Tag: Grace

Ecclesiastes for the Average Reader: A Tutorial

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

To everything, there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to eat chocolate, a time to eat greens. A time to float the river, a time to cut hay. A time to blame, a time to own up. A time to back away, a time to give it your all. A time to dig and a time to refrain from digging.

Reader, please provide your own examples of holding on or letting go. C’mon. You know:

But what’s the use? You grow up. You grow old. Your carefully arranged treasures will be donated or dumped. The shrubs will be misunderstood, and the thistles will return. The stove will backdraft, the colors will run. You’re on your own, and the cards are stacked against you. You are not different than the beasts of the field. And as beasts die, so will you.

Reader, please provide three (only three) examples of your existential despair:

You’re a phony, a caricature of sincerity, a grumbler, a whiner, a blamer. You’re a striver after the sun. You’ve lied, stolen things, and lusted after fame and fortune. You’ve coveted and secretly rejoiced at someone else’s misfortune. You build bad fences. Everyone should be on your side. They’re not. You repeatedly make the same stubborn mistakes, and you’re as vain as anyone you know. It’s all vanity. All of it. This might be a good thing. Might not.

Reader, please cheerfully list three of your own moral shortcomings:

At night, you rehash failings and exaggerate the dreadful demands of the coming day. You toss and turn, sweating through self-inflicted anxieties. You torture yourself with blame, fear, and discontentedness. You wish you had control of your mind. You wish you believed in magic. Finally, as you imagine walking the plank, you fall asleep. But then you have to pee.

Reader, please provide all the reasons everyone should party late into the night:

In the meantime, what’s the harm in trying? What’s the harm in resting? What’s the harm in hoping? What’s the harm in keeping your nose clean and your heart open? Sure, you haven’t gotten it all right, and you never will. You’re far from flawless or erudite. Things rarely work out entirely as you’d planned. Wisdom isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Now is the time to sigh and say “Ah, what the hell.” And the Teacher nods and says, “Seriously, what the hell?”

Reader, please shrug and provide your own what the hells. As many as you’d like:

Good work, dear one. It’s time for ice cream. Or not.  Next week, Revelations.

Strong Nuclear Force

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Earlier this week, God and I were deep into a discussion about the aptly named Strong Nuclear Force which is the force that holds subatomic quarks together and is thus responsible for the stability of matter. Because people often anthropomorphize God, I suggested that maybe she should change her name to Strong Nuclear Force. She pretended to consider this before concluding that she preferred other names, such as Lambkins, Alpha, Omega, or The Beloved.

The discussion ended, and the week steamrolled over me the way some weeks do. That brief exchange was unsettling, but I didn’t have time to revisit it. I barely had time to drink beer or exercise or contemplate how to save our tottering democracy. And the weeds took advantage of my frantic pace and went to seed as rapidly as they could.

I accept these harsh realities and the finite linearity of time. With what I consider to be enormous self-discipline, I’ve now seated myself in the old blue recliner, ready to center on the Center. The gardening and vacuuming will have to wait.

“So, you don’t have to go around calling yourself Strong Nuclear Force if you don’t want to,” I say, as my opening volley. “But I don’t like calling you those other names. Especially The Beloved. It sounds obsequious and weak.”

“No worries,” God smiles. “It’s just that I don’t like limiting myself. The nuclear scientists were quaking in their boots when they realized they could break the hold of the Strong Nuclear Force and set protons free. They wondered if once unleashed, the chain reactions would convert all matter to a kind of selfish, toxic energy that would end existence as you all define it.”

“And they detonated anyway,” I sigh. “We’re in so much trouble.”

“Yes, you are. You can see why the basics are so central, right?” God asks.

“Yeah,” I say, wondering which basics she means.

“Love,” she says.

“Too simple,” I say. “Undefined. Mushy. I don’t like that idea anymore. I want to roar and maim and shake people until their heads fall off.”

Strong Nuclear Force lifts her skirts and leaves.

The protons are free to crash.

The rich tell lies and steal from the poor.

The frightened arm themselves with weapons and hatred.

The young flounce. The old stiffen.

“Come back,” I yell. “You win. The Beloved is a fine name.”

“I always win,” she smiles.

“Maybe,” I say. “But that’s not readily apparent. Love is a tall order.”

“I know,” Lambkins says. “I’m often in disguise, but I’m taller than you think.”

