Tag: Resurrection

Seven Versions of the Same Old Thing

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

I


“You again?” The eyebrows of the Infinite Sky are knit above me. I am small. Of little consequence. 
Another chicken has disappeared, but there are more where she came from.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Me again. I’m thirsty.” 
There are record highs and no rain. The heat has withered the emerging greens, 
and my succulent ideas are shriveling. 
These are dangerous times.

II

The tall walls I’ve built accuse me. They’re a dull off-white, marred with holes and history. 
Unclean. Cloying.
“Back off,” I tell them. “You know I’m well-intended.” 
I glance away because this isn’t always the case.

III

Each morning, there are crates of hours stacked in front of me. 
Some filled with false alarms. Some leaking impossible promises. The expiration dates are meaningless.

       The aroma of bacon. 
       The sizzle of eggs. 
       The sorrowful slaughter. 
       The entitled theft. 

These are the harvests required to feed the hungry. To feed us all.

IV

“Let’s get physical,” my smoldering creativity suggests in a husky whisper. 
My balance is precarious. Not to be trusted entirely.
“Nothing is to be trusted entirely,” the Singed Earth shrugs. “So what?”
“Could you help me get the ladder, then?” I ask. “Most of the rungs are imaginary.”

V

We step outside. The Wind is ferocious. Stones are rolling away. 
“Is this chaos by design?” I ask. My eyes sting as I peer through dust and ashes.
"It’s complicated,” The Wind answers. “What we once designed is now designing us."
“I understand,” I nod, leaning into each consecration, my shroud wound around me. 
If I loosened it, I could fly. But I stand firm, surveying the damage.

VI

The chaff has blown away, revealing a gash in the Beating Heart. 
A shimmering stream of violet flows toward the River.
Violet is the most intense color on the visual spectrum. I wish I were blind.
“Where should I put the tourniquet?” I ask the First Responders, thinking myself a reluctant hero.
"Not your job, sweetheart,” they laugh. “We do our own repairs. But your old walls could use some color.” 
We locate the ladder and drag it in.

VII

A wall at a time, I mutter as I put drop-cloths down. My brush is worn, hands unsteady. 
Straight lines are no longer an option, and violet cannot be created by mixing old paint. 
I find refuge in curves and purple, rowdy resurrections, 
and all those Nascent Invisibilities yet to come.




*****

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Landing

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

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In 40 minutes, I will land. We will land. The degrees of separation will fluctuate wildly while my internal Geiger counter recalibrates. Then all will settle, and I’ll make educated guesses about the radiance of God’s face and the relative dangers of the mundane.

No doubt the landing will be turbulent because in Mexico City, God looked bored and restless. Security singled me out, emptied my bags, patted me down. The apologetic guard had thin pink lips. She was extraordinarily short and efficient. God chuckled before boarding the plane like royalty, dressed in pilot’s regalia.

At 30,000 feet, I am beyond redemption, but then everything is. The question is less about redemption–more about restoration, which apparently, will be a real bitch. There’s nothing subtle about restoration. It extends beyond the absurd and tragic, earth scorched and drenched, bones burned clean. The lovely molds and mildew will recede only after, somehow, it’s over, and this particular crisis is removed from the cross and buried.

Explanations sit stoically beside me, overweight and ugly. Back in Mexico, they stare out the windows of the purple bus, flutter in the hands of children selling trinkets in the rain.

The seat belt sign is illuminated. Items in the overhead bins have shifted. Visibility is limited by smoke and tears. But we will be landing shortly. This is terrible. And perfect.

Purple Chair

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

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Some weeks ago, I had three ugly chairs to deal with. Donate? Trash? Hide them away in the abandoned chicken house? I also happened to have three small cans of paint. Lime green, purple, and burgundy. And a paint brush, and a what-the-hell attitude. No one I know will live long enough to entirely declutter. Yanking something back from the brink of the landfill is one of my favorite things. This is why God and I relate so well.

Now, in this lonely morning space, the purple one holds my gaze, shiny and redeemed, imperfect but gracious. The worn sofa accommodates my shifting weight, and the three of us form a temporary universe.

To my left, the accusatory past, the glory days, my living children, my dead friends. The seductive urge to rewrite. Compelling grief mingled with steady resurrections made possible because I remember and remember. But I can’t stay long. The urgency of Now will overpower, as it should.

To my right, the slim future bulges with what-ifs and how-abouts. Ungainly opportunities, bloated with longing and contradictions. Oh, I know the future is not an all-you-can-eat affair, but I wish it were. This is brave of me to admit. I’m a greedy hog, wanting unlimited, tasty dishes served to me, day and night, forever.

The purple chair shimmers in light filtered by fire. Thick smoke has hidden the mountain. My lungs are burning and I’ve begun to cry for help, like a child lost. But I’m not lost. I’m centered in this precarious place between myself and a world growing dryer and more flammable in the glaring clarity of heat.

Soon, I’ll lift myself from the stillness and drive, a long solo journey. I’ll fly across expanses that reverberate with a humble God. A dying God. A green God, pregnant with an eternity no one can grasp. But I know a little about it, thanks to the purple chair, and this moment, the fire, and a slew of generous gifts from departed friends and long-forgotten enemies.

It is enough. Oh, wait. One more confession: I always want more than enough. But I’m slowly learning that more than enough can be a very toxic blessing.

Just so. Enough