Tag: War

Advice From The Quilter

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments 
Use it up
Wear it out
Make it do
Or do without

Everything has an expiration date. All the forethought in the world won’t change that. All the planning, lying, and scheming. All the willful ignorance. Even the highest aspirations.

You can plant and maybe, you’ll harvest. Or maybe before things come to fruition, you’ll be the one planted. What’s fruition anyway?

How dare you make it your business to tell someone how to decorate, alter, or use their own body? Or worse, assume it’s yours to use? Cast those evil urges into the outer darkness. Be nice. Be kind. Be patient and humble as you rip out some of the crooked seams.

If somehow, in your vague longing for the truth, you manage to dislodge pieces of the log in your eye, tell the tale because others might be inclined to lower their own blinding defenses. Either way, keep chipping away at yours. Start a small fire with the splinters. Warm your hands. Invite the neighbors. Even the vicious ones.

It’s fear, baby. Fear. You’ve spent so many days of your life shielded by the wrong armor. Those days aren’t coming back. Bless them as they recede into oblivion. Bless your many selves and your best intentions.

Clean the floors. Contemplate the cobwebs before you brush them down. They were once liquid silk, spun into webbing by those with more eyes than you will ever have.

It is all to be venerated. The warp and woof, the tiny stitches, the walking sticks, the wailing walls. The joints swollen round as crystal balls, the doomed attempts to achieve perfection; it’s all as essential as the broken strands and stolen lands. This is all there is. Make do.

Imagine your face in someone’s hands. Your neck on the line. Your severed limbs pulled from the rubble. Imagine you’re an endangered species or hieroglyphics on papyrus, a contaminated river, or a resilient weed. It’s time to try acquiescence instead of acquisition. Let the bee sting. The dog bark all night. Stand in the gap, arms at your side. Absorb the blows in silence. Loan the victims your voice.

Behave as if there’s a future, and you want things to be better for the least among you. Become the least among you. Offer what you can. Consume what you must.

Use all you have
And all you know
Try your best
Then let it go

Seeing

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 

Once in a while, the dead ask to borrow my eyes, and I almost always welcome them in. Sure, it can be sad and a little frightening, but it’s the least I can do. There’s nothing like the vision enjoyed by the living, and for the living, a briefly expanded view, though jarring, has its benefits.

When the dearly departed share my visual field, unsullied gratitude mingles with that vague longing triggered by the waning of summer.

My dead enjoy viewing fertile fields, mountain peaks, city streets, and tall trees. Some are in awe of babies, but others would rather watch a good football game, especially if their former favorites are playing.

You may wonder how this works. It’s not at all like being possessed. There are no ghosts. 

When I feel the light touch of a soul on my shoulder, I tilt my head ever so slightly and nod. The cataracts of being alive drop away, and the focus becomes eternal. It’s incredible. But such co-mingling must always be consensual.

So, I’m writing to ask a favor. When the time comes, would you consider loaning me a glance at the sunflowers and the cold, clear sky at night? Could I take a quick look at how the planet is doing from your preferred elevation?

In my experience, the dead are polite and cognizant of the demands of being alive. If you agree to my request, I’ll strive to be the same. True, in this life, I can be demanding, selfish, pigheaded, and insensitive. I suspect most of this will drop away as my body rejoins its origins. It is my intention to be thoroughly kind.

And if you want to follow my example and make similar requests while you still can, be my guest. No pressure, though. There are abundant alternatives. 

Older souls often borrow the eyes of donkeys, 
kittens, chickens, lions, puppies, bison, eagles, 
and even the occasional snake or bearded dragon. 

The dead frolic in memories 
and other succulent fictions. 
They are and they aren’t.  
And they don’t seem to mind 
one way or the other.

Even though I’m still temporarily alive, some mornings I touch the Shoulder of the Almighty, and she nods.

Goldfinches glow. 
Dust and ash sparkle. 
Gravity lifts.

We survey the rising hatreds, 
toeholds of courage, 
glimmers of benevolence, 
and black holes of despair. 

We stare into infinity, watching small endings and fragmented resurrections while the raspberries ripen, and a mournful dog howls in the distance.

Delusions to Die By

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

Though historians may beg to differ, it seems that humans have never been this close to self-annihilation. While wars rage and the earth gets trashed, the most pressing moral inquiry of the masses is this: “How can I get a better deal?”

