Tag: Mystical insights

Familiars

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Photo credit: Anonymous Friend

My body is only vaguely familiar this morning. We greet each other suspiciously, as if one of us hails from the Deep State and the other from Nirvana. We shake hands, staring at our knobby knuckles and prominent veins, and try to agree on a reasonable plan for the day.

We’re joined by a Holy Threesome. My body and I glance at each other, wondering if we should genuflect or drop to our knees.

“Do you like the curled posture of prayerful supplicants? Knees bent, hands folded, head bowed?” we ask the Ubiquitous Coauthors.

“Not especially,” they shrug. “Reminds us of chained prisoners being shaved.”

“Did you hear that?” I ask my ears sarcastically. “Maybe they were just praying.”

My ears have become accustomed to hearing lies. Incredulity is our new constant.

We invite the Coauthors to join us for morning libations. All the Interdimensional Beings in the vicinity appear because the day is gray, and they have little to do. The Coauthors introduce my body and me as the hosts.

“And what are your names?” I ask as I pass around a plate of digestives.

They laugh. Crumbs fly from the communion table and the dogs happily lick them up.

My former selves also arrive uninvited. The supply of digestives, toast, and beer dwindles. My memories are conflicted, insights constrained, and my collective reach no longer exceeds my collective grasp. The raucous chatter irritates me.

“Quiet!” I demand. “I have a question for the Coauthors.”

I square my shoulders, face the Creative Force of the Universe, and ask, “Could you tell us the truth?”

“That’s a big ask,” they say. “Members of your species are busily denying history, science and common sense. Not sure what we can do about that.”

The Interdimensional Beings and my multiplicities gasp. “There has to be something you can do!” they shout.

The Coauthors shrug. My multiplicities look for ways to escape. The Beautiful Beings flap their wings, and panic shimmers in the heavy air. Our shared pulse is racing.

There’s a crash and then silence.

“I can’t breathe,” one of the Beings whispers.

My body remembers fainting when giving blood: the shrinking of my visual field, the removal of the tangible, the fight to fill my lungs.

We surround the Being. It’s a bird with a broken neck. The Glass it crashed into was not visible, but it was real. Is this the truth I asked for? The harsh realities of cause and effect?

“Where will you go now that you’ve shattered?” we asked the Being. Her body is disintegrating, her wings no longer discernable.

“Home,” the Being said. “Supper at six. See you then.”

Neuropathy

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

Photo copied from random internet search

The cold hands of March are not easily forced into the welcoming shape of April. March is in denial about her advancing neuropathy, made worse by the chemicals of decay around her. She pretends to be warm and comfortable, but she’s not.

With a pointed glance, the God of the Floral Sofa tries to shame me for dust, crumbs, and smears of yogurt. “No!” I glare and turn up the music. Thanks to a blogger managing Opal’s Farm in Texas, I recently discovered James McMurtry. I don’t love country music, but an old cowboy dressed in drag to protest the absurdities of the small-minded, hard-hearted Neanderthals among us is worth a listen.

The Beloveds on Okinawa gather each year to pray for peace and health. On Easter Sunday in 1945, a battle began there that would end three months later with 200,000 people dead.

“How many enemies? How many friends?” God asks.

“That’s a false distinction,” I snap.

“Yes. But remember, you’re a false distinction,” God laughs. “And so am I.”

I gather my blankets and beer and sink into the Dark Place. False distinctions parade by in cosmic drag: Life/Death. Love/Hate. Evil/Good. Black/White/Red/Yellow. The air is thick with unexpressed longings. I can’t breathe. Hunger smolders from the sunken eyes of nursing mothers. My own well-fed eyes sting like crazy, but I can’t seem to cry.

Without being requested to do so, my phone organizes my photos into artificial themes so banal I am appalled. The shallow joy, the uncritical eye—these uninvited invasions attempt to pacify and define my little life. But I resist. “Isn’t that your job, God?” I sneer. “Define and pacify my little life.”

“Yes. Absolutely,” Floral Sofa nods. “But no.”

I am terrified by the erosion of compassion around me. Neuropathy of the soul, caused by willfully telling or believing lies, is epidemic.

The ship of which I am captain has sailed. I’m floating over a sea of faces that, like the Mona Lisa, have been artistically blurred, thus removing the sharp lines most of us need to recognize ourselves. We are rendered ambivalent. Our feet flop when we walk, and falls are more frequent. “Take heart, Little Life,” Floral Sofa whispers. “It is in the falling that you find salvation.”

“That’s not the way I want to be saved,” I answer angrily.

“Oh, but I think it is,” the Sofa says. “Either way, I’ll be around.”

