Tag: Spirituality

When You Talk to Yourself, Listen

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

You can learn a great deal by eavesdropping on yourself. You might be blowing off steam, visiting with an imaginary friend, guiding yourself with step-by-step instructions, giggling at your own joke, crooning your favorite tune, or even giving yourself a piece of your mind.

It’s sad, but some people are merciless with themselves, speaking cruelly about their inadequacies and mistakes. There’s no joy in that, trust me. Slapping yourself alongside the head, declaring “I’m an idiot” does little good in the long run. It does not alleviate the shame.

Wise people try to talk nicely to themselves. This isn’t easy. It may require borrowing the voice of someone who knew and loved you back when you were young and well-intended. Positive reinforcement and compassion from within are powerful.

And then there are those holy, mostly one-sided conversations with the Unseen and Unseeable. These visits don’t always go well. Sometimes, all we speak of is how deserving we are, whining about the unfairness of life. We demand revenge for perceived slights and offer feeble excuses for our role in the pain.

A person could drown in that slime. I’ve come close, but so far, I’ve managed to grab a life vest, paddle to a humble shore, and crawl out. There, face up on the rocky beach, I watch the wind have its way with branches and clouds.

Often, the Creator with the Kindest Eyes stops by. We admire the expanse of eternity around us, and I snuggle into the warmth of denial. She doesn’t mind. This Creator has the gentlest voice I’ve ever imported, so I bank on a few minutes of peace.

“You’re mortal,” she says after our quiet time. “And you can’t take this disarray with you anyway.”

I smile, relieved.

We take a bracing inbreath of the Now and begin putting earthly things on the shelves where they belong. Memories come untethered, sweet and tender, rank and bitter. There are a few so hilarious that we gleefully throw ourselves backwards, right into the Great Dissolution. Here, the vulnerable children we once were roll marbles over the viper’s den. And the vipers and cobras have come out to play.

I panic.

“There are wars and rumors of wars,” I shout. “Famine and pestilence on all horizons.”  My chest cracks open. The children stop playing and crawl onto my lap.

“Oh, we know,” they nod, ancient and unfazed.

They wrap my beating heart in fine linen and begin singing the song I sing to myself when I can’t quite remember who I am.

It’s a lullaby. The cradle falls, but somehow, everything turns out fine.

It’s Hard to Walk Away From a Hundred Words

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment 

The Poet:

It’s hard to walk away from a hundred words and endure the resulting blankness, but sometimes, that’s the thing to do. Don’t lean into the streaked screen. Enter the room even if you’re confused. Grope through collapsing synapses for the forgotten face.

The Painter:

You’ve never learned to handle light. You act as if you can put it wherever you’d like. The resulting portraits are wrong. Your misshapen landscape hides under the clothing of sheep. The Light doesn’t bend at your command, but often, it will invite you to dance.

The Prophet:

You’re going to decline. You’ll blame your brilliance and claim your place in the order of things But darling, grace cannot be earned. For every star you’ve named, there are a million waiting in the wings. What are a hundred words when you consider that?

The Priest:

The Apple doesn’t fall far from intention, stolen wine does not gladden the heart, and twisted words create misery as useless as sin. But listen: The stones along the road are singing. All is forgiven. It’s safe to remember the lyrics and sing your way back home.

                                ......................................................................................................................................................
I

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Remember Who You’re Not

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments 
       
       

       “You are not Rupert Murdoch,” The Cosmos said in a smug voice early this morning. “And you’re not Taylor Swift.”
       “Uh, come again?” I frowned, sleepy and irritated by this authoritative announcement. “Why would you stop by to point that out? Don’t you have anything better to do?”
       “Nope. Nothing better. And sometimes it’s important to remember who you aren’t.”

       It’s cold today. I smudge my forehead with ashes before I start the fire. My nobodiness is both indictment and exoneration. Burden and relief.

       Every evening, a host of witnesses comes home to roost in their insulated shed. As the light wanes, a plexiglass panel slides shut to protect them from the terrors of the night. Once in a while, one of the witnesses lollygags outside until after the door has closed, and she’s forced to spend the night awake, perched on the other side of safety, exposed to predators and the elements. She usually survives.

       Let us pause and consider what we’ve been taught about faith. In the tongues of angels, witches, pricks, and liars, from the mouths of shape shifters and reptiles, from the words of the prophets written on the railroad cars, the definition is disturbingly clear

       Faith without feeding the hungry is dead. Sacrifice without love is pointless. And believing that life should be free of suffering is tragically naïve.

       “We can’t make something true by believing as hard as we can, right?” I asked The Flock. 
       “Right,” The Cosmos answered. “You cannot. So be sure to believe only that which you know to be true.” 
       This made me laugh. And then cry.

