Tag: Life

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 I’ve eaten all the daily specials I will ever eat, but sale items and outdated produce will tempt me until the end.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.

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

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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. 


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

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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.”

Solstice

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

There are vast deposits of nature’s oddities, discarded treasure, and shiny objects tucked away in the nooks and crannies of my life. All that regenerative potential should bring joy. A sense of purpose. Right? Instead, I am bound and gagged by my own good fortune.

I’ve tried to hack free from the bonds of salvation and travel lighter, but when I manage to get rid of something, seven or eight similar items appear and repopulate the collection. Or, within days, I realize I threw away the one thing I truly needed. And this includes certain types of people.

Perhaps the solution is to want nothing and need nothing. Turn my back on all those possibilities. Grin at the fool in the broken mirror but then move on. Let shards be shards. Empty the closets, the barns, the basement, the attic. Empty the soul.

But how?

Bonfires come to mind, but there are restrictions due to the drought. And the smoke and thermal waves rising from burn piles and bombings are disturbing. The trapped gasses of humanity are slowly broiling the surface of the earth. I hate adding to the roiling disaster.

I’ve tried giving things away, but bequeathing is fraught with misunderstandings or rejection. And attempting to add organic matter, stir, and compost a lifetime supply of wheel barrels and hollow-core doors would be irreversibly toxic in its own way.

“What about burying your troubles in a deep pit?” whispers the Excavator. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Have digger, will dig, eh?” I elbow Infinity.

The Excavator flexes, and even though I still possess a modicum of faith, I back away.

“Go restore a riverbank or something, Ex. I’m NOT going to bury everything.”

“Not everything, darling. Be selective. Choose a few token articles or worthless people, toss them in the pit, and I’ll cover them up. You can provide my alibi.”

“I have neither the time nor the strength for that kind of discernment. Have you seen that lumber pile with all those rusty nails screaming tetanus? Even if there were seven of me, we’d have no chance. And I can’t provide your alibi. I’m mortal.”  

The Excavator lifts its Golden Bucket, and suddenly, there are endless versions of me, doubled over in the garden pulling weeds. The Jester begins a ridiculous rap.

The weeds keep winning, 
but the party’s beginning. 
Multiplicities prancing.
The Longest Light dancing. 
The Amazements are serving cocktails.

This too shall pass
So don’t sit on your ass…

Dark clouds burst into laughter above the entire assemblage. The drought has ended. And a recently dug hole the size of Texas is filling with runoff from the sweet, sweet rain.

Showing Up

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments 

        It’s common to look for loopholes in the various holy writings we use to guide and judge ourselves and each other. This is because even when showing up and doing exactly what Allah seems to want, or covering ourselves in the blood of the lamb, or sacrificing fatted calves, or piercing our chests with bones, dancing until we pass out, deep inside, we know we’re imperfect beings. Maybe we have enough faith to curry the favor of the Divine or avoid eternal damnation. Maybe not. It’s terrifying.

        “Well, that’s ridiculous,” the Coauthor says. “And I have to admit; I get a little tired of the drama.”
        “Well, I have to admit I get a little tired of you,” I counter. 
        “I know,” the Coauthor says.
        We sip beer.

        Somehow, my phone has dialed itself and there’s a voice saying hello, hello from my pocket. I dig out the renegade device and stare at the unfamiliar name on the screen. It’s tempting to end the call, but I answer. Turns out it’s a handyman I hired once, years ago. We have a nice little chat. He is most understanding. I will never see him again. My phone acts like it might redial as I try to update my contacts. My fingers are cold and imprecise. I give up.

        When I think about my reassuring accumulations of art supplies, rocks, dark chocolate, and certain friends, the world seems kind and full of potential. In this transitory euphoria, I make promises, entertain ambitious visions, and fantasize greatness. But in reality, the candy drawer is depleted, the wind has picked up, and another day is slipping by in the wrong direction.

