Tag: Grace

The Nearly Frozen Woman

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 





Some years ago, on a dangerously cold morning, an elderly woman knocked on our door and stumbled in. She was nearly frozen to death. Her name was Rose. She’d locked herself out and had been walking the streets to stay alive. We wrapped her in blankets, gave her tea, and called her children.





I didn’t think to offer a warm bath to raise her body temperature, so she shivered violently until her family arrived. She survived, but her frost white image looms when I am chilled to the bone. I could have done more.





My fearful fellow fallibles,
what is it you regret?
Thoughtlessness?
Little lies? Big lies?
Always choosing beige
instead of burgandy?
Inadvertent harm?
Premeditated acts?
Kindness withheld?
Staying past your welcome?
Walking away too soon?

And my Dearly Divines,
do all things turn
back on themselves?
Or are you burdened
by your mistakes?
Miscalculations?
Are you forever
by definition?
Could there be
such a thing
as Perfection?

When I was young, my beautiful feet ran toward the sun, unaware that I would gradually come undone. Rose has long since died, but in my heart, my negligence lives on. Self-recrimination sometimes leads to forgiveness and compassion. Sometimes, not.





“There’s a reason we did not equip you with clairvoyance,” Open Ways declare, smiling.





Self-pity engulfs me. How does anyone ever get it right?





“Suck it up, Buttercup,” Open Ways snickers. “That’s not a good look on you.”





I retreat to a stack of boulders rounded by centuries of tumbling downstream and sit wringing my hands to signal that I’m old and helpless. Sun laughs. Birds laugh. Hollyhock seeds scatter as they laugh. The stones themselves guffaw with such glee that they become utterly unstable. The absurdities of existence are hilarious. 





Hairline cracks appear everywhere, and I am now aware that I will soon be swallowed whole. In the merriment. I absolve myself. I will never be enough.   





The Largenesses and Open Ways are playing poker in the shade. They wave and deal me in. No doubt my face will betray me as I wager away my prospects and fold, but I’m at peace with that. The alternatives are few, and quite unappealing.












			




			
				


	


					
Greeting the Vast Expanse
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		













Hello you swollen belly of a god, you laughing Buddha, you runny-nosed child squatting on the riverbank, you glad handed left handed swift handed no handed specter of all things possible. Hello. I’ve been missing you.





Hello yourself, my little wannabe. I like what you’ve done with the place.





You do not.





No, seriously, I do.





This indwelling wrestling match is rigged. My hands are cold. The day is warm. I’ll prepare for what’s coming with short phrases and long exhalations.





 “Look,” I tell the Coauthor. “The blood red curtains are coming down.” With a loud click, the curtain rod falls.





The Coauthor shrugs. “They weren’t that bad.”





“Yeah, well. According to my intel on you, nothing’s that bad. You have terrible taste.”





“Ha!” a Chorus of Wayward Synapses laughs. “Coming from you, that’s rich.”





“You realize I have no mother, right? And no feeling left in my feet. And very little taste for anything but the fleeting pleasures of pigment, wine, and chocolate.”





“Of course I realize that,” the Outerness nods. “And that’s okay.”





“How can that be okay?” I yell, enraged and afraid. I take a swing at the Empty Space and hurt myself a little.





This is life betwixt and between. I’ve eaten all the daily specials I will ever eat, but sale items and outdated produce will tempt me until the end. And occasionally, I’ll give in.





“You think you know me, don’t you?” The sly Voice of the Spinning Universe asks. This question always emerges in the uncut version of my story.





“No! Absolutely not,” I raise my hands in denial and back away. “Why would you say something like that?





“I don’t know. Wishful thinking I suppose.” The Voice admits, dejected.





This breaks what little heart I have left.





“I’m sorry,” I say. “Do you want me to pretend?”





“Yes, please.” The Voice of the Universe is soft. Wistful. “I’ll take anything that resembles connection.”





The undocumented, demented, dispossessed, the inmates, addicts, and the trodden down are all huddled on the floor of that lonesome valley. They stink to High Heaven. High Heaven throws the doors and windows open.





