Tag: Spirituality

Selfies

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

“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.

The Soup du Jour

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“You know what I like best about Homo sapiens?” God asked as she continued packing an ancient-looking doll suitcase.

“No,” I said. My tone suggested I wasn’t all that interested in what God might like about humans. We’re a disappointing lot so far, trending toward extinction thanks to profound sexism, denial, greed, over-population, and homemade security blankets we call faith systems.

God ignored my rudeness. “Could you check your weather app? I’m not sure what to pack.”

“For where?” I asked.

“There’s a galaxy just to your left. Not sure what you’ve named it…” God’s voice trailed off. She folded the bulging little suitcase shut and stood on it, which was clearly the wrong approach.

“Hey, tune in here,” God said. “I could use a little help.”

I stared out the window. I didn’t want to help. I didn’t want God to leave. I didn’t want God to stay. I didn’t want to consider the awfulness humans have done in the name of our deities, and I didn’t want to face the ways I’ve participated.

Grudgingly, I joined her and tried to position the contents so the suitcase would latch. “Where’d you find this?” I asked. It was overfilled and warped.

“Well, where does any baggage come from?” God asked with a grin, and added, “Your basement.”

Ah ha! It was a set-up; a parable to make me consider the cumbersome baggage humans unwittingly collect and drag around. God wasn’t coming or going anywhere.

I laughed and gave God a shove. She grabbed me and we tumbled backwards into the deep recesses of consciousness where humankind’s fears of oblivion are always the soup du jour. I flailed but then God reminded me that it’s best to relax and float when the liquid is this salty.

God did the backstroke and philosophized.

“Did you know that I’m the attraction between electrons and protons?” she asked. “It’s a big responsibility.” She paused, then said in a wistful voice. “I tell this to the dogs. They just wag their tails and beg for treats. I show this to the stars, and they align. But when I reveal this to humans, I’m never sure what will happen next.” She paused again. “And strangely, that’s what I enjoy the most.”

I climbed out on a rock, leaped as high as I could, wrapped my arms around my legs, and did a cannonball back into the thick soup, splashing God in the face.

 “Like that?” I asked.

“Yep,” God said, wiping existential angst off her forehead. “Just like that.”

Ice Cold Beer

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My enlightenment began decades ago at the Yellowstone County Fair. Until that moment, I thought beer to be of questionable value when compared to Pepsi or Strawberry Fanta. But in the sweltering heat, someone handed me a red plastic cup filled with ice cold beer, I drank, and it was heavenly. No sticky sweetness. Just icy liquid bringing swift existential relief to my parched throat and weary soul. I finally understood the goodness of beer.

But the next time I took a big swig of one of the popular yellow brands, I nearly gagged. The evening was chilly, the campfire smoky, and the beer lukewarm. Ah ha, I thought to myself, sidling away from the keg. Nothing is good in and of itself. It is all relative.

And thus, for a moment, I was enlightened.

Or at least, that’s how I remember it. But now, I’m not so sure.

God clears their throat in the back of my mind. I open it, and they drift into the room like pollen, like music, like a fine piece of evocative art.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hello,” God says.

“How are ya?” I ask.

“Fine, thanks. Yourself?”

“Can’t complain,” I say.

That’s a lie. I can complain, and sometimes, I complain vehemently. But God knows everything, so it hardly seems like lying when I lie to God. Besides, I know God isn’t fine, so we’ve just engaged in a mutual lying ritual common to my culture. God’s not fine. I’m not fine. But who has time to listen to the truth of our miseries?

“They aren’t miseries,” God says.

“I beg to differ,” I say. “But misery shared is misery halved, so let’s share.”

“Cute,” God says. “And joy shared is joy multiplied, so let’s go turn some stones and see if we find a speck of joy.”

“It’s too hot out there,” I protest.

“C’mon. We’ll take some cold, dark beer,” God insists.

“Okay, fine,” I sigh. Then add sarcastically, “For you, Creator Darling, anything.”

“That’s the spirit!” God exclaims. “Same here.”

“I call bullshit,” I say.

“We do, too,” God says.  

And we laugh all the way to the river. There we leave most stones unturned, admire the speed and variety of spiders, and along with our beer, sip the bitter truth of fresh, clear water slipping without protest to the salty sea.

And for a moment, I am enlightened again.

Book Arrives

Rita Sommers-Flanagan14 Comments

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” The snotty little god that lives in my ego held up a copy of the first volume of Godblogs. I tried to snatch it away.

“What’s with this?” She pointed to the back cover. “OMG. Did you bribe these amazing writers or just make these accolades up? Here’s what I’d say. Sanctimonious, solipsistic drivel. But never mind. No one reads the back anyway.”

I covered my ears.

“Why the cheap-looking shiny cover? The missing page numbers? The sketches seem a little blurry. Did you scan them yourself?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Why’d you publish Print-on-Demand from the exploitive Behemoth of Online Indulgences? Probably packaged by starving children soon to die of climate change. No one will appreciate having to order this.”

I shrugged.

“Sure. Roll your eyes, cover your ears, shrug me off. You’re a needy, cloying, backstage shadow. You’re pathetic.”

The barrage was starting to hurt. I curled fetal.

“SHOO! ENOUGH!” Big God arrived, waving a flyswatter. “She gets up every morning, eats breakfast, and we hang out. I dance around in her head, which gets pretty weird, but I like her reports of these encounters. Sometimes, I let her see through the cracks.”

“Fool,” little god muttered. She shot me the evil eye and faded away.

“Thanks,” I said to Big God. “But honestly, is it worth it?”

Big God winked and curtsied. “May I have this dance?”

I looked away. Our morning dances range from raves to tangos, waltzes to Irish jigs, macarena to ballroom. In the background, ranch hands do the two-step. Rappers grab their crotches. Skeletons rattle their bones. I struggle with the beat in the Circle Dance, and I wouldn’t dream of trying to fancy dance. Or would I?

“Well, the book is a little flawed,” Big God said, pulling me to my feet. “But I don’t mind. The next volume might be better. Formatting is the shits.”

“We don’t talk like that in our family,” I said, arms crossed.

“Damn right!” Big God laughed. “Honey, you can claim whatever nonsense you’d like. I know what’s in your heart. It’s a little flawed, too. But like I said, I don’t mind.”

A fiery string of forbidden expletives leapt to mind. Big Ass God should not make fun of me or poke the hell out of my fucking defenses or shine a shitty light on my pissant denials.

“I repeat, may I have this dance?” Big God was laughing out loud.

“Fine,” I mumbled. Then mustering a scrap of dignity, I added. “Just don’t step on my toes.”

“I can’t help it,” Big God said, still chuckling. “Sometimes, you’re all toes.”