Tag: Mystical insights

Road Work

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

Meditation, prayer, or even simple quiet times are thought to be beneficial, but there are no guarantees. In timeout, stimulation is reduced to the view of the corner and the scooting of the chair upon which the offender fidgets. This consequence of naughtiness is supposed to reduce agitation and encourage reflection, but it often visits holy hell on the mind screaming for more adrenalin. Try it sometime. Naps don’t count.

Staring off into space is somewhat different. The body slumps. The eyes glaze over. Brain activity appears to be reduced to breath and balance. Scientists have yet to determine if the space being stared into is internal or external, just as they cannot completely verify the source of dreams.

“These are dusty byways,” Road Grader interjects. “On certain neural pathways, the ruts can get deep and dangerous. The gravel sluffs off to the sides. Sometimes, a load of crushed rock has to be hauled in.”

Unfortunately, I understand what Road Grader is saying. When access to meaning is choked off by franticality or self-indulgence, even primitive stillnesses might provide a faint trail back to intentionality. But these accidental down times can go wrong, or peter out into the vast nowhere, leaving you uncertain where to stand.

Road Graders of the Soul do precision work, leveling, removing debris, and clearing the Way. If the Road Grader roars into your blank stare and begins widening your consciousness, don’t panic. Offer pastries and fuel.

“Now that’s some good advice,” Road Grader declares, slapping me on the back a little too vigorously.

“Ow!” I yell. “I’m not a monk in training. No hitting.”

“Sorry,” she says. “But I like having your attention.”

“Why?” I ask, still smarting from the slap.

“What else would you be paying attention to?” she asks.

I stall. She waits.

“Okay. Fine. My attention drifts to the sorry state of the world, my list of things to do, my ailments, and/or how to consume less sugar. I might even ruminate on revenge or rehearse edgy rebuttals. I can’t go around immersed in lovingkindness all the time.”

“Of course not. But you can go around making things a little easier for those in need.” Road Grader pats her lap and beckons. I climb aboard like a thrilled little kid. She won’t allow me to maneuver the levers that adjust the blade, but she lets me steer, and for hours, we level the playing field beneath us in deliberate, glorious circles.

“This might be my new calling,” I exclaim joyfully. “Just smoothing the way. Removing bumps.”

“Maybe,” Road Grader grins. “But don’t forget about backhoes. Digging in is fun, too.”

_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_

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Staring into the Fire

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

The singular life you’re living is an astonishment. A statistical improbability. And yet, here you are, doing what you’re doing. People are goose-stepping in a military parade in North Korea, singing alto in a choir in Kenya, or smoking weed in a field of daisies in the Alps. Someone is starving in Cuba, bombed out in Lebanon, or issuing psychotic threats designed to make the ultimate deal.

       “We like to think of y’all as one seething miracle,” God chuckles.
       “And I like to think of this hot mess as a rotting pile of shit. With the occasional shiny moment.”
       This cracks God up. After they catch their breath, they tell me, “It’ll all come out in the wash.”
       “What wash?” I ask.
       “The Wash of the Ages. The Blazing Baptism of Infinity.”
       “No one likes the sound of that,” I say. 
       “Listen anyway. And look directly at the fire.”

This particular moment, shiny or otherwise, is yours. It, too, is an astonishment. Lift your eyes from these words slowly. Stare straight into the void that is your future. Settle. Don’t cry. Don’t scream. Don’t laugh. Do nothing but warm your hands and be honest.
       “I’ve got four horsemen fleeing, three gods in waiting, two doves turned away at an artificial border, and one faithful moon reflecting every bloody thing.” God shrugs as if this is all passé. 
       “You’re being difficult this morning,” I complain. “Where’s your downy underbelly?”
       “You’re my downy underbelly.”
       “No. I want to be greatness and glory,” I protest. “Not soft.”
        “Everyone softens over time. But you must also be steady and brave.”

You’ve been sworn to a secrecy so wild and profound that it is beyond memory. Laced with magic, ladened with love. You once were and will again be a swirl of sparks and pigments. But for now, nothing has ever mattered so much as justice and mercy. Welcome your longings and ignorance, your power and fear. Tend to the prairies and the oceans. Temper your greed with compassion. Admire the mountains and the sun. Circle the moon. And wear your courage like armor over your tender heart.

