Tag: Spirituality

Walking Meditation

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Last night, I tried to calm my restless body by changing my mental focus from doomscrolling to consciously observing each muscle involved in rolling over. Impossible. There are so many intricacies in even such mundane movements that my mind gave up and wandered back to the terrors facing humanity.

At a silent retreat decades ago, I learned about walking meditation. You progress at a snail’s pace, noticing each miniscule dimension of your body moving forward. As the foot comes up, are the calf and quad engaged? Does the foot adjust its angle, ready to be placed forward on the floor? Is the surface level? What are your eyes doing?

Gradually, the lifted foot glides down, settles, and the process shifts to the other side.

Such deliberate awareness requires concentration, patience, and time. And if a novice sees a daddy long-legs climbing up her jeans, her reflexes will override all that consciousness, and the sequence will be blown to smithereens. Trust me on this.

Humans are a bundle of electrical/chemical communication systems, most of which we neither notice nor understand. Our neurotransmitters interact with electrical impulses to give us motion, thoughts, and feelings, some of which are based in reality, some of which are not.

If you imagine a slice of lemon on your tongue, you’ll likely salivate. The salivation is real, but there’s no lemon there. It’s the power of mind over body. But our bodies can send signals that are open to interpretation. The power of body over mind. We’re a jungle of actions, reactions, reasons, biases, and instincts. Though we think we make conscious decisions, somewhere near 95% of the forces that influence what we do, think, and feel are outside our awareness (including the latest evolutionary mutation: algorithms).

“So, am I real?” the Intruder asks in a sly voice.

“You’re a figment. A fragment. An iron fist and a fuzzy notion. There’s definitely something real about you,” I answer, defenses at the ready.

“And do you love me?”

My teeth begin to grind. To love the Other Within runs against the grain of most conscious urges. We’re built to procreate, not sacrifice. We’re a me-first, guilt-ridden species.

“Is that a look of panic on your face?” my Coauthor asks with fake innocence.

I freeze.

“Relax,” She continues. “We’ve written a little Psalm that may help.”

 What you know may not be true.
You see mostly what you want to see.
Insisting that you’re right is wrong.
Choosing to be loving is like sucking lemons.
But the alternatives are worse.
Trust me on this.

God beams and slugs my shoulder. I flinch a little and slug back. We walk.

Advice from the Artist

Rita Sommers-Flanagan16 Comments 


As you continue to diminish, 
finish your work with glossy varnish 
to protect against the ravages of too much sun.
Safeguard the subtle shadings
and hoard the necessary joys of passing on.

The river gives you walking sticks and songs.
The land has offered sustenance and stones.
But reality lands hard on brittle bones. 

It’s all too beautiful, 
the sunsets and train wrecks,
the intentional offspring, the adopted ducks,
the bad ideas, the sheep and goats, 
the bombs and tender mercies,
the labyrinths and weeds.
It’s all too beautiful to leave behind.

And Yet.

Graceful decreasing
makes room for increasing.
The Baptist knew 
you can only wash a few
before your hands grow too cold 
to be trusted. Step down, aside, and forward.
The Greater Whole is waiting by the fire.

Come warm yourself. 
The guests are gathering to honor 
all the good you’ve tried to do.

Offer your acceptance speech in lavender
while the evening light plays havoc 
with defiant greens and blues.
In scenes yet to be enacted,
you may not recall your lines
so pin them here and there in red
behind the sofa or underneath the lamp.

Familiars

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Photo credit: Anonymous Friend

My body is only vaguely familiar this morning. We greet each other suspiciously, as if one of us hails from the Deep State and the other from Nirvana. We shake hands, staring at our knobby knuckles and prominent veins, and try to agree on a reasonable plan for the day.

We’re joined by a Holy Threesome. My body and I glance at each other, wondering if we should genuflect or drop to our knees.

“Do you like the curled posture of prayerful supplicants? Knees bent, hands folded, head bowed?” we ask the Ubiquitous Coauthors.

“Not especially,” they shrug. “Reminds us of chained prisoners being shaved.”

“Did you hear that?” I ask my ears sarcastically. “Maybe they were just praying.”

My ears have become accustomed to hearing lies. Incredulity is our new constant.

We invite the Coauthors to join us for morning libations. All the Interdimensional Beings in the vicinity appear because the day is gray, and they have little to do. The Coauthors introduce my body and me as the hosts.

“And what are your names?” I ask as I pass around a plate of digestives.

They laugh. Crumbs fly from the communion table and the dogs happily lick them up.

My former selves also arrive uninvited. The supply of digestives, toast, and beer dwindles. My memories are conflicted, insights constrained, and my collective reach no longer exceeds my collective grasp. The raucous chatter irritates me.

“Quiet!” I demand. “I have a question for the Coauthors.”

