Tag: Mystical insights

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.”

The One-Eyed Chicken

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

The one-eyed chicken turns her good eye towards me, poised to pounce on the moldy cheese I intend to scatter for our flock of five. In terms of pecking order, I doubt she’s at the top, but she’s held her own, foraging and evading predators for months now. I drop chunks of mozzarella well within her visual field and cheer her on.

Each morning, I render thoughts, words, and prayers the way lard is rendered from the carcasses of the beautiful pigs. I endure the heat of certain realities, stirring the hot mess around in the cauldron of my mind, watching impurities rise to the surface. To those in charge of assigning value, the one-eyed chicken might be classified as an impurity and skimmed off the top. But I’ve hung around with The Idea long enough to realize that the one-eyed chicken is not an impurity. She might actually be the purest expression of meaning available.

I don’t know how she lost that eye. I don’t know how it is that humans lose their way and kill each other. We are frightened and ashamed of our perceived inadequacies. Life seems wildly unfair. We’re lonely. Despite warning signs and alarm bells, we continue to accumulate possessions as if they will save us. We don’t realize we’re gathering floatation devices that push us to the surface where our fatal impurities will be most obvious.

And there it is.

We cannot save ourselves, and this makes us go a little crazy. Will humanity survive the adversarial urges that elevate winners and denigrate losers? Can we decenter ourselves enough to relax into being an ever-evolving, transitory, fraction of The Idea?

Botox doesn’t make us younger. Wealth does not make us worth more. Denial doesn’t change the truth. Fame does not make us immortal. We are loved, as is, by The Idea—a fertile complexity that in the end, renders us as wordless and dependent as the day we were born. The Idea that birthed us is in perpetual danger. It must be hell to watch us gorging on toxic delicacies to prove her wrong. Or prove her right. But The Idea needs no proof. We’re the ones who need proof, so we make things up. False justifications and worthless guarantees.

For now, the one-eyed chicken still lays eggs, which of course, proves nothing.

And everything.

My Way or the Highway

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

Arguing is easier than listening, even internally. It’s hard to ask myself why I believe what I believe and then to admit that sometimes, I just believe what I want to believe, whether it’s true or not.

And sadly, I’m not alone. Being wrong can be so devastating that even in the face of serious contradictory evidence, people will defend themselves to the point of absurdity, poisoning conversations and relationships as they dig ever deeper holes.  

“Are you including me in this scathing indictment?” Big Guy asks.

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

“Well, that’s just wrong,” he says, chuckling.

I give him a phony smile. “Tell me more,” I say, sidestepping conflict with my excellent listening skills.

“You don’t have excellent listening skills,” Big Guy counters. “And I won’t tell you more until you’re ready.”

“I’ll be the judge of when I’m ready,” I say, arms crossed, temper flaring.

“And that’s what I fear the most,” he sighs. “You, judging. You, thinking you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?” I ask, but I’ve lost track of my original premise. Arguing with Cosmicity is disorienting. Big Guy continues to chuckle, which is not helpful.

 I hate the thought of being gullible. Or wrong. My protective cloak of self-righteousness has worn spots. I need to be dead right about something. Anything. What if I’ve wasted my life swinging like Tarzan from belief to belief, only to have the final vine break? What if I’m a naïve fool? What if I grow bitter for erroneous reasons? What if I’ve leaned the ladder of success against a false wall? What if I’ve taken too many supplements all these years?

Big Guy is howling, holding his gut, peeing his pants. “You’re the best, honey. I needed that.”

“Needed what?” I ask, red-faced and defensive.

“I needed to watch you drink from the chalice of uncertainty. Elixir of the Gods, right there. Confessional magic. The meek and humble are my last hope for humanity’s continued existence.”

“So glad I could be of help,” I lie. Big Guy seems to think he’s winning an argument. He’s relishing my chagrin.

“No, and no,” he says. “I don’t relish, and I don’t win.”

“And I don’t get it,” I admit.

“Oh, but you do,” Big Guy says.

Every cliché in the known universe is screaming at me. Platitudes and blind faith parade by, tossing sweet assurances. There are cookies baking, robin eggs hatching, children laughing, ice cream melting, rounds of stiff drinks on God. So little time. So many simplicities.

“You’re ready, little one,” Big Guy whispers.

“I know,” I whisper back. “But hurry. It never lasts for long.”

Eclipse

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“I would understand completely if you didn’t love us anymore,” I say to the Outer as humanity roils in its own troubles. “Maybe you never did.”