Oh, Baby

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

This is the narrowest time. Night has loosened its grip, and old wine is poured out as libation to the rising sun. My head slumps to my chest, and my shoulders curl inward to make the passage less painful. Less prolonged. To the east, a thin blaze of orange takes hold. With kindling gleaned from around the chopping block, I light a fire so I can immerse my hands in the warm liquid of another day.

“What sayest thou?” I ask the newly arrived Sandhill cranes.

“What thinkest thou?” I ask the rising river.

The answers come on the in-breath and dissipate before I can inscribe an adequate translation. I will have to ask again and try to be worthy of the answers.

My inner audience isn’t kind. The promise of spring is shrouded in snow, and for some reason, the fire is burning more reluctantly than usual. I suspect it’s the blessing and curse of the thick bark still clinging to these beautifully split logs.

Before I slept last night, someone told me they loved me, and someone told me they hated me. The raucous rise of the north wind relieved the barometric pressure of leftover miles. There was just enough time to make a cursory inspection of my seashells, sticks, and rocks before the paralysis set in. Even then, I had to lean into God to make it to the safety of my flannel sheets.

Now, alert and alive, we are filled with equal amounts of dread and joy.

“Oh, baby,” God sighs. “Oh, baby.”

“Oh, God,” I say, pushing back a little. “Oh, God.” I look into myself as far as I can. “I wish you wouldn’t sigh at me. Go sigh at someone else.”

This elicits a smile. We sip coffee, eat toast, and raise our glasses to the trains arriving, the trains departing, journeys beginning, journeys ending. These simple routines grease the wheels, and we’re off.

Who can guess the length of their days? Who can predict the hard hatreds and easy loves? No one knows their own soul very well, let alone the redemptive mind of God at rest in the protective bark of scorched and fallen trees. We cannot be expected to do any better than we can.

“Oh, baby,” The Cosmic Drama Queen sighs again, so inclusive, so determined. Her obsidian eyes are sparkling, her broad shoulders squared. “Oh, baby.”

Default Settings

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 My friend’s computer got hacked so he had to strip down to default settings to cast out the algorithmic demons. Having essentials saved in the cloud turned out to be a very good thing.

God is perched on my new orange ottoman sampling an experimental kefir popsicle I made yesterday. “Could I regress to default settings if I get corrupted?” I ask.

“Too lumpy.” She puts the popsicle on a plate to melt. “And no, you don’t have default settings. You have habits and intentions.”

Some people call God The Cloud of Unknowing. At the moment, this seems like a great name.

“Well then, Cloud,” I say, smiling. “Good thing I upload occasionally, huh?”

The Cloud agrees. “I save all your previous versions, false starts, half-assed plans, and unrealistic tangents.”

“Ugh,” I grimace. Having multiple versions of myself is confusing, and I generate vast numbers of intentions and ideas. I can never decide which ones to delete. “Do you at least have a logical naming system?”

“No,” The Cloud says. “That’s your job, though I do empty the trash once you actually delete and let go.”

“What about things I should have deleted but haven’t bothered?” I ask. “Could you make sure I’m remembered accurately?”

“No,” The Cloud says again. “No one is remembered accurately. But I’ve already remembered you well.”

All my mortal selves leer at me. A wave of vertigo hits, and suddenly, I’m being crushed by a density that makes it difficult to see or move. “Where are we?” I ask.

“Death Valley–282 feet below sea level. The atmospheric pressure is heavier here than anywhere on earth.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Yeah. Generally, I’m a bottom feeder, but it’s not easy here. Cloud formation is limited and whimsical.”

“Let’s go home and upload,” I plead.

“You sure? We’re 65 words short.”

“I’m sure,” I nod. “It’s only going to get worse. We don’t want to upload nonsense, do we?”

“I have some of your early poetry. Want to fill in with that?”

“No way,” I laugh.

I may not have default settings, but The Almighty Programmer faithfully saves my indeterminate multiplicities and understands my intentions.

And regardless of errant deletions or too many versions, there is enormous comfort in this: I am already remembered well.

That Lonesome Valley

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

One of the harder things about human consciousness is the realization that we are mortal. No one knows exactly how to handle this, but as the generations ahead of us decline and pass, we bear witness, one way or another. Some claim that the last task entrusted to sentient beings is to die well.