        “I’m not good at graceful exits,” I admit to the slightly inebriated Coauthor. “But I’m working on it. And sometimes, I manage to show up.”
        “I appreciate that,” the Coauthor says.
        “I bet you do,” I nod, thinking about the showing up required of mothers, soldiers, and misunderstood creators. “I know you show up, though some of your disguises are in very bad taste, and you often drink more than your share of the beer.”
        The Coauthor shrugs. “Maybe I need a little rehab.” 
        I smile. “Maybe. But even at your worst, you never miss an exit, graceful or otherwise.”
       “I’m glad you realize that,” the Coauthor says.
       “But is that faith?” I ask.
       “Close enough,” the Coauthor nods. “Relax.”

        Arms folded, feet up, I rest in uneasy abundance, awaiting internal directions or a sign from the sparrows, feasting as the seasons allow. The precarity and brevity of their lives seem of no concern to them this morning.

When You Talk to Yourself, Listen

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

You can learn a great deal by eavesdropping on yourself. You might be blowing off steam, visiting with an imaginary friend, guiding yourself with step-by-step instructions, giggling at your own joke, crooning your favorite tune, or even giving yourself a piece of your mind.

It’s sad, but some people are merciless with themselves, speaking cruelly about their inadequacies and mistakes. There’s no joy in that, trust me. Slapping yourself alongside the head, declaring “I’m an idiot” does little good in the long run. It does not alleviate the shame.

Wise people try to talk nicely to themselves. This isn’t easy. It may require borrowing the voice of someone who knew and loved you back when you were young and well-intended. Positive reinforcement and compassion from within are powerful.

And then there are those holy, mostly one-sided conversations with the Unseen and Unseeable. These visits don’t always go well. Sometimes, all we speak of is how deserving we are, whining about the unfairness of life. We demand revenge for perceived slights and offer feeble excuses for our role in the pain.

A person could drown in that slime. I’ve come close, but so far, I’ve managed to grab a life vest, paddle to a humble shore, and crawl out. There, face up on the rocky beach, I watch the wind have its way with branches and clouds.

Often, the Creator with the Kindest Eyes stops by. We admire the expanse of eternity around us, and I snuggle into the warmth of denial. She doesn’t mind. This Creator has the gentlest voice I’ve ever imported, so I bank on a few minutes of peace.

“You’re mortal,” she says after our quiet time. “And you can’t take this disarray with you anyway.”

I smile, relieved.

We take a bracing inbreath of the Now and begin putting earthly things on the shelves where they belong. Memories come untethered, sweet and tender, rank and bitter. There are a few so hilarious that we gleefully throw ourselves backwards, right into the Great Dissolution. Here, the vulnerable children we once were roll marbles over the viper’s den. And the vipers and cobras have come out to play.

I panic.

“There are wars and rumors of wars,” I shout. “Famine and pestilence on all horizons.”  My chest cracks open. The children stop playing and crawl onto my lap.

“Oh, we know,” they nod, ancient and unfazed.

They wrap my beating heart in fine linen and begin singing the song I sing to myself when I can’t quite remember who I am.

It’s a lullaby. The cradle falls, but somehow, everything turns out fine.

Stirring Honey Into Peppermint Tea

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“You know I’ve been fixated on the puzzles and denials of mortality for years, and you’ve never been much help,” I tell the Coauthor. A raised eyebrow is the only response I get. We stir honey into our tea.

I lift the cup to my lips, but the Coauthor covers my hand.

“Wait until it’s cold,” she says.

“But I like it warm.” I protest.

Steam curls around our entwined fingers.

*******

Through long stretches of indeterminant time, I sit. Waiting. Sometimes the vulture’s talons. Sometimes the ice of infinity. Visitors are rare, and I like it that way. The Crystal Ball rolls through the room, stops abruptly, and opens its cavernous mouth.

“You’re a liar,” it says.

“No,” I shake my head. “But I tell stories. That’s how I breathe.”

*******

Before being overtaken by digital displays, the ticking of the clock meant something. The steady sound was comforting, though on occasion, it disrupted my sleep. But now, I’m awakened by heavy fog rolling in, the enormity of loss crushing everything in its path.

“I want it over now!” My arms are crossed, but my demand is tempered by a tiny sliver of shame.

