The following is a letter from God …
The End — September 22, 2021
This is my story: And on the eighth day God created the village idiot. And She named it Trump. And it was not good. God gave it the shape of a lurching, hulking bull, with tendril horns, cloven feet, Vienna sausage fingers with venomous suction cups at the tips, anal mouth, mountainous haunches and laser eyes. God bestowed upon this masterpiece of atrocity the intelligence of a dust mite and the essence of hemlock, a forked tongue from which incoherence lashed out, vomitlike, to sting and poison, and kill, with a vocabulary limited to a dozen words: “Fake, Fight, Loser, Stolen, NEVER Before in the History of the World!” It used these words as arsenal against other people, but the words were accurately only self-descriptions. However, the village idiot didn’t know that.
People around the world, who thought God was good, were confused and afraid and angry. Why did God make this hideous monster? People everywhere were attacked and stricken speechless by it. The intense suffering that was already great now became greater. God’s people, believers and unbelievers, young and old, Black, white, tie-dyed, rich, and poor, here, there, everywhere, fell ill. They were poisoned by the stench from it that wafted, oozed, splattered and snaked over, under, around and through neighborhoods, villages, towns, cities, states, countries and continents. Why did God make this demolishing beast? How could a village idiot with a 12-word vocabulary and the makings of all things dangerous, disgusting and lethal, not be the cause of its own destruction? Where was the balance of positive and negative? When did it become impossible for love to overcome the hate that flowed from it in a toxic, vaporous, putrid poisoning that befell all life-forms in its stomping path? When did it happen that this came to pass? The people never saw what hit them. Why, God, why? they asked on the 1,235th day.
And God said as she rearranged Her skirts of sky-blue silk:
I have made this horrid abomination and sent it to your world because you were asleep. When I shone my light upon you, you did not awaken. In your slumber your own lights stopped shining and darkness came upon you. In your slumber you did not see, you did not hear or notice or care. Your souls were dying as you lay there in coldness, disconnected threads from the fabric of Life. I woke you up with fire and pain. Nudging did nothing, and your sleeping became sickness. My creation on the eighth day was the antidote, the potion strong enough to shock you out of your coma. Now you have risen from unconsciousness and the darkness and the light are tangled, yin and yang are spinning, fishtailing, blurring, unrecognizable, indistinguishable. Your planet, the Earth that I made for you, is caught in the thrash of survival also. The Earth is trying to shake off the hurt of being violated for too long. And so the Earth is awakening, too. The sound of all of everything waking up and becoming aware of what is here now screams loudly — the pain of your arms and legs and heads, numb from having fallen asleep too very long, is excruciating. And I am sorry.
But nothing else got your attention. This did. I want you to survive. What can we do? you ask. Shine your light on my eighth-day making. Do this by caring and kindness in your own shoes, armchairs, houses, tents, and cars — even as you suffer watching, witnessing and being part of the collapse, even as you struggle with disease and shock and horror at the experience. Look at the flickers of light, the cracks in the black curtain, the sparks of kindness. Listen for the music of one bird singing. Touch the smoothness of the apple from which you gratefully bite. Taste the sweetness. Feel the warmth of a hand you might hold. Feel the pen that can write your name, can write a kind message. Hold the stick that will draw in the sand, the chalk that will write on the sidewalk. Smell the Earth in her first drops of rain, her sacred water on your faces, your gardens. Sing into the loudness of chaos with your voice. Sing instead of shout. Dance with your own spirit with no one watching but me. I am the goodness and the light. So are you. But you must wake up now. You must do as I have shown. Or you will not survive. Fight is the wrong F word. The village idiot is filling your mouths with that word and it will destroy you completely. Then you will never know the true F words: Freedom. Friend. Family. Fix.
Instead of fighting, become one of Eckhart Tolle’s Frequency Holders, those who bring joy through simple actions. Carry the Flame. Become these Light-Shining Lanterns. Do nothing but be these. That will be enough.
Diana Legun offers a creative take on the past few years through a comedic/spiritual lens. Views expressed are her own.
Image: Eckhart Tolle, the Dalai Lama and Ken Robinson at Vancouver by kris krüg on Flickr
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