My own mom was a fighter. Even though beset by serious medical limitations, she renewed her realtor license in her eightieth year. My dad died when Mom was thirty-nine. She was utterly shattered. She arranged for immediate family to be seated in the back pew at the funeral, and afterwards, she never set foot in the church again. She was done with that version of God, and who can blame her?

“Not me!!” God interjects. “No blame here.”

Even though she unchurched herself, Mom held a steadfast belief that when she died, she would meet my dad in heaven and give him a full account of how she held on to the ranch and finished raising the kids.

I glance at God, sad, proud, and a little embarrassed at the childlike simplicity of her assumptions.

“No worries,” God says gently. “Even if that’s not exactly how things work, I appreciate the ways humans create myths and rituals to find strength and resolve. Your mom’s resilience was epic.”

“Yeah. But remember how she felt about mirrors and getting old? She hated the reflection of her aging face. Really hated it. And it was tough for me, too. I could see what was coming, not only for her, but eventually for me.”

“Oh, I remember,” God nods. “But I’ve noticed you don’t hide from mirrors. In fact, you seem drawn to them.”

“Maybe,” I laugh. “Morbid curiosity.” I lean into my antique trifold mirror, pull my skin back toward my ears, make a goofy face, and add, “Mirrors prove that I’m still here.”

My grin fades as I continue to stare. “But God, I see the etching of the years, I see what my children see, and it breaks my heart. I wish I could protect them.”

“I know. But you can’t. Love isn’t always about protection or denial. Love tells the truth and then offers to help,” God says, as the room floods with mirrors. Every wall is now reflective.

“Like what you’re doing right now?” I ask. “Is this love?”  

I fight the urge to close my eyes and cover my face. Instead, I square my shoulders and press my palm against the cold glass. From deep within, the ancient eyes of God twinkle, and God’s palm meets mine. The glass warms.

The Circle, The Fall, and The Fat-Faced Child

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From the perspective of a maggot, a cadaver is not an ending. It’s a feast. But then maggots are a banquet for geckos who are later gobbled up by mice. Laying hens peck mice into bite-sized pieces, and I enjoy chunks of chicken in my stir-fry.

Yeah, yeah. Circle of life and all that.

But are we more than maggot fodder? This has been debated since we invented the language necessary to express the longing and horror the question evokes.

“Of course, you’re more than maggot fodder,” The Ether speaks.

I sigh with relief, but I don’t let my guard down.

“And…?” I ask.

The Ether laughs. “You’ll be gecko excrement as well!”

“And there it is.” I roll my eyes.

“Seriously, honey, you’re not one thing now, and you never will be. The Holy Procession always breaks things down.”

I fight to stay coherent and unbroken in the moment.

The Ether materializes as a fat-faced child. Blond and defiant. I stare at the face. I wonder if it will wrinkle and hollow with age or stay pink and ebullient forever. I wonder if I will get my youthful body back someday.

“You wonder some crazy shit,” God says.

“You would too if you lived here. If you watched the news. If you had an inkling of what it means to deal with a real body.”

“Oh, but I do.”

“No, I live here. I am. And I do. You only pretend.”

The Fat-Faced Child frowns and begins to build a doll house out of Lincoln logs and Legos. “I’m gonna paint this pink and live here,” she says. “You’ll see.”

Her energy could easily swallow me alive. I go to the basement to get paint. Hot pink first. Then lemon yellow, lime green, royal purple, and turquoise. With this pungent, tangible turquoise, we could paint ourselves into the Upper World of the Zuni, and I am filled with joy. I am ready.

“How is this possible?” I ask.

“You have to fall,” she says. “Sometimes hard. Sometimes soft. But you have to let go and fall.”

In front of the doll house, a circle of my dearest friends are singing. Ring around the rosy. Pockets full of posies. Ashes, ashes. We all fall down, and they begin to fall. But The Fat-Faced Child falls first. Even in diminishment and grief, this is something I’ve always known.

  The Fat-Faced Child Falls First

Accusatory cataracts

drop from my eyes

And I realize

The Fat-Faced Child

has always fallen first.

Always suffered most.

Always broken the fall

for the rest of us.

And in the endless ruination,

The Fat-Faced Child

uses all the jagged bones

and tender tissue

to build again.

Little Planet Big Lies

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Photo Credit: Scott Wolff

Earlier today I told myself some little white lies and then moved on as one does in order to survive. The falsehoods involved a forced smile, the use of an herbicide, the denial of grief, and the last bite of ice cream. My chronic inclusion of God could itself be a lie, but if so, it’s neither white nor little.

