Tag: wisdom

Unselfies

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments 

“No, turn your head this way.” The Creator pointed as she positioned her phone for one last shot. I felt silly playing along, but on the other hand, it’s unwise to alienate God first thing in the morning, so I tilted my head obligingly. 

The shift of perspective floored me. My eyes beheld my unformed substance at the base of the flowering clematis. The existential struggles of transformation were underway, and it was obvious that my role is miniscule. I matter and I don’t.

This was overwhelming. I grabbed the wings of sunrise and flew toward the ends of the earth. But there, I was greeted by the forces of good and evil. “Hello, Side-Effect,” they yelled cheerfully. “We saw your selfies. Not bad.”

“Those weren’t selfies,” I said. “And I’m not a side-effect.”

My Coauthor rode in in high on the breakers of an incoming tide, waving like royalty. The forces of good and evil waved back. I did not.

“Ah, why the long face?” my Coauthor asked.

“I don’t want to be a side-effect,” I said. “I want to be the pinnacle.”

“You’re both,” God smiled. “Life itself is a side effect of passion. But don’t worry. Every side effect is different. Even desperately desired descendants don’t turn out exactly as imagined, and clones individuate. Each blade of grass is a pinnacle.”

She pulled her phone out of her waterproof fanny pack, threw an arm over my shoulder, and took a series of selfies as we emerged from the depths. 

“Choices,” God said. “Even side effects have choices. And those choices will have choices. That’s why I take so many pictures.”

“And that’s why I always feel like I’m to blame,” I moaned. “Choices are hard.”

“Innocence and intention coexist,” God said. “Culpability is a carriage with draped windows pulled by a team of wild horses. It’s a rough ride.”

“Aren’t you angry with the choices we’re making?” I asked.

“A little,” the Holy Hungry Immigrants shrugged. “But we’ve already laid ourselves down on the tracks. Now, we just wait for the train.” 

They handed me a phone. “Could you snap a couple shots of us?” they asked. “No one will believe this back home.”

I heard the train in the distance. “Get up,” I shrieked. “Don’t be stupid.”

“We can’t.” They gazed lovingly at my horrified face. “You know we can’t.”

Revelations

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

“Morning, sleepy.” God rubs my head, smiling. “Time to wake up!”

“Stop,” I mumble, covering my head with my paisley blue sheet. “I didn’t sleep well. Thoughts of the Antichrist kept rolling around in my head.”

“Yeah. Rough week. Satanically healed head wounds. Fake hysteria. Spellbound followers of malevolent beings. Beasts in sheep’s clothing,” God signs. “I’ve seen it all before. It’s a bit passe.”

“Maybe for you,” I say. “But not for me. Not for us. This could be the end times.”

“Nah,” God laughs. “Satanic healing is an oxymoron, and it’s always the end times. But the Book of Revelation would’ve made a great screenplay for your current crop of dark-hearted fanatics. The author could have made millions scaring people. Too bad he was so far ahead of his time.”

“Time is definitely the issue,” I say. “We’re running out of it.”

“You might be. I’m not,” God counters with a selfish grin. “Even if your world runs out of time, I won’t. I play with time like you play with frisbees.”

“Well, Mr. Laissez Faire, a lot of people are begging Various Versions of You to do something about, um, everything. Soon.”

God groans. “You would not believe all the contradictory prayers clogging up the prayer-o-sphere.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” I say sarcastically. “This shiny blue marble with all its evolutionary splendor may be just a twinkle in your creative eye, but it’s everything to us. Everything.”

“Then act like it,” God says. “You’ve done a terrible job of fulfilling your potential so far. There’s a draft of your Official Eviction Notice on my attorney’s desk as we speak. And don’t ask for a recommendation if you move elsewhere. I love you all. I really do. You’re intriguing. But if you continue to be so easily duped, I’m afraid you’re not worth the risk.”

I bow my head as if to pray, but it’s just an excuse to break eye-contact with the Truth. Why ARE we so easily duped? Vicious selfishness and blind hatred have been rebranded as faith. Lying buffoons and feckless billionaires are praised and adored.

The sound of galloping hooves in the distance chills my soul. I gasp.

“Relax,” God says. “It’s not the four horsemen. It’s the Budweiser team. We’re having a big kegger on the beach tonight. I’ve ordered seven pizzas and seven golden bowls of chips. You should come.”

“What beach?” I ask. I don’t like Bud, but a little social time might be nice.

“Gaza,” God says.

“GAZA!” I shout. “You’re a fool, God. They’re not even letting necessities in. They’ll kill the horses.”

God shrugs. “They always kill the horses,” he says. “I’m used to it.”

Comfort

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

God is thick like a down quilt this morning. Thick in the air, thick in the snow, thick in the garden dirt, thick in the fire, thick in sadness, thick in my chest.

Maybe lingering, maybe gone, is a loved one of such large heart and honest soul that the world has a hollow sound right now. An empty echo. The long vibration of the gong. The bell that tolls. I could look to the blackbirds for comfort or the white hills with their dusting of snow, but I don’t want comfort. I want wisdom. It eludes me.

Yesterday was warmer. I found evidence that the raspberry roots are taking life seriously and have begun to send up dark green signs of hope. We could have a bright red harvest next year and maybe even a few berries later this year. The long arc of transplantation requires patience and faith. I sat back on my haunches and gave thanks. But as the day ended, black doubts took hold, and I went to bed hungry.

“Good morning, little one,” God says gently as she shakes off the majesty of thickness and shrinks into human view. A gift. God’s body thrown across the railroad tracks of fear and despair. God, willing to be a slender apparition, glowing in momentary light. I’m torn. I know God is dead and alive, here and there, atomic and cosmic. But I’m no longer sure I speak the right language to be fully understood, and I have these wounds that open in the night. I use whatever pressure I can muster to close them, but they will never heal.

“Good morning, God,” I answer, staring out the one unshaded window. “I don’t feel like moving, or I’d offer you some coffee. Sorry.”

“No worries, honey,” God says. “I know where you keep the cups.”

Instructions

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments
Photo credit: Scott Wolff

God’s face will come off in your hands if you pull hard and twist.
Your own face is a fluid river. Not something you should readily admit.
The mysterious whispers from the shadows are ancestors sighing. Sigh with them.
After a hearty meal, a small bird balances on the tip of a branch. This is impossible.

If you aren’t stoned or near death, the day might seem ordinary. It’s not.
If you assume things will remain the way they are, you’re mistaken.
What you see, what you hear, what you believe–all unlikely. All contingent.
You may think you understand the ways of the world. You do not.

Your petty fears are confetti in a gale force wind. Celebrate their flight. You’ve won.
The rotten cottonwood with the eagle’s nest has blown down. For this, grieve.
There is nothing left to win or lose. Take God’s face out of your pocket. Wear it.
Use jagged stones to chew your food, and you will be briefly sustained.

Let your guard down, put your feet up. Be playful with the local delusions. Laugh.
You’ll notice the joke is on you, which is very good news. Rejoice.
Music blares into the wee hours of a morning you don’t own. Listen.
God will say unto you, “May I have this dance?” You wonder what to do. Dance.

In certain moments, you imagine that your angular finger is a twig. This is true.
When the sparrow lands to groom herself, you suspect it is the end. It is not.
Put your better ear to the ground or on the thin chest of newborn child. Say hello.
You’ve never fully lived here, but you call this place home. And it is.