Tag: Self-forgiveness

Tallies

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments 

How many pots have you scorched in pursuit 
of the good life, warm soup, or steamed greens? 
No worries. You’re often distracted by sparkling words.

How many scrapes and bruises have you endured 
because of hasty departures or overpacked plans? No sweat. 
You thought you could cut corners that cannot be cut.

Is your fastidious loading of the dishwasher 
a point of pride or a place to hide
because the terrain of shame is so steep?

You polish your resentments like silver. This isn't wise.
Pack them up and drag them to town. Melt them down.
The Blacksmith turns everything into serving bowls.

Conjure up some joy. Old is inescapable.
Young is no one’s fault. Apologize when you recognize
that your memories are wrong. Gently move along.

How many times must you be reminded
that only love is worth the extra weight?
One more time, you plead. One more time.

But what is love? A tally that tips the scales?
Count the stars in the heavens, the hairs on your head. 
Map the terrain of your body. Make a schema of your heart,

and when your beleaguered soul demands a list 
of what you’ve done that matters,
give it a cup of something warm and curl up for a nap.


Ecclesiastes for the Average Reader: A Tutorial

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

To everything, there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to eat chocolate, a time to eat greens. A time to float the river, a time to cut hay. A time to blame, a time to own up. A time to back away, a time to give it your all. A time to dig and a time to refrain from digging.

Reader, please provide your own examples of holding on or letting go. C’mon. You know:

But what’s the use? You grow up. You grow old. Your carefully arranged treasures will be donated or dumped. The shrubs will be misunderstood, and the thistles will return. The stove will backdraft, the colors will run. You’re on your own, and the cards are stacked against you. You are not different than the beasts of the field. And as beasts die, so will you.

Reader, please provide three (only three) examples of your existential despair:

You’re a phony, a caricature of sincerity, a grumbler, a whiner, a blamer. You’re a striver after the sun. You’ve lied, stolen things, and lusted after fame and fortune. You’ve coveted and secretly rejoiced at someone else’s misfortune. You build bad fences. Everyone should be on your side. They’re not. You repeatedly make the same stubborn mistakes, and you’re as vain as anyone you know. It’s all vanity. All of it. This might be a good thing. Might not.

Reader, please cheerfully list three of your own moral shortcomings:

At night, you rehash failings and exaggerate the dreadful demands of the coming day. You toss and turn, sweating through self-inflicted anxieties. You torture yourself with blame, fear, and discontentedness. You wish you had control of your mind. You wish you believed in magic. Finally, as you imagine walking the plank, you fall asleep. But then you have to pee.

Reader, please provide all the reasons everyone should party late into the night:

In the meantime, what’s the harm in trying? What’s the harm in resting? What’s the harm in hoping? What’s the harm in keeping your nose clean and your heart open? Sure, you haven’t gotten it all right, and you never will. You’re far from flawless or erudite. Things rarely work out entirely as you’d planned. Wisdom isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Now is the time to sigh and say “Ah, what the hell.” And the Teacher nods and says, “Seriously, what the hell?”

Reader, please shrug and provide your own what the hells. As many as you’d like:

Good work, dear one. It’s time for ice cream. Or not.  Next week, Revelations.