Tag: Mystical insights

Selfies

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

“Do you ever get tired of posing for selfies?” I asked the Creative Force of the Universe (CFU for short).

“Nah, I don’t mind selfies,” she answered, fluffing up some passing clouds as if she were gathering them for a pose. “But I struggle with the autographs. What can I possibly write that would make any difference? It’s all been said before.”

I shrugged. “Just tell people what they want to hear. Wish them well. That sort of thing.”

CFU shook her head. “I can’t. I feel this pressure to be honest.”

“And scare the poop out of them? Make them angry and defensive? Good plan.”

I gazed out the window, hoping CFU wasn’t planning to be honest with me anytime soon.

“Hey, the truth is more complex than that. Why do you always assume the worst?” she asked.

“It might be complex, but there are some hard realities that a lot of people, including me, don’t want to face. It’s the suffering and our role in all the troubles. And then, sometimes, when I work up the courage to tell the truth, it’s misunderstood or twisted and used against me.”

“I see your point,” CFU nodded. “That happens to me, too. It’s awful. And that’s exactly why I’m hesitant to do autographs.”

 Another silence ensued.

“What are you doing at midnight?” she finally asked.

“Sleeping,” I answered in a cool voice.

It sounded like she was asking me out. We’ve dated off and on. It’s never gone well, but we keep trying.

“Too bad,” she said. “It’s going to be a clear night if you happen to be awake. I’ll be stargazing on the deck.

Almost despite myself, I slipped out at midnight and stared up into the fiery blanket of infinity.

“Hello, little consciousness!” CFU greeted me joyfully, throwing succulent September air around my shoulders. “I dressed up in case you decided to join me. We could take some selfies if you have the right equipment.”

“Well, I don’t,” I shrugged as I settled in. “My lenses are all cracked and distorted.”  

“Who cares?” she exclaimed, flinging her arms so wide they sent a few stars tumbling. “I’ll remember this night forever.”

“Oh, good grief,” I laughed, tickled as hell. “Sometimes your exuberance is a little over the top.”

“I know,” she sighed dramatically. “Once in a while, the Northern Lights almost do me in.”

Knucklehead

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

(For Pete)

Today, Class, we are discussing the term knucklehead.

Put your hands out, palms down,
fingers stretched wide,
and observe the miracle of the knuckle.
Bend your fingers into claws and pretend you are a cat.
Make fists. Punch the air. Right jab. Left jab.
Lie down on the ground, palms up.
Let the hands relax into that easy gentle curl
of knuckles at rest.

Our bodies are a plethora
of joints, ligaments, tendons, and cartilage,
a sinewy mass of soft tissue and bone,
skull held aloft by spine
sheltering the heavy gray matter
of God and similar cogitations.

And thus, Class, we combine knuckle and head.
This is a joke. You may laugh.

Ha ha, chuckles my star student,
the God of Some Sort, the one
who is always studying me.

Some Sort continues. May I suggest we include
arthritis and dementia in the curriculum?

No, you may not, I answer crisply.
But then I realize this is inevitable.

Wait. Yes, We can include the underbelly.
But YOU have to own it.
Own the disease. The deterioration.
Own the porosis, the vertigo.
Own the broken. Own the pain.
Own the death.

Some Sort responds, firm. Unafraid.
No Problem, Knucklehead,
I’m right there. It’s my pain, too, you know.
My design. My fire.
My death. I own it.
I nod. Not elated. Not defeated.

Class dismissed, I write on the board
in dusty blue chalk.

The God of Some Sort and I begin
a vigorous cleaning of the erasers
and the world disappears
in a cloud of bluish haze.

Estate Planning

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

“I’ve been updating my will,” God said the other day.

I wrinkled my nose. Estate planning is no one’s idea of fun, and I react negatively when the subject is mentioned. But then I did a double take. “You’re doing WHAT?”

It was confusing, not to mention deeply troubling, to think of Alpha, Omega, Parent, Child, and Still Small Voice documenting their final wishes. Who are the heirs? And what would these heirs do if they inherited creation because The Creator ceased to exist?

“Like we said, we’re doing some estate planning,” they said. “We have a long list of nonprofits to consider.”

“Is this some kind of game?” I asked. Occasionally, God uses absurdity to make a point.

