Naming a Shooter...Living in Peace...

A number of officials and journalists make a big to do about not using the name of a perpatrator of a crime, such as a mass shooting when commenting or reporting on it.  The reason given is that they do not want to glorify or sensationalize the crime and its effects.

I beg to differ.

Although my analogy may seem an insult to the pain inflicted on the mass shooting in Roseburg, Oregon today, I do not mean it to be.  As a child, when teased about my cerebral palsy--"Palsy Patty", etc., I was advised to "focus on the positive and ignore the negative."  My response?  "But it hurts!  I can't do that."  It took many years to arrive at my manner of dealing with the teasing.  Knowing I could not ignore it--the teasing was not going to go away magically, I needed a strategy to cope with the teasing.  Over time, I adopted a mantra that I live by yet today.  Without a second thought, I "focus on the positive, and learn from the negative.  Instinctively, I knew that I needed to give my attention to learning as much about the people who teased me--what were their motivations, what questions did they need to have answered in order to stop teasing me.  Call me an idealist, but, I am firmly convinced that people can understand, that teasing may be stopped.  I believed--I still believe--that it is my responsible to answer their questions.

Returning to the mass shooting at Umpqua Community College in Roseburg, Oregon, our attention is drawn back to past mass shootings and what the responses that various people and groups believe should be.  Passionate on both sides, some say that gun control laws are essential.  Others say that guns are not the problem, but, that the mass shootings point to the need for mental health programs and services.

Although a pacifist, and an ardent supporter of further gun control legislation, I feel called to respond to the need for more mental health programs and services.  I agree.  However, it is not an either or question.

Addressing the need for more effective mental health programs and services demands learning about the individuals involved in perpetrating mass shootings  What were their motivations?  What was their background?  Those are just two questions that come to mind.  I am sure there are many others.  The process of asking questions must begin with the very information that investigators--police and journalists, sometimes feel compelled to not speak...the name of the crime's perpetrator.

The contribution I commit myself to regarding mass killings is threefold.  I live every minute of every day as an ardent pacifist.  Secondly, when so inspired by world events, I will share my reflections on how to live peacefully.  Third, rather than putting myself in the middle of the battle to secure further gun control legislation, or mental health programs and services, I commit myself to volunteer in my community with organizations that provide positive, peaceful, creative ways to live harmoniously.

Once a week I gather with a community of individuals committed to live in peace and harmony.  We say, "May the peace of Christ be with you."  We commit ourselves to one another to leave the physical church and return to the outside world to live in peace with individuals of all beliefs.

I pray we may ask the questions necessary to understand the motivations of individuals who commit crimes.  I pray we may take the requisite action to make peace our way of life.  It is possible.

I Can't Remember When....

Most people lament, "I remember when..." with the delusion that those words spoken may turn back the clock to a different time.  Frequently, this is spoken regarding a job--a bad, boring job.  For many, many years I worked in a job from which I felt that my full potential was not being employed.
As many years as vehemence flowed constantly, I cannot remember that feeling.  I do not want to be taken back to that time.
In 2009, I had to stop working.  I have been known to say, "My get up and go got up and went."  Essential tremors and osteoarthritis allied with the well-entrenched cerebral palsy, and her silent partner, epilepsy to execute a "successful" coup d'etat over life as I knew it.  In 2009, I could not fathom the notion that I might live without working in the paid workforce.
Every 18 months or so, I must submit myself to an external reexamination of my incapacity to return to the workforce--a reverse performance review, if you will.  I am not a submissive person.  For now I must be.
Every 18 months or so, I must return to four humbling questions:
1. Has there been a change in your condition in the last 18 months?
2. If  "Yes" please describe the specific change or changes?
3. Please list all of the types of activities that you do during the course of a typical day.  What do you do from the time you arise in the morning until you retire at night?  Do you require assistance?
4. Please place the number shown next to the statement that most accurately reflects your ability/inability to perform each of them:
(1) I can perform this activity independently
(2) I can perform this activity with the use of equipment or adaptive devices
(3) I cannot perform this activity
      a.  Dressing
      b.  Toilet
      c.  Feed yourself with food that has been prepared and made available to you

            d.  Voluntary bladder and bowel control or ability to maintain a reasonable level of personal hygiene

e.         e.  Bathe (tub, shower, or bath)

            f.  Transfer from bed to chair

     On the one hand, there are many reasons why it seems that I should not make the confession I do now, I must submit to this confession.  As easy as it may seem to some to be hereto submissive, let me set the record straight.  It is not.  I understand the need.  Yet it is not easy.  

    I seek no dramatic persona.  Purely and simply I am brought to my knees whenever these questions are set before me.  The first time I faced these questions, they were excruciating.  These are not questions that elicit dignity.  These questions redefine what honesty must be--what the honesty of daily life is.  Try as I will to soften the blow, each time these questions bring me to my knees.

