Tag: Science

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.”

The Amoeba Ate My Homework

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

I was reading up on amoeba and discovered to my horror that there are brain-eating amoeba floating around in fresh water ready and eager to devour human grey matter. I have an active imagination. I think I let some in. They’ve eaten what I would have written. In their single-celled existence, they may have achieved world peace by simply following their destiny

I am neither single-celled nor invasive, but every fiber of my being and all 30 trillion cells are inflamed. Sometimes, I can grasp the interconnectivity of all things, but I don’t relate well to thieving neighbors, deadly viruses, fascism, or pastries made with refined sugar and bleached flour.

Most mornings I arrive at consciousness gradually, in disbelief at the insolence, ignorance, and greed snarling just outside our door. The warm blankets and the dent my body makes in the mattress form a Godlike exoskeleton that I am loathe to surrender.

I linger, considering amoeba reproduction. Under favorable conditions, the amoeba divides in two. When things aren’t favorable, the amoeba body produces around 200 spores and then disintegrates. Even those lucky enough to gorge on human brains ultimately disintegrate. Maybe they produce smarter spores. I don’t know. Who cares?

“OMG,” God laughs. “Are you trying for the worst set of excuses ever? You aren’t an amoeba, and there are none in your brain. Amoebas have very few choices. You have many.”

“That’s the problem,” I sigh. “Humans pretend to cherish freedom, but choices that require sacrifice are hard. It appears that many would rather trust the wealthy or have a Big Daddy Dictator make choices for us: Define the bad guys. Kill them. Reduce tax burdens, increase buying power and meet our every need because we’re special.”

“You aren’t an amoeba. I’m not the Big Breast in the Sky. Dictators are not benevolent. There are no easy answers. And it’s time to get up.”

This is true. It is time to get up. I don’t want to leave my safe space, but as the saying goes, you can’t take it with you.

I dress for the day and turn to God.

“You coming?” I ask her.

“Always,” she nods. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Dictator brains on toast,” I mumble.

God laughs. “Amoeba envy?”

“Maybe,” I admit. “Some days, it’s hard to be evolved.”

“Ha! Well, regression is always an option.” God slugs my shoulder. “But it’s more interesting to put one foot in front of the other and lean in.”

I am aware this means to lean into compassion, joy, and sacrifice. I grimace, stare into the abyss, and offer God more toast, but she’s already gone. I take one last bite and hurry to catch up.  

Resisting Domestication

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Caged animals trouble me even if there are acres of natural habitat within their enclosures. The prowling and howling unsettle my claustrophobic soul. And the barriers give visitors a false sense of security. Some time ago, instead of eating the raw meat offered, a grizzly bear ate its handler. We’ve not yet domesticated grizzlies, but if photos of human hubris in Yellowstone Park are any indication, people think befriending wild animals is easy. Just walk right up and pet the bison. In gratitude, it will lower its massive head and lick your hand.

Over the eons, animals willing to be domesticated have provided humans with companionship, labor, and food. Various theologies claim to have domesticated God for similar reasons, but in truth, there is no such thing as a tame or definable God.

“You’ve got that right,” God bellows, sitting large in the hayfield, posing as a woolly mammoth while celestial beings take selfies with her.

I wave but keep my distance. “You know you’re extinct, right?” I’m joking but I’m also afraid of the answer.

God’s tusks circle back to her ancient head. She roars, and the celestial beings roll away like geodes. Their fall from grace cracks them open revealing the phantastic crystal formations of their inner lives. I long to touch the cold brilliance of the fractured geodes, feed God fresh-cut hay, build a nice barn, and corral them all.

“Are you imagining what kind of fencing you’d need?” God asks.

“Yes,” I admit. “But I don’t really want you contained.”

God looked at me long and hard. I looked at myself long and hard. “Ok. I guess I do want you a little bit contained. Otherwise, you’re terrifying.”

As if to prove my point, Woolly Mammoth bellows again. “You terrify yourselves. I’m the source of comfort.”

I bravely push back. “Well. Maybe. But you’re also the reason we need comfort. The conditions we’re born into…consciousness, love, loss, sacrifice, floods, fires, starvation, war…”

“What makes you think your species isn’t going the way of the woolly mammoth?” God interrupts.

“Um, well. We’re amazingly adaptable. And no one’s hunting us.”  I stop abruptly as I realize we actually hunt each other. And our ability to adapt has limits. God’s silence is not reassuring.

I try a slight change of subject. “Did you know scientists are working on cloning woollies back into existence?”

“You don’t say!” Woolly Mammoth exclaims facetiously as she turns and becomes first light. I see that the truth, such as it is, has shaped itself into shelter. It looks dicey, but I think well, if God lives anywhere, it’s here, so I crawl in. At least it’s not a cage.

State of the Union

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

edit First pair blue hair

“I love scientists,” God said, sipping herbal tea, relaxed and open. “I just love them. They try so hard to understand, reveal, predict, and invent. Aren’t they something? Such visionaries.”

“Yeah,” I said. We sat for a while. Then I added. “You know, I’m somewhat of a scientist myself.

“Hmmm,” God said. “I don’t often think of you that way, but now that you mention it, I can see a little scientific mindedness in you. More artist, but sure, a little scientist.”

Well.

My eyebrows bent down, but I pushed them back up to the level of civil discourse. “I love scientists, too,” I said. “But doesn’t it bother you that you’re kept out of the equations so often?”

“What?” God said. “Are you nuts? I don’t have to be recognized to be present. In fact, I get a lot of exercise jogging around in equations and hypotheses. They’re great places to work out. Science-types are like moles, digging into creation. They examine air, stars, creatures deep in the sea. I love that burning desire to understand.” God paused, looking like a proud parent, and added, “I never dreamed they’d come up with the idea of splitting an atom! Wow. Just wow.”

I was aghast. “God!” I yelled, “You know what we’ve done with split atoms, right?”

God gave me that “duh” look and said, “Children take things apart, and sometimes, they can’t get them back together. It’s part of the long, long walk.” God’s voice faltered. I could tell I’d hit a sore spot, but I was unrepentant.

“It’s more than that,” I said, my voice deadly serious. “And you know it.”

God sighed. “Okay. True. Divide and conquer is a primitive strategy. Bringing things together is a more advanced skill than taking them apart.”

If I could’ve held it together, I would’ve given God a “duh” look back. But I lost it and slid into my usual slash and burn. I stomped back and forth on our concrete floor until I gave myself shin splints. I growled until my throat hurt. I punched the air. I kick-boxed with God. My heart rate moved past the aerobic range. I shouted, “We are tragically fractured, and we just keep fracturing further. Human trafficking, walls and greed, gutted landscapes, forced pregnancies, prolonged suffering at the end of life. War. Torture. Starvation. Nuclear waste. And you sit there, admiring scientists and spouting off about bringing things together?”

“Yes,” God said in a stubborn voice. She appeared to be unfazed. “Exactly.”

She sat down and took a sip of tea, trying to hide her tears. I hid mine, too. A long moment passed. Then, a cruel storm blew up, and fierce as a mother eagle, God flung her powerful, protective wings around the cosmos. My reach is maddeningly limited, but I tried to do the same.