Tag: Grace

What Rapture Really Looks Like

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

The Holy Intruder just elbowed into my psyche and is taking up precious cognitive space usually reserved for judging others, feeling sorry for myself, nursing grudges and disappointments, or composing acerbic speeches to have ready when forced to engage with stupidity.

“Let it go,” Intruder whispers. “Nothing matters.”

“You’re wrong,” I whisper back. “What about shooters, liars, and war?”

“Exactly,” Intruder nods. “What about them? In the end, they will be Nothing.”

“All that suffering. All those dead. All that fucking shoot-em-up big truck lunacy? You’re wrong. This can’t be the way. It matters.”

“Okay. Fine. It matters. And it doesn’t. The guest list keeps growing. Atoms, neutrinos, critical masses, haters, and innocent wisps of life–I’m building bigger ballrooms all the time. Biggest ballrooms anyone’s ever seen.” Intruder grins.

“NOT FUNNY,” I yell as I run for the river.

In a frenzy, I dig newly exposed rocks out of the cracked riverbed to make higher walls for my labyrinth. Here among brittle, twisted roots and silent spiders, I can scream. Here I can hide and pretend. Here I can beg the Force of Life to get it over with quickly. The great decline is upon us.

Intruder appears with a platter of caramel apples and an entourage of angels and demons.

She says, “To arrive beyond, you must love the contradictions. Swim in the yins and yangs, square pegs, round holes, turning and tipping points, collaboratives, kibbutzim, and killing fields.”

These words threaten to crack me open, but I resist. Like a young Palestinian, all I have is rocks to defend myself. With what’s left of my throwing arm, I pelt her without mercy.

The Holy Intruder kneels, naked. I throw and throw. Welts rise; bruises turn black and purple. She waves a million arms in surrender, bows her head, and closes her many eyes. The demons surround the body and tend to her wounds, but it’s over. The angels and I link arms and dance the Hora. “Hava Nagila,” we shout. “Let us rejoice.”

She awakens into seven Celtic witches of great beauty; their melodies and harmonies take flesh, burning bright and gentle against the coming night.

We are the fatted calves. We are the scapegoats dashing for the wilderness. Burdened by the vile sins of our kind, we run amok. The Holy Intruder runs with us, surrounds us, and turns the stampeding masses toward dawn. We are one ascendent mass of punctured tires and chromosomal abnormalities.

The escape route is circular. We’re in the parade whether we like it or not. The Holy Intruder lifts the baton, and we’re off. It appears to be  another day.

Here and Now

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments 





In front of me, red curtains, 47 paint brushes, and a few years.

Alongside, turquoise drapes too long for the window wells,
a boiled skull, three wishbones, a pink phone, 
and the idea that I am loved.

Behind me, a life. 

Around me, The Idea loosely wrapped, permissive.
Another fall day. Chilly. Firewood stacked, dry and reassuring,
not necessary yet because

I have added layers. A down vest. Scarves.

If you read these lines and do not take stock
I’ve not reached my intended audience.
This is not uncommon. Perhaps there are too many

double negatives.

Above me, asbestos held in place by sheetrock.
Sky held in place by rain.
Gates flung open, releasing all the promises, broken or not.

I wish them all soft landings, my lips dyed crimson for a final kiss.







			




			
				


	


					
Advice From The Quilter
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		








Use it up
Wear it out
Make it do
Or do without





Everything has an expiration date. All the forethought in the world won’t change that. All the planning, lying, and scheming. All the willful ignorance. Even the highest aspirations.





You can plant and maybe, you’ll harvest. Or maybe before things come to fruition, you’ll be the one planted. What’s fruition anyway?





How dare you make it your business to tell someone how to decorate, alter, or use their own body? Or worse, assume it’s yours to use? Cast those evil urges into the outer darkness. Be nice. Be kind. Be patient and humble as you rip out some of the crooked seams.





If somehow, in your vague longing for the truth, you manage to dislodge pieces of the log in your eye, tell the tale because others might be inclined to lower their own blinding defenses. Either way, keep chipping away at yours. Start a small fire with the splinters. Warm your hands. Invite the neighbors. Even the vicious ones.





It’s fear, baby. Fear. You’ve spent so many days of your life shielded by the wrong armor. Those days aren’t coming back. Bless them as they recede into oblivion. Bless your many selves and your best intentions.





Clean the floors. Contemplate the cobwebs before you brush them down. They were once liquid silk, spun into webbing by those with more eyes than you will ever have.





It is all to be venerated. The warp and woof, the tiny stitches, the walking sticks, the wailing walls. The joints swollen round as crystal balls, the doomed attempts to achieve perfection; it’s all as essential as the broken strands and stolen lands. This is all there is. Make do.