God chuckled and kept typing.

I persisted. “Look, you’re a lot of things, but mortal isn’t one of them. By definition, whoever or whatever you are is forever, right?” My voice had gone from suspicious to panicky.

God ignored my uncertainty and asked. “What would you like to inherit?”

I hate questions like that. I hemmed and hawed, aware of a selfish longing to inherit everything, but unwilling to admit it. Instead, I said, “You know, someone once said that the meek would inherit the earth.” Then I added with a grin, “Luckily, I’m not that meek.”

 God grinned back. “Maybe we should change that so the liars and greedy inherit what’s left of the planet. But that’s not what I asked. What do you want?”

I backed away. The God of the Hardest Questions backed away with me.

I stopped, aware of some rising indignation. “The gifting goes both ways, you know. Once, I gave you everything. And you returned it to me slightly stained, but basically untouched.”

“Ah. So that’s how you remember it?” The Many Faces asked. “That’s funny. We forget how linear and language-bound you are right now.” Then they sang a little ditty.

Everything is yours.

Everything is mine.

Everything is nothing.

And everything is fine.

“Oh, that’s so cute,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “When all else fails, write a little poem. Sing a little song.”

“All else hasn’t failed, Little Buddy,” God said. “Relax.” Then they began to sing again.

Finish this parable.

Be of good cheer.

Decorate your coffin.

Drink your beer.

“Sure thing, Skipper,” I lifted my glass, took a long sip of the inexplicable, and in my last edit, added, “If you ever do kick the bucket, I’d like to inherit your irony.”

“Sure thing,” God laughed and hit the Save button. “It’s all yours.”

Who’s Vetting This Damned Mess?

Rita Sommers-Flanagan11 Comments

Here’s how vetting works: Unbiased authorities carefully examine the basis of claims and issue a verdict of accurate, unlikely, or bullshit to help average citizens determine what to believe. When we decide not to trust credentialed authorities, we are prone to mistake our opinions for facts and our personal beliefs for reality.

But there’s a painful tension between belief and reality. Believing a falsehood doesn’t make it true. Or does it? The placebo effect is powerful. Maybe it’s possible to believe lies into reality.

“Excuse me,” God says.  “Could you give us a minute?”

My ancestors, friends, and readers slip out of the conference room in my head and quietly shut the door. I’m alone with an edgy God.

“Now listen,” God says. “Blind faith is dangerous. Some people think there is such a thing as ‘the word of God.’ Maybe. Maybe not. But I am not the Great Vetter in the Sky. You’ve got to vet things yourselves.  It’s relatively simple…”

I hold up my hand. “Let me stop you right there. Nothing is simple or straightforward about seeking the truth, and you know it.”

“You have education, language, and history,” God says.

I frown. “Yeah, right. And there are people who deliberately teach lies.”

 “But you have scientific methodologies,” God says.

I glare. “And we have science deniers. There are billions who don’t believe in the existence of germs and think carbon dating is from the devil.”

“Well, good grief. You have common sense,” God says.

I shake my head. “Nah. We believe that which is convenient or matches our needs or leanings. Con artists do quite well politically and financially.”

“But you’ve got eyes and ears and beating hearts,” God says in a firm and final voice.

 He packs his briefcase. I stand at attention, eyes wide open, hand over heart while the honor guard of God marches by.

Then I pull my hand down and stare at it. What, exactly, was I saluting? My feet take me to the garden. My eyes behold the dry brown hills and smoke-filled skies. I dig into the honest dirt and listen for the pulse of reality, raw and unhindered.

Bullshit breaks down and fertilizes tender green things. What goes around comes around. It is the earth itself who will do the final vetting.

“Sorry I was so harsh. We are helping where we can,” the Creator whispers from a sad, small space under the chokecherries.

“I know, Precious,” I whisper back to the Bleeding Heart of the Universe. “Of that, I am sure.”

Glue Us In, Baby

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

Three years ago, sudden and massive waters dropped a generous array of boulders near the newly cut riverbank. I’ve rolled these stones into a labyrinth and placed a recycled angel named Mary Magdalene at the center. Her arm fell off occasionally, but a fellow angel stopped by and glued it permanently in place.