The Outer slowly removes her apron, wipes her hands, and gives me her full attention. She is the grandmother I miss the most, daffodil bulbs I planted in the fall now emerging green. She is rain. She is equally at home in the bassinette and the casket. She digs ruthlessly into the soul like a miner extracting the rare elements needed to provide light to the world.

“And it’s okay if you don’t love me anymore,” she answers in the voice of a thousand cranes.

“Why do you say things like that?” I ask. I suspect the Outer is being strategic, not honest. I feel certain she wants my love.

“It’s just a badly translated word,” she shrugs. “You have a very limited understanding of, well, of anything. But especially the substance of that word.”

She’s right. Love is an impossible notion. A dark foreboding, an insistent demand. It’s both threat and promise, a transactional negotiation, a rigged wager. It’s time taken away. Time given back. Blood everywhere. Tears flowing. It’s organic and orgasmic. Sacrificial, selfish, obligatory, and oblique.

“There’s a total solar eclipse coming,” the Outer says. “What do you make of that?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Should I?”

“I would if I were you,” she says. “But then, I make something of everything.”

The Outer gives her homemade pinafore a shake and puts it back on. It’s a badly stained yellow. She wraps the strings around her ample middle and ties them in front. I’m filled with envy. I want an apron, too.

“In some places, for a moment, your tiny moon will obscure your view of the sun. I’d call that something,” she says. She’s begun to glow. I realize I am in mortal danger.

“Moon!” I yell. “Moon! I need you.”

Outer laughs. The nuclear fusion continues. Moon arrives just in time and covers me.

“Moon,” I say, humbled. “I love you.”

The great stirring and swirling and folding continues. I’m an easily eclipsed flash of joy, a dash of salt, a grain of sand, a sunflower seed. I offer thanks to the Moon and Stars, the Outer, the Inner, the Unknowable, the Tao, and the Way.

“I love you, too,” the Moon says back.

She hands me an apron and a wide-brimmed hat. A makeshift kitchen has been blown to bits, seven servers and their beautiful aprons, gone. I am desperately sad. But in this grim, eternal spring, the muddy garden calls me by name, and for now, I know where I belong.

Volcanic Activity

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A derisive voice arose from the cracks in our tongue and groove flooring. “No wonder you thrash around looking for someone who understands, someone who loves you just as you are. You don’t even understand yourself. Whatever that means. So good luck with that.”

I grimaced. God was rumbling up from below, apparently trying to be therapeutic. True, I am in fact wrestling with the complexities of love and understanding within myself and others. But I hate paradoxical interventions.

“Hello, Nasty God,” I said in a resigned voice. “You’d make a lousy psychologist.”

Bully God, Blunt God, Mean God, Bad Mood God, Belligerent God, Greedy God, and Hot Shit God crowded around the table. Nasty God poured coffee and served cake and ice cream. They chewed with their mouths open, burped, and scratched themselves. One of them purposefully passed gas, and the rest laughed like unchaperoned boys at a slumber party in the basement.

But they weren’t by themselves. And they weren’t in the basement. They were front and center in my muddled mind. I stole time from my meditative morning to scorn them, one by one.

“You will not behave like that in my house.” I shook my finger, matronly and severe. It had little effect.

“You will not be so damn hard on yourself,” they cried in unison. “You will loosen up and cavort.”

“OMG, I will NOT cavort,” I said.

“You WILL cavort,” they shouted gleefully and began to sing in three-part harmony:

Don’t sell us short, you will cavort.

You will smirk and go berserk.

You will rant, and you will pant.

You will flail, and you will quail.

You will cast the evil eye,

you will curse, and you will cry.

It’s who you are, our little star.

We’re never far. We’re never far.

I crossed my arms and glared. They mimicked my posture, climbed on top of my shiny table, and danced an Irish jig, belting out round after round of their ridiculous song. The table expanded into a dance floor, and the Wily Women in tall black boots arrived. All hell broke into angular pieces and floated away like iceberg calves. Iceberg calves.

It went on for weeks. Finally, a nearby volcano erupted. A thick cloud of Messianic Ash blanketed the exhausted inner party, and we melted into nothingness.

For a blessed moment, it was profoundly quiet. No color. No light. No longing. No fear.

Then, “Care to cavort?” they whimpered, breaking the silence in strangulated voices.

I smiled and shook my head.

“We’ll be back,” they promised as they dusted themselves off and faded away.

“I know,” I said, centered and calm. “And I’ll be here.”

Oh, Baby

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

This is the narrowest time. Night has loosened its grip, and old wine is poured out as libation to the rising sun. My head slumps to my chest, and my shoulders curl inward to make the passage less painful. Less prolonged. To the east, a thin blaze of orange takes hold. With kindling gleaned from around the chopping block, I light a fire so I can immerse my hands in the warm liquid of another day.