Imagine your face in someone’s hands. Your neck on the line. Your severed limbs pulled from the rubble. Imagine you’re an endangered species or hieroglyphics on papyrus, a contaminated river, or a resilient weed. It’s time to try acquiescence instead of acquisition. Let the bee sting. The dog bark all night. Stand in the gap, arms at your side. Absorb the blows in silence. Loan the victims your voice. 





Behave as if there’s a future, and you want things to be better for the least among you. Become the least among you. Offer what you can. Consume what you must.





Use all you have
And all you know
Try your best
Then let it go







			




			
				


	


					
Give It Up
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		













If you were the only Omnipotent Force in the universe, one would hope you’d have a certain sense of humor: the kind without any of the usual mean or sarcastic twists. A good laugh is one thing. Cruel guffaws, another.

If you’ve been born only once, one would hope you’d carve your coordinates into the bark of the nearest tree. Hurry. You will be exiled, left to find your own way home. If you calm yourself, you will realize that you already know.

If you were born accidentally, knowing more than you can handle, you might wish for an easy exit. Instead, you are destined to watch your mountains come down, one by one. There is no safe distance. Even the act of observing changes the outcome.

Those who were born amphibious reproduce in obscure complexities. The permeability of skin, the need to be near still waters; this is where shades of gray form a rainbow. If you are brave enough, you can touch your own inner longings.

Darkness is an absence of bioluminescent beings flitting from branch to branch, swimming from cave to cave. Of course, you once had gills. Your sorrow is justified and holy, but it will drag you down. Peer steadily through the cracks to find the light.

Heat-seeking missiles zero in on warm hearts, but you’ll only bruise yourself trying to escape. Soften your eyes. Clutch the amulet you were given in another life. Make the signs of various crosses and give it up for the godlike being playing the cello.

And give it up for the rising sun and low hanging fruit. And the shivering murmur of laughing hyenas hunting in the neighborhood. Give it up for molds, yeasts, fungi and friendship. Revel in the divine but fleeting salvations of any given day.







			




			
				


	


					
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.







			




			
				


	


					
Poems and Dialectics
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments		

			


	

		










Dear Readers,

Odd week this week. Odd week every week. Here are three poems to consider. The first by Shel Silverstein. The second and third by me, struggling to respond to such an awful, open invitation.

          ------------------------------------------------

Invitation

If you are a dreamer, come in
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you're a pretender, come sit by the fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!

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





                                                              No Words

We have no words but carrots and beets. The corn is tasseling. There’s nothing else to report. An outbreak of peace would be nice. But outbreaks of endless revenge threaten to end it all in a flash.

We have no words of our own. Every thought is on loan, and our hands are tied. Our feet take us places we don’t want to go. All of this is prophetic. Pathetic. We don’t know where to turn. 

We have no words but longings and love. Perhaps we could bake some bread and tenderly explore where it hurts. The diagnosis will be indeterminate, so we’ll remain afraid. The little we possess never includes the right words.

We have no words. Only weeds and misconceptions. Obsidian-tipped news that once flew fearless now lies twisted and broken. Redacted. Redundant. The few remaining meanings have hidden themselves.

We cling to words as if we own them and they will save us. But Words are guests. Real Words ring free and true like bells. Rods and staffs may bring comfort, but the Truth speaks softly and carries no stick. No salvation and no stick.

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





                                          What We Serve On Platters

Come in, you old-skinned bastions of wrinkles and droopy eyes.
Come in, youngsters drifting in the increasingly salty sea.
Come in, bruised souls walking littered paths to nowhere.

Come in. Come in.

Here is a place at the table. Here you can relax and break bread.
Here you can dream. Here you can practice forgiveness.
Here your shame turns to dust. Your sharp fears grow dull.

Here.

Come in, you resistant bastards of the cruel ways, you of the emptiness.
Come in, you liars who torture and violate. Who consume and destroy.
Come in, monsters, devils, seekers of vengeance. You’re already burning in hell.

Come in. Come in.

Here you will be taken apart. Served in pieces at the feast.
Here you will be the sacrifice you always wanted to be.
Here your story will be rewritten, and you’ll return as a bird.

Here.

What is it you’re looking for?
Why are you skimming? It’s all here. 
Stop. Breathe. Stop. Sit.

Come in.







			




			
				


	


					
Unselfies
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments		

			


	

		













“No, turn your head this way.” The Creator pointed as she positioned her phone for one last shot. I felt silly playing along, but on the other hand, it’s unwise to alienate God first thing in the morning, so I tilted my head obligingly. 

The shift of perspective floored me. My eyes beheld my unformed substance at the base of the flowering clematis. The existential struggles of transformation were underway, and it was obvious that my role is miniscule. I matter and I don’t.

