Tag: Spirituality

Misperceptions

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

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

Rita Sommers-FlanaganLeave a comment

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

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

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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.”

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.”