Tag: Peace

Advice From The Quilter

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 
Use it up
Wear it out
Make it do
Or do without

Everything has an expiration date. All the forethought in the world won’t change that. All the planning, lying, and scheming. All the willful ignorance. Even the highest aspirations.

You can plant and maybe, you’ll harvest. Or maybe before things come to fruition, you’ll be the one planted. What’s fruition anyway?

How dare you make it your business to tell someone how to decorate, alter, or use their own body? Or worse, assume it’s yours to use? Cast those evil urges into the outer darkness. Be nice. Be kind. Be patient and humble as you rip out some of the crooked seams.

If somehow, in your vague longing for the truth, you manage to dislodge pieces of the log in your eye, tell the tale because others might be inclined to lower their own blinding defenses. Either way, keep chipping away at yours. Start a small fire with the splinters. Warm your hands. Invite the neighbors. Even the vicious ones.

It’s fear, baby. Fear. You’ve spent so many days of your life shielded by the wrong armor. Those days aren’t coming back. Bless them as they recede into oblivion. Bless your many selves and your best intentions.

Clean the floors. Contemplate the cobwebs before you brush them down. They were once liquid silk, spun into webbing by those with more eyes than you will ever have.

It is all to be venerated. The warp and woof, the tiny stitches, the walking sticks, the wailing walls. The joints swollen round as crystal balls, the doomed attempts to achieve perfection; it’s all as essential as the broken strands and stolen lands. This is all there is. Make do.

Imagine your face in someone’s hands. Your neck on the line. Your severed limbs pulled from the rubble. Imagine you’re an endangered species or hieroglyphics on papyrus, a contaminated river, or a resilient weed. It’s time to try acquiescence instead of acquisition. Let the bee sting. The dog bark all night. Stand in the gap, arms at your side. Absorb the blows in silence. Loan the victims your voice.

Behave as if there’s a future, and you want things to be better for the least among you. Become the least among you. Offer what you can. Consume what you must.

Use all you have
And all you know
Try your best
Then let it go

Angles of Repose and Other Non Sequiturs

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

What do you suppose the angle of repose would be for those pyramids of dead bodies we’ve seen in the news over the years? (The angle of repose is the steepest angle at which a sloping surface formed of a particular loose material is stable.)

Syria. Tuam. Viet Nam. The Sudan. Gaza. The victims of Covid in Brazil. In these places, they would know.

Mass graves are frowned upon here in our modern and stolen country, so most of us will not witness haphazard heaps of people firsthand. We have refrigeration and waiting lists. We prefer to deport or enslave rather than outright slaughter.

Most mornings, I either cry or paint something. Some days, it’s yellow. Others, dark blue. Or a swirling medley of colors interacting aggressively with each other. Sometimes, I glue broken bits of mirror into new shapes. It can get messy.

“What would you like to cover today?” I ask Royal Blue. Before Royal Blue can respond, Blood Red shoves Royal Blue aside, and a firing squad tosses the sanctity of life into the air and takes aim.

“Knock it off right now,” I yell at Blood Red. “I MEAN IT.”

Blood Red shrugs. “Fine. But you know I’ll be back.”

Something ends. Something begins. Breakage and destruction are part of rebirth. A long time ago, at the end of an especially magical youth camp, I considered smashing my guitar so I could give everyone a splinter. I had the odd notion that this would keep us together. But smashing my guitar seemed a bit extreme. Instead, I pulled apart a pheasant feather that had traveled in my guitar case for years and handed the astonished circle bits of pheasant down.

 Now, most days, I wonder if I have something I could dismember to express my outrage and despair. To break hope open. To keep us together.

“Heroics come in many guises,” the Paint Brush whispers. “You do you. No need to come apart just yet.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Paint Brush,” I shake my head. “But I’m no longer flexible enough to kick myself in the butt.”

“Who cares?” Paint Brush scoffs. “Bruises aren’t the best motivators. How about a cookie?”

“Not hungry,” I mumble.

“Oh, honey,” Paint Brush says gently. “You have no idea how hungry you are.”

Runoff

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

Lately, I’ve been fixated on guttering. We have a lot of unguttered or badly guttered buildings. When rain falls on impervious surfaces and is not guttered or sloped away, it pools up and erodes old foundations.

Water may seem innocuous. Innocent. But it is the (almost) universal solvent. According to the Khan Academy, “Water is key to the vast majority of cellular chemical reactions essential to life. Water molecules are polar, with partial positive charges on the hydrogens, a partial negative charge on the oxygen, and a bent overall structure.”

A bent structure may sound unattractive or dangerous, but in fact, it’s the magic that allows the embodiment of both the negative and the positive to coexist and dissolve nearly anything. 

But even with the threat of dissolution, rain is not the essential problem. Too many impenetrable surfaces are. 