       “Why don’t you show us where it hurts?” whispered the demons with eyes all aglow. “So we’ll know where to bite you.”
       “No,” I shook my head. “I’m not Rupert Murdoch. I have to take care of myself.”

OMG. Seriously? Another poem?

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Dear Readers,

No doubt you’ve noticed, I have yet to die. But I’m planning on getting around to it sometime. My Coauthor assures me it’s no big deal. I don’t believe her. Few people leave a good party willingly—especially when they realize that loved ones will party on without them. Most of us cling to the notion that we have something left to offer, or feel certain that we deserve a longer life. Many believe we should have no agency in how our lives end.

In my morning silences, I sip dark beer, chew on my thumb, and mull. Every once in a while, this yields a poem with a certain lilt. Try reading this one out loud. . .

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

                  Breaking News

The glass chin of winter has been shattered
in a sparring match with spring. What matters are
the matters just around the bend, 
like when happily ever after does not describe the end.

It’s wise to be forgiving and forgiven, released from anger
or desire. But nothing that impossible will ever be required
because the onset of autumn is a natural fall from grace
sinking into slumber to be dismantled and replaced.

There’s so much to leave behind, the letting go of time,
and what you once believed was yours. Or mine.
It’s easy to deny, but therein lies the rub.
Death is the final act of unrequited love.

Walk beyond with me. I’ll carry the water and the blame.
You can bring your diamonds, your protests, your shame.
We’ll gaze at our own faces in translucent evening light
and lift them in surrender to the perfect, gentle night.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

. . . And if possible, forgive my redundancies.

Love,
Rita

Those Letters We Should Write

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Dear Mom,

You know that little desk you used for envelopes and business cards? Well, I’ve dragged it to a new place and painted the top. It’s got a paisley planetary look now. I doubt you’d like it, but you’d be impressed with my system for moving heavy things. I reduce the friction and lean in.

And speaking of friction, I need to tell you about what’s happening with the beloveds.

Remember our trip to Paris decades ago? The crowds were so vibrant and diverse you were floored. We people-watched for hours.

In the evening, you stood transfixed as hundreds of nuns rehearsed inside a backlit cathedral on a hill overlooking the city. The harmonies were ethereal.

“Never in my life did I imagine I’d hear something like that,” you said, wiping tears. “I just can’t fathom all this.”

Mom, listen. The harmonies have been stripped of complexity. Diced and dichotomized. Those colorful people are too frightened to sing, and something hateful has hardened what used to be warm hearts. No one can fathom it. We’re all watching our backs, ready to be stabbed or taken away.

You claimed you could handle yourself around guns, but I know that at least one bullet blew up in your face. Therefore, I’ll try anything but deadly force. We’ve collected some baseball bats, and the pantry is full. Mostly, we play ball and eat chips and dried mango, but we’re pretending to be ready.

No one is actually ready.

The firewood is lasting pretty well, but the temperature keeps dropping unannounced. We often suffer mild frostbite, so when possible, we gather where it’s warm and safe. Few of us realized it could get this jagged or insane, and we don’t seem able to mend and carry on. The good earth is crumbling while everyone bickers over their share and their side of the story.

You always loved the parable of the loaves and fishes. That basket of food you took to the hungry neighbors overflowed with a simple goodness we don’t see much of anymore. Buffoonery abounds—sadism cloaked as self-defense.

Of course, I understand why you stopped attending church. My Coauthor explains such things to me, but it’s awful, isn’t it? So many are choking on the thin wafers of hypocrisy and weeping over spilled wine.

The nightly news is intolerable. The strutting continues. And I’ve made some mistakes myself. I’m sorry. I continue to try to follow the advice you wrote in your birthday card to the grands:

When the going gets tough, the tough get going.

As it turns out, walking humbly may be the toughest thing of all.

Love you, and see you soon.

Stirring Honey Into Peppermint Tea

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“You know I’ve been fixated on the puzzles and denials of mortality for years, and you’ve never been much help,” I tell the Coauthor. A raised eyebrow is the only response I get. We stir honey into our tea.

I lift the cup to my lips, but the Coauthor covers my hand.

“Wait until it’s cold,” she says.

“But I like it warm.” I protest.

Steam curls around our entwined fingers.

*******

Through long stretches of indeterminant time, I sit. Waiting. Sometimes the vulture’s talons. Sometimes the ice of infinity. Visitors are rare, and I like it that way. The Crystal Ball rolls through the room, stops abruptly, and opens its cavernous mouth.

“You’re a liar,” it says.

“No,” I shake my head. “But I tell stories. That’s how I breathe.”

