Tag: Mystical insights

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.

It’s Hard to Walk Away From a Hundred Words

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment 

The Poet:

It’s hard to walk away from a hundred words and endure the resulting blankness, but sometimes, that’s the thing to do. Don’t lean into the streaked screen. Enter the room even if you’re confused. Grope through collapsing synapses for the forgotten face.

The Painter:

You’ve never learned to handle light. You act as if you can put it wherever you’d like. The resulting portraits are wrong. Your misshapen landscape hides under the clothing of sheep. The Light doesn’t bend at your command, but often, it will invite you to dance.

The Prophet:

You’re going to decline. You’ll blame your brilliance and claim your place in the order of things But darling, grace cannot be earned. For every star you’ve named, there are a million waiting in the wings. What are a hundred words when you consider that?

The Priest:

The Apple doesn’t fall far from intention, stolen wine does not gladden the heart, and twisted words create misery as useless as sin. But listen: The stones along the road are singing. All is forgiven. It’s safe to remember the lyrics and sing your way back home.

                                ......................................................................................................................................................
I

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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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I trust you can find the link. The cyber giants do not play nicely with each other.


			




			
				


	


					
That Which You Do Not Need Anymore
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments		

			


	

		









I decided I had to tell you something. At first, only 31 words agreed to cooperate, so I lined them up, hoping you’d understand. Here they are:

This is yours.
A day.
Awake.

Sunrise.
Shoes. 
Jacket, scarf. 

Eyes.

Food. 
Teeth.
Mountain.
Music.

Ears.

Lyrics.
Regrets.
Tyranny
of the ordinary.
Sinking
of dreams.

And it’s over.

Sleep. 
Resolve.
Rekindle.

Then I built a fire and baked a distracting dessert. The Coauthors snapped to attention. They stopped their ritual sacrificing, paid the sunk costs of screen time, lifted themselves out of the slung mud, and lined up for cookies. I was generous. In return, they shook loose a few more words. Too late, I told them. Never, they replied. So I accepted the dubious gift.

What We Must Assemble

A coffin, a stuffed animal from the glove box,
the rule of law. A fair trial.

Air. Transfusions. A Dashboard Jesus
assuring us that swords and deadly force are
toxic. Forbidden temptations.

Fresh strawberries from Mexico. Free speech.
Milk and honey for the penetrated little ones.

Hands. Feet clad in good news. Blue
sky. Small gifts. Rare spices. Oil
for the anointing of bodies.

Friends with tears and toast. Gentle
rain to fall on us all. It will fall

on us all. Barns to fill with bitter harvest.
Barns to fill with bones and lies. Barns
where we can hide until they find us.

Wine, cheese, friendly dogs, and laughter.
Thin suits of armor. Small stones.

And that was it. I’ve stuffed my message in a bottle. It’s floating its way to you. There are no angry gods to speak of. Only the still small voices in our heads that plead for mercy and politely ask for shelter and crumbs. You can use all the words you want, the kinder voices tell us. But edit. Remember to edit and then give away that which you don’t need anymore.













               __________________________________________________________





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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

















			




			
				


	


					
Awakened by a Petulant God
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		













“Hey, are you aware that we cut our teeth on climate change and invented belly fat as a little joke?” A Pouty Apparition startled me awake. I moaned. Petulant Voices chimed in, nodding. “We deserve a good laugh now and then, don’t we?”





I rolled out of bed and groped my way to the kitchen, fighting off the vertigo of a long life. People need sustenance before engaging in any meaningful way with a Peevish Universe.





Out the window, the ice-edged river flowed by while the coffee brewed. Petulant Voices started singing the national anthem. Dawn reversed itself as night rolled back in, and bombs bursting in air gave just enough light to locate the flag. A fierce Wind ripped it down and draped Old Glory across the backs of shivering calves being rounded up for slaughter. The Voices kept singing, “O’er the land of the free…”.





“Could you bring it down a notch?” I pleaded. This was not the kind of God any sane person would willingly deal with, but was there a choice?





“Of course and of course,” they declared. “There’s always a choice.”





An abrupt, unnerving calm settled as the Wind died down and the Voices faded into throngs of those silenced by extinction.





But it wasn’t over. “Don’t mind us,” they muttered. “We’ll just perch on this rock while you feed your face.”





I did not look up.