I sip my beer, pull my blankets tighter, and plan my elaborate but futile escape.

Delusions to Die By

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Though historians may beg to differ, it seems that humans have never been this close to self-annihilation. While wars rage and the earth gets trashed, the most pressing moral inquiry of the masses is this: “How can I get a better deal?”

A derisive snort and mocking applause announces The Presence in the corner.

“Hello, Holy Contradictions,” I mumble.

What I tease into words in the murky dawn might be the wind or a mouse scratching in the wall, but I feel certain something beyond is lurking in the cosmos. I offer greetings most mornings.

“Good day,” HC says, emerging from chimera to full status as a citizen unto itself. It has wings. It has legs. It has a beating, bleeding heart. “You aren’t wrong,” it adds from a perfectly formed mouth.

“You mean my sarcastic comment about the morality of acquisition? The Art of the Deal? Or the nearness of extinction?”

“It’s all rooted in selfish genes and the wrong-headed notion of survival of the fittest,” HC says with scorn. “You think you want fat lives, herd immunity, and evidence of superiority as indicated by possessions and an address on Easy Street.”

“True,” I admit. “That does sound good. Makes me want to be the fittest.”

HC snorts again. “Have you thought that through? C’mon. You’ve got the brain power to get beyond your genes. In the end, the Fittest will stand armed, paranoid, and alone. The winner of the rat race is a rat.”

“Nice platitudes,” I say. “Got a better way?”

HC shrugs. “Stop deluding yourself. No one survives. It’s Now that counts.”

“Thanks,” I snap. “I feel so much better.”

“The ultimate measure of fitness is how you love and protect the unfit. It’s time to break the light into itself, hold the Face of Anger in your hands, and let her bite you.”

My hands are fisted. “You are certifiably nuts,” I say in a low, edgy voice.

“And you are certifiably angry,” HC says with authority.

“Yeah. So, I’m supposed to bite myself?”

HC nods. “And hold the Faces of Joy and Justice but be careful. They’re elusive and explosive.”

“You’re seriously insane,” I say. “I can’t do any of this.”

“Oh, but you can,” HC insists, not at all sympathetic. “Hold all the Faces of Insanity in your hands and let them bite the hell out of you.”

I stare at my weathered hands. The biting has begun.

“I’d rather hold your face,” I plead, frightened.

“Oh, my little mosquito!” HC says gently. “What do you think you’re doing?”

A grim hilarity takes hold. I slap myself silly, and for now, we get on with it.

In Sheep’s Clothing

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

News flash: There’s a deadly outbreak of malice spreading rapidly. We’re all at risk. The Belt of Truth is too tight on our fat bellies. We’ve armed ourselves with swords of scorn and hatred. Most days, I am sick with fear.
  
“Ice cream?” God offers. “Roses? Chocolate? A little nap?” 
I make the sign of the cross and turn away. 
She continues, “Wanna shoot some hoops? How ‘bout them Celtics?”
“Leave me alone. Go smite someone or something,” I say. “I’ll help.”

“Nah. That’s nonsense,” she laughs. 
“As I’ve explained many times, I don’t smite. 
That’s all projection, poetry, and myth.”
“But doesn’t it matter?” I argue. “Isn’t something true?”
“Well, yes, fables have morals, and there is such a thing 
as poetic justice,” God agrees and rambles on.

“But that’s like when you trust a dead branch 
and it breaks. Chicken Little was not famous for laying eggs, 
and the boy who cried wolf missed his cue.”

“Did I miss my cue?” I ask. I’m dizzy.
 
A cold wind has picked up, 
distorting the faint clarion call I’ve been straining to hear.
It sounds like a flute.
“Tune it out,” God says.
“It’s the seduction of ravenous rats. 
And there are self-anointed royalty riding golden calves,
herding innocent swine into the sea. 
It’s a rave. A goddamn rodeo.”
 
The ordinary disintegrates as the storm intensifies. Finally, God is joined by God. And God. They’re closing the Interstate, rerouting traffic onto narrow byways. Rusting tanks and trucks stalled with rotting food aid line both sides of the road. It’s not scenic. Drivers look straight ahead to avoid these views, but even now, there are children playing in the streets. It takes skilled swerving to avoid catastrophe.

I’m driving our oldest vehicle, a Chevy from the 60s.

“Get in,” I shout to the Gods and the children.“We’re making a break for it.”
They pile in, and I stomp on the gas. 
Our necks snap as the Chevy lifts off and we achieve cruising altitude.
“Ouch!” the Gods complain. “Whiplash!”
“Oh yeah?” I flash a sinister smile. “I’ll show you whiplash.” 
I tilt the wheel straight down, and we plummet back to earth.

