Tag: Redemption

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.”

Hats

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

To avoid doom scrolling, I browse through the infamous “Marketplace” and notice a lime green shed for sale. I’m drawn to sheds, and I love lime green.

(And why would you need another shed? I ask myself.)

For a small fee, the seller will help load. It’s 8 x 12. All it needs is a door and paneling to cover the exposed insulation. All I need is a trailer and a reason.

(Well, it might be nice for the ducks, I think. Or I could store things in it.)

A Stern-Faced Elder, a Waxing Gibbous Moon, a Cackling Hen, and a Clear-eyed Version of God all crowd into my consciousness and, without a word, begin amputating my whimsical fantasies.

(If I find the right shoes, maybe there’s still a marathon in my future; if I find the right words, a best-seller.)

To my credit, I do not try to reattach the longings as they fall away. But I don’t completely let go.

(If I put these ideas in the freezer, maybe someday, someone will find them nicely preserved and ready to bake. I should map the terrain of the plumbing and wiring, the hiding places and perennials. If I can just keep the labyrinth free of weeds, enlightenment will follow.)

The Clear-eyed Version of God and the Waxing Gibbous Moon help the Stern-Faced Elder to her feet. The Hen has disappeared, and it looks as though the others are preparing to leave. I dread the emptiness. They’ve cleared away so many of my disguises, promises, and obstacles. I will have to endure the echo chamber of my naked self.

But what’s this? They aren’t leaving! They’ve found my hat collection and they’re trying on hats, giggling and pointing at each other.

And without permission, they begin parading to the river, each wearing two or three of my hats. They march straight into the icy water near the stones I’ve rolled into circles. I trail behind.

“C’mon in,” they cry, exuberant.

“Nah, I hate cold water. And I’ve gotta make an offer on that shed.” I grin.

“No more enclosures!” They laugh, shaking their heads. The hats tumble off and float away.

“Get my hats!” I yell in a mild panic.

“Not worth it, honey. They don’t fit that well anymore,” the Stern-Faced Elder says. The Waxing Gibbous Moon nods and adds, “They’re needed downstream anyway.”

(Well, I can find more if I want to, I comfort myself.)

As I watch my hats bob away, I center myself among the boulders near the uprooted cottonwoods.  

(Maybe we could use these stones to make a sauna, I think. Or a sweat lodge.)

The Hen cackles in the distance.

Hearts on Fire

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 
When your heart is on fire smoke gets in your eyes

Death rolls in, a thousand acres, flaming,
thick smoke drifting south. 
We are blinded by the slow burn of a million lies. 
Nothing trickles down. 

The poor belong among us.

And we are among ourselves on a finite planet 
on an infinite journey with a wee small chance 
of getting it right. 
Love is right. Violence is not.

The greater good is an apple tree the voles left alone
because we pulled the mulch away from the trunk.
Sometimes, winter should not be diminished.

What comes to everyone over time
are thirteen birds, four horsemen,
and an appetite for sweets and salt. 
The indulgences and the seven deadly sins 
are always calling. Try not to answer.

Stare down, instead 
and watch where you place each foot.
Wish each other well.
We are stardust and ashes,
and we neither live nor die 
without fire.

Too Many Jesuses

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

If I speak in the tongues of angels and women, of cancers, mildew, and broken teeth, but have not love, nothing much happens. Most platitudes are contradictions. Old mirrors and darkened glass neither reflect nor foretell with any degree of accuracy.

Some mornings are especially challenging. The tension created by too many Jesuses is barely offset by the comfort of familiar bedding and my jar of pencils. Sometimes, deep in the night, I try summoning one of them to ward off the neurotoxicities of unwanted wakefulness, but it never works. The Jesuses are neither respectful nor tethered to any particular reality. They argue among themselves noisily and without end. I regret inviting any of them in. I want them gone.

“I see where you’re coming from,” my Coauthor comments as she seats herself cross-legged, leaning back against the bookshelf. She shoos the contentious Jesuses away. “Go on outside. The water’s clear. The sky is lifting. The cranes could use a visit.”

I stare at my Coauthor. She stares back.

“Do you really see where I’m coming from?” I ask, hoping for sympathy and unequivocal adoration.

Her slight nod is unsympathetic. She’s sizing me up. I do not feel adored.

“And I see where you’re going,” the Voice of Creation adds.

Sunday school rears its ugly head. Dread hot-flashes through my body.

“The cross?” I squeak.

“Yes,” my Coauthor nods. “The one by the highway and the three on the hill to the south. Cut them down. The cultish homage to human brutality offends me.”