“Oh good grief,” the Coauthor smiles. “It was over before you started.”

*******

When I speak to the Viral Collective about geraniums and longevity and the bad choices I made last fall, there’s nothing but forgiveness in the air. “We see how hard it is,” they say, stroking my shoulder. Patting my head.

I want none of it. My intentions were pure. I deserve another chance.

“You will not be found innocent,” the Collective says. “The geraniums froze.”

*******

The Artificial Mothers are make-believe virgins, whoring around in contradictory clothes. They pretend to love us as they scatter offerings like stars or candy at parades. But beware: It is the hatching of a million snakes.

Even the wisest mavens end up sidelined, old locomotives cleverly switched to dead-end tracks. Sometimes, when a thug thinks no one is looking, he shoves the Viral Collective off the cliff, and they tumble into The Fiery Lake below. Their wild and joyous gestures suggest the water is fine.

And at least for now, we’re safe. The air is thick with peppermint.

********
















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Survival of the Fittest
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		











In the wild, aging primates are generally left to fend for themselves, and I’ve come to appreciate both the wisdom and peril in that. Today, I fended my way to the basement to get bread from the freezer and accepted the indignities of clinging to the handrail as I ascended to make toast.





I would rather be reporting something more exciting, like how we danced all night, or my next career moves, or even which types of lipstick I currently recommend, but poetic license aside, I don’t lie outright (very often).





The Coauthors are gentle this morning. They speak in the tongues of galaxies and seasons, and remind me that chicks will hatch in the spring and demand breakfast with wide-open beaks, and some nests will blow down, and some will not, and either way, the turquoise of the robin’s egg will fade. It was never meant to last.





“I remember my father’s eyes,” I tell them. “They were iridescent.”





“Yes. And do you know why they were so blue?” they ask.





“Not anymore,” I admit.





My own blue eyes tear up. The photos of five generations sucker punch me every time I use the stairs. There are fingerprints on most of them. And fingerprints don’t lie either.





I tell myself that we, the living, are roots, holding the dirt so it doesn’t fritter away in a seductive breeze or dissipate when the floods come; that we are the fruit of the season, the seeds of the future.





“No you’re not,” the Coauthors say. “You’re confused. Your fingers are on the wrong keys.” They aren’t being gentle anymore.





“No. Your fingers are on the wrong keys.” This is not much of a defense, but it causes the Coauthors to back away. An eerie poem asserts itself.





Sirens we have heard on high
singing sweetly o’re the plains
of money and supreme success. 
The star-struck mountains 
crumble at their feet. 
Through the holes 
in the fabric of my universe, 
the years drift by, 
challenges looming, 
fears lit by the moon
as it rises in the gathering night.

“Wait! I don’t think my confusion is entirely my fault, keys or no keys,” I tell the retreating Coauthors.





“And we aren’t blaming you!” they shout as they dive into an orbiting kaleidoscope of swirling geodes, crystals, and gems, and break into unearthly harmonies. Nothing anywhere near us is smooth, black, or white.





“But do I have a purpose?” I shout back. 





“Yes and no,” they sing. “But you ask good questions, honey. Keep asking.”

















Photo credit: Vance and/or Deborah Drain

















			




			
				


	


					
Board Meeting
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments		

			


	

		













Just before the holidays, my Selves call our annual board meeting. Attendance is mandatory. In years past, the little ones stayed outside to play, but now the young at heart hold prominent positions and are often honored with songs or gifts.





Strong coffee, milkshakes, dark beer, green smoothies, herbal tea, and vast amounts of filtered water are available all day and into the night. Everyone brings a favorite dish to share. Unless by choice, no one goes hungry, but Healthy Self can be a little picky.





We begin by sharing things we’re grateful for. Then Little Miss Despair gives her yearly guilt-inducing speech about worldwide needs and horrors. The weeping and rending of outer garments is built into the schedule. It isn’t pleasant, but the wiser among us insist that atrocities be witnessed and spoken of. Besides, Righteous Recycler gathers the scraps of sackcloth and makes them into quilts or collages. Nothing goes to waste.





