children.

Mystery Guest: Apples and oranges. Sometimes dogs make people more charitable.

Host: Maybe. But it seems to me we should devote more money to caring for innocent children.

Mystery Guest: True. Sometimes dogs inspire. Sometimes, they distract.

Host: Distract from what?

Mystery Guest: Misery. Complexity. Mortality.

Host: But they lick their own butts. Then they lick your face.

Mystery Guest: Your point?

Host: Disease. Filth. Bother. Hair. They hump your leg.

Mystery Guest: Love is messy.

Host: That’s a weak answer. I’m sorry I asked you to be on the show.

Mystery Guest: Some days, I’m sorry I accepted. But the show must go on.

Host: Wait. What do you mean? Who’s show is it, anyway?

Mystery Guest: I was hoping you’d ask.

Host: But I don’t need to ask. It’s mine. All mine. I invited you, right?

Mystery Guest: You can make assumptions, as long as you realize that’s what they are.

Host: I don’t like how this is going. You need to leave.

Mystery Guest: I’m afraid that’s not possible. This is my show.

Host: You’re crazy. I’m calling security.

Mystery Guest: Don’t be silly. I am security.

White noise. Dead space. Bombs. Sirens. Music. Dogs twitch and sigh in their dreams.

Host: And that’s a wrap. Thanks for coming by.

Mystery Guest: Thanks for having me.

Host: Next week, cats. Parrots. Pigs. Children.

Mystery Guest: Slaves. Hierarchy. Autonomy. Dependence. Servanthood. Abuse.

Host: No.

Mystery Guest: Education. Compassion. Self-sacrifice. Gratitude.

Host: I said no. Give me that microphone and get out.

Mystery Guest: This is my microphone. You have your own. Use it wisely.

Host: I’m turning everything off now.

Mystery Guest: I wish that were possible, my friend. But as we know, the show must go on.

Bullshit Makes Good Compost

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

“I started with the idea of green hills but quickly veered toward the more central question of water,” God said. “And when I was younger, I thought everything should have a touch of blue.”  We were considering the markers and wonders of seasons as we strolled along the rising river. Evening light bounced orange off the smoother surfaces. As is often the case, God was stoned, oblivious to the assumption that conversations should make sense. I was on guard. A barely lucid God can be both freeing and frightening.

We skipped a few rocks across white ripples. I squinted up at God and said, “Well, when I was younger, I swallowed the wrong words and have suffered bouts of vertigo ever since. Especially when it comes to you.”

“I know.” God admitted, with a goofy grin on his face. “That may account for your swollen joints and liberal leanings. Maybe it’s an immune system response.”

 “Nah,” I said. “Lately I’ve realized bullshit makes great compost. It was you all along, wasn’t it?”

God threw his head back and a majestic, maniacal mirth roared through the valleys. He whooped and howled and slapped his thigh. Small trees caught fire. He laughed so hard it turned into a coughing fit. I pounded him on the back. He wasn’t really in danger, but it was fun to have an excuse to beat on God.

Things settled and we sat ourselves down on a fallen cottonwood. “Bullshit makes great compost,” God repeated as he wiped his eyes. And he was off again.

“It’s not that funny, God,” I said after the second wave of tremors and surges subsided. “You’re just really messed up right now.”

“I know,” God said between lingering chuckles. “But don’t worry, sweetie. Like you said, the joke’s on me. Sometimes, I forget how hilarious I am.”

As night fell into place, we began walking back, guided by the string of blue lights blinking near the porch. It’s amazing how long those solar-powered bulbs last. And it’s equally astonishing that even with all the wrong words, queasy sensations, and primitive fantasies, God is still my favorite insanity.

He put his arm over my shoulder and in a stage whisper said, “Must you refer to me as an insanity?” His face was still glowing from the flames he’d lit. I shrugged. He grinned. “I mean, at least bullshit makes good compost. What’re you gonna do with insanity?”

It was my turn to laugh. “Give everything away,” I said, happy to have such an obvious answer. “I’ll just give everything away.”

“No, you won’t,” God said.

“Yes, I will,” I said in a calm voice, gazing up into the infinite sky, taking strength from the touches of blue lingering around the edges.