The table is set, the wine is poured, and a cool breeze sweetens the air. The wise among the broken strip to the bone and take their seats. Frivolity ensues.





I’ve not yet attained the wisdom of complete destitution, the defenseless salvation of Nothing, but the Coauthor allows me to play at the gates. 





For this, I give thanks.










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





For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO online and for a mere $13.99, you can torment your soul every day.














			




			
				


	


					
Transitions: One Version of Psalm 139
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments		

			


	

		








Photo Credit: The Amazing Scott Wolff






Midnight shook me awake with labor pains
from the olden days, and I was lost.
With a trail as obscure as this one,
who can be sure anything is worth the cost?

If we fail to embrace the steady contractions 
of the hurtling world, if we call for an end 

          to the pain,

               to the pain

                     to the pain

if we give up and don’t push, little will remain.

Some tribes strip you bare and leave you 
writhing in your unbelief, 
leave you to suffer the eternal starting over.
But mine does not. They show up.

If this doesn’t sway you toward love, nothing will.

When greeting and grieving become one, 
the dark night of delivery gives way
to the surprise of placenta-streaked sky
and a trace of rain. 

May our reach 

               always

                    always

                         always 

exceed the grasp of any given day.

And may the wings of the morning hold steady
under the weight of our demands
until we find the hope that lies hidden 
beyond words and the terrors of the night.

Crumbs of manna are all we’ve ever had 
but if we’re willing to share with the birds, 
the scattering will be enough to guide us
to the place where we began. 


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






For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO online and for a mere $13.99, you can torment your soul every day.









			




			
				


	


					
Mr. Shiny Buttons
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		













At a recent retreat, I was doing some tracking along the fenceline of my awareness when a starling flew from my right eye. Her captivity may have been my fault, but I also take credit for the energy and gracefulness of her escape. I bid her farewell, envious of her sleek black directionality. If only I could fly.





I often provide loosely defined shelter for such beings but it’s hard to tell if they are benevolent, benign, or malignant.  Do they know this about themselves or are they too hungry to think? A voracious appetite is difficult to manage.





We’re all malicious on occasion, so we snipe at each other, hoping that grousing and prickliness will alleviate our guilt. Some of us are unbroken geodes, but mostly, we’re ordinary stones rolling along, disappointed in what we’ve not become.





“On the other hand,” Mr. Shiny Buttons appears, ready to argue. “There are gongs, massages, herbal tea, and fluffy robes. So many ways to be pampered and deceived. Take heart, you molting pigeon. Take mine, in fact.”





“Your heart?”





“You bet. I have so many. Most are bleeding, but never you mind. Pick one and I’ll patch it up. It’ll be good as new.”





“I can’t”





“You can.”





Mr. Shiny Buttons sweetens his offer. “If properly cared for, repaired hearts will see you past senility.”





“OH!” I gasp as fantasy crashes into reality. “Oh, I know you.”





Mr. Shiny Buttons takes my face in his hands and gazes into my eyes. My Coauthor dashes in and flashes warning hand signals. I dim the light behind my retinas and reflect back nothing. Mr. Shiny Buttons flies into a rage. The scent of artificial lavender issues from his flaring nostrils. I faint.





My Coauthor breaks my fall and slaps me back to consciousness. “Don’t mind old Shiny Buttons. He’s a lonely charlatan. A wimp in royal spandex. He’s made millions peddling longevity. It’s a handy temptation.”





“I hate editing,” I say.





“Belligerence becomes you,” my Coauthor laughs. “But you’re going bald anyway.”





When a Cholla cactus dies, the soft tissue decays, and the lingering bones are riddled with holes. I thought I was done collecting twisted sticks, but as I slipped free from the grip of the labyrinth, I grabbed an intriguing specimen and hurried to the car.  





The skeletal remains are now hidden behind the driver’s seat and I’m planning to leave before anyone discovers what I’ve done.







			




			
				


	


					
Smoke
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments		

			


	

		













With smoke in our mouths, we eat breakfast in silence. Bloodshot eyes meet bloodshot eyes, we shake the limp hand of an uncertain future, and wonder how to begin this day. There’s no choice. We have to invite Forever along for the ride, but the carriage is crowded with fools.





