Tag: Revolution

Don’t Listen to the Wind

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“How old do you think I am?” the wind asked as she whined by.

“Older than those hills you’re blowing away.” I smiled.

“And twice as dusty,” God added, chuckling.

The wind shrugged and continued on her way, but I kept up the banter. I love it when God is amused.

“Hey, speaking of old, how about that 300-cubit ark they built in Kentucky? Or that dinosaur museum in Montana where they claim that homo sapiens co-existed with the T-Rex?” I grinned.

The literalist take things to such absurd levels, I assume the Creator thinks it’s funny.

“Don’t,” God said with a catch in his voice. “Don’t.”

I did a doubletake. God wiped his eyes and dropped his head into his hands. “I never dreamed humans would devolve like this,” he said, his voice heavy. “Of course, it’s inspired. It’s poetry, analogy, history, myth. It’s best guesses, confessions, and cautionary tales.”

I put my arm over God’s shoulder. Handed him a hanky. We sat in the garden with our backs to the wind.

“Talk to me,” I said. God blew his nose and grabbed a handful of rotting leaves.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“Not for sure,” I admitted. “But I suspect you’re The Source. The Artist. Most of the time, you seem nice. Maybe a little lonely.”

God threw the leaves in the air, and we watched the wind take them.

“Do you know where I live?” he asked.

“Um, I guess I’d say everywhere,” I said.

“So why don’t you visit more often?” God asked like a sidelined elder.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “It’s harder than you think.”

“Oh, don’t I know!” God leaped up and began pacing the perimeter of the space-time continuum. “Don’t I know!”

“You’re upset,” I reflected in my best therapist voice.

“Ya think?” God snapped. “I’m plagued by deluded fundamentalist folly; people frightened by mercy, blinded to my magnitude. Vast cults, twisting beautiful literatures into false guarantees, justifying murder, mayhem, war, and extinction. Yeah. I’m upset.”

“But we’re not all like that,” I protested. “There are scientists! And activists! Truth-tellers, artists, and public servants…”

“Burned at the stake,” God interrupted, glaring.

Wow. God was as grim as I’d seen him for a while. I took a deep breath. Sometimes, dark humor helps. “Well, everyone enjoys a good barbeque,” I said.

“Don’t bother,” the wind snorted. “I’ve tried everything. He’s got to deal with this on his own. It’s beyond you.”

“No, it’s not,” God whispered in a voice so low the wind stopped to listen. “Sometimes, she makes me laugh. I like that.”

Aftermath

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

God flaps long black wings and lands gracefully on a large pile of debris while I gaze at what was once a fence but is now a line of uprooted bushes, broken promises, sticks, and mud. I wave. God takes human shape and waves back. A wide-brimmed hat shades her eyes from an ambitious morning sun. The FEMA people have come and gone.

We are creatures of the seasons, drawn along by the unstoppable orbit of earth and the long and short of things out of our control. We’ve learned to adapt. Even the meanest among us is glad for a cold drink on a hot day. Even the bravest does not welcome frostbite. When a season runs amok, and our shelters collapse, burn, or float away, we stand stripped of familiar, protective layers. Our dreaded smallness is revealed.

Both “aftermath” and “seasons” have etymological roots in agriculture. Knowing when to plant and knowing there will be a smaller, second crop available after harvest–these are as essential to survival as breathing—though not as automatic. I survey the aftermath of this season so far. It has severely eroded riverbanks, civility, and the pillars of our democracy.

I settle beside God. We say nothing. Not long ago, the flat surface we’re sitting on was a bridge plank from somewhere upstream. Now it’s woven into what the river has lifted, tossed, and left behind. It will not be a bridge again. I do not know which bridges will hold. I’m tired and afraid. God takes my hand, and we walk to the garden where seeds are belatedly sprouting. I am astonished to see the Lower Salmon River squash seeds I saved from last year making a go of it. I was sure they were rotten, infertile, or dead.

“Never say never,” God whispers, gently touching the sprouts.

“Never say always,” I counter. “I’m not sure what’s next, but it won’t be the same river, ever again.”

“Nothing is ever the same river,” God says.

I give God an ironic look and push my hand through her ephemeral chest. On the other side, there’s a new season as yet unnamed. At some point, I will call it home, but even so, it will be temporary.

God leans down, pulls a weed, and squints up at my wavering being. “There is no final resting place,” she says. “But the painted ponies love having riders like you.” She hands me a golden coin. I hand it back. She laughs, swallows the coin, and flies away. I have flotsam and jetsam to clear, wells to cleanse, and fires to build. So many fires to build.