Saffron

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

I woke up so existential this morning my cold brew coffee is quivering with meaning, and I can see to the edge of the known universe. With few reservations, I pronounce it good. My hands push themselves together. The familiar flesh I live within, the geodesic cellular structures, the cool, smokey breeze, the faint bird songs, the river, the memory of ice, the calendar, the unsung heroes, burned, drowned; gone. But not gone.

The Untethered Oldest Woman stops by to borrow my eyes, a cup of sugar, and all the eggs I’ve ever stored, anywhere. “You can have whatever you need,” I say. “There’s more in the pantry. Most of it is past the sell-by date anyway. Take a lot of whole wheat flour. It’s close to rancid.”

“How much toilet paper can I have?” she asks. The look on her face is wily, her intent buried deep within the dark wrinkles that hide inhabitants of other planets, illegal immigrants, and the shamed and aging losers of cosmic beauty pageants.

“Take it all,” I say. “I don’t care.” And I mean it.

“Well, aren’t we accommodating this morning?” The Old One says, smiling. “I’ll only take what I can balance on my bike. That’ll leave you with a year’s supply or so. Better stock up, though. There’s another wave coming.”

I don’t rise to the bait. Well, maybe I do. I don’t know myself all that well most mornings—even the existential ones. “I don’t care.” I repeat, and cross my arms, wondering how to make a graceful exit.

The Untethered One shakes her head. “You’re a terrible actor,” she says. “I like that about you.”

I consider the things that haunt me; the slack-jawed sleep of the feeble, the twisted postures of the dead, the fact of toilet paper, an orange scarf waiting to help with my yoga poses. These are my oppressors. These are my liberators. These assure me that today, I exist. To celebrate, I think I’ll add red, green, and maybe turquoise to the streak of blue in my chemically white hair. Then I’ll drive to town and join the army.

The nice thing about this plan is that the colors are temporary, and the army doesn’t want me.

The long orange scarf catches the light and reminds me of saffron. Such an expensive spice. I’ve hoarded a small packet so long it’s likely lost its flavor. It’s not only that it’s rare and expensive, though; I’m also not sure how to use it.

“Use it today,” The Untethered Oldest Woman urges. “Pudding. Cake. Chicken. Doesn’t matter. It’s the act of using it that will matter.” I’m doubtful, but she’s extraordinarily animated. “No, I’m serious,” she says, waving her many arms for emphasis. “It will matter. Use the saffron.”

The City of God

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

IMG_7212 (2)

Last night God populated the street with threatening poses that grew increasingly dense: closed faces briefly lit by yellow streetlights; eyeballs flashing warnings in the gloom; mouths reluctantly exhaling into the thin haze of hopelessness. “Give nothing away,” I said. “Give nothing away.” But things were being taken. In Spokane, God nearly froze to the sidewalk last week. They’ve opened more shelters. In Syria, though, the little ones ice up and are gone.

In the restaurant, safe and warm, I ordered more than I could eat, but I tried to eat it all. The garlic was potent. It protected me as I walked back through that God-infested version of hell, that sinking ship, that over-burdened set of human systems cracking under the weight of evolution derailed. I wanted to touch each face. Instead, I touched my own. I had a dollar in my pocket. Earrings in my ears. Back in the artificial safety of my pale room, I pillowed my head and slept through the blaring sirens within and without.

It’s no easier this morning. God is in the hallway with a cart of towels, soaps, and other deadly products, waiting to clean up after me. I could make God’s day by leaving a generous tip. The life in me says what the hell, leave a twenty. The death in me says give nothing away. Give nothing away—after all, you’ve made your own bed. I see myself dropping diamonds for the groveling masses (I hate diamonds. I hate groveling masses). I see myself–a beheaded simpleton with a gnarly finger in a greedy dike. Mostly, though, I see that I want to matter.

“What to do, Black God?” I ask. “What to do, Brown God? Helpless God? Transgender, transported, translated God? How do I touch you and not get burned?”

The Laughing Buddha, belly large and round like earth, is on fire. The cherubim and seraphim descend with burning coals they have stolen from Allah. The Small One puts her icy hand in mine and says, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll cool your lips when it’s over.” I bow my head, then lift my eyes. I tell myself I’m ready. Nothing happens. Everything happens. I see now that the frozen child has come to save me. She has given everything away.