Tag: One Earth

Laundry

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

I sit with my beer and orange juice while a faithful washer groans its way through a modest load of towels and underwear. The cacophony of morning includes two-stroke leaf blowers across the street, Harley riders roaring by, and cheerful but vociferous wild things that do not apologize for their dominance of the airwaves.

Just outside the open window, the Pacific looms large. Sinewy vines have flung themselves over the shoulders of trees and wound themselves around neon blossoms and beautiful fruit.

God is not bothered by the intrusive clamor and overbearing pigmentation. I am. Yesterday, alone on a windy shore, I circled things into simple black and white.

“I don’t like being one of 7 billion,” I tell God. “The entanglement and commotion make me claustrophobic.”

“Sorry to hear that, Chip,” God teases. (She calls me Chip, as in “chip off the old block” just to bug me.) “Would you like your own planet?”        

“Yes, please.” I nod, dipping my toes in salty water.

The Fluidity smiles and flexes, the tide rolls in, and I see that I am already a planet unto myself. Each nucleus spinning my direction is its own planet. The electrons dance, the stars align. I see that I am a singularity made of singularities held together by unspeakable complexities. I am one of One.

I breathe with grudging acceptance and the Fecundity loosens its grip. I relax. The grass withers. The flower fades. But the Gorilla Glue, the Relatable Pacer of the Universe doesn’t let go, doesn’t stop talking, transforming, or replaneting.

A science teacher of mine once declared, “Cell division is a goddamned miracle.” His asides were not often helpful or accurate, but from the perspective of my own DNA, he may have had a point. Cell division can be a very good thing.

God taps me on the shoulder. “Um, I hate to interrupt, but it’s time to hang the clothes.”

“I know,” I say. “Otherwise, they’ll mildew.”

The neighbor’s laughter sounds like a bird. I can’t tell anything apart anymore, and maybe I don’t want to. It’s all a bodacious blur, a heart-wrenching opera, a country-western shindig, a tsunami of sound, a smorgasbord of color.

The God of All that Ripens saunters seductively to the washer, and we begin the ritual of hanging our laundry up to dry, temporarily halting the march of mildew and mayhem. We air our grievances along with our love, holding our shape against the coming formlessness.

A haze of fruit flies rises from the feast of fallen star fruit, and I realize that even in the tumult and dissolution, all is well. All is very well.

Little Planet Big Lies

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Photo Credit: Scott Wolff

Earlier today I told myself some little white lies and then moved on as one does in order to survive. The falsehoods involved a forced smile, the use of an herbicide, the denial of grief, and the last bite of ice cream. My chronic inclusion of God could itself be a lie, but if so, it’s neither white nor little.

This is because God yanks the universal down to the particular. For instance, she mimicked my smile, bathed in the herbicide, paraded around clad in old photographs, sang Paul Simon, drank the old wine, and hid the chocolate syrup. I threatened to go back to bed and restart the day, but she raced ahead, pulled off the blankets, and pretended to be the ghost of Octobers past.

I gave up, overwhelmed by the insistent Presence, the insanity of the seasons, and the weight of knowing what’s coming. The future is an out-of-control Mack truck, and we’re all bugs destined for the windshield.

But for now, God and I sit calmly, me contemplating how much phlegm a body can produce when fighting a viral invasion, God knitting socks for soldiers and other unsheltered souls.

“Whose side are you on?” I ask, thinking about revenge and innocence, viruses and hosts.

“My own,” God says.

“Figures.” I get up to make a smoothie. “Where’d you hide the chocolate?”

“Deep in the recesses of your ontological brain,” God chuckles.

“Of course.” I sigh, wave the fruit flies away, and peel two bananas from Guatemala. I drop them into the blender made in China, add blueberries from New England, and pour in kefir I made myself—but the milk I used? It’s from cows, possibly nearby. Possibly not. I toss in Swiss chard from our garden, squeeze in chocolate from Cameroon, and push the button.

“Would you like some?” I ask.

“Not now, thanks,” she says. “But I’m glad you found your way to the kitchen.”

I lift my glass to a delicate world, but the complexities and hypocrisies rob me of delight. I look at God, desperate to save what’s left of the day.

“Enjoy the damn smoothie,” she says. Her smile is genuine. “I’ll be back.”

 “Where are you going?” I ask.

“Gotta deliver these stockings. The alpaca fleece is from Columbia, the needles are bamboo. From Japan. Winter’s coming in Ukraine, and there are the barest feet you’ve ever seen in Gaza.”

I steel myself and sip the toxic nectar of this splendid, blended earth. Then sadly, I bid farewell to October and pull on a pair of socks she left for me. It’s chilly out there, but I need to harvest the last of the carrots and beets. Root crops, like certain hardy people, do well in Montana.