Rafters appreciate Mary as they drift by, snapping thin lines through the air, hoping to catch and release innocent trout. Darth Vader and the Hulk stand guard, and I’ve added reading glasses.

Lately, besides sticks, stones, and angels, I’ve been drawn to shattered mirrors, discarded jewelry, and certain words–the ones used to deliver sucker punches: Bastard (someone born to an unwed mother); Bitch (a female dog); Fuck (to make love); God (a concept used to elevate oneself and control others).

“Wait!” God exclaims. “Don’t put us on that list.”

 I shrug. “You put yourselves on.”

“Hmmm. Well then, we’re taking ourselves off.”

“Good luck,” I shrug again. “I cross you off. You crop back up.”

“Fascinating,” God says. “What’s that about?”

“Consciousness. We’re at war. URGES. LIES. Still small voices. It’s Jiminy Cricket vs. Pleasure Island. We don’t want to humble ourselves and do the work necessary to be real.”

I step back from my collage and admire how the jagged and the smooth interact. The reconfigured shards reflect my splintered image.

“We love what you’ve done with your imperfections,” God says.

 “I rather like being cracked and shiny,” I admit. “Is that okay with you?”

An explosion of unadulterated laughter threatens to jiggle things loose. The glue isn’t quite dry.

“Mind?” God howls and contorts into a string of Mardi Gras beads, baubles, bones, and tubes of epoxy. “Glue us in, baby,” they chant. “Glue us in and hang us down near Mary.”

“But it’s dangerous down there. Floods. Trespassers. Unrelenting sun,” I warn.

In fact, my angel’s outer layer is peeling from constant UV exposure, and I could lose her to flooding or vandalism.

 “Then hang us high,” they laugh. “We’ve seen a flood or two in our day.” They begin singing an old camp tune. “You put your right arm in. You put your right arm out, you put your right arm in…. Let’s go!”

 I throw my arm over God’s shoulder, and we croon our way to the labyrinth. To Mary. To the river.

We put our whole selves in. We put our whole selves out. We put our whole selves in, and then we shake them all about. We do the hokey pokey, and we turn ourselves around.

And maybe. Just maybe, that’s what it’s all about.

Ecclesiastes for the Average Reader: A Tutorial

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

To everything, there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to eat chocolate, a time to eat greens. A time to float the river, a time to cut hay. A time to blame, a time to own up. A time to back away, a time to give it your all. A time to dig and a time to refrain from digging.

Reader, please provide your own examples of holding on or letting go. C’mon. You know:

But what’s the use? You grow up. You grow old. Your carefully arranged treasures will be donated or dumped. The shrubs will be misunderstood, and the thistles will return. The stove will backdraft, the colors will run. You’re on your own, and the cards are stacked against you. You are not different than the beasts of the field. And as beasts die, so will you.

Reader, please provide three (only three) examples of your existential despair:

You’re a phony, a caricature of sincerity, a grumbler, a whiner, a blamer. You’re a striver after the sun. You’ve lied, stolen things, and lusted after fame and fortune. You’ve coveted and secretly rejoiced at someone else’s misfortune. You build bad fences. Everyone should be on your side. They’re not. You repeatedly make the same stubborn mistakes, and you’re as vain as anyone you know. It’s all vanity. All of it. This might be a good thing. Might not.

Reader, please cheerfully list three of your own moral shortcomings:

At night, you rehash failings and exaggerate the dreadful demands of the coming day. You toss and turn, sweating through self-inflicted anxieties. You torture yourself with blame, fear, and discontentedness. You wish you had control of your mind. You wish you believed in magic. Finally, as you imagine walking the plank, you fall asleep. But then you have to pee.

Reader, please provide all the reasons everyone should party late into the night:

In the meantime, what’s the harm in trying? What’s the harm in resting? What’s the harm in hoping? What’s the harm in keeping your nose clean and your heart open? Sure, you haven’t gotten it all right, and you never will. You’re far from flawless or erudite. Things rarely work out entirely as you’d planned. Wisdom isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Now is the time to sigh and say “Ah, what the hell.” And the Teacher nods and says, “Seriously, what the hell?”

Reader, please shrug and provide your own what the hells. As many as you’d like:

Good work, dear one. It’s time for ice cream. Or not.  Next week, Revelations.