“Oh you cheery old thing,” Forever teases. “No one likes crotchety in the morning.”





I feign deafness. In the best of times, I’m not a morning person, and these are not the best of times. The eerie glow is rolling nearer and nearer.





The Future throws her head back and starts singing. “Hey, Jude, don’t be afraid. Take a sad song and make it better.”





“Is this necessary?” I moan.





“Trust me,” she nods. “Let it out and let it in. The movement you need is on your shoulder.”





Maybe she’s right. Like Atlas, I shrug.





She laughs. “That’s it, baby. Nice.”





But you can’t shrug this shit away. The litter along the tracks. The loss of common ground. Is there an appropriate response to the mindless squandering of magnificence?





Love could conquer all, but love doesn’t want to. The leitmotif of love is tired of being used for revenge. Stripped thin and braided, love becomes a noose. Embellished and inflated, the golden calf is slaughtered. The rendered lard is a dangerous source of sustenance.





I believe my Coauthor should apologize for these design flaws. This spiral of destruction. But she refuses. “Not sorry, not sorry, not sorry,” she insists.





“You should be,” I mutter. The suffering now, the miseries coming, cities choking on themselves. I don’t want to be complicit, but I know I am.





Suddenly, we’re in New Orleans. A city built on denial and dikes, levees and levity. “Let me help you with that clunky baggage,” the Bellboy offers. He grabs the straps of my black mood and dances up the stairs of the Monteleone. Forever is close behind, still belting out that damn song.





“The minute you let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better. Better. Better. Better.” Forever’s pitch climbs to near hysteria. Arms raised, all creation sways as one. “Na, na, na, na, na-na-na-na. Na-na-na-na. Hey, Jude.”





“Let who into my heart?” I shout. “Or what?”





Three Divine Fire Chiefs pull me aside. “What if we’re the Starters and Swallowers of Fire,” they posit with roguish smiles. “What if we’re the Ride and the Littered Trail?”





I glare, unwilling to be privy to these dialectical mysteries. 





Forever laughs. “Stop griping and glooming, little mortal. Just let it out. And let it in. And thus it will begin. Again.”




















For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO online and for a mere $13.99, you can torment your soul every day.









			




			
				


	


					
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.”







			




			
				


	


					
Amputations (for Monica and Joyce)
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		








Photo Credit: Deborah Drain





An amputation does not remove the brain’s neurological urge to communicate with the missing limb. The brain says “move.” Nothing happens. Phantom pain is a chronic reminder of what isn’t there anymore. This is how grief works.





I once believed reality consisted of connections from one tangibility to another, but now I realize it’s constructed of sweet, impossible longings, memories, and the scent of rain. It is the intangibilities that answer when we cry in the night.





You may think you can rely on the Gods of your choosing, but they prefer time away from the maddening crowds. Thus, they amputate. But like starfish and newts, our extremities sometimes grow back for a season.





“That they do,” the Chief of Amputations laughs. “Which means our work is never done.”





The regenerative properties of patience and detachment are no match for evolution, opposable thumbs, or autogenesis. When you fold, you become less linear. Your grasp weakens. Where you begin and end is no longer clear. And chemical reactions occur in this process, creating alloys of enormous strength. For instance, combining iron with carbon creates the steely spines we so admire.





Scientists argue about the potential power of bending, doubling, and scrunching. And though most origins-of-life paradigms rest on linear pattern recognition, there’s a kind of salamander in Mexico that can regrow its own heart.





As your life moves along, you’ll notice that any given moment does not want to yield. But it cannot come along. Notching the tree to find the way back is foolish. There’s no way back, and trees don’t live forever. Regardless of your timeline or preferences, you will gradually morph into certain versions of your mother.





Besides Chief of Amputations, it may be comforting to know that a few of the Creators’ favorite names are The Moving Target, Now of the Now, Connective Tissue, and finally, Dog Rolling in Grass.





So roll in the Now. Gaze at the haunted horizons while you try on the scarves and hand-me-downs left behind. Some will fit. Some won’t. Load the car with donations or convert everything into rags. You’ll be none the richer either way.