“What sayest thou?” I ask the newly arrived Sandhill cranes.

“What thinkest thou?” I ask the rising river.

The answers come on the in-breath and dissipate before I can inscribe an adequate translation. I will have to ask again and try to be worthy of the answers.

My inner audience isn’t kind. The promise of spring is shrouded in snow, and for some reason, the fire is burning more reluctantly than usual. I suspect it’s the blessing and curse of the thick bark still clinging to these beautifully split logs.

Before I slept last night, someone told me they loved me, and someone told me they hated me. The raucous rise of the north wind relieved the barometric pressure of leftover miles. There was just enough time to make a cursory inspection of my seashells, sticks, and rocks before the paralysis set in. Even then, I had to lean into God to make it to the safety of my flannel sheets.

Now, alert and alive, we are filled with equal amounts of dread and joy.

“Oh, baby,” God sighs. “Oh, baby.”

“Oh, God,” I say, pushing back a little. “Oh, God.” I look into myself as far as I can. “I wish you wouldn’t sigh at me. Go sigh at someone else.”

This elicits a smile. We sip coffee, eat toast, and raise our glasses to the trains arriving, the trains departing, journeys beginning, journeys ending. These simple routines grease the wheels, and we’re off.

Who can guess the length of their days? Who can predict the hard hatreds and easy loves? No one knows their own soul very well, let alone the redemptive mind of God at rest in the protective bark of scorched and fallen trees. We cannot be expected to do any better than we can.

“Oh, baby,” The Cosmic Drama Queen sighs again, so inclusive, so determined. Her obsidian eyes are sparkling, her broad shoulders squared. “Oh, baby.”

Generosity

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If for some reason, Jeff Bezos wanted to give away a million dollars a day, he could do so every day, 365 days a year, for well over 500 years. So could Elon. I sit with this incomprehensible trivia hoping God might make a sarcastic comment. She doesn’t. She’s staring out the window I’ve opened to let her in.

“I don’t want you to call me God anymore,” she says, her voice crossing the room like light from the fire. Like air cleaned by the nearby evergreens.

Why would God say such a thing? Maybe She/It/He/They are tired of this centralized, politically charged, maliciously manipulated name that defines and limits them.

“That’s not quite right,” The Entity tells me. “The name limits you. Nothing limits us.”

“What does Jeff Bezos call you?” I ask.

“Helicopter.” They chuckle.

“And Elon?”

“Moon.” They collapse in giggles.

I don’t laugh. God is being elusive and self-indulgent. I don’t know what to call her. I don’t even know what to call myself. I’m a body of one and many. I have more brain cells in my skull than there are humans on earth. Jeff Bezos has twice as many dollars as the Milky Way has stars. I can write these facts, but like God and infinity, they are abstractions far beyond my grasp.

“You’re coming apart,” the Voice from the Garden murmurs in my better ear.

An observation? A warning? A taunt? I’m not sure. I feel defensive.

“No, I’m not,” I say, looking down and away because in my heart, I know it’s true. I am coming apart. Unhinged. Unglued. Along with Bezos and Elon, the unsheltered and the powerful, my friends and my enemies, I’m coming apart. Muscles and memory. Bone mass and eyesight.

“And you’re coming together,” the Voice from the Ocean adds in a reassuring voice.

The earth sustains life as we know it because, unlike the sister planets we’re aware of, it has surface water separating the ever-changing islands of land, and if things are working properly, death begets life. I stand on the shifting shore, toes immersed in salty water, coming apart, coming together, balanced.

In the slow dissolving, I have not yet given all I have to give, or given back what was never mine to keep, but if the Source of all Generosity, the one I’ve nicknamed God, continues to be of help, I will carry on.

Guesswork

I think there is a God

Her name is Water.

But she is known by other appellations.

Light. Fire. Longing.

Her brother’s name is Greed.

Sometimes known as Fear.

His legs are short and stocky.

Hers are long.

They meet for coffee

at the little place on the corner

but they go home

on different roads.

There is a path

that climbs gently

out of hell.

and opens

to a soothing meadow.

Tread lightly. Eat something.

Find your still small voice.

There is a little girl

beside you.

Her name is Truth.

Take her hand.

There is an old woman

in front of you.

Her name is Wisdom.

Follow her.

Woven into your bones

there is a quiet voice

called Compassion.

Listen.