I square my shoulders, face the Creative Force of the Universe, and ask, “Could you tell us the truth?”

“That’s a big ask,” they say. “Members of your species are busily denying history, science and common sense. Not sure what we can do about that.”

The Interdimensional Beings and my multiplicities gasp. “There has to be something you can do!” they shout.

The Coauthors shrug. My multiplicities look for ways to escape. The Beautiful Beings flap their wings, and panic shimmers in the heavy air. Our shared pulse is racing.

There’s a crash and then silence.

“I can’t breathe,” one of the Beings whispers.

My body remembers fainting when giving blood: the shrinking of my visual field, the removal of the tangible, the fight to fill my lungs.

We surround the Being. It’s a bird with a broken neck. The Glass it crashed into was not visible, but it was real. Is this the truth I asked for? The harsh realities of cause and effect?

“Where will you go now that you’ve shattered?” we asked the Being. Her body is disintegrating, her wings no longer discernable.

“Home,” the Being said. “Supper at six. See you then.”

Who You Talking To?

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R: Hey, G. It’s way below zero. You planning to show up today?
G: I always show up. I live in the thermometer. It’s your job to recognize me.
R: Yeah. But your guises and costumes are confusing.
G: So? What are you afraid of? Strike up a conversation. Take a risk.
R: With a thermometer?
G: With it all. You never know.
R: It’s embarrassing to walk up to someone you think you know and then be wrong.
G: Sorry, but I can’t relate. I always know.
R: Very funny. And not helpful.

The barely visible mercury. The snap of the fire. The murmur of the icy river, the taste of dark beer, the sound of shuffling objects indicating my beloved is nearby, the settling of dust and ash, the brain interpreting visual input as both beautiful and fatal. The skeletal view of truths I do not want to accept.

Acceptance itself. 

R: Why do you bother to animate? To engage? 
G: To quote your grandmother, 'Honey, it’s no bother at all.'
R: She lied sometimes.
G: I don’t.
R: I wish you did. I wish you issued false reassurances so I could be calm and happy.
G: You can be calm and happy without lies.
R: Platitudes and promises.
G: Dutch ovens and sour dough.
R: Could you just stay in your lane?
G: It’s a long race, R. And I love switching lanes.
R: No, seriously, G. Many of us realize you don’t exist the way we wish you did.
G: Finally.

Unknowability shelters me from dogma and ill-advised faith. If there’s no rhyme or reason, if there’s no hell or heaven, if all we have is mercy, then let me be merciful. If all we have is kindness, then let me be kind. If all we have is this day, this moment, this breath, then let me breathe.

G: Who are you praying to?
R: Delicacies and dialectics. Oxymorons and overtures.
G: But not me?
R: Oh, I suspect it’s you. The last line of defense.
G: And the first ray of light. Within. Around. Through.
R: Ah, so humble.
G: You think I overdo it?
R: Yeah. But that’s just me. You don’t have to change a thing.
G: And yet I do. Change is my circulatory system. You want me to stagnate?
R: Nah, don't mind me. Go ahead. Change, animate, dissemble all you want.
G: Thank you. You won’t regret it.
R: I already do.

The Big Bang

Rita Sommers-Flanagan12 Comments

The Big Bang slammed me awake last night. I leapt up, disoriented by the interplay of light and dark.

“Where’s that damn cloaking device?” The Voices of God bellowed as they rushed around the cosmos, causing huge dust storms and limited visibility. “There are incoming attributions and false narratives. Cheap bombs, shrapnel, black holes, and clusterfucks. Get under the bed and dig, baby, dig.”

In times like these, God never makes literal sense, but the urgency was palpable. I grabbed a robe and raced for the hills. Everything was coming apart. Suffering shimmered in the frigid air, obscuring the path, garbling the few words that meant anything.

The ark capsized. Creatures great and small swam to shore and thundered uphill behind me, trying to escape inbound tsunamis of ignorance and the cruel waves of degeneration. God’s hair was on fire, flames licking the heavens dry.

I tossed the cloaking device to the Creators and shouted, “Get out while you can.”

God disappeared into a flock of starlings that lifted from tree to sky, rejoicing. Their seamless undulations blocked the sun, blinding everyone below. Soldiers on both sides dropped their guns, and we wrapped ourselves in white. There was nothing left to do but lie flat and let the earth cradle our slim and innocent hopes.

To God, we are an exotic species, endangered and angular. We bend light and draw fire in unpredictable ways. As singularities, we’ve been extinct from the beginning, but in limited multiplicities, we eke out tenuous lives in tents pitched on the banks of an ever-rising river.

“Who are you?” a curly-haired child tugged on my sleeve; brown eyes luminescent. Green eyes, piercing. Blue eyes glinting black. The child was hungry but did not ask for food.