View the future filtered through the translucence of honey, admire the noble ways of spiders, and if it is within your power, fill the open mouths of children. In the heat of the day or the dead of night, the banalities of life release their hold, but the radiance remains.


















			




			
				


	


					
To Read A Poem Aloud
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		













To read a poem aloud has risks. Here are some safety tips:

•	Clear your throat and mind.
•	Let the syllables control the wheel.
•	Soften your gaze.
•	Do not pretend to understand (but maybe you will).

And now, for a chance to practice. Enunciate. Be brave.

                      Visitations

When God comes by, there’ll be no glare. 
The Mighty Incognito travels light
and hides inside your cravings drinking vodka,
laughing like a fool just out of sight.

When the weather seems to get the upper hand, 
dig into the compost of the past
and listen to the microbes singing love songs.
knowing all that stuff and nonsense doesn’t last.

The clash and clang and riptides are deceptive.
Our young ones watch as melodies decay.
This etude has no ending or beginning, but
underneath the notes, you’ll find the way.

So get thee to the shadows, tiny dancer.
Survival should no longer be thy goal.
Smile while all the moments turn to ashes..
Then faint upon thy couch and rest thy soul.

(Important facts about composting: 1) The mesophilic, or moderate-temperature phase, lasts a day or two; 2) The thermophilic, or high-temperature phase, lasts from a few days to many weeks; and 3) The maturation, or cooling phase, lasts for several months.)

Questions to consider: 

•	Is compost evidence of life after death?
•	Is nonsense sacred? Profane? Nourishing?
•	How often do you check your weather app?
•	Should God make appointments or just stop by?
•	Do you even have a couch? If so, give thanks.


* * * *





For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this one, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO (AMZN), and for a mere $13.99 you can torment your soul every day. Xoxoxo









































			




			
				


	


					
The Birds of the Air
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		













Some mornings, I am at peace with dusty shelves and streaked surfaces. Content to consider life in silence, fingertips touching, thumbs unopposed. These are the wiser times; each breath, a centering gift..





Such reverie never lasts. The inevitable interruptions are reminders that my eternal rest has not yet begun. Sometimes, it’s a friendly neighbor. Or a gust of wind blowing something over. This time, it’s a sickening thud on the window that disrupts the mood and ushers in a host of uninvited guests: the Holy Chorus of Fallen Birds.





“Oh, is somebody trying to be contemplative?” the Chorus chides. “Stop lounging around in your shallow safety and pathetic pajamas. We need protection from all that glass.”





I loathe this kind of intrusion. I want to plead ignorance, but the rising essence of millions of broken necks testifies to the credulous assumption of human supremacy. Panoramic views matter more than the lives of our feathered friends.





“But what can I do?” I whine, trying to shake off any culpability. “I don’t build skyscrapers or make the rules.”





“Is there a dead body under your modest, residential window?”





“Probably. But what’s one in the billion that die every year?”





“It’s One. In a billion.”





The answer is solemn. Not accusatory. Just solemn.





One in a billion is infinitesimal, I think to myself. I want to go outside and chuck the telltale body into the compost. But then it occurs to me that I am not even one in a billion, nor are any of you, dear compatriots. Even together, we are a handful in 8.3 billion of our kind. Is this an excuse or an accusation? Is it even comprehensible?





The sparrow falling, the raven drafting upward on thermal currents, the midnight broodings of a Saw-whet owl, yellow canaries littering the coal mines of our solipsistic ways; these are the harbingers of both glad tidings and funereal finalities.





The Holy Chorus of Fallen Birds performs at the break of dawn, but they rehearse through the darkest hours. There is no such thing as a silent night. Often, our worst wrecks are accidental and our denials naïve, but neglect is never actually benign. What if you amass enormous wealth, the best views, the most gold, but lose your soul?





As extinctions accelerate, The Mother Hen will sit on her nest through the fires, protecting her chicks unto death. But when the children emerge from under the charred body, what will await them?





This is yet to be determine. It may be mostly up to us, but The Chorus will sing to the end.










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




















For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this one, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO (AMZN), and for a mere $13.99 you can torment your soul every day. Xoxoxo














			




			
				


	


					
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.