We crash land in Gaza. Sudan. Ukraine. Congo. 
We smash into infirmaries and food banks with empty shelves. 
We crawl out, wounded and dead.
The sky has fallen.

Chunks of heaven are thundering toward Gomorrah 
and the Fat Boy is screaming WOLF
while the wolves remove their bonnets 
and fling their sheep’s clothing aside.

It is time to gather at the river, 
wash the discarded wool, 
spin the yarn, 
and knit ourselves back together. 
It’s going to be a long, cold winter.

The Big Bang

Rita Sommers-Flanagan12 Comments

The Big Bang slammed me awake last night. I leapt up, disoriented by the interplay of light and dark.

“Where’s that damn cloaking device?” The Voices of God bellowed as they rushed around the cosmos, causing huge dust storms and limited visibility. “There are incoming attributions and false narratives. Cheap bombs, shrapnel, black holes, and clusterfucks. Get under the bed and dig, baby, dig.”

In times like these, God never makes literal sense, but the urgency was palpable. I grabbed a robe and raced for the hills. Everything was coming apart. Suffering shimmered in the frigid air, obscuring the path, garbling the few words that meant anything.

The ark capsized. Creatures great and small swam to shore and thundered uphill behind me, trying to escape inbound tsunamis of ignorance and the cruel waves of degeneration. God’s hair was on fire, flames licking the heavens dry.

I tossed the cloaking device to the Creators and shouted, “Get out while you can.”

God disappeared into a flock of starlings that lifted from tree to sky, rejoicing. Their seamless undulations blocked the sun, blinding everyone below. Soldiers on both sides dropped their guns, and we wrapped ourselves in white. There was nothing left to do but lie flat and let the earth cradle our slim and innocent hopes.

To God, we are an exotic species, endangered and angular. We bend light and draw fire in unpredictable ways. As singularities, we’ve been extinct from the beginning, but in limited multiplicities, we eke out tenuous lives in tents pitched on the banks of an ever-rising river.

“Who are you?” a curly-haired child tugged on my sleeve; brown eyes luminescent. Green eyes, piercing. Blue eyes glinting black. The child was hungry but did not ask for food.

“What are you doing?” an old man demanded, his beard blazing red, his legs blown off. It seemed clear that I did not meet with his approval.

“Are you my father?” I whispered, frightened by the familiarity of it all. “Are you my child?”

The cloaking device deactivated. The scales fell from my eyes. The child ate. The old man laughed and slapped my back. The starlings landed and began nesting in the warm cleavages of Abraham’s lovers: Hagar; Sarah; Keturah. Other Mothers appeared: Adishakti; Mary; Kali; Maya; and of course, and always, Grandmother Eve.

“So many Mothers in one place,” I said. “You’re in big trouble.”

“I can handle it,” the Idea of God waved dismissively. “Go back to sleep.”

I grabbed the weathered hands and shook my head. “You’re going to need some help. I’m staying.”

Grandmother patted the bench beside her. “It won’t be long either way,” she smiled. “Suit yourself.”

A Thousand Hands

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 
 
A Thousand Hands woke me, waving feather dusters, exasperated. 
“We're forever cleaning up after you”
“That’s rich!” I said. “I could say the same about you.”
“Oh, don’t even try that ‘blame God’ thing. 
We’re not responsible for these terrible messes.”
“How about the raw material? Where’s all the dust come from?”
I asked. But I already knew.

A Thousand Hands grabbed my hands and stared at my palms. 
“We see a long, productive life. Children. Soulmate. Gardens and compost piles. 
Students. Eight or nine remodels. Trees. Books. Friends. 
Logs. Dogs. Pigs. Sticks. Stones…an unwieldy number of stones.”
I grinned and pulled my hands back to look for myself. 

A Thousand Hands turned palms up. I gasped.
“I see glaciers melting. The beautiful quaking of planets,” I said. 
“I see moons rising over the pockmarks of black holes and mass graves. 
There are streams of gleaming molecules ascending, 
my own and those of everything, ever.” 
I glanced skyward. “You aren’t safe in any way, are you?”

A Thousand Hands knit their fingers together, creating shelter over my head. 
Deep lines crisscrossed the firmament, blocking the ordinary sun. 
The only light remaining was the radioactive residue of the unrevealed.
“No. Not safe in any way,” A Thousand Hands agreed. 
Ominous shadows fell hard around the edges.
.
“I’m a little bit afraid,” I said.
“So are we,” the Hands admitted. “And weary to the bone. But we’re not giving up.”
“Why not?” I asked. “The messes are getting worse.”
“It’s the role-model thing,” they smiled. “We’re setting a good example.”