A derisive snort and mocking applause announces The Presence in the corner.

“Hello, Holy Contradictions,” I mumble.

What I tease into words in the murky dawn might be the wind or a mouse scratching in the wall, but I feel certain something beyond is lurking in the cosmos. I offer greetings most mornings.

“Good day,” HC says, emerging from chimera to full status as a citizen unto itself. It has wings. It has legs. It has a beating, bleeding heart. “You aren’t wrong,” it adds from a perfectly formed mouth.

“You mean my sarcastic comment about the morality of acquisition? The Art of the Deal? Or the nearness of extinction?”

“It’s all rooted in selfish genes and the wrong-headed notion of survival of the fittest,” HC says with scorn. “You think you want fat lives, herd immunity, and evidence of superiority as indicated by possessions and an address on Easy Street.”

“True,” I admit. “That does sound good. Makes me want to be the fittest.”

HC snorts again. “Have you thought that through? C’mon. You’ve got the brain power to get beyond your genes. In the end, the Fittest will stand armed, paranoid, and alone. The winner of the rat race is a rat.”

“Nice platitudes,” I say. “Got a better way?”

HC shrugs. “Stop deluding yourself. No one survives. It’s Now that counts.”

“Thanks,” I snap. “I feel so much better.”

“The ultimate measure of fitness is how you love and protect the unfit. It’s time to break the light into itself, hold the Face of Anger in your hands, and let her bite you.”

My hands are fisted. “You are certifiably nuts,” I say in a low, edgy voice.

“And you are certifiably angry,” HC says with authority.

“Yeah. So, I’m supposed to bite myself?”

HC nods. “And hold the Faces of Joy and Justice but be careful. They’re elusive and explosive.”

“You’re seriously insane,” I say. “I can’t do any of this.”

“Oh, but you can,” HC insists, not at all sympathetic. “Hold all the Faces of Insanity in your hands and let them bite the hell out of you.”

I stare at my weathered hands. The biting has begun.

“I’d rather hold your face,” I plead, frightened.

“Oh, my little mosquito!” HC says gently. “What do you think you’re doing?”

A grim hilarity takes hold. I slap myself silly, and for now, we get on with it.

Strong Nuclear Force

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

Earlier this week, God and I were deep into a discussion about the aptly named Strong Nuclear Force which is the force that holds subatomic quarks together and is thus responsible for the stability of matter. Because people often anthropomorphize God, I suggested that maybe she should change her name to Strong Nuclear Force. She pretended to consider this before concluding that she preferred other names, such as Lambkins, Alpha, Omega, or The Beloved.

The discussion ended, and the week steamrolled over me the way some weeks do. That brief exchange was unsettling, but I didn’t have time to revisit it. I barely had time to drink beer or exercise or contemplate how to save our tottering democracy. And the weeds took advantage of my frantic pace and went to seed as rapidly as they could.

I accept these harsh realities and the finite linearity of time. With what I consider to be enormous self-discipline, I’ve now seated myself in the old blue recliner, ready to center on the Center. The gardening and vacuuming will have to wait.

“So, you don’t have to go around calling yourself Strong Nuclear Force if you don’t want to,” I say, as my opening volley. “But I don’t like calling you those other names. Especially The Beloved. It sounds obsequious and weak.”

“No worries,” God smiles. “It’s just that I don’t like limiting myself. The nuclear scientists were quaking in their boots when they realized they could break the hold of the Strong Nuclear Force and set protons free. They wondered if once unleashed, the chain reactions would convert all matter to a kind of selfish, toxic energy that would end existence as you all define it.”

“And they detonated anyway,” I sigh. “We’re in so much trouble.”

“Yes, you are. You can see why the basics are so central, right?” God asks.

“Yeah,” I say, wondering which basics she means.

“Love,” she says.

“Too simple,” I say. “Undefined. Mushy. I don’t like that idea anymore. I want to roar and maim and shake people until their heads fall off.”

Strong Nuclear Force lifts her skirts and leaves.

The protons are free to crash.

The rich tell lies and steal from the poor.

The frightened arm themselves with weapons and hatred.

The young flounce. The old stiffen.

“Come back,” I yell. “You win. The Beloved is a fine name.”

“I always win,” she smiles.

“Maybe,” I say. “But that’s not readily apparent. Love is a tall order.”

“I know,” Lambkins says. “I’m often in disguise, but I’m taller than you think.”

