Tag: Independence

Set Your Intention By Yourself–Or Not

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

People rarely want others to pull their bootstraps up for them. Toddlers yell, “Me do it!” and those who should no longer climb ladders climb anyway. We exert a lot of energy hiding our holey underwear and shameful weaknesses, but in reality, independence is an illusion. Humans need each other, but we’re loathe to admit it.

“Did you intend for us to evolve in this paradoxical way?” I ask the Evolutionary Forces of the Universe.

“Not exactly,” they admit. “We don’t set intentions, but we like watching. You’re a fascinating species, and we’re on your side.”

So who’s to blame? In my circles, bearing the brunt of the blame is a virtuous act, the opposite of self-preservation. God and slightly lesser beings often step in, but I’m not sure it solves anything. Nothing happens for a reason except for the creatively cobbled explanations we use to calm our nerves.

“Are you willing to be the reason?” I ask the Imputed Reason for Everything.

Gale-force laughter greets another hurricane season. Suffering ensues.

Death comes to all, but life begets itself. Throngs of people scroll by, dressed to the nines, filling their pockets with shiny objects, too distracted to partake of the fruit of the Moment–the tasty tidbits hanging ripe on the Tree.

“Are you as rich and omnipresent as they say?” I ask The Moment.

“Are you as dense as it seems?” The Moment chuckles. “Here, take a bite.”

I bite. The Moment declares itself to be good. And it is.

“Could we just stay here?” I ask, but The Moment sours as I cling.

Soft voice. Big Stick. Warm heart. Cold feet. The trill of the warbler, the croak of the crow. The penetrating glance of a stranger. A penny for your thoughts. The terror of being utterly alone. The lamb, lost. Found. Lost again.

Try as you might, you cannot wrest control of any situation for long.

Finally, exhausted, you stare out the window, awaiting the news. You suspect what’s coming won’t be to your liking, but you stand there anyway, hoping.

“Some days are easier than others,” my Coauthor whispers.

“I know,” I nod. “But the overall trajectory doesn’t bode well.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” the Muses sigh. “Ain’t that the god-awful truth?”

The secret to life hangs in the balance. The reset button is fickle; forgiveness is the wiser choice. You can borrow a ladder and climb to the moon. Start your engines and race to the sea. Climb on your high horse and ride into town. Or you can find your center, stretch, and breathe. There is no such thing as forever. Just breathe.

….. ….. ….. ….. ….. …..

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. Also, I am now posting on Substack, and may drift there as my primary place to post.

Parallel Parking

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

Today, God and I drove slow miles on familiar streets through neighborhoods that were once mine. I remembered parties I attended, work I did, meetings I conducted, flirtations, indignations, victories, defeats. Everything was distorted in the ways the past distorts itself. Soft and gone. We drifted in and out of shops where nice people helped us reduce our lists of irritating errands. God chattered, waved, and pointed as I coped with the exhaustion of nostalgia. She steered for a while, but then abandoned the front seat altogether because she did not have my full attention.

Texting while driving is a bad idea. Driving around with a buoyant God might be worse. She floods the interior with visions and boundless energy. It was not only distracting, it was paralyzing. “God,” I finally said as I struggled to parallel park, “You need to quiet down and let me focus.”

God saluted, unbuckled, leaped out, opened my door, and bowed like she was a valet at a five-star hotel. And I willingly stepped into the mud of the world, the DNA of impending disaster. Black ice. It was slicker than I thought, and I nearly fell. The carpet of God spread itself thick, and the arm of God shot out. The mouth of God said, “Whoa there, Nelly.” I resented the assistance.

“Let go,” I said, shaking my elbow free of God’s hand. “I’m fine.”

“Of course, you are, dear,” said my snappy young God. She melted into razor-sharp shadows cast by the midday sun. My parking job wasn’t stellar. God leaned against the building and watched me consider my next move. Being with God is like being alone only worse. The fantasy of self-sufficient isolation is rendered pathetically transparent if you get caught in the gaze of God. We are seen and seen through. It doesn’t seem fair.

I don’t know how long I stood there, regrouping, asserting my right to a modicum of privacy, but I know I made it home in time to cook a nutritious dinner of vegetables I peeled myself. I don’t know how many more streets will become familiar before God and I no longer navigate exploratory routes, but every day I remind myself that at least for now, I know how to read a map. I dig into that idea like a dog in soft dirt, and I bury reminders and markers and idle thoughts, fully aware someone else will find them. That’s why I add incantations, blessings, and instructions for how to jitterbug. Who knows what might be needed?