This is because God yanks the universal down to the particular. For instance, she mimicked my smile, bathed in the herbicide, paraded around clad in old photographs, sang Paul Simon, drank the old wine, and hid the chocolate syrup. I threatened to go back to bed and restart the day, but she raced ahead, pulled off the blankets, and pretended to be the ghost of Octobers past.

I gave up, overwhelmed by the insistent Presence, the insanity of the seasons, and the weight of knowing what’s coming. The future is an out-of-control Mack truck, and we’re all bugs destined for the windshield.

But for now, God and I sit calmly, me contemplating how much phlegm a body can produce when fighting a viral invasion, God knitting socks for soldiers and other unsheltered souls.

“Whose side are you on?” I ask, thinking about revenge and innocence, viruses and hosts.

“My own,” God says.

“Figures.” I get up to make a smoothie. “Where’d you hide the chocolate?”

“Deep in the recesses of your ontological brain,” God chuckles.

“Of course.” I sigh, wave the fruit flies away, and peel two bananas from Guatemala. I drop them into the blender made in China, add blueberries from New England, and pour in kefir I made myself—but the milk I used? It’s from cows, possibly nearby. Possibly not. I toss in Swiss chard from our garden, squeeze in chocolate from Cameroon, and push the button.

“Would you like some?” I ask.

“Not now, thanks,” she says. “But I’m glad you found your way to the kitchen.”

I lift my glass to a delicate world, but the complexities and hypocrisies rob me of delight. I look at God, desperate to save what’s left of the day.

“Enjoy the damn smoothie,” she says. Her smile is genuine. “I’ll be back.”

 “Where are you going?” I ask.

“Gotta deliver these stockings. The alpaca fleece is from Columbia, the needles are bamboo. From Japan. Winter’s coming in Ukraine, and there are the barest feet you’ve ever seen in Gaza.”

I steel myself and sip the toxic nectar of this splendid, blended earth. Then sadly, I bid farewell to October and pull on a pair of socks she left for me. It’s chilly out there, but I need to harvest the last of the carrots and beets. Root crops, like certain hardy people, do well in Montana.

Being the Cozy One

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

There’s much to be said for a Cozy God. Not just passive cozy. No. I mean assertive, smother-hugger, cheek-pincher, aren’t-you-just-adorable, big-lapped cozy.

But today’s version is sharp-tongued and angular. Her purple hat is cockeyed and her cloak of many colors drenched from flying through the freezing rain. She’s shivering and disoriented. Thus, I’m forced to be the cozy one.

“Here. Drink this.” I offer a cup of hot chocolate laced with peppermint schnapps and replace her cloak with a down comforter. She lifts the mug to her bluish lips, sips, sighs, and settles near the fire.

I let her warm up in silence. Mostly I’m happy when any version of God drops by, but as she curls her tired body and nods off, I realize some visitations are less pleasant than others. I consider hiding the refreshments and putting out the fire.

Where’s Cozy God? I complain to myself.

Witchy God yawns, stretches her thin arms above her head and says, “She’s busy. I’m subbing for her today.”

“What’s she up to?” I ask, interested despite my disappointment. If I’m hosting Witchy God, then maybe somewhere, someone is being cuddled and fed by a cozy, affectionate God.

“Doesn’t work that way,” Witchy God says. “The manifestations are interactive. You get what you give. You get what you need. But luckily, you never get what you deserve.”

 “Why not?” I ask, peevish and disappointed. “I try to be thoughtful. I share my stuff…” My voice trails off. “Well. Most of it. Some of it. Sometimes.”

I’m suddenly uncomfortable claiming I deserve a visit from Cozy God. The equations are slippery, comparisons fraught with subjectivity, tinged with envy.

“So what’s your cozy quotient, my pretty?” Witchy God asks in her witchy voice.

“You mean how much cozy do I need?” I ask, ever hopeful.

“No. How much cozy are you putting out there?”

And there it is. The eternal question. Witchy God begins whirling like a dervish, and the remaining October leaves let go.  Every limb is bare. Winter has arrived. The wars rage on. Witchy God is preparing to do whatever it is she does. Her cloak has dried, and her thermos is filled with my cocoa and schnapps.

“I’ll ride shotgun for as long as I can,” I say reluctanly. I swing my leg over the broom, but her take-off velocity leaves me flat on my back in front of my toasty fire.

