Tag: Spirituality

Geraniums

Rita Sommers-Flanagan9 Comments

A devoted Buddhist once told me that he practices dying every night. Due to his oddly belligerent demeanor I didn’t ask for details. But it gave me ideas.

To die well requires less practice and more conscious forethought. A laissez-faire attitude toward mortality is common. But “dealing with things” long before your time comes is a kindness to the planet and your beloveds.

For instance, embalming fluids hold your placid smile in place for viewing, but they eventually leak out, and they’re poison. Sadly, though less toxic and land-consuming, cremation adds around 550 pounds of carbon dioxide to your carbon footprint.

So my newest idea involves compost (I hear my loved ones sighing, “Of course, it does.”) But they’ll thank me someday. I have a plan, and it’s simple.

My favorite quilter will help me create a colorful body wrap with handles and bright yellow ties to ease the burden of moving me to my chosen resting place.

There’s a boggy spot just behind the open-faced calving shed on the family ranch. It has a magical circle of aspen. As a child, I recognized this was a thin place between worlds. With any luck, I’ll die while the ground is warm and active, so a small backhoe can dig a shallow hole.

When I first began my own “dealing with things,” I had my friend built a coffin of rough-cut lumber, but now I realize that coffins are unnecessary. Cotton cloth is enough. I want the fewest barriers possible between me and the rich, good earth.

I want nothing to impede the dissolution or the dream.

My brooding seems to trigger the Not-God. “What about a headstone, you fool?” she shrieks. “How will your offspring find you in times to come?”

My Coauthor and I surround her with understanding arms, and the purple bruising of fear fades to ivory. We hold each other safe in the center of the Holy Dialectic. “My offspring have already found me,” I tell the Not-God. “And I them.”

In her clear contralto, my Coauthor begins to sing, “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.” The Not-God covers her ears and shouts, “What will you do with that coffin, then? And all those stones you’ve gathered?”

I turn toward into the Shadow that she inhabits. “I’ve been lining the Path with smooth stones for years. And my former coffin will make a beautiful planter. Someone gave me some geraniums, and I feel certain they will be easy to propagate.

“What colors?” the Not-God whimpers.

“All of the colors,” I smile. “Do you have a favorite?”

“Pink,” she brightens and grins like a child. “Hot, hot pink.”

—

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Showing Up

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments 

        It’s common to look for loopholes in the various holy writings we use to guide and judge ourselves and each other. This is because even when showing up and doing exactly what Allah seems to want, or covering ourselves in the blood of the lamb, or sacrificing fatted calves, or piercing our chests with bones, dancing until we pass out, deep inside, we know we’re imperfect beings. Maybe we have enough faith to curry the favor of the Divine or avoid eternal damnation. Maybe not. It’s terrifying.

        “Well, that’s ridiculous,” the Coauthor says. “And I have to admit; I get a little tired of the drama.”
        “Well, I have to admit I get a little tired of you,” I counter. 
        “I know,” the Coauthor says.
        We sip beer.

        Somehow, my phone has dialed itself and there’s a voice saying hello, hello from my pocket. I dig out the renegade device and stare at the unfamiliar name on the screen. It’s tempting to end the call, but I answer. Turns out it’s a handyman I hired once, years ago. We have a nice little chat. He is most understanding. I will never see him again. My phone acts like it might redial as I try to update my contacts. My fingers are cold and imprecise. I give up.

        When I think about my reassuring accumulations of art supplies, rocks, dark chocolate, and certain friends, the world seems kind and full of potential. In this transitory euphoria, I make promises, entertain ambitious visions, and fantasize greatness. But in reality, the candy drawer is depleted, the wind has picked up, and another day is slipping by in the wrong direction.

        “I’m not good at graceful exits,” I admit to the slightly inebriated Coauthor. “But I’m working on it. And sometimes, I manage to show up.”
        “I appreciate that,” the Coauthor says.
        “I bet you do,” I nod, thinking about the showing up required of mothers, soldiers, and misunderstood creators. “I know you show up, though some of your disguises are in very bad taste, and you often drink more than your share of the beer.”
        The Coauthor shrugs. “Maybe I need a little rehab.” 
        I smile. “Maybe. But even at your worst, you never miss an exit, graceful or otherwise.”
       “I’m glad you realize that,” the Coauthor says.
       “But is that faith?” I ask.
       “Close enough,” the Coauthor nods. “Relax.”

        Arms folded, feet up, I rest in uneasy abundance, awaiting internal directions or a sign from the sparrows, feasting as the seasons allow. The precarity and brevity of their lives seem of no concern to them this morning.

The Coming of the Winter

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment 


Last night I went looking for the birds scratching in the walls, 
only to dream the noise was water waiting to freeze.
Birds are ingenious and nest where they aren’t welcome, 
causing moral and primal unease.

But untamed water is the mind of God, 
and there’s no way to contend with that. 

You can shore up your defenses, proclaim your innocence,
and pretend the meal is ready.
But the fine mist that shrouds the falls
keeps everyone unsteady.

Get back in bed, I tell myself, 
hoping this is good advice. There are birds in the walls,
and their body heat is melting the December ice.

Three Fearsome Poets have taken wing.
This explains the abrasions on your inner being.
Those who have been granted souls
must guard and keep them down and low.
Otherwise, they’ll be murdered or enslaved. 

As it should be, scream the Entitled and Depraved.
In geologic time, those vastly rich will drown 
just below the surface of the calm.
 
The eggs will hatch, regardless. The young already know.
I float naked over shoals of sediment and fish, 
gradually letting go. I only wish for covering 
and I see that it’s begun to snow.

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