Tag: Spirituality

The Soup du Jour

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“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

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

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.”

Oil and Gas: Nectar of the Gods

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

Millions of years ago, on this evolving planet, tiny animals and plants died, sank to the bottom of the swampy waters, and were gradually pressurized into coal, oil, and other nasty-seeming substances.

Quite recently (in geologic time) humans began to play with fire and found it helped to stay warm and cook food. Not long after that, we discovered that digging, drilling, refining, and combusting those nasty substances provided astonishing amounts of energy.

Soon, basketballs, varnish, nylon tents, plastic bottles, airplanes, asphalt, and cozy homes began to seem a birthright for many of us. Even though it’s now obvious that extracting, refining, and burning these nonrenewable deposits of ancient life is dangerous, destructive, and ultimately deadly, we can’t seem to stop.

“Nice summary,” God says. “Though a tad simplified.”

“Fine,” I say. “Go ahead and complexify, God. You always do.”

God offers me an apple and leans back into the gathering clouds.

“I got my first doctorate in chemistry,” he says. “Technically, you should call me Dr. God. But I’m not hung up on titles.”

“Right. Or maybe I should call you Dr. Denial,” I say. “I got my first doctorate in psychology, and you are diagnosable.”

“That’s rich!” God chuckles. “Isn’t your diagnostic system just a primitive description of being alive? Coping?”

“Maybe,” I admit. “But there are better or worse ways to cope. You seem to cope by rolling the dice a lot. And we’re the dice.”

“Vegas, baby,” God jokes, rubbing his hands. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

“Ah, c’mon,” I say. “Not funny.”

God grins. “Fine. Actually, nothing that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. You probably don’t know this about me, but I bathe in untouched oil reserves. I rub Myself with chunks of coal and float in pockets of natural gas. They let me be. I let them be. I love what they were and where they are, but you should leave them alone. They’re not worth the gamble.”

“That horse has left the barn,” I say.

“Oh, I know,” God says. “I got my second doctorate in statistics with a dissertation on probability.”

“So, with our selfish, exploitive, nature, we’re screwed, aren’t we?”

“Likely,” God nods, then adds, “I often root for the underdog, but it doesn’t look promising. I’m working on my third doctorate. It’s in theology. I’m exploring the concept of black holes and infinity, and I’m totally transfixed. Want to be on my examining committee?”

“I think I already am,” I say.

“I knew that,” God says with a big grin. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Weeding

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

God and I are in jovial moods today, philosophizing aimlessly as we work in the garden. My new thrift-store pants are perfect for pulling weeds on my knees, and the weeds are loose because it’s muddy.

I don’t love weeding, no matter how easily the weeds pull. I wonder if there are robots programmed to pull weeds yet. I bet they won’t like it either. Or will they?

“Will robots eventually have souls?” I ask God. “Or do they already?”

“Depends on what you mean by soul,” God says. “Do you think soul is a limited commodity? Soul flows into whatever you touch, play with, or program. It isn’t confined. It isn’t zero-sum.”

This does not surprise me. I talk to rocks, and sometimes in their own ways, they mirror back an answer. I pat the dashboard of my vehicle. I thank my eyes, ears, and knees for hanging in there, and I swear at the Internet, mildew, and uneven surfaces as if they are choosing to cause harm or hurt me. I speak politely to Alexa.

Notions of soul, volition, culpability, choice, and human cruelty roll around in my head. There are people far worse than invasive weeds. I think of them as soulless.

“Is it possible to spring a soul leak and dry up?” I ask.

“Yes, unfortunately, soul hemorrhaging happens,” God says. “It’s usually caused by fear or the lust for power. But unlike O-negative blood, there’s an endless supply of soul, available for the asking.”

The image of God at a soul-donation center, sleeve rolled up, needle forever embedded in the rich vein, liters of soul being rushed out the door…this makes me laugh. And cry. And even though I often donate my O-negative blood, I’m needle-phobic, so this imagery is making me a little woozy.

God notices me fading and embodies the mountains to distract me. Warms into sunlight to comfort me. Uses the iris to top off my soul with a generous splash of purple. This steadies me. I rise to the occasion of the unfolding day, knowing it will require kindness when I don’t feel kind. Patience. Generosity.

“Hey, God,” I say. “Could you make sure whoever is programming whatever is coming next values compassion over profit, mercy over revenge, humility over victory, and collaboration over hierarchy?”

“It can’t be absolute, sweetheart,” the Programmer says. “But these will always be options. Always have been. Always will be.”

Audacity

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

The first day of another week arrived and God declared it good. The chickens have learned to use their new ramp and now vie with the pigs for attention and treats. The pigs are smarter; the chickens are faster and more easily airborne. Relationships always require compromise and tradeoffs. Even God’s and mine.

God is smarter, faster, and more easily airborne. But I’m tenacious.

“So am I,” God declared. “Let’s just enjoy these old lilacs for a bit, shall we? They’re as tenacious as we are.”