My eyes widen. “Well, that’s not very nice. What about loving thy neighbor? What about redemption?”

She laughs. The Jesuses crowd back in.

“The cranes are fine,” they report. “And the air is sweet. Everything that ever bloomed is blooming and there’s a wild greening underway.”

 I want to be the sweetness in the air. I want to be a wild greening.

“Ah-ha! You’re an anti-zealot,” one of the Jesuses points with derision.

“Am not,” I retort, uncertain of what that would even mean.

“Leave her be,” my Coauthor commands, glaring at the accusing Jesus. “I brought you into this world. I can take you out.”

The Jesuses exaggerate snapping to attention. Their eyes twinkle, their lips twitch.

Then one of them shouts, “Dogpile!” and we all jump on the Coauthor, trying to tickle her into a better mood.

“Hey, I made rhubarb banana bread yesterday,” I holler above the fracas. “Let’s have some for breakfast.”

We sort ourselves out, clamor to the heart of the kitchen, and break the moist bread together, dipping morsels in milk and drizzling stolen honey into our strong black tea.

Friendly Fire

Rita Sommers-Flanagan11 Comments 
Each moment is a drink of water,
a green ball bouncing down
the gravel road, a quandary as simple

as kindness, the idea of more stars.
There’s nothing to fear 
but the snapping of branches in the wind.

To live as a split infinitive is a sign of courage, 
a matter of style. Nothing is absolute.
To live now, half-formed, 

circling like a sharp-eyed hawk
is to accept an unnamed infinity
and a sense of chronic dislocation.

We are pages in a book of promises,
lies that come true, wishes that don’t,
dawns that arrive, nights that fall.

Give me your time. I’ll give you mine. 
After the danger of frost has passed
we’ll plant tomatoes and roses and basil

and go through the motions of poetry.
As the meaning soaks in we will succumb
to the vast and friendly fires of the sun.

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.”

S’mores with Demons: An Easter Story

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“So, someone said you’re a mystic, huh?” an evil little bastard snarled, red eyes glowing. “There’s a special place in hell for people like you.”

I remembered the story of Pilate quizzing Jesus about being King of the Jews and how Jesus turned the question back. Then the sophisticated defense strategies of adolescence came to mind: If I’m a dumb ass you’re a dumb ass.

“No, you’re a mystic,” I said. I pulled my blanket tighter and dozed off. The wind howled its midnight discontent. I was where I wanted to be. Asleep.

But the earth continued turning, dawn arrived, and my sanctuary was greatly diminished.

An ancient walking stick helped me keep my balance as waves of morning hatred rushed in. I fought my way through the putrid sludge to an island where love was freely available with toast and coffee.

“The haters are doomed,” a sweet dog reassured me with the wag of its tail. “With so many self-destructive choices, lies, and pathologies, they’re going to lose.”

“But I don’t want them to lose,” I protested. “I want them to find their way through the Molasses Swamp and arrive at the Candy Castle with the rest of us.”

“Sure, you do,” my red-eyed bastard guffawed from across the table.

“No, seriously, I do,” I said.

“Ain’t gonna happen.” Her voice dripped with disdain. “Drop the hopes and prayers. Try introducing legislation.”

 “You can’t legislate forgiveness. Or reason. Or redemption,” I said. “You’re a fool.”

“That I am,” she said. “A fool for reality-based behaviors. That’s why I hate mystics of all stripes and colors.”

“You can hate all you want,” I said. “But we’ll love you back.” I was on my third piece of toast, feeling feisty and fit.

The red-eyed bastard screamed like the witch that Dorothy splashed as she doused the burning Scarecrow with water. I held her tight as she writhed.

“We’re going to love you back.” I repeated. And I meant it.

It’s hard to look down from the places we’ve been nailed and ask forgiveness for the gloating executioners, liars, lynchers, shooters, and those who’ve tied us to the stake. They don’t even want forgiveness. But revenge risks igniting the final blaze–the one that would burn the parched world down. Without absolution from the cooling waters of compassion, we’re lost.

The intense heat of an ongoing resurrection shimmered around my companion.

“Burn, baby, burn,” she yelled, spitting hot coals from her lips into a campfire fed by pruned branches.

I cheered her on. We sat hip to hip, watching the flames die down. We had everything we needed to make S’mores.

Big Comes By

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

As great chunks of what we’ve known to be good in our community, country, and world continue to crumble, grief and disbelief have paralyzed me. My Friend, Big, comes by to offer his shoulder to cry on, his gut to punch, his eye to blacken, his body to fold into.

“Too late, Big,” I shake my head. “They’ve got us this time. I’m giving up. It’s over.”