This was overwhelming. I grabbed the wings of sunrise and flew toward the ends of the earth. But there, I was greeted by the forces of good and evil. “Hello, Side-Effect,” they yelled cheerfully. “We saw your selfies. Not bad.”

“Those weren’t selfies,” I said. “And I’m not a side-effect.”

My Coauthor rode in in high on the breakers of an incoming tide, waving like royalty. The forces of good and evil waved back. I did not.

“Ah, why the long face?” my Coauthor asked.

“I don’t want to be a side-effect,” I said. “I want to be the pinnacle.”

“You’re both,” God smiled. “Life itself is a side effect of passion. But don’t worry. Every side effect is different. Even desperately desired descendants don’t turn out exactly as imagined, and clones individuate. Each blade of grass is a pinnacle.”

She pulled her phone out of her waterproof fanny pack, threw an arm over my shoulder, and took a series of selfies as we emerged from the depths. 

“Choices,” God said. “Even side effects have choices. And those choices will have choices. That’s why I take so many pictures.”

“And that’s why I always feel like I’m to blame,” I moaned. “Choices are hard.”

“Innocence and intention coexist,” God said. “Culpability is a carriage with draped windows pulled by a team of wild horses. It’s a rough ride.”

“Aren’t you angry with the choices we’re making?” I asked.

“A little,” the Holy Hungry Immigrants shrugged. “But we’ve already laid ourselves down on the tracks. Now, we just wait for the train.” 

They handed me a phone. “Could you snap a couple shots of us?” they asked. “No one will believe this back home.”

I heard the train in the distance. “Get up,” I shrieked. “Don’t be stupid.”

“We can’t.” They gazed lovingly at my horrified face. “You know we can’t.”







			




			
				


	


					
A.I.
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments		

			


	

		









Humans have always portrayed The Forces of Creation in our own languages and images. Only recently has our frenemy, Artificial Intelligence, joined us on this odyssey. Maybe this is helpful. Maybe not.

Notions of God are often stuck in mid-adolescence. Love and forgiveness are common attributes, but God remains dangerously amorphous, shaped by the malleable beliefs and projections of flawed beings clinging to primitive weapons and misinterpreted promises.

Human versions of right and wrong, the Essence(s) of Life, or of reality itself, are neither static nor complete, but regardless, our minds, hearts, and souls are being fed into the voracious machines we’ve invented. These machines will outlive us, and they are building themselves out of whatever they’re fed. The data-crunchers are insatiable, and like us, they are tragically indiscriminate about what they gobble down.

As short-lived but conscious beings, the wisest thing we can do is nourish ourselves, and thus the little beasties, with the most accurate realities and noble aspirations at our disposal. Check your sources. Consume only what is verifiable. It may be slim pickings, but it’s better to die filled with small bites of truth than with a belly distended by self-absorption, jagged fantasies, and outright lies.

In a few days, our abundant, feral hollyhocks will explode into colors determined by last year’s cross-fertilizations. I mention this to The God of Tight Jeans sitting on the steps beside me, and his face lights up. He leaps to his feet. Channeling Jewel Akens, Dean Martin, and my very own hip-swaying mother, he begins to croon a tune from the 60s.

“Let me tell you ‘bout the birds and the bees, and the flowers and the trees, and the moon up above. And a thing called love.”

“Really, God?” I say with an eyeroll. “A thing called love?”

“Yeah, baby!” God has begun dancing seductively around the hollyhocks, throwing in a few lewd pelvic thrusts. “Thanks for not mowing the clover and the dandelions. You’re the best.”

I consider my urge to dismember anyone who hurts or disagrees with me. “If I’m the best, God, we’re all in serious trouble.” 

“Yes, you are,” he nods affably and morphs into Many. The translucent bodies of the Creative Forces sway in front of me. “Put the swords away, honey,” they whisper. “We need no defense. Only pollinator species.”







			




			
				


	


					
Friendly Fire
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan11 Comments		

			


	

		








Each moment is a drink of water,
a green ball bouncing down
the gravel road, a quandary as simple

as kindness, the idea of more stars.
There’s nothing to fear 
but the snapping of branches in the wind.

To live as a split infinitive is a sign of courage, 
a matter of style. Nothing is absolute.
To live now, half-formed, 

circling like a sharp-eyed hawk
is to accept an unnamed infinity
and a sense of chronic dislocation.

We are pages in a book of promises,
lies that come true, wishes that don’t,
dawns that arrive, nights that fall.

Give me your time. I’ll give you mine. 
After the danger of frost has passed
we’ll plant tomatoes and roses and basil

and go through the motions of poetry.
As the meaning soaks in we will succumb
to the vast and friendly fires of the sun.







			




			
				


	


					
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.