*** *** ***

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Seven Versions of the Same Old Thing

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

I


“You again?” The eyebrows of the Infinite Sky are knit above me. I am small. Of little consequence. 
Another chicken has disappeared, but there are more where she came from.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Me again. I’m thirsty.” 
There are record highs and no rain. The heat has withered the emerging greens, 
and my succulent ideas are shriveling. 
These are dangerous times.

II

The tall walls I’ve built accuse me. They’re a dull off-white, marred with holes and history. 
Unclean. Cloying.
“Back off,” I tell them. “You know I’m well-intended.” 
I glance away because this isn’t always the case.

III

Each morning, there are crates of hours stacked in front of me. 
Some filled with false alarms. Some leaking impossible promises. The expiration dates are meaningless.

       The aroma of bacon. 
       The sizzle of eggs. 
       The sorrowful slaughter. 
       The entitled theft. 

These are the harvests required to feed the hungry. To feed us all.

IV

“Let’s get physical,” my smoldering creativity suggests in a husky whisper. 
My balance is precarious. Not to be trusted entirely.
“Nothing is to be trusted entirely,” the Singed Earth shrugs. “So what?”
“Could you help me get the ladder, then?” I ask. “Most of the rungs are imaginary.”

V

We step outside. The Wind is ferocious. Stones are rolling away. 
“Is this chaos by design?” I ask. My eyes sting as I peer through dust and ashes.
"It’s complicated,” The Wind answers. “What we once designed is now designing us."
“I understand,” I nod, leaning into each consecration, my shroud wound around me. 
If I loosened it, I could fly. But I stand firm, surveying the damage.

VI

The chaff has blown away, revealing a gash in the Beating Heart. 
A shimmering stream of violet flows toward the River.
Violet is the most intense color on the visual spectrum. I wish I were blind.
“Where should I put the tourniquet?” I ask the First Responders, thinking myself a reluctant hero.
"Not your job, sweetheart,” they laugh. “We do our own repairs. But your old walls could use some color.” 
We locate the ladder and drag it in.

VII

A wall at a time, I mutter as I put drop-cloths down. My brush is worn, hands unsteady. 
Straight lines are no longer an option, and violet cannot be created by mixing old paint. 
I find refuge in curves and purple, rowdy resurrections, 
and all those Nascent Invisibilities yet to come.




*****

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Geraniums

Rita Sommers-Flanagan9 Comments

A devoted Buddhist once told me that he practices dying every night. Due to his oddly belligerent demeanor I didn’t ask for details. But it gave me ideas.

To die well requires less practice and more conscious forethought. A laissez-faire attitude toward mortality is common. But “dealing with things” long before your time comes is a kindness to the planet and your beloveds.

For instance, embalming fluids hold your placid smile in place for viewing, but they eventually leak out, and they’re poison. Sadly, though less toxic and land-consuming, cremation adds around 550 pounds of carbon dioxide to your carbon footprint.

So my newest idea involves compost (I hear my loved ones sighing, “Of course, it does.”) But they’ll thank me someday. I have a plan, and it’s simple.

My favorite quilter will help me create a colorful body wrap with handles and bright yellow ties to ease the burden of moving me to my chosen resting place.

There’s a boggy spot just behind the open-faced calving shed on the family ranch. It has a magical circle of aspen. As a child, I recognized this was a thin place between worlds. With any luck, I’ll die while the ground is warm and active, so a small backhoe can dig a shallow hole.

When I first began my own “dealing with things,” I had my friend built a coffin of rough-cut lumber, but now I realize that coffins are unnecessary. Cotton cloth is enough. I want the fewest barriers possible between me and the rich, good earth.

I want nothing to impede the dissolution or the dream.

My brooding seems to trigger the Not-God. “What about a headstone, you fool?” she shrieks. “How will your offspring find you in times to come?”

My Coauthor and I surround her with understanding arms, and the purple bruising of fear fades to ivory. We hold each other safe in the center of the Holy Dialectic. “My offspring have already found me,” I tell the Not-God. “And I them.”

In her clear contralto, my Coauthor begins to sing, “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.” The Not-God covers her ears and shouts, “What will you do with that coffin, then? And all those stones you’ve gathered?”

I turn toward into the Shadow that she inhabits. “I’ve been lining the Path with smooth stones for years. And my former coffin will make a beautiful planter. Someone gave me some geraniums, and I feel certain they will be easy to propagate.

“What colors?” the Not-God whimpers.

“All of the colors,” I smile. “Do you have a favorite?”

“Pink,” she brightens and grins like a child. “Hot, hot pink.”

—

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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.

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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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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