“What are you doing?” an old man demanded, his beard blazing red, his legs blown off. It seemed clear that I did not meet with his approval.

“Are you my father?” I whispered, frightened by the familiarity of it all. “Are you my child?”

The cloaking device deactivated. The scales fell from my eyes. The child ate. The old man laughed and slapped my back. The starlings landed and began nesting in the warm cleavages of Abraham’s lovers: Hagar; Sarah; Keturah. Other Mothers appeared: Adishakti; Mary; Kali; Maya; and of course, and always, Grandmother Eve.

“So many Mothers in one place,” I said. “You’re in big trouble.”

“I can handle it,” the Idea of God waved dismissively. “Go back to sleep.”

I grabbed the weathered hands and shook my head. “You’re going to need some help. I’m staying.”

Grandmother patted the bench beside her. “It won’t be long either way,” she smiled. “Suit yourself.”

Mean People

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Sitting with my half-beer and laptop after a bad night’s sleep puts me in touch with my lack of girth or influence, and I long to escape to Mexico or India or anywhere of color. I need the distraction of vibrancy.

Bullies and idiots are at the helm of the Mothership, humanity is sinking toward extinction, and I take up way too little space to make a difference. Mean people are grabbing whatever they want with impunity, but it’s  never enough. They will die hungry. I’m afraid we will all die hungry.

“Did you put meanness in our DNA?” I ask a gathering of Wiser Ones, among them the Wily Coyote, the Matriarch Elephant, the Eager Beaver, and the Seductive Holy Turkey Buzzard.

“Probably,” they admit. “Design flaw?”

“DUH!!” I exclaim. “How do you like it when someone slugs you in the gut? Twists your words? Belittles you? Steals your lunch money?”

They confer. I wait.

Finally, Mother Lion reports. “We don’t know if we like it. If someone is mean to us, we eat them. It’s all about transformation.”

“Yeah,” the Elder Sea Turtle adds. “They taste funny, but we hardly ever get sick.”

“Well, have I got a meal for you!” I declare. “A banquet.”

“Sorry. We’re not hungry,” they say. “Besides, we’re being deported.” They stampede away, kicking up golden heels, flapping iridescent wings.

If only mortals could exit like that, I say to myself. I envision a meal of roasted bully. Minced meanie. My stomach churns. Clearly, cannibalism isn’t the answer. But I do wish our short lives could end in kindness. Fulfilled.

I take another swig of the dimly lit substance I think of as soul. It’s dark and fermented. Various human mutations are duking it out in the roped-off ring of evolution. The meek always appear to be losing, but meekness has several adaptive attributes. Occasionally, bullies go down for the count, and the Referees call it for compassion.

When this happens, the Netherworld Pep Band strikes up a rousing rendition of Sweet Georgia Brown, and all manner of heavenly hosts storm the dance floor, shaking their booties, hooting with joy.

On these rare occasions, I dress myself in purple and try to squeeze through the eye of the needle to join the party, but the log in my eye is often too big.

“Let us help you,” the Little Bouncers offer.

If I manage to nod, my vision clears, and I am allowed to enter the cosmic celebration, regardless of how small I feel. Once there, I always notice that even the big are very, very small.

What to Pack

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

What’s your favorite Bible verse? The Still Small Voices asked.

Are you crazy? I answered. Leave me alone.
May we suggest Father forgive them for they know not what they do?
No, you may not, I said. No.
How about Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord?
Depends, I said. What do you have in mind?

This is a fetus, not a child, sayeth the Lord. And this is a child, not a weapon. 
This planet is not a mercantile, and the least among you are starving.
You have access to clean water and compassion, but you’re choosing hate.
Vastly greedy fools are lifting glasses to their own demise. 
The lights are on, but soon, and very soon, no one will be home.

Do you think I am unaware of these things? I asked, the dog in my lap, warm.
 
You’ve gotten too big for your britches, They said. You make us laugh.
And you’ve gotten too small to matter, I answered. So go ahead. Laugh.
They began to sing. Let us laugh with the wren and walrus, the willow, the whale.
I had a sudden change of heart. Laugh with me, I begged.
Nah, They said. You’re not that funny.

But you said I made you laugh. You contradict yourselves.
That we do, the jovial Voices admitted. That we do.
And you’re obviously pleased with yourselves, I added.
That we are. The Voices agreed. That we are.
What about me? I whined. Can’t you be pleased with me?

Are you pleased with yourself? The Voices asked, sly as devils. Are you a forgiver?

But how do I forgive when no one is sorry? I asked, sullen.
They shrugged. The sky slipped from their shoulders, pooling blue at their feet.
All the world’s a stage, They said. And everyone stands naked at the end.
Forgiveness will flow like lava, burn like cheap bourbon,
and the party will end in ashes.