“Not every battle is yours,” Warm Room whispers. “With that bad hip, you could be a bit more cautious.”

“No way,” I say.

Warm Room gives me a knowing smile and hands me a broom of my own.

Impact

Rita Sommers-Flanagan9 Comments

Who doesn’t (secretly or overtly) want to be a social influencer? Maybe a few humble souls are at peace with having little influence in the world, but I doubt they’re in the majority. Humans want proof that they matter—as measured by clicks, votes, money, fame, prestige, or power.

Years ago, I began learning a lesson I’m still working on. As a newly minted rehabilitation counselor, I was assigned to teach a young man with a serious brain injury how to ride his three-wheeler to the sheltered workshop where he glued pieces of wood together every day. This is harder than it might sound.

He flashed me a drooly grin as he turned a block early for the third time. I calmly redirected him, but inside, my ego was screaming. I wanted to be actualized and recognized. I wanted to be somebody. But here I was, with my master’s degree, on a back street in nowhere USA trying to help a badly damaged human being learn to navigate a three-block commute.

He gritted his teeth and pushed hard on the pedals. I pictured him before the crash, a reckless teenager, stomping on the gas in his souped-up car. He’d lost control and rolled three times. Hours later, the jaws of life had freed him to face a partial recovery followed by this new, confusing existence.

We made it to the employee entrance on his fourth try. I feigned approval, but I was resentful and exasperated. I had functional legs, strong arms, and an eager mind. I had a ten-speed bike, running shoes, three published poems, and a family that did not wish me dead.

“Can’t you give me something important to do?” I whined to the Universe. “Something that’ll make a difference?”

The day froze into a singular moment.

“Allow me to introduce you,” the Universe replied in a clear, penetrating voice. “This is my son, Clayton, with whom I am well-pleased. He needs a little help. I chose you, but if you’re unavailable, I have others.”

And as if that wasn’t enough, the Universe continued. “Clayton, dear, this is your servant, Rita. Be patient with her. She’s still figuring things out.”

So much life has flowed under so many bridges since that day, and so many Claytons have come and gone. In this waning light, Wisdom occasionally lifts her skirts to show me her ankles. But even now, instead of sitting in gratitude, I sometimes long for more. I want accolades and adoration. Assurances that I matter. Most days, I push down hard on the pedals, but I’m uncertain of which way to turn.

Obviously, I’m still figuring things out.

Tucking In

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

After especially hard days, I take a little extra time to gently tuck myself into bed. Sleep well, little one, I say, imagining The Within speaking in a tender voice. I fluff the pillows and give thanks for my great good fortune. I am safe.

But often, like tonight, a wave of guilt hits. Images of war, earthquakes, uprisings, floods, mud slides, fires, and refugee camps take over. No one is ever entirely safe, but everyone wants to be. We steal safety from each other. And the cost of this selfish, temporary safety runs into the billions. With a loaded pistol, I could shoot my way out, right? With enough money, I could build a fortress and save myself. Ha! Fools. We are all safety-seeking fools.

Yahweh clears her throat.

“Oh, hi,” I say sheepishly. “I was just tucking myself in for the night.”

“Hmmm. Is THAT what you were doing?” she asks, glowing orange from the corner.

“No,” I admit. “I was mocking the notion of safety. I feel a little frightened sometimes so I make fun of people who think they can make themselves safe.”

“I like it when you’re honest,” Abba God says. She wraps herself in my spare blanket and lays down beside me. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to feel safe.”

“Yeah, but…”

“I know,” she interrupts. “It can go too far. Safety, sacrifice, and suffering are contentious triplets, progeny of a brief affair between acceptance and agency.”

What now? I think. “I’m way too tired to talk about this,” I say.

“Me, too,” Asherah God says. “There’s a lot going on. I’m exhausted.”

“I bet you are.” I slip my arm over her shoulder and whisper, “Sleep well, Eternal One.”

She closes the eyes that never close. The breath of Allah is deep and regular, but mine is shallow, and I feel anxious. I remember a prayer I was taught as a child.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Whoa! No wonder we’re all so frightened. What child wants to die in the night and have their soul taken by a mysterious, possibly nefarious God?

If anyone’s taking anything in the night, it’ll damn well be me, I think, watching the rise and fall of the chest of The Infinite beside me. Then I relax and smile at my hubris. I don’t even own a gun.