Even in Dancing Shoes

Rita Sommers-Flanagan10 Comments

Even in dancing shoes, God can balance her energies, lean over, and suck the venom from a snakebite if she wants to. She can heal the sick, calm the angry, and comfort those grieving if she wants to. She can lift burdens, feed the hungry, visit prisoners, and welcome strangers if she wants to.

“Why are you writing these things?” God asks. “It’s weird and inaccurate.”

 “Aren’t they volitional acts?” I ask. “Don’t you have free will? How could this be inaccurate?”

Rather than make eye-contact, I look down at my fingernails. They’re ridged, uneven, and dirty.

God leaves.

Self-pity overwhelms me. Tears slither down into the unknown and regrettable while I endure the harsh odors and intrusive sounds of life going on. Going by. Going on.

There’s a vivacious spirit roaming the overgrown garden in the back. I’m drawn to the tangled jungle of native species, exotic transplants, and invasive weeds. The garden appears to need tending. If I knew what to attack and what to nurture, I would engage in the battle. I would pull weeds, spread compost, and drip pure water where it was needed. I would…

God returns, laden with serpents and migrants, criminals and emaciated children. “Move over,” she says. “There are more to come.”

“There’s no room,” I protest. “And no path. One thoughtless step could easily crush a strawberry, injure a fern, or break the slender stalk of an orchid.”

God looks at me and repeats, “Move over.”

“I can’t,” I shake my head. “I just can’t.”

But this isn’t true. Every moment, I grow smaller, and the cracks in the clay widen. There’s room.

“Are you a weed or a rose?” I ask.

God shifts her weight, impatient. “You’re stalling.”

“Are you perfection or process?” I persist.

“Stop dithering,” she says. “You still have time to bake something.”

I make a face and drag my tired body toward the kitchen.

“That’s the spirit,” God says. “Our guests would love a warm cookie or maybe a loaf of sourdough or pumpernickle.”

“Ah, c’mon,” I groan. “Enough! I don’t want to move over. I don’t want to break bread with the madding crowd. I suppose you want me to fry up a few fishes, too.”

“That’d be nice.” God laughs as she slides a pair of high-heeled tap shoes my direction.  “Your size?”

I hate high heels. I want my old red cowgirl boots. I want to hide in the oven with the cookies. I want to roll my life backwards. But I make myself try on these odd, uncomfortable-looking shoes.

“Just right,” I admit.

“I knew it!” she declares, reaching for my hand. “Let’s go.”

Flags

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

As consciousness ascends
the grin of the devil lingers.
My down comforter and fluffy pillows
smell like smoke.

I had intended to repair the tattered flag in the corner
but I see now that it cloaks the evil twins:
Blind allegiance and false promises.
Riches are blinders, not blessings.

A small plane drones through the dawn’s early light
strewing herds of animals hither and yon
for the pleasure of predators at the top of the chain.

“This is better than husking corn,” one of them says.

The corpses sanctify the trampled sod, now saturated with blood.
The resulting meals may justify giving thanks
but the trophies are pure vanity.

War is the thing to prepare for,
bodies the thing required.

“Not this pig,” wrote the poet
before passing to the place of all poems.
We nod to the sentiment, slicing ham
and chopping bacon bits for the salad.

Bless us, oh lord, and these thy gifts…
runs on automatic replay
as I watch people refuse to sign the petition
for reproductive rights.

I’m not fooled by false equivalencies. I sign.

To live is brief. To die is certain.
This lonely insight flays the rays of morning
into the arc of promised justice
I barely believe in anymore.

“Wake up, little one. You have Now,” the Rainbow says.
“And the gossamer of Indigo.”

“But Indigo has begun to unravel,” I protest.
“And I’ve lived too long as a parable to engage with Now.”

Silence.

I polish surfaces in the kitchen
hoping for an accurate reflection.
But the granite is forest green;
the dishwater, troubled; the beer, murky.

The Distortion laughing up at me is God.

“I hope you didn’t pull yourself together on my account,” I say.

“Of course I did,” the Distortion answers.
“No one can live on Indigo alone.”

Don’t Listen to the Wind

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“How old do you think I am?” the wind asked as she whined by.

“Older than those hills you’re blowing away.” I smiled.

“And twice as dusty,” God added, chuckling.

The wind shrugged and continued on her way, but I kept up the banter. I love it when God is amused.

