Tag: Mutual Grace

Holding Patterns

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

Greetings. It is Sunday morning, and just like 484 other Sundays, my Coauthor and I will be flinging a few words your way. Why? I don’t know. For my part, I just hope they land somewhere and offer someone food for thought, a surprised chuckle, a gentle cry, or balm for the soul.

My Coauthor, the one I speak freely for and about, is a persistent, nonexistent son of a bitch that befriended me when I wasn’t looking. We sit around a lot. We aim for 300 words every Monday, but we allow fewer if a poem is trying to appear. Then we edit all week. We often sob along the way. Then we post.
 
Recently, we tackled the publishing process again, yanking hundreds of these missives into a certain physicality. Why? I don’t know. The years and the losses pile up, no matter what. Sometimes, I get crazy sad. Murderously angry. I reek of despair. I break things. I chase the Coauthor around with a hammer, a paintbrush, a poem, shards of a broken mirror, or handfuls of angular sticks. We finally collapse into the absurdity. There is no escape. We are stuck with each other. The glue we currently favor is E6000. But there are options. 

This is Solstice. This is the balancing point. I will wear black with yellow boots. I will post these words to myself, to you, to a Universe so full and majestic I consider surrendering.
 
The Coauthor says, “No, you don’t. And that’s why I love you.” And I say “Bosh.” 

Here's this week's group of words. Sent along with as much love as I can muster right now.

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     Holding Patterns

Silence and Emptiness 
are so potent 
they don’t often exist.

To realize your full potential
you must interact
in a friendly manner
with these nothings
because like wild dogs 
they sense fear.

If you turn your back
they will attack 
and you will stumble
over the edge.

When you gaze into the low unknown,
square your shoulders
lift your eyes
and raise your arms
in surrender.

When the Wind dies, 
you will wonder 
if there is anything left

but the Deep Blue understands.
It says Be still.
I will hold you.

              II                                                                                     
It’s easy to hate.

The seductive lies
of ignorance and fear
have led to many
crucifixions.
 
Far less easy to offer 
one bruised cheek
two warm hands
or a place to rest.

         III

Find each other
while you can
and do not wait
to speak of love.

You can find a collection of these blogs in my book:
Who’s to say what starlight might do to the skin ? on Amazon for $13.99
Here’s the ridiculously long link:

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=rita+sommers+flanagan&adgrpid=183606418742&hvadid=779553774453&hvdev=c&hvexpln=0&hvlocphy=9021095&hvnetw=g&hvocijid=7160213628306274734–&hvqmt=b&hvrand=7160213628306274734&hvtargid=kwd-516018497007&hydadcr=22561_13531225_8196&mcid=a81597a2fe913977ba9295c79d067477&tag=googhydr-20&ref=pd_sl_7mmk43sahz_b

Preparing for Guests

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Not long ago, God and I were kneading dough, trying to time things so the smell of fresh bread would greet our guests at the door. Homemade sourdough is one of my staples, and I wanted to impress these acquaintances with my earthiness. I had a hunch they were our kind of people.

Most of us need a few homies; a posse, an inner circle of those who know us well enough to hold our fears and failures–and reveal their own. Recently a chunk of our inner circle fell to the forces of mortality, and the wound is still tender, keeping me acutely aware that anyone can fall at any moment and no longer be. God puts the dough in a cool place to slow the rise. She gives me a knowing glance. “You’re ambivalent, aren’t you?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “There are days I think it’s best to be disconnected. Less risk. Less pain.”

“Slight correction, if I may?” God says. “What you mean is that the illusion of being disconnected offers a bit of respite, but…”

I hold my hand up. Mercifully, the Center of All that Is and Isn’t, the Author, the Plot, the Weaver of the Tapestry, the Queen of Connection stops talking. I know where this is headed. I know about Oneness, and I know about loss. Many’s the time I’ve tried to make God understand how it feels to be on my side of the perpetual falling away, but God only sees it as falling into, not away. I think that’s callous and naïve. God thinks I’m tiresome and unsympathetic. So, once in a while, to show God how hard it can be, I sing to her–usually James Taylor’s Fire and Rain–and she cries a little for our sakes. But being the thing we fall into is also hard. She borrows Paul Simon (himself, a borrower of ancient hymns) and sings to me.

“…I’ve often felt forsaken, and certainly misused. But I’m all right, I’m all right. I’m just weary to my bones. Still, you don’t expect to be bright and bon vivant so far away from home, so far away from home.”

And I cry a little for her sake. The best homies remind us we aren’t home, and the wisest among us realize there is no home, only the lonely journey and the shared and cherished resting places. Most dreams have been driven to their knees, but it’s all right. It’s all right. Even when exhausted, God kneels alongside the dream. And shatters with the dream. And sings.

The oven is ready, the table set. We will break bread together, drink leftover wine, and in those rare moments, we will bravely partake of a singular and temporary joy.