Tag: Spirituality

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.”

Selfies

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“Do you ever get tired of posing for selfies?” I asked the Creative Force of the Universe (CFU for short).

“Nah, I don’t mind selfies,” she answered, fluffing up some passing clouds as if she were gathering them for a pose. “But I struggle with the autographs. What can I possibly write that would make any difference? It’s all been said before.”

I shrugged. “Just tell people what they want to hear. Wish them well. That sort of thing.”

CFU shook her head. “I can’t. I feel this pressure to be honest.”

“And scare the poop out of them? Make them angry and defensive? Good plan.”

I gazed out the window, hoping CFU wasn’t planning to be honest with me anytime soon.

“Hey, the truth is more complex than that. Why do you always assume the worst?” she asked.

“It might be complex, but there are some hard realities that a lot of people, including me, don’t want to face. It’s the suffering and our role in all the troubles. And then, sometimes, when I work up the courage to tell the truth, it’s misunderstood or twisted and used against me.”

“I see your point,” CFU nodded. “That happens to me, too. It’s awful. And that’s exactly why I’m hesitant to do autographs.”

 Another silence ensued.

“What are you doing at midnight?” she finally asked.

“Sleeping,” I answered in a cool voice.

It sounded like she was asking me out. We’ve dated off and on. It’s never gone well, but we keep trying.

“Too bad,” she said. “It’s going to be a clear night if you happen to be awake. I’ll be stargazing on the deck.

Almost despite myself, I slipped out at midnight and stared up into the fiery blanket of infinity.

“Hello, little consciousness!” CFU greeted me joyfully, throwing succulent September air around my shoulders. “I dressed up in case you decided to join me. We could take some selfies if you have the right equipment.”

“Well, I don’t,” I shrugged as I settled in. “My lenses are all cracked and distorted.”  

“Who cares?” she exclaimed, flinging her arms so wide they sent a few stars tumbling. “I’ll remember this night forever.”

“Oh, good grief,” I laughed, tickled as hell. “Sometimes your exuberance is a little over the top.”

“I know,” she sighed dramatically. “Once in a while, the Northern Lights almost do me in.”

Knucklehead

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

(For Pete)

Today, Class, we are discussing the term knucklehead.

Put your hands out, palms down,
fingers stretched wide,
and observe the miracle of the knuckle.
Bend your fingers into claws and pretend you are a cat.
Make fists. Punch the air. Right jab. Left jab.
Lie down on the ground, palms up.
Let the hands relax into that easy gentle curl
of knuckles at rest.

Our bodies are a plethora
of joints, ligaments, tendons, and cartilage,
a sinewy mass of soft tissue and bone,
skull held aloft by spine
sheltering the heavy gray matter
of God and similar cogitations.

And thus, Class, we combine knuckle and head.
This is a joke. You may laugh.

Ha ha, chuckles my star student,
the God of Some Sort, the one
who is always studying me.

Some Sort continues. May I suggest we include
arthritis and dementia in the curriculum?

No, you may not, I answer crisply.
But then I realize this is inevitable.

Wait. Yes, We can include the underbelly.
But YOU have to own it.
Own the disease. The deterioration.
Own the porosis, the vertigo.
Own the broken. Own the pain.
Own the death.

Some Sort responds, firm. Unafraid.
No Problem, Knucklehead,
I’m right there. It’s my pain, too, you know.
My design. My fire.
My death. I own it.
I nod. Not elated. Not defeated.

Class dismissed, I write on the board
in dusty blue chalk.

The God of Some Sort and I begin
a vigorous cleaning of the erasers
and the world disappears
in a cloud of bluish haze.

Watching a Goldfinch Eat Chokecherries

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 

I’m tired of calling you God, I say, 
as I watch a goldfinch eat chokecherries.
And I’m tired of being called that, 
God answers in green, disrobes to fire.

I’m surrounded with absurdity, anger, and absolutes,
but the branch does not break with the weight of the feasting bird.
Sky backdrops vultures circling 
but they don’t block the sun.

Layers of harvest are upon me,
a comeuppance of carrots, chard, and beets. 
Leering pumpkins, wily cucumbers,
and basil going to seed.

Going to seed. 

My hands smell of onion. 
My eyes sting from wildfire smoke. 
The Collective strums chords 
composed for disintegration.

What, then, shall I call you? I ask, settling. Sad.
I’ve always liked Improbable, God says,
then adds but Maybe.
Too much. I shake my head. And not enough.

God smiles a rather evil smile. 
Perhaps you could crowdsource the Question.