“Hey, speaking of old, how about that 300-cubit ark they built in Kentucky? Or that dinosaur museum in Montana where they claim that homo sapiens co-existed with the T-Rex?” I grinned.

The literalist take things to such absurd levels, I assume the Creator thinks it’s funny.

“Don’t,” God said with a catch in his voice. “Don’t.”

I did a doubletake. God wiped his eyes and dropped his head into his hands. “I never dreamed humans would devolve like this,” he said, his voice heavy. “Of course, it’s inspired. It’s poetry, analogy, history, myth. It’s best guesses, confessions, and cautionary tales.”

I put my arm over God’s shoulder. Handed him a hanky. We sat in the garden with our backs to the wind.

“Talk to me,” I said. God blew his nose and grabbed a handful of rotting leaves.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“Not for sure,” I admitted. “But I suspect you’re The Source. The Artist. Most of the time, you seem nice. Maybe a little lonely.”

God threw the leaves in the air, and we watched the wind take them.

“Do you know where I live?” he asked.

“Um, I guess I’d say everywhere,” I said.

“So why don’t you visit more often?” God asked like a sidelined elder.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “It’s harder than you think.”

“Oh, don’t I know!” God leaped up and began pacing the perimeter of the space-time continuum. “Don’t I know!”

“You’re upset,” I reflected in my best therapist voice.

“Ya think?” God snapped. “I’m plagued by deluded fundamentalist folly; people frightened by mercy, blinded to my magnitude. Vast cults, twisting beautiful literatures into false guarantees, justifying murder, mayhem, war, and extinction. Yeah. I’m upset.”

“But we’re not all like that,” I protested. “There are scientists! And activists! Truth-tellers, artists, and public servants…”

“Burned at the stake,” God interrupted, glaring.

Wow. God was as grim as I’d seen him for a while. I took a deep breath. Sometimes, dark humor helps. “Well, everyone enjoys a good barbeque,” I said.

“Don’t bother,” the wind snorted. “I’ve tried everything. He’s got to deal with this on his own. It’s beyond you.”

“No, it’s not,” God whispered in a voice so low the wind stopped to listen. “Sometimes, she makes me laugh. I like that.”

Time is Money and Money is Everything

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

“You’re pretty thick-skinned,” I tell God as we sip our morning beers. “I’m jealous.”

God sighs. “Don’t be ridiculous. My skin is so thin it’s translucent. You can see my veins pulsing.”

“Ugh!” I exclaim. “I don’t like talking about veins.”

“I know,” God says. “So let’s talk about that man on the news that got you all riled up.”

“The one who said time is money and money is everything?” I ask. “Because yeah, I hated that. For your sake.”

God laughs. We clink bottles and watch as the river rises and the earth gasps for breath. How much money would it take to clean up our mess? To feed a billion children? What does it cost to build tanks, drones, and bombs? How much, God? How much money to defeat evil or save a single soul?

God raises an eyebrow. “Money does not buy redemption or defeat evil.”

“I know,” I snap. “But it buys food. And weapons. Like Mark Twain said, I’ve been rich, and I’ve been poor. Rich is better.”

“So you’re saying money is everything?” God asks.

“I don’t know what I’m saying,” I admit.

God’s cadence slows. “Money and time are seductive, addictive distractions, but time is not money, and of course, money is not everything. Money might buy you votes or a short journey through the house of distorted mirrors, but life eventually comes down to focus and flow. Acceptance and gratitude. Servanthood and humility. Depending on motive, a vow of poverty can be as pointless as vaults full of gold.”

I gaze at the Servant on my sofa who repeatedly urges me to choose generosity and compassion. She’s a willow with rotting roots, a hatched egg in a dislodged nest, erosion, eruption, and an ever-expanding circularity.

“Are you on my side?” I ask.

“No,” the Servant says, laughing again. “Are you on mine?”

“I would be if I knew what your side was,” I say.

“Well-said,” the Servant nods. “But I need no one on my side. I’m God. You need to be on your own side. The side that might save this little planet you call home and this funky species you call human.”

“But we need help!” I say, anger rising in my throat.

“Yes, you do,” God agrees. “That’s why I’ve sent the drag queens, the nonbinary, the folk of color, the truth-speakers, the scientists, the artists, the poor, the meek, and the gentle.”

“But they aren’t enough,” I say, despairing.