Strong Nuclear Force

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Earlier this week, God and I were deep into a discussion about the aptly named Strong Nuclear Force which is the force that holds subatomic quarks together and is thus responsible for the stability of matter. Because people often anthropomorphize God, I suggested that maybe she should change her name to Strong Nuclear Force. She pretended to consider this before concluding that she preferred other names, such as Lambkins, Alpha, Omega, or The Beloved.

The discussion ended, and the week steamrolled over me the way some weeks do. That brief exchange was unsettling, but I didn’t have time to revisit it. I barely had time to drink beer or exercise or contemplate how to save our tottering democracy. And the weeds took advantage of my frantic pace and went to seed as rapidly as they could.

I accept these harsh realities and the finite linearity of time. With what I consider to be enormous self-discipline, I’ve now seated myself in the old blue recliner, ready to center on the Center. The gardening and vacuuming will have to wait.

“So, you don’t have to go around calling yourself Strong Nuclear Force if you don’t want to,” I say, as my opening volley. “But I don’t like calling you those other names. Especially The Beloved. It sounds obsequious and weak.”

“No worries,” God smiles. “It’s just that I don’t like limiting myself. The nuclear scientists were quaking in their boots when they realized they could break the hold of the Strong Nuclear Force and set protons free. They wondered if once unleashed, the chain reactions would convert all matter to a kind of selfish, toxic energy that would end existence as you all define it.”

“And they detonated anyway,” I sigh. “We’re in so much trouble.”

“Yes, you are. You can see why the basics are so central, right?” God asks.

“Yeah,” I say, wondering which basics she means.

“Love,” she says.

“Too simple,” I say. “Undefined. Mushy. I don’t like that idea anymore. I want to roar and maim and shake people until their heads fall off.”

Strong Nuclear Force lifts her skirts and leaves.

The protons are free to crash.

The rich tell lies and steal from the poor.

The frightened arm themselves with weapons and hatred.

The young flounce. The old stiffen.

“Come back,” I yell. “You win. The Beloved is a fine name.”

“I always win,” she smiles.

“Maybe,” I say. “But that’s not readily apparent. Love is a tall order.”

“I know,” Lambkins says. “I’m often in disguise, but I’m taller than you think.”

Even in Dancing Shoes

Rita Sommers-Flanagan10 Comments

Even in dancing shoes, God can balance her energies, lean over, and suck the venom from a snakebite if she wants to. She can heal the sick, calm the angry, and comfort those grieving if she wants to. She can lift burdens, feed the hungry, visit prisoners, and welcome strangers if she wants to.

“Why are you writing these things?” God asks. “It’s weird and inaccurate.”

 “Aren’t they volitional acts?” I ask. “Don’t you have free will? How could this be inaccurate?”

Rather than make eye-contact, I look down at my fingernails. They’re ridged, uneven, and dirty.

God leaves.

Self-pity overwhelms me. Tears slither down into the unknown and regrettable while I endure the harsh odors and intrusive sounds of life going on. Going by. Going on.

There’s a vivacious spirit roaming the overgrown garden in the back. I’m drawn to the tangled jungle of native species, exotic transplants, and invasive weeds. The garden appears to need tending. If I knew what to attack and what to nurture, I would engage in the battle. I would pull weeds, spread compost, and drip pure water where it was needed. I would…

God returns, laden with serpents and migrants, criminals and emaciated children. “Move over,” she says. “There are more to come.”

“There’s no room,” I protest. “And no path. One thoughtless step could easily crush a strawberry, injure a fern, or break the slender stalk of an orchid.”

God looks at me and repeats, “Move over.”

“I can’t,” I shake my head. “I just can’t.”

But this isn’t true. Every moment, I grow smaller, and the cracks in the clay widen. There’s room.

“Are you a weed or a rose?” I ask.

God shifts her weight, impatient. “You’re stalling.”

“Are you perfection or process?” I persist.

“Stop dithering,” she says. “You still have time to bake something.”

I make a face and drag my tired body toward the kitchen.

“That’s the spirit,” God says. “Our guests would love a warm cookie or maybe a loaf of sourdough or pumpernickle.”