“We’ll just take a dip in the swimming hole while you guzzle beer.”





I rolled my eyes.





The Voices sighed in an elaborate show of patience. “We’ll just listen to a podcast while you get dressed.”





I shrugged, trying to keep my distance and hold myself together.





The Voices changed tactics and belted out a new song. A holiday favorite. “Do you hear what I hear?”





That did it. I gave up the pretense of sufficiency, looked into the dark eyes of death and bad choices, and said, “No. I do not hear what you hear. I do not see what you see. I do not know what you know. Would you mind leaving me alone now?”





“Not at all.” The Voices became the murmur of beating wings over untouched land, and finally, I could hear myself think.





“Come, let us reason together,” I said to what was left of myself.





“Oh, this ought to be good,” the Voices snickered. “Mind if we listen in?”







			




			
				


	


					
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.

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




     
     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


			




			
				


	


					
Dysfunction at the Pearly Gates
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments		

			


	

		













Due to recent excessive flooding, the gates of heaven have rusted open. Many are desperately trying to push them shut, but those damn gates won’t budge. I’ve heard that the administration plans to soak them in petroleum until the hinges loosen up and the wrong sort can be excluded again.





But for now, carcasses are rolling in unjudged and unimpeded except for the extra stars being glued to the crowns of those who were murdered, tortured, raped, or starved to death. These bodies often come in so emaciated or mutilated that they can’t be identified. Luckily, the Coauthor has published at least one story with every last one of them. These improbable tales of love, loss, and triumph provide guidance for the transformation of their bones. Even the shortest of stories, even the lowliest of lives.





The corpses of the blithely blessed, the perpetrators, monsters, and the enormously greedy are arriving too, but they’re receiving only standard allocations of stars. And no wings. Rumor has it that they’re trying to produce their own private stars and are threatening steep tariffs on feathers and halos.





“Don’t worry,” the Coauthor tells me. “Soon enough, it won’t matter. They’re making fake stars from rare earth elements and unfortunately, your planet is already on life support from all that extraction. All those wars. It won’t be long now.”





“Oh, God!” I exclaim. “Can’t you chip through the rust and slam those gates shut?”





My Coauthor looks at me with sad eyes. “Et tu, Brute?”





“What do you mean?” I demand, but I know exactly what she means, and I hate it. Liars and con men are trashing this beautiful earth. I don’t want justice, I want revenge. People I love have been treated unfairly. I don’t want mercy. I want revenge.





Revenge grows aggressively in the dark waters of the wounded, indignant heart. If you hurt me, I’ll hurt you. If you survive, you’ll hurt me worse, and so it goes, even unto death. One of us will go to hell. And then the other. It’s possible to break the cycle, but forgiveness is something most of us find difficult if not intolerable.





“Ah, maybe leave those gates open,” I mumble. “Afterall, we’re only human.”  





The Coauthor turns her palms up in a gesture of helplessness.





“So true,” she says. “But in this iteration, you’re all I’ve got. And that just kills me. Any chance you could put on your Big Girl pants?”





“I don’t remember how.” 





The Coauthor looks at me skeptically. “One leg at a time,” she says. “And hold someone’s hand if you need to. Balance is important.”


			




			
				


	


					
Do-over Day
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan9 Comments		

			


	

		













                     Do-over Day
       (for my exhausted compatriots)

Things happen when the truth gets too close to the surface.
People grow more defensive. For instance, last night 
the neighbors lit so many candles 
against the coming storm
that their house burned 
to the ground.

Do-over day.

Some of the children have chosen to fly too close 
to the sun, and their tender wings are undone, 
dripping wax down their arms, but maybe
it’s worth it for that kind of light,
that kind of spectacle,
that kind of end.

Do-over day.

Behold! That which is old has birthed something new,
And that which was new has now grown old.
If you hold love too close to your heart
it will explode from all that pressure.
Let it go. It will grow or perish
all on its own.

Do-over day.

You know this by the smell of ground coffee
and offerings burnt to perfection, and syrup
sweet and sticky, the pitcher too close 
to the edge. If it falls, it will shatter, 
and you will be tempted to say
I told you so.

Do-over day.

This is the time to go back to bed, cover your head,
and resolve to kick the bejesus out of anyone
who tries to get too close while you regroup
in the primordial soup where you began.
You speak softly to your bent reflection
but she’s asleep.

Let her rest.