Thus: guttering. The precious rainwater is renamed runoff and routed to centralized locations such as sewers or storage tanks. This creates the potential for stagnation or downstream flooding.

 As humans, we long for shelter from the storm. Impenetrability is tempting. It’s hard to be vulnerable, receptive, and thankful; harder still to lovingly accept rejection and scorn.

But we live in a world where the Coauthors and the Dancers cause the rain to fall on the just and unjust. The sun shines on the kindly folk as well as the cruel, selfish fools.

Many of us feel quite indignant about this. We seek justice but often end up plotting revenge. This storyline has no happy ending. In fact, it has no ending at all. Revenge is self-perpetuating.

Bullies, tyrants, and other impervious souls have developed gutters that shunt kindness and forgiveness off as if they were wastewater. The resulting pools putrefy due to the contaminants they’ve picked up, testifying to the toxicity of fear.

Watching sacrifices go down the drain or get routed to a holding tank where good intentions become sludge is painful.

Even so, the stubbornly resilient make plans (that will no doubt go awry) and dig deep into linty pockets to offer the widow’s mite.

The Holy Role-Models of Resilience are chaotic, redundant, and flighty. They live in the gutters and fix broken toys. And while wildfires rage, they shelter frightened families under scorched wings.

It sometimes seems that Creation has grown weary of us, and the exhausted Dancers have lost the beat. I honestly don’t know.

But in this briefest of moments, some of us have the great good fortune of being lilies of the field, hoping no one sprays us with a broad leaf herbicide as we turn our open faces to the cleansing rain and rejoice when sunlight breaks through.

Go Gently

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments

The world is filled with natural stompers. This is not destination dependent. No matter where the stompers think they’re going, their determined stride sends shock waves up their legs and into their surroundings. I happen to know that it’s possible to override the habitual stomp and consciously place one foot in front of the other. But beware: The resulting quiet can be unnerving. The rush to nowhere is noisy but comforting.

And why take the risk of treading lightly anyway? The Rain falls on the just and the unjust, the stompers and the dawdlers, the mindful and the misguided. The Rain falls without resistance or judgment. It clears the air for both rich and poor. On the upturned faces of lovers, the Rain falls with joy.

A beloved poet once insisted we should rage against the dying of the light, but I say to myself don’t hide from the darkening sky. Seek out the eye of the storm and walk upright in your bones, bold and welcoming. But don’t stomp. Go gently. Go with such grace that even your precariously stacked stones will start to sing, and the dry, angular roots you’ve gathered will dance like nymphs around the open tombs.

But I’m never sure of the way. There are so many trails and byways, so many routes home. I tell myself there’s no harm in wandering and no singular way to be redeemed.

But the Rain begs to differ. Surrender, she whispers. Break. Fall apart, tender. If you still have yarn or wire, you can knit yourself back together for a spell. But remember, you have gills and wings. You are the blind man tapping, the enthroned queen, and the missed opportunity. You are your own final act. You are the drunk driving victim, and you were driving the car.

I cannot accept that, I say to the Rain.

Oh, but you can, the Rain murmurs as she slides down the sides of my soul.

I admit that there are times I’m tempted to march out there and shake my fist at the distant thunder, but my boots would surely slip on the slick surfaces and even these well-formed bones would snap.

There is a certain hosanna available to those who fold their umbrellas and accept whatever comes. The relentless downpour will baptize everyone to the point of drowning, but as the flood recedes, that which remains will be a sunlit robin patiently awaiting a worm.

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.

Myth and Ritual

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

“You don’t like being referred to as Myth and Ritual, do you?” I asked my friend, Myth and Ritual, as September settled around us.

“Not really,” Myth and Ritual answered. “But people do what they have to do. I do what I have to do. Very little is predetermined, but very little is conscious choice.”

This didn’t surprise me. I want to think people have choices. That God has choices. But it’s never that simple.

Take death, for example. Over 6,000 people will die during the hour I spend writing this morning. Not many of them will have chosen to die, but nonetheless, they will pass gently or violently, awake or asleep, young or old, into what humans call death.

“Yes, choice appears to be a rather limited concept,” I echoed. “So whose calling the shots?”

“Ah, there are so many friends invited to that party. There’s Immune System. She’s an erratic one. And those nasty twins, Greed and Poverty. Genetics is always primping in the nearest mirror, giving Folly and Fate the evil eye. War, Famine, and Pandemics all elbow in on the action. Even the occasional virus or mosquito.”

“Enough!” I shook my head. “Those are just excuses.”

“It’s all the same. When Myth or Ritual fail, we step in as the Mother of all Excuses.”

“I am absolutely not calling you that,” I said.

Myth and Ritual laughed. “Got a better idea?”

“Yeah. Today, I’m going to call you Sparky,” I said. “We’re all just walking tinder boxes. You could fan us into flames with a glance.”