No way, I say. I wouldn’t like their answers,
and they’d rip me to pieces.
That’s a given, God sighs.
But for now, gather and share.

I don’t want to, I admit.
Improbable but Maybe begins to rain.

If you want to achieve exit velocity, It whispers,
You need to strengthen those wings.

Did I say I wanted to fly? I ask
 
But that’s exactly what I want.
And I admit, I’ve said it many times.
I do want to fly.

When Your Inner Child’s a Biter

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

It may take a village to raise a child, but some villages do better than others. And what about the Walt Whitman multitudes within each of us? Who’s in charge of those inner children?

For instance, when things aren’t going her way, or malevolent forces get too close, my own inner child growls and nips like a protective dog. I scold and apply sanctions. Sometimes, she’s contrite. Other times, she clamps her teeth down on my forearm and leaves marks of unrepentance.

God babysits occasionally. My inner child likes to sit on his lap, braiding his beard, poking at his eyes, and pulling on his large, floppy earlobes. The entwined snake tattoo on his temple is one of her favorites, but his various piercings bother her.

Yesterday, she was having a tough time, so she found God and crawled up for a cuddle. He was dozing, a summer novel splayed across his chest. He didn’t rouse himself fast enough to suit her, so she grabbed his limp hand, bit him, and squirmed away. God sat up, put his finger in his mouth, and lumbered after her like the ancient, doting grandfather he is.

“You don’t need to bite, honey,” he said. “That’s not what those pretty teeth are for.”

“How would you know what my teeth are for?” she retorted, pointing at her gleaming incisors. She’s feisty like that.

Gently, God put his hand over her gaping mouth. She kicked him in the shin.

“So that’s how it is,” he said. He winked at me and began dancing around like a boxer. My inner child wore herself out swinging and missing. She finally dropped to the ground, winded and sweaty, her fists still punching at nothing, her ruffly dress torn and dirty.

“I hate you,” she screamed. “You’re a nasty old man. A pervert. Don’t touch me again or I’ll call the police.”

God leaned down and handed her his phone. “Go ahead, sweetheart,” he said.

She slapped the phone from his hand and dissolved, howling and gnashing her teeth. She knew she was bested, but she didn’t seem able to stop the tantrum.

At last, night fell around her, stars came out in forgiving droves, and a holy breeze cooled her miserably enraged body. She and her demons rested in the arms of the river. God stretched himself out on the sandy shore, forearms cushioning his head.

“I love that little hellion,” he said, as if talking to himself. But he knew I could hear him from my mature hiding place in the willows.  

“You can come out now,” he added, his voice tender. “She’s asleep.”

Misperceptions

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Birds crash into our southern windows at (literally) breakneck speeds. A few die instantly. Some bounce and fly away, wobbly and mortally wounded. We’ve taken steps to mitigate these errors in bird judgment, but why, oh why does this happen in the first place?

“You can fool all of the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time. But you can’t fool all of the people all of the time,” Creator murmurs to herself, mesmerized by the old neckties fluttering outside our windows.

“Who said that?” I ask. “Abe Lincoln or P.T. Barnum?”

“Does it matter?  Birds get fooled. People get fooled. That’s a sad fact. Manipulating perception can be both profitable and fatal.”

“Profitable?” I asked.

“Duh,” Creator says. “Conspiracy theories sell guns. False claims sell addictive, brain-altering drugs. Naïve people, with inadequate media literacy, donate to malevolent causes or con artists. Birds swoop toward something they want, not realizing that the transparent barrier is a mirage of their desires.”

“I feel for the birds,” I say. “One time, I hit a side window so hard I fell to the floor in front of a restaurant full of people.”

“Did you blame the glass for being there? For being too clean?”

I grin a sheepish grin. “Nah,” I say. “But I wanted to.”

Creator smiles. “Well, well. There may be hope for humanity yet.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” I say, backing away. “Do not pin hope for humanity on me. Nope.”

“People have a tough time admitting their ignorance or misperceptions,” Creator continues, ignoring my disclaimer. “The evidence smacks them in the face, but they drum up far-fetched explanations and take another run. Even when they break their stiff necks, they blame the glass.”

My hand automatically goes to my neck, and I do some yoga stretches to keep it limber. Yes, I occasionally engage in denial and blame, but glass is glass. Doors are doors. Truth is truth. And one clear truth is that humans make mistakes.

“Course-corrections are possible,” Creator adds in a quiet, sad voice. “I realize humility is not a popular virtue, but you don’t have to keep flying into the glass.”

“Do you think the meek will actually inherit the earth?” I ask.

