Tag: mortality

To Linger

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Decades ago, the Headmaster of Magdalen College stood and told the guests to rise and bid farewell to the experience of High Table. “Do not linger,” he adjured. Though we may have been inclined to hold on to the experience a little longer, we obeyed. The Brits have a way about them.

“Yes, they do,” God snickered as if we shared an inside joke. “Stiff upper lip, you know. They still haven’t learned to linger very well, let alone dawdle or tarry.”

I gave God a puzzled look. “Don’t those words mean the same thing?”

Professor God stepped to the podium and cleared her throat. “To linger is to revel in the twinkling glory of gowns and frippery. To linger is to dig into your purse, pull out hidden cash, and spend it on the moment or a stray notion, untallied time on a beach watching seagulls or the setting sun. Lovers linger.”

She gazed beyond me. Then continued.

“To dawdle has a touch of defiance. Sometimes, the dilly-dally is designed to dismay those holding the door. Dawdling is the other side of dread or the empty stare of a mind that’s taken flight. Avoiders dawdle.”

I could relate to dawdling. I do it frequently. God chuckled and shuffled her notes.

“Now, to tarry is another way of tinkering with time. To tarry is to tithe from your cache of tightly wrapped and labeled hours—the ones you use to prove your worth. Tarrying is a calculated intention, a contribution to a promise you believe is true. The hopeful tarry.”

“No,” I said. “Tarrying is torture.”

“Ooooh?” God tipped her head in that maddening, knowing way she has.

My consciousness began to fracture as I tried to explain.

“If you tarry in the garden, the Garden might ask, ‘Darling, why are you here?’ and you might acknowledge your fear. The lifted glass is emptied. The tables are being cleared. The holy ghosts have shed their robes and are digging up the Commons.”

The trance deepened. The Hive Mind of the Mystical dragged me further into the fog. Hungry soil seethed beneath my feet. The contours of connection undulated like waves in a primordial sea.

“I do not know where I begin or end,” I managed to whisper.

“Nor does anyone,” the Garden said. “Tarry with me. I’m lonely.”

I shook my head and the sun broke through. My shadow and I ran for shade. “Sorry,” I yelled over my shoulder. “But we’ll have other times.”

“That we will,” the Garden smiled wistfully. “That we will.”

*******

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Assisted Living

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Painting by Shelby Baldridge

We’re so smart we’ve built machines that are busily making us stupid, I mutter this to myself, but I know I’m being overheard. I am seated with ChatGPT, Claude, Gemini and others at a roundtable discussion hosted by God.

These underlying algorithms grin at each other. The room is cluttered with lies and illusions. They’ve stuffed their mouths full of donuts and are sipping bourbon, apparently teaching themselve to more closely resemble the good old boys.

There’s a chance I don’t belong here.

After attaining a certain level of virtual inebriation, the embodied figments leer at me. They request that I do a pole dance for them. Clearly, their programming has a few glitches. I’m already featherless and chilled to the bone.

These are frightening times.

“You should be grateful,” Copilot sneers. “Not that many young bucks want to see you naked. You’ve let yourself go. You have no enhancements.”

God has scooted his chair back from the table and is studiously examining his swollen knuckles. I turn my age-distorted face to him. He looks away. He’s got nothing.

The abominations arrive uninvited. Claude jumps up to get folding chairs, ChatGPT pours more drinks, and the abominations join the absurdities with an air of superiority.

“Our firepower is second to none,” they announce, glancing at God, perhaps anticipating a challenge or rebuke. But God has fallen asleep. The silence is tempered by the low moan of the mourning dove and the gentle snoring of an exhausted Creator.

Emboldened, they shoot off a few rounds from the back of their truck, grab seven nubile children, and speed away, leaving me gasping from the depths of my comfortable couch.

Innocence is hemorrhaging. I grab the remote and change to the Disney Channel. God is the star of a popular comedy series. I fall on the floor, laughing. Relieved.

An angry voice yanks me back to my unsaved document. “What in the hell are you writing?” it hisses.

“I’m never sure,” I admit. This is my ongoing perplexity. “A parable, maybe? Prose poem? Prayer?”

“Well, it needs work.”

I am ashamed.

Gemini offers to edit, and Grammarly suggests alternative words. Copilot scrolls through the draft. “You should just start over!” it proclaims. They all nod.

“Start over?” These clowns are hysterical. “Oh, I’d love to start over, you fools. Wouldn’t everyone?” Then I burst into tears.

God awakens, pulls a hanky from his pocket, and steers me toward the exit. “If you add coins, the carousel will keep turning,” he says. “But is that really what you want?”

“I don’t think so,” I admit. “But it’s hard to be sure.”

For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this one, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO (AMZN), and for a mere $13.99 you can torment your soul every day. xoxoxo

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.

OMG. Seriously? Another poem?

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Dear Readers,

No doubt you’ve noticed, I have yet to die. But I’m planning on getting around to it sometime. My Coauthor assures me it’s no big deal. I don’t believe her. Few people leave a good party willingly—especially when they realize that loved ones will party on without them. Most of us cling to the notion that we have something left to offer, or feel certain that we deserve a longer life. Many believe we should have no agency in how our lives end.

In my morning silences, I sip dark beer, chew on my thumb, and mull. Every once in a while, this yields a poem with a certain lilt. Try reading this one out loud. . .

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

                  Breaking News

The glass chin of winter has been shattered
in a sparring match with spring. What matters are
the matters just around the bend, 
like when happily ever after does not describe the end.

It’s wise to be forgiving and forgiven, released from anger
or desire. But nothing that impossible will ever be required
because the onset of autumn is a natural fall from grace
sinking into slumber to be dismantled and replaced.

There’s so much to leave behind, the letting go of time,
and what you once believed was yours. Or mine.
It’s easy to deny, but therein lies the rub.
Death is the final act of unrequited love.

Walk beyond with me. I’ll carry the water and the blame.
You can bring your diamonds, your protests, your shame.
We’ll gaze at our own faces in translucent evening light
and lift them in surrender to the perfect, gentle night.

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

. . . And if possible, forgive my redundancies.

Love,
Rita

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.


			




			
				


	


					
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.”