And it was evening. And it was morning. But I had lost count of the days.

Because I’m preoccupied about planning for the end, 
I’ve surveyed the old homestead 
and chosen a spot to decompose. 
But until recently, I was unaware 
that family pets were already buried there. 
Turns out, when the time comes, I’ll be surrounded by well-loved bones.

“You already are.” A Thousand Hands squeezed my corporeal shoulders, 
knuckles cracking so loud I thought the house had caught fire. 
“Now let’s finish cleaning so we have time to play.”

“Fine,” I said. “What shall we play?” 
“Handball,” They declared, gleefully slapping a thousand thighs.
“Not funny.” I shook my head.
“C’mon, sport,” They teased. “You’ll have the home court advantage.”

I nodded toward my rock collection. In the dead of winter, 
thin layers of ash collect on the rugged surfaces, blurring the subtle distinctions. 
We grabbed a thousand rags and scrubbed until the stones floated home
in interstellar joy.

"Time to play," the Hands declared. And I agreed. 
It was time to play.

Mean People

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Sitting with my half-beer and laptop after a bad night’s sleep puts me in touch with my lack of girth or influence, and I long to escape to Mexico or India or anywhere of color. I need the distraction of vibrancy.

Bullies and idiots are at the helm of the Mothership, humanity is sinking toward extinction, and I take up way too little space to make a difference. Mean people are grabbing whatever they want with impunity, but it’s  never enough. They will die hungry. I’m afraid we will all die hungry.

“Did you put meanness in our DNA?” I ask a gathering of Wiser Ones, among them the Wily Coyote, the Matriarch Elephant, the Eager Beaver, and the Seductive Holy Turkey Buzzard.

“Probably,” they admit. “Design flaw?”

“DUH!!” I exclaim. “How do you like it when someone slugs you in the gut? Twists your words? Belittles you? Steals your lunch money?”

They confer. I wait.

Finally, Mother Lion reports. “We don’t know if we like it. If someone is mean to us, we eat them. It’s all about transformation.”

“Yeah,” the Elder Sea Turtle adds. “They taste funny, but we hardly ever get sick.”

“Well, have I got a meal for you!” I declare. “A banquet.”

“Sorry. We’re not hungry,” they say. “Besides, we’re being deported.” They stampede away, kicking up golden heels, flapping iridescent wings.

If only mortals could exit like that, I say to myself. I envision a meal of roasted bully. Minced meanie. My stomach churns. Clearly, cannibalism isn’t the answer. But I do wish our short lives could end in kindness. Fulfilled.

I take another swig of the dimly lit substance I think of as soul. It’s dark and fermented. Various human mutations are duking it out in the roped-off ring of evolution. The meek always appear to be losing, but meekness has several adaptive attributes. Occasionally, bullies go down for the count, and the Referees call it for compassion.

When this happens, the Netherworld Pep Band strikes up a rousing rendition of Sweet Georgia Brown, and all manner of heavenly hosts storm the dance floor, shaking their booties, hooting with joy.

On these rare occasions, I dress myself in purple and try to squeeze through the eye of the needle to join the party, but the log in my eye is often too big.

“Let us help you,” the Little Bouncers offer.

If I manage to nod, my vision clears, and I am allowed to enter the cosmic celebration, regardless of how small I feel. Once there, I always notice that even the big are very, very small.

What to Pack

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

What’s your favorite Bible verse? The Still Small Voices asked.

Are you crazy? I answered. Leave me alone.
May we suggest Father forgive them for they know not what they do?
No, you may not, I said. No.
How about Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord?
Depends, I said. What do you have in mind?

This is a fetus, not a child, sayeth the Lord. And this is a child, not a weapon. 
This planet is not a mercantile, and the least among you are starving.
You have access to clean water and compassion, but you’re choosing hate.
Vastly greedy fools are lifting glasses to their own demise. 
The lights are on, but soon, and very soon, no one will be home.

Do you think I am unaware of these things? I asked, the dog in my lap, warm.
 
You’ve gotten too big for your britches, They said. You make us laugh.
And you’ve gotten too small to matter, I answered. So go ahead. Laugh.
They began to sing. Let us laugh with the wren and walrus, the willow, the whale.
I had a sudden change of heart. Laugh with me, I begged.
Nah, They said. You’re not that funny.

But you said I made you laugh. You contradict yourselves.
That we do, the jovial Voices admitted. That we do.
And you’re obviously pleased with yourselves, I added.
That we are. The Voices agreed. That we are.
What about me? I whined. Can’t you be pleased with me?