“Ah, c’mon,” I groan. “Enough! I don’t want to move over. I don’t want to break bread with the madding crowd. I suppose you want me to fry up a few fishes, too.”

“That’d be nice.” God laughs as she slides a pair of high-heeled tap shoes my direction.  “Your size?”

I hate high heels. I want my old red cowgirl boots. I want to hide in the oven with the cookies. I want to roll my life backwards. But I make myself try on these odd, uncomfortable-looking shoes.

“Just right,” I admit.

“I knew it!” she declares, reaching for my hand. “Let’s go.”

Flags

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

As consciousness ascends
the grin of the devil lingers.
My down comforter and fluffy pillows
smell like smoke.

I had intended to repair the tattered flag in the corner
but I see now that it cloaks the evil twins:
Blind allegiance and false promises.
Riches are blinders, not blessings.

A small plane drones through the dawn’s early light
strewing herds of animals hither and yon
for the pleasure of predators at the top of the chain.

“This is better than husking corn,” one of them says.

The corpses sanctify the trampled sod, now saturated with blood.
The resulting meals may justify giving thanks
but the trophies are pure vanity.

War is the thing to prepare for,
bodies the thing required.

“Not this pig,” wrote the poet
before passing to the place of all poems.
We nod to the sentiment, slicing ham
and chopping bacon bits for the salad.

Bless us, oh lord, and these thy gifts…
runs on automatic replay
as I watch people refuse to sign the petition
for reproductive rights.

I’m not fooled by false equivalencies. I sign.

To live is brief. To die is certain.
This lonely insight flays the rays of morning
into the arc of promised justice
I barely believe in anymore.

“Wake up, little one. You have Now,” the Rainbow says.
“And the gossamer of Indigo.”

“But Indigo has begun to unravel,” I protest.
“And I’ve lived too long as a parable to engage with Now.”

Silence.

I polish surfaces in the kitchen
hoping for an accurate reflection.
But the granite is forest green;
the dishwater, troubled; the beer, murky.

The Distortion laughing up at me is God.

“I hope you didn’t pull yourself together on my account,” I say.

“Of course I did,” the Distortion answers.
“No one can live on Indigo alone.”

Misperceptions

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Birds crash into our southern windows at (literally) breakneck speeds. A few die instantly. Some bounce and fly away, wobbly and mortally wounded. We’ve taken steps to mitigate these errors in bird judgment, but why, oh why does this happen in the first place?

“You can fool all of the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time. But you can’t fool all of the people all of the time,” Creator murmurs to herself, mesmerized by the old neckties fluttering outside our windows.

“Who said that?” I ask. “Abe Lincoln or P.T. Barnum?”

“Does it matter?  Birds get fooled. People get fooled. That’s a sad fact. Manipulating perception can be both profitable and fatal.”

“Profitable?” I asked.

“Duh,” Creator says. “Conspiracy theories sell guns. False claims sell addictive, brain-altering drugs. Naïve people, with inadequate media literacy, donate to malevolent causes or con artists. Birds swoop toward something they want, not realizing that the transparent barrier is a mirage of their desires.”

“I feel for the birds,” I say. “One time, I hit a side window so hard I fell to the floor in front of a restaurant full of people.”

“Did you blame the glass for being there? For being too clean?”

I grin a sheepish grin. “Nah,” I say. “But I wanted to.”

Creator smiles. “Well, well. There may be hope for humanity yet.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” I say, backing away. “Do not pin hope for humanity on me. Nope.”

“People have a tough time admitting their ignorance or misperceptions,” Creator continues, ignoring my disclaimer. “The evidence smacks them in the face, but they drum up far-fetched explanations and take another run. Even when they break their stiff necks, they blame the glass.”

My hand automatically goes to my neck, and I do some yoga stretches to keep it limber. Yes, I occasionally engage in denial and blame, but glass is glass. Doors are doors. Truth is truth. And one clear truth is that humans make mistakes.

“Course-corrections are possible,” Creator adds in a quiet, sad voice. “I realize humility is not a popular virtue, but you don’t have to keep flying into the glass.”

“Do you think the meek will actually inherit the earth?” I ask.

“I think so,” Creator answers. “But the steep cost of repairs will be as unnecessary as all those broken necks.”