My few Ascendent Selves have Coauthors who take notes throughout the proceedings. They sip expensive wine and nibble on sweetbreads (the pancreas or thymus glands of young animals). Few of us are enamored of sweetbreads or veal, but then few of us are vegan either. We face our hypocrisies bravely.





Historically, there were multitudes at the table, but my numbers are dwindling. The attrition of Selves is always on the agenda. We frame it as positively as we can: Fewer mouths to feed and minds to tend.





The Coauthors neither dwindle nor diminish. If an Ascendent Self fades or disappears, they choose another to ascend. Sometimes, they disrupt the meeting by waving their holy hands until called upon. For instance, last year they took the floor.





“Fantasies of Fame has given up the Ghost,” they called out. “We nominate Still Has Her Teeth.”





Awkward discussion ensued. Someone moved that we buy her an electric toothbrush. Motion carried. Still Has Her Teeth and her Coauthor are now major players in the Ascendent Selves subcommittee assigned to ride herd on the What the Hell triplets.





Compassion and Self-sacrifice often need to leave early due to utter exhaustion. Their Coauthors carry them to their vehicles and drive them home. This is good because the Coauthors have far better night vision than most of my Selves. I’m Confused  and Ms. Know-it-all can be annoying backseat drivers, but even in blizzard conditions, we try not to grab the wheel.





“Guard rails are a matter of the heart,” the Coauthors remind us passengers. They open the doors and bow like the classy chauffeurs of the rich and famous. Those of us who are able stumble home to rest, determined to face another year standing as tall as nature allows.


			




			
				


	


					
IQ Test
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment		

			


	

		








If children ask for bread, do you give them a stone?





Meditation isn’t easy. Most mornings, I prefer monkey mind. Trying to control the breath makes me claustrophobic. Panic arises, and the Coauthor has to dance into the void and tickle my brain to save me from sinking into useless rants and bitter condemnations.





“How about we do an IQ test to help you get centered?” she suggests in a beguiling voice. “We’ll pretend there are no wrong answers.”





“Or we could pretend there are no right answers,” I snipe back.





“You’ve clearly lost the beat,” she says, and shoves me into an ancient classroom rapidly filling with Ethereal Beings.





 “Please find a seat,” she commands, tapping a baton on her podium. “I’ll read the questions. You may answer telepathically if you’d like.”





She begins.





    

  • If you lower yourself into a hot tub filled with bliss, and luxuriate until you completely dissolve, will the soup of your soul be a positive addition to the mix?
    • 






(Unlikely)





    

  • Do you gaze at youth and beauty with envy, spite, or joy? If the nubile youngsters gaze back, do you nod modestly or preen as if you’re still attractive?
    • 






(None of the above)





    

  • Would you rather build a fire, harvest carrots, or watch someone get murdered or raped on TV, assuming justice is eventually served?
    • 






(Carrots)





    

  • Why would someone invent a color that others can’t even see?
    • 






(To hide)





(Does anyone love you? Do you love anyone, and if so, what exactly does that mean?)





(Pass)





    

  • When the familiar collapses, will you run amok, join the choir, or sidle uphill to watch?
    • 






(Run amok)





    

  • Do you prefer approval or adventure? Acrimony or accolades? Whiskey or vodka? Breastmilk or beer?
    • 






(Beer)





    

  • Which moral platitudes cause you to choke on your whole wheat pasta?
    • 






(Pretty much all of them)





    

  • How often do you wash your hair or clean the wax from your misshapen ears?
    • 






(None of your business)





(If anyone does love you, or if you do love anyone, have you prepared for the next holocaust? Do you bake the occasional gluten-free pie?)





“Enough!” the Ethereal Beings yell in mock protest. “There’s real work to do.”





The Coauthor winks. “And what might that be?”





“Feed the hungry, silly.” They march out, laughing and singing, arms laden with bread. I remain seated in the last row, deep within the bowels of discordant realities, soaking in the terrifying harmonies of simple truths. My heart is pounding. I remind myself to breathe with my diaphragm. 





The Coauthor motions me forward, takes my pulse, and hands me a drum. “Here you go, Maestro. Go find a parade.”