“I think so,” Creator answers. “But the steep cost of repairs will be as unnecessary as all those broken necks.”

The (Human) Race

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

My superpower is reasonable restraint when it comes to cheesecake and dark beer. I also have x-ray vision for seeing the artistic potential in sticks, stones, and rusted metal. I possess both grandiose aspirations and impressive amounts of self-induced humility. As far as I can tell, God’s superpower is stealth. And maybe patience, though I’m less sure of that.

Arguably, my superweakness is asymmetry in a world that demands alignment, hierarchy, and singular definitions. Luckily, this is one of God’s superweaknesses, too. It’s challenging to stay balanced with eyes that are not horizontally level and ears that don’t match. My right hand is overly dominant and the same can be said of my Coauthor. We dig far better holes handling the shovel from the right. But then, who’s to say what constitutes a better hole?

Someone close to me was born ambidextrous with a leaning toward the left. At the time, this was perceived as a correctable birth defect rather than a rare gift. The prescription for people born with such amorphous qualities was to crawl around on all fours, supposedly rewiring their brains. To this day, tucked deep in the psyche of my loved one, there’s confusion. What could have been a superpower was turned into self-doubt. A shameful reason to hide.

“Balderdash!!!” God yells. “I’m sick to death of simplistic dualism and brutally enforced conformity to false binaries. There are males, females, and those between. And there are exquisite crossovers and crossbacks. Right handers. Left handers. Both handers. No handers. Isn’t it glorious? I love them all just the way they are. They tickle the bejeezus out of me.”

A song from the 1930s pops into my head. “You say tomay-to, I say tomah-to,” I sing with a lopsided grin. God joins in. We bellow out the old tune. “You say ee-ther, I say eye-ther…You like potayto, I like potahto…Let’s call the whole thing off.”

We’re unhinged, offkey, and happy.

“You’re no Ginger Rogers,” I tease.

“And you’re no Fred Astaire,” God teases back. “But you’re on the right track, sweetie. Sing louder. Run harder.”

“I try, God. You know I try.”

To demonstrate, I stop cavorting around the dance floor and kneel like a sprinter, poised to run in the next heat, waiting for the crack of the starting gun. But there are handguns, rifles, and machine guns firing all over the world. It’s impossible to discern the one clarion shot that will signal when I should dash my whole nonbinary heart and soul into the next battle.

“Use your better ear, baby,” Coach God says, leaning in. “And keep in your lane. You’re perilously close to being disqualified.”

This Little Light of Mine

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Instead of turning on the lights, I often choose to find my way along in the natural darkness that gathers at the end of the day. I put my arms out in front of me and wiggle my fingers so if I misjudge the passageway and hit the wall, my loose, flexible fingers will save me from full-body impact, and I can gracefully adjust my course.

If I happen to be outside, in addition to putting my arms out, I access the maps and nerve endings stored in my feet, remembering fences, gates, high spots, low spots, and the long history of undulations in the dirt. It’s a rare night that falls dark enough to require more than that.

 I imagine this practice will be helpful when my eyes fail or the grid goes down, and I like the challenge of malleable mindfulness.

I practice kindness the same way. When the dim gloom of malevolence, morons, or mean people descends on my psyche, I put my arms out and wiggle my fingers to reduce the chances of causing harm.

Once in a while my fingers run into God. Or at least I think it’s God because the encounter leaves me tingling and confused. From a logical distance, I know it’s not the whole God. I’m a blindfolded child touching the elephant’s leg thinking I now know the truth about elephants.

“I’m more like a cold snap than an elephant,” the Voice of God chimes in. “You can get frostbite playing that game.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “But there are always dishes to wash, and the water’s warm. I usually recover nicely.”

“Why don’t you just turn on the lights and be done with it?” God asks.

I turn instinctively toward the Voice but see only an obscure reflection that could be anyone—even myself. “Isn’t that your job?” I ask the Haziness.

“No,” the Haziness says adamantly.

“Okay. My mistake.” I shrug, then add with what I hope is a healthy mix of dignity and contrition, “But I kind of like the dark sometimes. It softens the harsher realities.”

“True,” the Haziness says. “But you’ll be fine in the light. Let me know when you’re ready. I’ve got plenty of sunscreen and a massive umbrella.”

“I don’t need your sunscreen or umbrellas,” I scoff.

“Okay. My mistake,” the Haziness says. “What is it you need?”

Last night’s pots and pans are soaking in the sink. The question hangs in the air, unanswered. I suspect it will always hang in the air. But the soapy water is steamy and comforting.