“So it appears,” God agrees sadly. “So it appears.”

Oh Ye Who Forget That Thou Art Prey

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

When God stops by as humble as the Kirby salesman or the Fuller Brush Man and shows me his wares, I buy. I can’t help it. Love looks so good in the abstract. But love enacted is often irritating, complex and exhausting. It can take so damn much time and energy that I long to renege, retreat, and eat bonbons.

Well, maybe not bonbons but something mind-altering and self-indulgent. I’d be willing to eat my words if that would help, since I offer up a lot of verbiage urging acts of kindness upon myself and others.

A mountain lion killed our neighbor’s little dog this week. I’ve watched the instinctual responses of predators when edible creatures flee. Vicious jaws, brutal endings. Could instinct be a justification for bonbons? Aggression? Guns in the basement aimed at anyone planning to overpower me and eat my extra pasta?

“I’m sorry,” God says after listening to this rant for a few moments. “I can’t get into these concerns today.

“Why?” I ask. “Busy with that new little dog in heaven?” Okay. I admit I can be a real jerk when I feel scared, short-changed, or entitled.

God looks at me with compassion, turns, and walks away.

“Wait!” I shout, stricken with the shame of abandonment. “Please.”

“I can’t,” God says. “Use your new products. I’ll be back.”

I slam the door behind him, kick love to the corner, dig deep into the candy drawer, and pile wood on the fire. “No!” I bellow into the room, chaotic with yesterday’s attempts at decluttering. “Not me!!!”

The not-me arrives. She shows up whenever I yell for her and stays until she’s gorged herself on my best intentions. She’s unattractive and mean. When she finally slinks away, I’m usually sprawled on the couch, cursing my laziness, bad judgment, nasty temperament, and inadequate excuses for not saving the world or at least some little corner of it. There are chocolate smears around my mouth and thick socks on my feet.

Oh ye who forget that thou art prey; beware. And woe to ye who ignore thy forward eyes and pointed teeth reflected in thy steamy mirror. Thou art predator and thou art prey. Yet thou art also family. Therefore, thou must enter into sacrificial space, ready to share thine chocolate and thine life. That’s how it works.

That’s simply how it works.

There Will Come a Day

Rita Sommers-Flanagan10 Comments

When I got out my vitamin organizer to take my supplements this morning, today’s cubby was empty. I must have dipped in twice yesterday. No wonder I feel overwrought; too much B-complex and an overdose of magnesium may account for my anxious dream last night wherein Barack Obama helped me bandage the finger I cut making his family a salad. I don’t like forgetting, and I don’t like anxious dreams.

But dream we must. Forget we must.  Decline we must. Die we must. There will come a day when the puppy digging in the compost right now is an old, grey-faced mutt, and there will come a morning when no matter how watchful I am, I won’t glimpse my sister, half-crazed on her 4-wheeler, chasing down a skunk with her shotgun.

“Sorry I’m late,” God says as she rushes in. “You’ve rearranged your writing space. I like it.”

“Oh, hi God,” I say. “Coffee?”

God holds up her hand. “No, thanks. I had a cup with your neighbor, and I’m going to treat myself to a latte later. Still catching up on the fiascos of Easter/Passover/Ramadan. And Ukraine…” Her voice cracks.

“Hmmm,” I say. “Want some vitamins or something?”

God smiles and leans forward. “You know I’m not vengeful, right?” I nod and wait. “And you know I don’t play favorites, right?” I nod again, wishing I could be an exception. “And you know branches will always grow toward the sun and move gracefully in the wind, and things you drop will fall toward the center, right?”

I nod a third time suddenly feeling quite sad. “And where do the things you drop go?” I ask in a quiet voice, turning my face away. But God sees my eyes welling up anyway. She makes a fist of her giant hand and thumps herself hard in the chest. “Right here,” she says, and hits herself again. “Right here.”

When I sleep, I shroud the windows in purple velvet drapes. It occurs to me that I’d like my body wrapped in these before it is laid to rest in the garden. “Sounds like a good plan,” God says, voice fading. “I like purple.”

I have the intention of wiping my eyes and nodding again, but neither are possible because I have dissipated into the moment. The drapes are sun-streaked, dusty, and elegant. Granted, it may be an idiosyncratic or imagined elegance, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is the gravity-defying blackbird perched on the top branch of the wind-whipped cottonwood.