*******

Before being overtaken by digital displays, the ticking of the clock meant something. The steady sound was comforting, though on occasion, it disrupted my sleep. But now, I’m awakened by heavy fog rolling in, the enormity of loss crushing everything in its path.

“I want it over now!” My arms are crossed, but my demand is tempered by a tiny sliver of shame.

“Oh good grief,” the Coauthor smiles. “It was over before you started.”

*******

When I speak to the Viral Collective about geraniums and longevity and the bad choices I made last fall, there’s nothing but forgiveness in the air. “We see how hard it is,” they say, stroking my shoulder. Patting my head.

I want none of it. My intentions were pure. I deserve another chance.

“You will not be found innocent,” the Collective says. “The geraniums froze.”

*******

The Artificial Mothers are make-believe virgins, whoring around in contradictory clothes. They pretend to love us as they scatter offerings like stars or candy at parades. But beware: It is the hatching of a million snakes.

Even the wisest mavens end up sidelined, old locomotives cleverly switched to dead-end tracks. Sometimes, when a thug thinks no one is looking, he shoves the Viral Collective off the cliff, and they tumble into The Fiery Lake below. Their wild and joyous gestures suggest the water is fine.

And at least for now, we’re safe. The air is thick with peppermint.

********
















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Survival of the Fittest
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		











In the wild, aging primates are generally left to fend for themselves, and I’ve come to appreciate both the wisdom and peril in that. Today, I fended my way to the basement to get bread from the freezer and accepted the indignities of clinging to the handrail as I ascended to make toast.





I would rather be reporting something more exciting, like how we danced all night, or my next career moves, or even which types of lipstick I currently recommend, but poetic license aside, I don’t lie outright (very often).





The Coauthors are gentle this morning. They speak in the tongues of galaxies and seasons, and remind me that chicks will hatch in the spring and demand breakfast with wide-open beaks, and some nests will blow down, and some will not, and either way, the turquoise of the robin’s egg will fade. It was never meant to last.





“I remember my father’s eyes,” I tell them. “They were iridescent.”





“Yes. And do you know why they were so blue?” they ask.





“Not anymore,” I admit.





My own blue eyes tear up. The photos of five generations sucker punch me every time I use the stairs. There are fingerprints on most of them. And fingerprints don’t lie either.





I tell myself that we, the living, are roots, holding the dirt so it doesn’t fritter away in a seductive breeze or dissipate when the floods come; that we are the fruit of the season, the seeds of the future.





“No you’re not,” the Coauthors say. “You’re confused. Your fingers are on the wrong keys.” They aren’t being gentle anymore.





“No. Your fingers are on the wrong keys.” This is not much of a defense, but it causes the Coauthors to back away. An eerie poem asserts itself.





Sirens we have heard on high
singing sweetly o’re the plains
of money and supreme success. 
The star-struck mountains 
crumble at their feet. 
Through the holes 
in the fabric of my universe, 
the years drift by, 
challenges looming, 
fears lit by the moon
as it rises in the gathering night.

“Wait! I don’t think my confusion is entirely my fault, keys or no keys,” I tell the retreating Coauthors.





“And we aren’t blaming you!” they shout as they dive into an orbiting kaleidoscope of swirling geodes, crystals, and gems, and break into unearthly harmonies. Nothing anywhere near us is smooth, black, or white.





“But do I have a purpose?” I shout back. 





“Yes and no,” they sing. “But you ask good questions, honey. Keep asking.”

















Photo credit: Vance and/or Deborah Drain

















			




			
				


	


					
Board Meeting
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments		

			


	

		













Just before the holidays, my Selves call our annual board meeting. Attendance is mandatory. In years past, the little ones stayed outside to play, but now the young at heart hold prominent positions and are often honored with songs or gifts.





Strong coffee, milkshakes, dark beer, green smoothies, herbal tea, and vast amounts of filtered water are available all day and into the night. Everyone brings a favorite dish to share. Unless by choice, no one goes hungry, but Healthy Self can be a little picky.





We begin by sharing things we’re grateful for. Then Little Miss Despair gives her yearly guilt-inducing speech about worldwide needs and horrors. The weeping and rending of outer garments is built into the schedule. It isn’t pleasant, but the wiser among us insist that atrocities be witnessed and spoken of. Besides, Righteous Recycler gathers the scraps of sackcloth and makes them into quilts or collages. Nothing goes to waste.





My few Ascendent Selves have Coauthors who take notes throughout the proceedings. They sip expensive wine and nibble on sweetbreads (the pancreas or thymus glands of young animals). Few of us are enamored of sweetbreads or veal, but then few of us are vegan either. We face our hypocrisies bravely.





Historically, there were multitudes at the table, but my numbers are dwindling. The attrition of Selves is always on the agenda. We frame it as positively as we can: Fewer mouths to feed and minds to tend.