“Sparky,” they said. “We like that.”

“I figured you would,” I said. “People chop you into human size chunks and then try to defend you. It’s volatile.”

“That’s outlandish and dangerous!” Sparky declared. “A true deity needs no defense.”

“But good things seem to need defending,” I said. “And bad things need explaining.”

“Yes.” Sparky looked smug. “A dialectic.”

“So, we’re back to Myth and Ritual,” I said.

Sparky frowned. “Maybe. But the horses are saddled. They know the way.”

“To where?” I asked, disoriented by all the non sequiturs.

“To fruition.” Sparky’s voice had mellowed to water. “To peace.”

“How will I know which one to ride?” I asked.

“Different times, different horses,” Sparky murmured. “They’ll come when you call them by name. Courage. Forgiveness. Compassion. Joy. And. . .” Sparky paused. “You might not like the last one.”

Outside my window, fiery autumn foliage was blowing around.

 “It’s Acceptance, isn’t it?” I whispered.

The trees swayed and held their ground even as the wind stripped them bare.

And I loved them for that.

The Sugar’s at the Bottom

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Sometimes, you have to grit your mental teeth and force the images to land so you can pull them apart. The world is a damaged ship, listing dangerously starboard. Your longing to prove or fix something scratches like a cat on the screen that protects your soul, and your selfish nature hides in the weeds, rusting and jagged–a trip hazard and destroyer of lawnmower blades.

“Morning,” your Coauthor mumbles in a sleepy voice.

“Coffee?” you offer, calm on the surface, agitated inside.

Coauthor nods, reaching for the sugar.

“What do you have in mind for today?” you ask.

“The usual,” Coauthor shrugs.

“But I don’t feel like being generous,” you say. “Or patient. Or kind.”

“How’s the joint pain?” Coauthor asks.

“Tolerable,” you frown. “How’s yours?”

“I’m always inflamed,” Coauthor admits. “And for that, I’m grateful.”

Usually, your Coauthor is clear-eyed about ailments, victories, ice cream, and the dying coral reefs. There are costs for doing business with fickle microbes and solar storms. That which can be altered is miniscule, and even if done well, evolution will occasionally circle back and bite you in the butt. That’s why most Coauthors look so chewed up most of the time. Chewed up, surly, and weary. Okay, maybe not surly. That’s more you. But weary and wounded. That’s for sure.

Your Chewed-up Chum checks the weather. Rain. Flood warnings. Wind. But later, things will clear, and there will be a deep peace that passes all understanding–which is a good thing because your current understanding is so slow that a tired donkey pulling an overfilled cart could easily pass it by. There’s nothing poetic about bombed-out homes, repeated migrations, or starvation. Nothing. Maybe you could approach the devastation symbolically, but that might make it harder. You simply don’t know.

“Understanding is essential and impossible,” Coauthor says. “The you that you think of as you can grasp only fractions of the puzzle. The complexity is beyond your fleeting singularity. Just find a corner piece and hang on.”

“What does a corner piece look like?” you ask, feigning innocence.

“Oh, you know. It’s rounded on the edges. The nobs point inward,” Coauthor grins enigmatically.

You rub your rounded belly and consider the risks of real, expansive connections. In the past, you’ve tried to force puzzle pieces to fit. Bad idea. You limp away, limp back, limp away. Each time your view expands, your energy diminishes.

“The capacity for compassion depends on being broken. Sometimes, more than once,” your Coauthor says in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Stir your coffee,” you sigh. “The sugar’s sunk to the bottom.”

“Thanks,” Coauthor says. “But I like it that way.”

The Ten Suggestions

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Yesterday, Big Fella handed me a tattered scrap of paper and said, “Could you take a look at this?”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Just some ideas I’ve been rolling around in my head forever. Need a new set of eyes. I’ll pay you.”

Me, edit for God? I was honored. I should know better.

TEN SUGGESTIONS FOR A HAPPY LIFE

You might want to stop worshipping anything or anyone that promises an easy life. Suffering and death are part of the plan. I am the Process. Love is the whole story.

It’s foolish to imagine Me in your own image. Embrace Mystery.

Cuss and swear all you want, but if you do something cruel, selfish, or hateful, do not claim to be doing it for or with Me. That’s ridiculous and offensive.

It’s wise to rest in the majestic beauty of creation. You will thus be renewed.

Being kind and respectful to those who cared for you as a child is good practice. They weren’t perfect, but then, who is? Individuate but don’t be nasty about it.

Killing each other is a terrible idea.

Try to keep your promises. For instance, if you pledge monogamy, don’t sneak around having sex with others. This is a very hurtful form of lying.

Don’t take or damage what isn’t yours (and by the way, the earth isn’t yours). Own as little as possible. Pay your taxes. Be as just and fair as you can.