Are you pleased with yourself? The Voices asked, sly as devils. Are you a forgiver?

But how do I forgive when no one is sorry? I asked, sullen.
They shrugged. The sky slipped from their shoulders, pooling blue at their feet.
All the world’s a stage, They said. And everyone stands naked at the end.
Forgiveness will flow like lava, burn like cheap bourbon,
and the party will end in ashes.

The airstrikes began again. The Voices gathered their belongings
and joined the surging throng of refugees and overburdened donkeys. 
Don’t go, I whispered.      Come with us, They said.     I shook my head,
but I knew eventually, I would. We are all fleeing something.
Some of us linger. Some look back. Some don’t.

My favorite is Jesus wept, I shouted at their vanishing outlines. Jesus wept.


The Light in Your Feet

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments


The properties of light are complex, like the bones in your feet.
All streams flow to the sea, so the wise ones grow more secretive. Discreet.
They disguise the halting steps, callouses, and short, distorted dreams.

It takes a practiced eye to spot the game and take aim. The cleanest shot
is often a long line of honking geese, gliding unaware of their bodies
as sustenance or warmth. Long necks slice thin air, innocent. Provocative.

Is the twinkle in God’s eye First Light? Does the venom of the snake create
the ache that comes from walking home? I mean the long ways home,
the ways of those beloved or betrayed, afraid to be together, afraid to be alone.

First rights of refusal come with dawn, but the last rights of twilight are bereft.
The fall of night allows us to exchange the little we have left,
and our eyes adjust so few of us plummet to sure death. Just yet.

The light you see at midnight has traveled a long time.
Its name is love, its only crime, refusing to be known. So beautiful,
the feet of those who bring good news, who bring the light.

Goose down fills our rainbow-colored coats, and our lamps are thus defiled
with scented oil. Winter has arrived across our shoulders. We’re blinded
by the light across the snow, but the demons in our feet are bound by joy.

So do not be afraid, you weary hobos. Our blessings are a song with bitter words.
We’re nourished by the plants we thought were weeds. Oh, may our days be long,
our feet be strong upon this land. This day. This light. These feet.


Amen

The Humble Pinky

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

Our planet and our better ways of being continue to evolve primarily because of pinky fingers bravely stuck in dangerous holes. The nasty waters of ignorance and greed are thus momentarily, but only momentarily, held at bay.

All dikes and dams eventually fail, and when they do, those trying to help are slimed, tossed about, and contaminated. Ground is lost and only rarely regained. If you wish to do some good in your lifetime, learn to swim in sewage.

“C’mere,” whispers the Supplier of All Pinkies. “Let me clean that mud off your face.”

“Probably not mud,” I admit, embarrassed. “It’s likely chocolate. I’ve been sucking down chocolate so fast that sometimes, I lose control. Good chocolate melts at body temperature.”

The Hound of Heaven licks my face and nods. “Yeah, it’s chocolate.”

I put my hands over my eyes, trying to make it all go away. No luck. The hands come down, palms up in surrender. I stare at the angular pinkies. Such humble, powerless appendages. On its own volition, the left pinky waves. My entire right arm twists to wave back.

The Universe gently takes both hands. Mortal bones glow in the piercing gaze of the Magnificent.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” I ask. “A very bad ship has sailed. We’re awash in human failings.”

“Yes, the ship has sailed,” the Universe agrees. “The ship has always sailed, and it’s always over. That’s not the question.”

Mournful cries of mothers and fathers rise like the scent of decomposing leaves, and the paths of least resistance are worn bare. Tall grass hides the bodies of soldiers, terrified and soon to be sacrificed.

“There are seasons,” the Universe says. “A time for swimming lessons. A time to swim.”

“I’ve had too many blessings,” I say, as the dark storm rolls in.

 I run for the shed filled with life jackets, fishing gear, matches, paper, wood, and goggles. The driving rain stings like bullets. I slip and fall. The shed lifts, breaks, and floats away.

“I got nothing,” I shriek to the fading Universe. “Nothing, nothing, nothing.” 

But in my hand, I find a chocolate bar. The label claims the cocao beans were not harvested by slaves.

“Eat it slowly and cry. Salt preserve things beyond their expiration date,” the Universe murmurs.

“That’s it?” I say, incredulous. This cannot be all. This cannot be right. I look down. I’ve grown very thin. The ancestors are relocating. They wave from distant horizons, inviting me along.

“I’m staying a while longer,” I yell. “I have opposable thumbs and a bit of chocolate left to savor.”  

Then I dog paddle into the murky water, hoping to find my goggles. Hoping to find my way.