Membership

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Once in a while, book clubs invite an author to visit. God prefers anonymity, so she always declines. Not me. Often, it’s a nice experience, but on rare occasions, things get awkward. Members who’ve read only the title and back cover take the opportunity to share views tangential or even hostile to the essence of the book. Others fawn over the author, more focused on affiliation than analysis.

And speaking of awkward, I know of a romance writer who finagled an invitation to join her neighborhood book club. Because she published under a pen name, no one realized who she was. When it was her turn to choose a book, she held up her latest bodice-ripper, the slick cover burbling with cleavage and low-slung jeans. Everyone burst into laughter, thinking this was a joke. The author stomped out, never to return. They did not read the book.

“Well, they should have,” God says. “Romance is a billion-dollar industry.”

I roll my eyes. “I prefer murder mysteries. They do less damage.”

God leers at me. “Ah, come on. What’s wrong with a little erotic fantasy? Steamy scenes, orgasmic encounters, soulmates finally licking or sucking just the right spots…”

“Stop!” I interrupt. I don’t enjoy talking about sex with God. “Could we change the subject?”

“Sure,” God says. “But what is the subject?”

I pause and then admit, “I don’t know. And you know I don’t know.”

“Maybe we should talk about who gets invited,” God says.

“To what? Book clubs?”

“No. To anything. You all want to belong, don’t you?”

“Not necessarily. We want to belong to our tribe. People who look and think like we do, believe what we believe, read the same books, and share similar realities.”

“Then don’t invite me!” God snorts. She pulls on her turtleneck sweater. “You’re strangling yourselves. Loosen up, you judgmental little speck.”

“Don’t worry,” I snap. “You are definitely not invited. And don’t call me speck.”

Evening is approaching. The daylight remaining is not straightforward.

“Speck. Dot. Flicker. Flash. You realize that like rain, fire and light do not discriminate, right? So, instead of speck, how about I call you light of the world?”

This is a seductive but perilous proposal. God is the Ultimate Refractive Substance. As light passes through God, it splays and changes directions. That’s why stars twinkle. If I agree, I will be bent and fractured. My membership anywhere will be in question.

“Let me think on that,” I say, hedging.

We curl up on the couch and continue reading our book club’s latest selection, Sun House, by David James Duncan. As usual, I’m a little behind.

Honing Toward Perfection

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Today, The Gods are the consistency of sunset, vulnerable as snow. A northern gale stirs my worst instincts, exposing the road to hell and back—a familiar excursion for many of us. The Gods are hopeful hitchhikers, rebellious dancers who lead and follow at the same time, repeatedly exhausting themselves.

“Truth.” The Gods sigh through the haze of impending February. I hold the palm of my hand steady, hoping they’ll land. They weigh nothing. They mean everything.

“Rest here,” I whisper. “You’ll be safe with me.”

My bravado is laughable. Nowhere is safe for God. Not evolution. Not war. Not atmosphere. Not black holes, good intentions, bad karma. Perhaps The God’s most accurate description is They-Who-Are-Not-Safe, and they are especially unsafe in the grasping hands of human imagination.

The Gods remove their glasses, breathe, and rub the lenses with their pure cotton robes. They assume a professorial pose.

“My dear, we’ve known you a very long time. You’re the shape of a certain universe where treachery is expected. Suffering is real. You’re a stone rolling downhill. We can’t catch you because we’re rolling, too.”

This apparent abdication angers me. If it were possible to give God a swift kick in the butt without hurting my own toes, I’d do it many times a day. But with God, I never wear steel-toed boots. Instead, I wear thick, cozy socks so I can slip quietly from room to room, age to age, life to life, barely disturbing the old soul.

“We hear you anyway,” The Gods laugh. “Our senses have been honed by the human condition. Our legs are blown off, our children starved. We bear the brunt of genocidal hatred.” They pause and add, “These embodiments are excruciating, but being misperceived has its rewards. There’s nothing we don’t see. Nothing we don’t hear. Nothing we can’t bear.”

“I don’t understand,” I lament, holding my head in my hands. “I just do not understand.”

The Gods laugh a second time, a wistful, ironic laugh. “You’ve got a bad case of existential fatigue,” they explain as they offer their scarred and ancient palms. “Rest here. You’ll be safe with us.”

With trepidation, I lay myself down in the fleshy folds, and the holy fingers curl inward.

“So, this is where I disappear,” I mumble, drowsy.

“Not yet,” The Gods say. “You still have senses to be honed.”

I snap awake and begin burrowing back out of the corporeal warmth. I don’t want to be honed. For a third and final time, The Gods burst into laughter, so hearty and inclusive that I can’t help myself. I laugh, too.

“See?” The Gods say. “Honing isn’t that bad.”