Always tell the truth. No cheating.

Jealousy will make you miserable and prone to stealing, lying, cheating, killing, and denying love. Endeavor to be content.

I handed the paper back. “Pretty good. A little bossy and repetitive.”

Big Fella shrugged. “Maybe I could shorten it, but it’s a road map to a well-lived life. You simply need to choose the most loving possible choice every time you move, think, or act, even if it involves a little sacrifice or self-control. Is that too much to ask?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Way, way too much!”

“I knew it!” Big Fella exclaimed and threw down his hat. “That’s what I was afraid of when I introduced consciousness.”

I picked up the hat, intending to hand it back and say something reassuring about the editing process, but Big Fella was gone and in his place were three newborn kittens. I moved toward them but then realized they weren’t kittens. They were unexploded bomblets from a cluster bomb. My heart sank. I knew I had to try to defuse them.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Big Fella whispered.

 “I’m afraid,” I whispered back.

“I know,” Big Fella said. “I’m right here.”

Hedged Bets

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“I had to invent death because none of you hold still long enough to sort out what matters,” God told me this morning as I rushed around, distracted, getting ready for a demanding day.

“Well, that sounds vindictive,” I said. The toast was burned, and I’d just poured sour cream in my coffee.  “Inventing death might be creative, but I assume you’re aware that the living prefer to stay alive.”

“I know,” God admitted. “I haven’t worked out all the kinks yet, but I have good intentions.”

The Subdivisions of God began their own conversation. The Source of Transformation looked down at her hands. “I’m not proud of causing so much fear,” she admitted to the others. “And such grief.”

Liquid God spoke from the banks of the drought-reduced river. “It is in sorrow and weakness they find their way,” he said. “But it’s hard to accept drying  up, having less to offer.”

God the Rodeo tried to sell everyone tickets, promising rides on the bucking broncs, but the Rest of God refused. “I’m sick and tired of the cacophony,” she said, her voice deep and mountainous, her presence profoundly still.

I wanted the others to go away. I wanted only her.

“See?” God said, merging back into Oneness.

“No, I don’t see,” I protested. “Being surrounded by peace is different than being dead.”

“Is it?” God asked. “How would you know?”

“Just a hunch.” I shrugged. Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out a fat roll of rodeo tickets. “Hedging my bets,” I admitted with a sheepish grin.

The corral gate swung open, and God the Rodeo raced toward me on a shiny black stallion. “Let’s go, pardner!” he hollered.

I ran toward him, and just like in the movies, God reached down and swung me up on the back of the sweaty horse. I wrapped my arms tight around his lean waist, and together, we galloped madly toward what we knew was the setting sun.

To my astonishment, I saw the Rest of God ahead, clearing away debris from the flood. And Liquid God had pooled up so we could quench our thirst. The surface of the water was so smooth there was no difference between my reflection and my face.

With reverence, we dismounted and kneeled to drink.

Inertia

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

Bodies at rest tend to stay at rest. Bodies in motion tend to stay in motion. This morning, both God and I are disinclined to change momentum. My feet are warm, my coffee hot, the view familiar. God is hurtling comfortably through space in his version of a Lazy Boy recliner, planets and stars aligned just so. I have no need to bother him. He sighs and settles deeper, ready for a nap. We are both at a loss to explain this uneasy contentedness. It’s not like we’ve achieved perfection. In fact, most efforts toward perfection backfire; thus, by being at rest, maybe we are making progress. And besides, stillness is a mirage. Even if God nods off, digestion continues. Neurons fire. The heart beats. The cosmic clock ticks, and the train leaves the station for parts unknown.

Two years ago, we bought 16 fluffy chicks. There are nine hens left. We gave away the five whites. A racoon got one of the reds, and I killed the rooster. It was self-defense. I was scattering food, unarmed and inattentive. I turned, and there he was, talons bared, eyes sparking with deadly malice. He flew at me. I beat him back and yelled, thinking that would take care of it. He regrouped and attacked with even greater resolve. My benign superiority was replaced with rage. How dare he come after me again? I put my hood up to protect my head, grabbed both of his stringy legs, and whirled his body in the air, using his weight as momentum to smash his head into a nearby cement block. It took three full circles to finish the job. I have few regrets.

My plans for the future include working hard to leave behind sustainable shelter and healthy garden soil. I’ve taken to writing notes to the children of the future, hiding these missives in places they might be found a hundred years from now. A hundred years. A very long time from the perspective of my fingers on the keyboard. Barely a passing twinkle in the eye of God. Barely a twinkle. But for now, God dozes open-mouthed and innocent, and I hold myself faithfully quiet. God needs the rest, and I need the façade of stillness to welcome the coming day and accept the overwhelming complexities of being momentarily assembled in the form I know of as myself.