“Who’s got us?” Big demands, incredulous at my surrender.

“The demonic forces of primal instincts. They’ve won.”

Big grimaces. “Yeah. Everyone fears being rejected from the herd. I thought adding same-sex attractions and transgendered hearts to the mix would do the trick. I love continuums. You realize mutations, inclusion, and diversity are the heart of evolution, right?”

“No, we don’t realize that. In fact, we’ve made up commandments that keep everyone insecure and judgmental. Deep down, no one is sure their genitals are adequate. Thus, the thrill of the chase. Hatred. Domination. It’s all on flagrant display. It’s killing us.”

“Come here, Little,” Big says. “You’re sad. How about we make some lists?”

“What kind of lists?” I ask, wary.

“Ah, maybe a nice list of daily delights. Or generous things you could do today.”

My insides explode.

“GET OUT YOU FECKLESS FOOL!” I shout.

Big laughs. “Or maybe a list of numbers you could call to protest? Or signs to carry when you march?”

“OUT!” I stomp my foot.

“A list of gifts you could give your enemies?”

My eyes are blazing, my fuses blown.

Big raises his eyebrows and pounds a facetious fist. “Okay, darling.  How about a hitlist of humans we could sterilize, or drug and relocate?”

“Now you’re talking!” I yell, punch the air, . . . and burst into tears. “But my knives are dull,” I sob, impotence tightening around my neck. “Big, we’re lost. We’re really lost.”

Big steps way, way back and throws his arms around the dying planet. His breasts swell. He nurses the starving and anoints the suffering with oil. Dark children from the Cradle of Humanity stare into the abyss forming around us.

“Little,” Big says with a dramatic sigh. “I’m gonna miss this place.”

My jaw drops. Big folding? This can’t be true. He’s up to something.

“Me, too, Big. I’ll miss it too,” I counter, sly-eyed.

“Didn’t see that coming,” Big admits. “I thought pretending to give up would make you do something.”

“Two can play that game.” I say, proud of calling his bluff.

“Now what?” Big asks.

“Maybe I should buy my enemies more guns.” I say, grinning.

“Good one,” Big laughs and slaps his thigh so hard the planets realign. “But no.”

Attention!!

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment

“Folks, could I have your attention, please?”

This is a request you’ll never hear from The Evolutionary Force of the Universe. She won’t tap a glass or clap her hands. She won’t shout, whistle, or condescend to doing outlandish things. She won’t maneuver for clicks, and she’ll never go viral. She operates barely above discernable decibel levels.

She and I routinely argue about this damn reticence. “If you’re not going to grab the spotlight, speed things up, and save us, why don’t you just drop a cosmic bomb and get this extinction over with?” I demand.

“No can do,” she whispers from a pile of prehistoric bones. “I’m too busy.” She shakes the rug near the stove, and a cloud of cockroaches scuttle into the room.

“What the…?” I yell, jumping on the couch.

Evolution laughs. “They love an audience when they’re showing off.”

I am repulsed.

She continues to chuckle. “Paying attention is a powerful swing of energy.”

“So attention is a good thing?”

“Depends on the reasons and seeker,” she said. “That which you pay attention to grows. And most of you need attention because you’re feeling your way along. Attention is a feedback loop.”

In my mind, I climb on stage and begin to speak from the podium of my limited understandings. A curious quiet creeps over the crowd. I have their rapt attention. For one glorious moment, I feel fantastic. But then the fickle crowd begins to leave.

“Boring,” they pronounce as they take their attention elsewhere.

Give it back!  I scream. Give me your fawning attention. Or horrified attention. Any attention will do. I need it. I deserve it.

To my credit, even in my fantasy, I don’t stoop to lies or belittling anyone. I don’t threaten or seduce, but I’m sorely tempted.

I slap my face to bring myself back. It hurts. Withdrawal can be hell.

“See why I avoid the limelight?” The Evolutionary Force of the Universe asks. “Attention is addictive. It’s a false reassurance of importance. Managing attention is a huge responsibility, both seeking and giving. Cockroaches do okay with it, but they’ve had millions of years to practice. For humans, Attention-Seeking-Disorder is extremely dangerous. It can seriously damage the creative process. It mangles the conscience and kills the spirit.”

“But it’s so delicious,” I admit, still coming down from my imagined high. “Don’t you love those choirs and cathedrals? Synagogues and mosques?”

“Oh! Those aren’t mine!” Evolutionary Force says, shocked at the thought. “I don’t play to the crowd. I’m the still, small voice. The revealings of microscope and telescope. I’m the sacred welcome at the warm and modest fire.”

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.