We sat on displaced cement steps going nowhere and marveled at the prolific purple blooms, blue sky, apple blossoms, and the speed of dandelion growth. Because I associate lilacs with Memorial Day, I brought to mind dead friends and wondered when I would be joining them. God brought to mind babies and urged me to consider their fat little legs kicking, their loose, drooly mouths smiling.

Thanks to the expansive air and insistent green of spring, I found I could hold the babies and my dead loved ones in the same space, and a profound sense of gratitude arose that surprised God as much as it surprised me.

“Nice,” God said. “That’s some impressive space you’re holding there.”

“I know. Some days, I’m so damn impressive I can hardly stand it.”

“But other days…” God gave me a look. Was it shaming? Understanding? Predictive?

I shot God an equally quizzical look. “What are you getting at?” (If you want to maintain healthy relationships, it’s better to ask than assume. But with God, there will often be too many answers or none at all.

Our newest apple tree has not recovered from the wind-whipped trip home. We should have protected it better. The hours remaining in my life will bring opportunities for despair, kindness, contemplation, meanness, largeness, smallness, giving, and withholding. The pigs will demand more food than is good for them. They’ll squeal and squabble. The chickens will scratch for worms. There will be blooming and going to seed.

God is the pollinator, the fertile idea, the distorted reflection, the broken door. How could I possibly expect a coherent answer?“

“Ah, but you keep asking, and I adore you for that,” God said. “You’re not just tenacious. You’re audacious.”

God’s right. How dare I break my realities into so many pieces, or twist verbatims into poems? But with such a photosynthetic God, how dare I not?

The lilac branches swayed as God summoned a flock of goldfinches, and together they flew toward the glaring, generative sun, leaving me and my audacious tenacity sitting content in a fragrant lavender haze of seedlings and ancestors.

I Eat Your Joy for Breakfast

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

God is indulging in a morning nap, sound asleep on a weathered recliner near the garden shed. I’ve noticed that God can sleep pretty much anywhere. But I’m awake and agitated, stewing about climate change, greed, cruelty, and the limited hours at the landfill.

I clear my throat and speak loudly enough to wake anyone within ear shot. “Someone took a huge gamble when they introduced creativity and choice into their evolutionary efforts.”

God startles and sits up. “What now?” he says, rubbing his eyes, raking his fingers through his holy bedhead hair.

“Creativity,” I say. “The bored human is often a deadly human. We need to create and change things up. But then we compare. We get insecure and try to make ourselves more beautiful and have too many children and accumulate vastly more than we need. This leads to overpopulation, scarcity, and war.”

God swings his legs to the side of the recliner, stretches, and groans. “You’re so right. It’s a huge gamble. And yeah, it hasn’t gone that well so far. But it isn’t over.” He sees my scowl and adds, “I mean it’s always over, and it always isn’t.”

He lays back down, situates his hat over his eyes, and pats the space beside him. I perch on the edge. I do not know how to relate to this complacent, laissez-faire God.

“Blur,” he says in a languid voice. “Blur, mingle, melt.”

He means let go. He means he’ll carry me for a while. He intends to be a source of comfort.

“I can’t blur,” I whisper. “I know you have your ways, but I want to do something on my own. I want to make my mark.”

God sits back up. “And there you have it,” he declares.

The profound irony of what I just said hangs in the air between us.

God sighs. “You are still adolescent apes; you need to play. But your marks will all wash away. Remember, the lasting measure of worth is compassion.”

I look down at my hands. God continues. “And the nature of mercy is upside down. The gluttonous will eventually fast. The lips of liars will be purified. It’s all about balance.” He winks and adds, “When you get it right, I eat your joy for breakfast. It’s delicious.”

I stare across the expanse of my life. Finally, I say, “And when you speak, I stir-fry your words for dinner. They’re tasty.” “Fair enough,” God smiles. “That makes me happy.” But as he drifts back to oblivion, I hear him mutter, “Or at least I think it does.”

Missive from the Beautiful, Horrible Moment

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

Every morning I sit in the warm, chunky soup of God, my attention split between robins in the garden, clouds on the move, and my fingers poised above the keyboard. God appreciates the opportunity to clown around, but sometimes they take it too far, and I feel left out.

I want God to notice me. I eat dandelions. I pull clumps of quack grass, pretending there’s a chance to eradicate this long-rooted invader. Quack grass is also known as twitch, quick grass, quitch grass, scutch, dog grass and witchgrass. My own pet name for it is Satan. On more generous mornings, I allow for the possibility that it has redemptive features. Not today.

“How about we all float on our backs?” God suggests, flailing happily in the womblike liquid of themselves, ignoring boundaries such as time and space.

I shake my head. The steady pressure of God is eroding my body. The Ever-Presence is a weighted blanket, a hazmat suit, an open invitation to find peace in what is true. I am not a maker of stars, but I am my own tornado. While I’m still able, I will continue spinning through the garden, yanking quack grass to kingdom come.

All the faces of God smile. “Look!” they say. The arms of God bend, fingers pointing every possible direction. I have no idea where to look.

“You’re too inclusive. Too amped. Could we bring it down a notch?” I ask petulantly.