The airstrikes began again. The Voices gathered their belongings
and joined the surging throng of refugees and overburdened donkeys. 
Don’t go, I whispered.      Come with us, They said.     I shook my head,
but I knew eventually, I would. We are all fleeing something.
Some of us linger. Some look back. Some don’t.

My favorite is Jesus wept, I shouted at their vanishing outlines. Jesus wept.


Fallibility: The Ultimate F-Word

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Oh, it’s so damn tempting to deny or excuse our own malice or mistakes, but this is a bad idea. Projecting failings onto enemies or loved ones doesn’t work, either. Deliberate unkindness or hidden imperfections cling to the soul and congeal into restrictive outer layers. As defensiveness dries in place, fault lines scar the surface. It often requires excruciating scraping to get back to original skin.

In my experience, it’s better to sit down and face those nasty shortcomings. I recommend having a dark beer in hand. I also make sure my Unifying Force is nearby, willing to listen and reason things through with me.

I usually lead with something like, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but lately, I may have been a little selfish, judgmental, and conniving.”

“Correct you if you’re wrong?” My Unifying Force bursts into belly-clutching gales of laughter. “Selfish, judgmental, and conniving?” She echoes my words between gasps for air. “Stop. You’re making me wet my pants.”

Sometimes, I use other words. Acknowledge other sins. But the ritual is the same. My Unifying Force hoots and snorts in mirth.

This is not infectious laughter. Nothing about this is funny. I don’t know why the Universe finds my confessions humorous, and I’m never sure whether to feel shame or claim vindication. I sit through the cosmic hilarity, setting my intentions, breathing, and yes, glaring and sweating a little.

The storm begins to subside, and I contemplate some form of forgiveness in exchange for another day. But I feel small. Diminished. I’m tempted to drown my sorrows, hop a freight train, or throw my puny body over a cliff. This is like transition time in birthing. Extreme dislocation.

Then, finally, the miracle. The punchline. The tonic. This sacrament is a circle dance. My shadow grabs my hand, and I remember the steps.

All the Unifying Forces sing lullabies to the babies, foxtrot around the graves, and dwell deep in the dung of human fallibilities. Beside us and within us, they shoulder the blame and share the exaltation. Best efforts fail. Bladders leak. Our fingernails are broken and unclean.

But this is how it’s meant to be. Who can tend a garden and stay perfectly pristine?


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.  

Forewords

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Some books have forewords by famous or knowledgeable persons who offer praise and guidance about the author and the content of the book. You can often alleviate confusion if you read the foreword before diving into the story.

Wouldn’t it be great if we were all born with forewords? Most of us would welcome a little prophetic commentary about our potential coherence and skillsets, and of course, hints about who’s who, what to expect, the plot, subplots, and dead ends.

God clears her throat, leans one elbow on the counter for balance, and kicks off her crocs to rub the soles of her malodorous feet. I startle and stare at the unshapely, overweight, gray-haired specter in my kitchen.

“I’m beat,” she groans. “Cashiered all night. We were so slammed I hardly had time to pee.”

“Nice costume!” I sneer. “You look great in polyester and frump. Makes me want to fall down and worship you right now.”

“Go ahead, Ms. Sarcasm. But you might confuse people. It’s not in your storyline.”

“Maybe. But remember the grieving summer when we danced naked in that abandoned house? Or the night I laid flat in the hayfield, digging my fingers into October dirt, dedicating every ounce of my being to whatever good we could do?”

God lifts a skeptical eyebrow, limps to the living room, plops down on the reclining couch, and raises the footrest.

“Ah, that’s better,” she says. “How’s your supply of Budweiser?”

Somehow, I knew this would be the next request. Does God have a predictable plotline? My own narrative favors dark beer, but I have leftovers from recent guests.

“How about a dusty IPA?”

She shrugs. “Fine. And maybe a bite to eat?”.

I rustle up what I’ve got. She chugs the beer, gobbles a few cheesy crackers, and falls asleep, mouth slack, crumbs on her chin.

The snoring of the exhausted poor permeates the dawn. I stare at the fallen arches and callouses of every worker, every waitstaff, at faces twisted into smiles, hoping for generous tips. Hoping for a raise.

The rich are gathered in the dining room, eating from the hands of domesticated children. They help themselves to precious metals, surcharge fuel, food, and basic necessities, and savor the best of the milk and honey.

My humble guest rouses herself and pats the cushion beside her. I collapse into our shared weariness and contemplate my chances (or anyone’s chances) of writing a happy ending.

“It seems like the last chapters almost write themselves,” I mumble, my heart heavy.

“True. Though judicious editors can make a world of difference.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But most people hate being edited.”  

“That’s true,” she sighs. “So true.”