Tag: Interdependence

Set Your Intention By Yourself–Or Not

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

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.

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The Harder Truths

Rita Sommers-Flanagan9 Comments

“God,” I lamented. “It’s seriously cold and I’m sad.”  My old friend had died in the night, brave and private in his decline. I rubbed my hands together, trying to warm them. God watched me, face impassive. I continued. “You know I hate being cold.” I was feeling sorry for myself. Too many losses. Too much grief. Deep freeze cold makes me insecure, achy, and painfully aware of mortality.

God didn’t seem inclined to do anything useful, so I got a blanket. She watched as I draped it over my chest and wrapped my feet. Then she said, “Most of you secretly want your mommies when you’re cold, hungry, frightened, or sad, don’t you?”

This seemed less than kind. I glared. Said nothing. God went on. “But not your real mommy. You want an imaginary celestial being who understands how hard things are. Someone to fawn over you, feed you, assure you of your incredible worth, make false promises, and tuck you in, safe and sound, every night.”

I wasn’t enjoying these revelations, and the blanket wasn’t helping much. I shivered and looked away. God continued. “Oh, I know you sometimes arrange to be tucked in by surrogates, but even if they give you warm milk, dim the lights, or stay and snuggle, they aren’t what you long for. They can’t save you from yourself.”

Why on earth was God saying such things? I’m not all that demanding. I don’t think I long to be taken care of—at least not all the time. Is a blanket too much to ask? Overall, I’m relatively independent, nearly a prepper, minus the guns. I have two outhouses, a pantry, solar panels, wood stove, tons of rice, and an attitude.

God sat big in the middle of my brain. I sat uneasy in the presence of this God, apparently determined to say things I didn’t want to hear.

“Being grown-up means you put yourself to bed at night.” God said, as if ending a sermon or an inspirational talk.

I was not inspired. “No,” I wailed. “You’re wrong. You’re there. I know you are. And there are others. The ancestors. The nymphs and gnomes, the weak and strong. My beloved. My children and the children in such despair. Such need. They all go to bed with me. And we sleep. And we wake up. And we hope. And we believe as best we can.” I made these shaky declarations between ragged breaths, my hands fisted, ready to slug it out.

God took the fists and blew warm breath on them as they unclenched. I looked up and saw that God was crying, too. We flung our arms around each other and let the tears drip into the vast and rising darkness where the souls of the dearly departed wait to tuck us in with a strange and certain warmth.