Tag: mortality

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.

Drinking Water in the Dark

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Drinking Water in the Dark

No one is ever fully embodied, hydrated, or sure of the way. We cope by using various hilarious defenses, but the joke is on us. And most of the time, it does not seem all that funny.

One foot, then the other. One meal, then the next. One face melting in your hands. Your own two hands. You do what you can, which should be enough, but it’s never enough.

Regrouping

Consider the options. Choose two or three and try them on. Personally, I like that purple gown, but the itchy wool sweater will always be available. Jump suits are impractical, especially for the aged or those too young for zippers.

You can carve the turkey or carve your name into a place that is mistakenly called history. But remember you are surrounded by a raging sea. Saltwater makes most choices irrelevant.

Getting Along

 Give away what you can. Keep what you must. Break bread not promises. Find yourself out walking with a colorful umbrella and murmur thanks to the Makers of Rain. Make fun of your ulterior motives and make light of the pain.

Take the heavier loads apart and see what can be shifted. Carry the burdens wisely and be mindful of your knees. You weren’t born yesterday.

Circling Back

As you were, so shall you never be again. Someday, you will touch your chest and notice that you no longer exist in any meaningful way. The relief will be palpable. Your exile, over. Your failings, forgiven.

No one is the best at anything for long, but the Choreographer loves imperfection, raw emotions, and pods of dolphins who, like us, are doomed but defiant.

Shades of Gray

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments 

Most people hate going gray and refuse to admit that their wits 
have begun to wander.
 
No one loves fading to transparency, reduced to rustling air 
in the back of the room.

No one enjoys not knowing. Uncertainty is worse 
than being dead wrong.
 
So we color up, seeking a visible place amongst two trillion galaxies
in the observable universe.   

“You’re blah blah blahing again,” the Gaping Mouth of the Cosmos says. 
“So bite me,” I snap. 
“Let us consider gray,” Gaping Mouth suggests.
“I don’t like gray,” I say. “I’m more comfortable with clarity.”

“I know,” Gaping Mouth says. “And that’s a problem 
because gray is illuminance-dependent, ambivalent, and courageous. 
Gray underbellies the vivid streaks of sunset
that temporarily take possession of the sky.”

I glare, clinging hard to yellow.
“Are you aware of the opponent process theory?” I ask.
“In the recesses of the retina, certain cells stimulate one color 
and inhibit its opponent. I believe this explains afterimages. 
And Christmas.”

Gales of laughter issue from the Gaping Mouth 
and all evidence of right or wrong blows away.
Leaves of green turn red and then disintegrate.

The sun is gone. I am alone and afraid.

When the galactic glee finally dies down, Gaping Mouth closes to a Gaping Grin. 
Blood red lips surround pure white teeth gleaming like stars in the blackest sky.

“Darling,” the Gaping Grin whispers as crimson lips pucker 
and kiss the edges of my soul. “It will help if you remember 
the transformations necessary to make light.”

Facing the Long Good-bye

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments 
In the stillness following a midnight storm
my eyes move across the surface of morning.
First light reveals innocent branches bent low
from the weight of the wet, unseasonable snow.

Her eyes follow mine.

At least the fire danger has dropped, She notes.
You could burn all those files and broken pallets now.

Yeah. If I could find them, I say, with some resentment.

There are discernable undulations on the surface,
but the sharp edges of old ideas and things gone wrong 
are hidden under this pure white shawl,
and I’d rather leave them buried.

Oh, you can find them, She says.
And with some accelerant, 
you could have one hell of a bonfire. 
Perfect conditions for that kind of heat.

Where would I even begin?
I ask, but I don’t want an answer.

Twigs. Wadded up pages ripped from your journals. 
Start with the small stuff.

Right, I echo. Start with the small stuff.

You’re going to ignore me, aren’t you? She smiles.

Yes, I am. I grin back.
I need to feed the chickens and shovel the walks.

Of course you do, She nods.
And I need to change the colors of the leaves.

She hands me an ancient paintbrush streaked with sunrise.
You’re welcome to help if you end up with extra time.