The many fists of God punch the air, and their faces melt like candles into a singular pool where I see my singular reflection and consider my singular fate. The robins appear to be flirting, ready to mate. The aroma of God is intoxicating, but even so, my stiff hands won’t curl around the quack grass anymore.

My friends and family are floating on nearby rivers, hiking their own circuitous trails, and I wish them well. I wish myself well. I wish God well—the Unitary, the Complex, the Galactic–all of them.

“Thank you,” they say harmonically.

“You’re welcome,” I say automatically.

“That’s unlikely,” they laugh. “Our welcome is usually, um, shall we say overstated?”

I nod. “Well, you’re more welcome than quack grass.”

They grin, poking each other in the side. “Score! We’re more welcome than quack grass.”

I realize God is making fun of me, so I issue a slight retraction. “Actually, that’s not entirely true. Depends on the day.”

Vertigo

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

God is a dizzy dame who throws her head back and laughs from her gut. Droplets of saliva sparkle in the air. No politely covered mouth for this One. She’s extravagant, repulsive, and contagious. Early in life, I came down with a bad case of God, and it permanently deformed my worldview. To stay balanced, I learned to compensate.

But now, the crystals in my inner ear randomly come untethered and reality spins like a rolodex. I no longer trust any surface or deity presenting itself as stable or defined.

“Remember that coiled rattler under the burdock?” God chuckles as she guzzles Hutterite rhubarb wine. “That was me!” She’s drunk and proud and dancing.

“I’ve never doubted that,” I say, sober and serious.

“And remember how I taught you to breathe?”

I shake my head. God takes credit where credit may not be due. But who am I to question the Source? To protest the inconsistencies, incoherence, and impossible dialectics? The Sophie’s choices and failed states?

God clicks her castanets, sways her hips, and stomps her high-heeled feet. “Yes!” she exclaims. “That’s the question. Who are you?”

The frenzied beat moves her past the limits. The sky gathers force, and hailstones strip her naked. She throws her head back again, her joy maniacal, her hair, a den of vipers, awakened and writhing.

I am unfazed. Bemused. I’ve seen it all before.

“No,” I say calmly. “The question is who are YOU?”

The scene shifts. God is Tevye, singing as if I were Golda.

“But do you love me?” His voice is gravelly. Vulnerable.

“Do I have a choice?” I ask.

“Do you have a telescope? Or microscope? Can you alter DNA? Of course, you can. But if you plant carrot seeds, do you harvest corn?”

I settle in for a long ramble of nonsensical obfuscations, but God chucks me on the chin and becomes Dr. Seuss, reading from his book Oh, the places you’ll go. “You have brains in your head, feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose.”

Despite my instabilities, I know this is true.

“I have no sheep, but there are eight chickens, two pigs, a tiny slice of land, and some hateful, deluded neighbors to care for. Will that suffice?”

“Yes!” Dr. Seuss says. “Oh, love what you love and then love some more. Love so much that your muscles get sore…”

“Shazam. Poof. Be gone!” I wave God away with a smile. “I’ve got work to do.” God winks and squeezes back into that slinky gown. “Me, too,” she says with a toothy grin. “See you around.”

Atlanta Airport

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

The Atlanta Airport is not an easy place to kick back and relax, but today we have passes for the United Club Lounge and enough time to use them. God is enjoying the free Budweiser and I’m happy to have found a salad bar, chips, salsa, and windows.

But liberated from the constraints of luggage, what I really want to find is my center. I sit on a worn sofa, consider the ebb and flow of travelers, and examine my life for signs of meaning. So far, it doesn’t look hopeful.

Nearby, a thin man eats pulled pork with collard greens, and a young woman in leather hotpants refills her plate, eyelids heavy with artificially thick lashes. God is busy chatting up one of the waitstaff in a language I don’t recognize.

A blown-up black and white photo in front of me features a row of women standing at attention. Shoes, hair, pigment, purses, smiles, skirts, hats, breasts, height, weight: identical. The shot was likely taken half a century ago. In geologic time, less than a split-second, and yet here we are. I have no explanation for anything I’m observing. None.

“You don’t need an explanation,” God whispers.

“Then why do I want to explain everything?” I whisper back.

God shakes his head. “Let it be. That’s what dogs do. Even the smartest breeds.”

“Then why wasn’t I born a dog?” I ask. I know he’s not serious. We’re just making small talk. Humans are forever asking why and insist on explaining even when we’re wrong. We seem purposefully designed to want to understand.

God grins. “Totally on purpose. Why do you think you travel?”

To those of us born before devices, the one-way conversations around me look like repeated singular insanities. My own device activates itself to urge me along. Time to check in. Time to board. Time to go.

I glance at God, not sure what he’s planning to do. He removes an earbud and looks up. “Hey, you think this place is open 24/7?” he asks, yawning.

“For you, of course,” I answer. “But is this really where you want to hang out?” I look pointedly at the retrograde picture of the lined-up women.

“Ah, those were the days.” God says. “Would you mind saving me a seat?”

“You know it doesn’t work that way,” I say as I gather my burdens. “See you in Montana?”

“You betcha.” God smiles and stretches his legs out so long I can no longer see his feet. “And you can leave your carry-ons with me if you’d like.”