The Coauthors neither dwindle nor diminish. If an Ascendent Self fades or disappears, they choose another to ascend. Sometimes, they disrupt the meeting by waving their holy hands until called upon. For instance, last year they took the floor.





“Fantasies of Fame has given up the Ghost,” they called out. “We nominate Still Has Her Teeth.”





Awkward discussion ensued. Someone moved that we buy her an electric toothbrush. Motion carried. Still Has Her Teeth and her Coauthor are now major players in the Ascendent Selves subcommittee assigned to ride herd on the What the Hell triplets.





Compassion and Self-sacrifice often need to leave early due to utter exhaustion. Their Coauthors carry them to their vehicles and drive them home. This is good because the Coauthors have far better night vision than most of my Selves. I’m Confused  and Ms. Know-it-all can be annoying backseat drivers, but even in blizzard conditions, we try not to grab the wheel.





“Guard rails are a matter of the heart,” the Coauthors remind us passengers. They open the doors and bow like the classy chauffeurs of the rich and famous. Those of us who are able stumble home to rest, determined to face another year standing as tall as nature allows.


			




			
				


	


					
Missionary Position
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments		

			


	

		













Certain faith systems send out missionaries to convert others to their way of thinking, and sometimes it works. Believers beget believers. This has been going for a very long time.





As a species, we search for meaning. And we want to belong. It’s far easier to convert or cling to a set of beliefs that guide and justify our behaviors than it is to be open, kind, and accepting. Some questions simply cannot be answered on this side of existence.





My Coauthor nods in agreement. This surprises me. I smile and begin making breakfast.





“When’s your next mission?” he asks in an innocent voice.  “And which bibles shall we print up?”





I should have known there’d be some smartass dimension to deal with.





“I’m no missionary,” I snap. “I’m a ‘live and let live’ kind of gal.”





My Coauthor cracks up. “In your dreams, Bossypants.”





“Ah, c’mon,” I protest. “It’s obvious there are better or worse ways to live. But I don’t insist. I don’t even shame people. . . very often.”





“But do you love them?”





I shrug. “What’s love?”





“A precarious tightrope that ends in a certain kind of death.”





“Scrambled or over easy?”





“Over easy, please.”





I serve the fertile eggs and sprouted wheat toast. We chew thoughtfully.





I break the silence in an uneasy voice. “I don’t know much about that precarious tightrope, but I do know something about death.”





“You know very little about death.”





“More coffee?”





“Yes, thanks. And feel free. Tell me what you know about death.”





My hand trembles. I refill his cup a little past the brim.





“I’ve been bedside of those passing. I’ve watched wasps writhe. Chard wilt. Bullets to the head of predators. Shovel to the neck of the snake. I’ve watched the light depart.”





The Coauthor nods. “And tell me what you know about love.”





My words fly away. I bow my head. I am the writhing wasp. The beheaded snake. The martyred lamb. The poisoned earth.





 My Coauthor is the dark night in whom I swim and drown. Food withheld, I starve. The constant laying down and taking up of life roils the waters.





 I am a missionary unto myself, but there is fluidity to my position. My body. My blood. Complicit and compliant. The most reluctant sacrifice you’d ever want to meet. The Coauthor is my broken heart, still beating.





I lift my eyes. A spectacular sunrise yanks me to the window and wraps me in the membranes of an apricot sky. 





“Today.” I finally whisper. “Today is all I know about love.”







			




			
				


	


					
Facing the Long Good-bye
		
				

			 Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments		

			


	

		








In the stillness following a midnight storm
my eyes move across the surface of morning.
First light reveals innocent branches bent low
from the weight of the wet, unseasonable snow.

Her eyes follow mine.

At least the fire danger has dropped, She notes.
You could burn all those files and broken pallets now.

Yeah. If I could find them, I say, with some resentment.

There are discernable undulations on the surface,
but the sharp edges of old ideas and things gone wrong 
are hidden under this pure white shawl,
and I’d rather leave them buried.

Oh, you can find them, She says.
And with some accelerant, 
you could have one hell of a bonfire. 
Perfect conditions for that kind of heat.

Where would I even begin?
I ask, but I don’t want an answer.

Twigs. Wadded up pages ripped from your journals. 
Start with the small stuff.

Right, I echo. Start with the small stuff.

You’re going to ignore me, aren’t you? She smiles.

Yes, I am. I grin back.
I need to feed the chickens and shovel the walks.

Of course you do, She nods.
And I need to change the colors of the leaves.

She hands me an ancient paintbrush streaked with sunrise.
You’re welcome to help if you end up with extra time.

And in that moment, I see our destiny: 
to be refracted like light
into pigments so beautiful and pure
we won’t recognize our hands anymore.