And in that moment, I see our destiny: 
to be refracted like light
into pigments so beautiful and pure
we won’t recognize our hands anymore.

The Coming of the Winter

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments 

Chopping hollyhock skeletons in the wind guarantees a shower of fertilize seeds scattering every which way. Far too many will attempt to germinate no matter where they’ve landed.

Hollyhocks are cross-breeders. Mutators. They mix it up. It’s impossible to predict which colors they’ll sport if they successfully root and grow. Lavender, salmon, yellow, white, pink, red, and magenta. In moderation, they are spectacular, but like the unwanted and displaced everywhere, their attempts to flourish indiscriminately must be attenuated. This, I do not enjoy.

There is weariness in managing opportunists, weeds, and predators, 
in seeking balance against exuberant or shameful excess.
There is tedium in finding words, choosing words, creating words. 
Like hollyhock seeds, there are too many fertile words 
jostling for position in our limited thoughts.
Especially in the fall, when everything is browning 
and dropping and preparing for winter
as if another spring is guaranteed. As if lying is acceptable.

“Preheat the oven,” my Coauthor says. “We need to hurry.”
I glance at the clock and shake my head. “Too late. We’ll have to go without the bread.”

Disappointed and crabby, my Coauthor helps load the car. We put the sweet batter in the fridge for later baking and our resentments on hold for later resolution. Not every day can roll out smoothly. The smell of cinnamon cannot infuse every moment. No one lives forever.
 
That doesn’t stop us from blaming each other. 

“God,” I say sternly. “You could’ve heated up the oven on your own.”

God glares out the window. We drive the muddy roads a little too fast, but we make it in time to be of help.

There is weariness in brushing the remaining strands of hair,
in mumbling hollow phrases of comfort.
There is tedium in searching for ways to say I love you,
fare thee well, and goodbye.
The first skiff of snow on the mountains 
is the last gasp of the summer that promised never to end.
As the light wanes, the transformation of pleasant evenings 
into the inevitable pitch-black night is softened
by a moon that is no longer out of reach.

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







			




			
				


	


					
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.







			




			
				


	


					
The Ducks
		
				

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The ducklings escaped. We were gone and it was raining. Most likely, they waddled to the river and floated downstream. They may not have taken their size into account. They were too small to buck the current and make their way back to their shelter and the humans who dug them tasty worms. With their underdeveloped wings, flying home would not be an option. They launched into the wild unknown, and they will not be returning.





Hermann Hesse wrote, “The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The bird flies to God.” Hesse went on to name God Abraxas. God is always named or unnamed according to our needs and agendas. For my purposes today, I’ll call them Water.





Here’s why: Without water, we would not exist. But I don’t worship water. It neither wants nor appreciates worship. When you’re that powerful, you can afford to be humble. Perhaps you don’t even mind being polluted. Hidden. Transformed. Evaporated.  To you, the flow of suffering is all in a day’s work.





If you are God, you just are.





Death has meaning only for mortals. We cling to our shells and boundaries even as they thin and weaken. It’s unlikely that anyone enjoys being pushed out of the womb, and when the time comes, the work of breaking the shell from within appears to be exhausting and perilous. But inevitable.





So, sure. Run to the river, you traitorous ducks. Your easy food will go to the chickens. I’ll siphon the poopy water out of your plastic pool, and your nice straw bedding will become mulch. I don’t mind transitions. Or aging. Or abandonment. Not at all. Run, ducks, run.





God is chuckling from the corner. “Yes, indeed! Denial is always an option. Consciousness is as hard to handle as birthing.”





“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, even as I move closer to the banks of the river. The current is swift. Water bursts into vapor as it hits stone, and the ancestors shimmer in the misty veil.





My mind is a whirlpool of images. Ice cracks across the lakes of winter, and steam rises from the center of the fractures in Yellowstone Park. Earthquakes are an ever-present danger. The risk of liquefaction looms on the crest of the clay-footed hills. Our bodies are more than half water, and the rain has begun to fall again. I am too weak to swim upstream.





“Just get in the boat.” God cuts the engine and pats the cushioned seat nearby. “You make us very tired some days.”