     My concept of someone who is no longer able to be in the paid workforce is that they are bedridden.  Yet, I am not.  

     I live within my limits working with what remains--an important part of those limits is that I cannot employ my body in the paid workforce.  

     I cannot remember when I worked by the time and revenue demands of a large corporation.  

     I pray I may work my way through this reexamination with honesty, integrity, and my dignity intact.  When can I nap?  Where is the Breyer's?

Mourning A Body--My Body

My left hand is my life's blood.  It is the vehicle I use to craft words, the tool I use to live.  My right hand has never served me.  She never will.  I know that.  Blame is not for me to assign.  Anger is not mine to wield.  My right hand has never served me as others' have.
This week, a gradual diminishment--a lifelong fear--came to a head.  I made progress to the outer world.  Not by others misassigning it.  I didn't misassign it either.  Rather, I rallied the consolation I need.
A mere appointment for hand therapy, hand x-rays, and a neck MRI did not deliver this week to me...not alone.
Every 18 months or so, I receive a questionnaire to reauthorize my long-term disability insurance.  A formality perhaps.  Yet, this time it hit me hard--it hits me in the gut.  She pulls no punches.
I have forgotten the sound of my left hand's voice propelling me up out of bed in the morning.  Did she ever speak?  Have I lost my hearing?  Am I deaf to her call for help?  How long has she--how long have they--been gone?
Did I abuse my left had so much--with such bravado--that I have lost her forever?
Will remorse...a contrite heart...a confessing of my wrongful pride...be enough that my hand may be entrusted to my service?
Voicing that thought through my still-working fingers is embarrassing.  Am I losing dignity as I stand aside of my body?
I hold on for dear life in the bathtub as I pull my body to a standing position after bathing myself.  Will this be the time I will lose my grip and fall?
The time for contrition has come...a shower/bath bench.  I have looked from afar.  This week's questions--the questions are served by only one answer.  I confess a bit of vanity remains.  With Amazon.com's hand to hold mine, soon I will be the proud owner of a reasonably-priced teak shower/bath bench.
I mourn a body--my body.  Is it mine to blame?  Is it mine to wield anger at because it is not serving me.
I must serve my body regardless of how it serves me.
Thirty-two years ago I was baptized--I joined the Catholic Church.  Through friends, I learned it was more than possible to blend intellect into faith into my being.  Skeptics to that blending asked, "But...resurrection...that just doesn't make any sense!  Do you believe in resurrection?  Do you believe in The Resurrection?"
I did not know I did not understand what words to utter.
Time has passed....years have elapsed....life has changed me...life has changed my body....much over many years has made now sense at all.
Do I understand resurrection?  Do I believe in resurrection?
No.  I must.  I am a woman of faith, I am a woman of hope.  I am a woman of love.  I am a woman of belief.
Do I understand The Resurrection?  Do I believe in The Resurrection.
No.  I breathe seeking to believe what I do not understand.
I mourn a body--my body.  I mourn a bath--the loss of a bath.  I was always a woman of a shower.  So, why am I mourning?  I seek understanding that has yet to be delivered to me.
I mourn a body--my body.

Stop. Listen. Negotiate. Compromise.

     I do my best to steer clear of political commentary on events of the day--events that everyone blogs about, screams about on television.  But.  I am disgusted.  I shall say my peace, sign any constructive petitions I become aware of.  Then, I shall return to the world where I am making a constructive contribution.  Catholic Church reform.  Donor research at a local museum.  Serving on a regional accessible transportation planning committee.  Proofreading print versions of braille books occasionally.
     Somehow, when I wasn't looking, my life became full, richer than I imagined possible.
     So, what engenders disgust in me?  Simple.  Congress.  The Tea Party.  The government shutdown.  The debt ceiling.
     Up until I was 40 to 45, I kept abreast of current events every day, and with great passion.
     Occasionally, I would write a letter to the editor, when I felt the issue warranted it.
     I am 53.  I have reached a point in my life, rightly or wrongly, that I want people to take responsibility for their actions.  Honestly, I am reaching the point where specific positions matter less to me than moral and ethical behavior by which every adult is called.
     Specific to Congress, and the decisions they are supposed to make, my cry is simple.
     "Whatever decision you make regarding the need for government services, I ask you to answer a question, "Do you believe that you are guaranteed that you will wake up tomorrow with the same capacities you have as you go to bed tonight?'"
     My immediate appeal regards personal health.  However, the more I think about it, the more I realize that my question goes deeper than that.
     "Do you believe that you are guaranteed that you will wake up tomorrow morning with the same economic resources that you have going to bed tonight."
     Initially, when I moderated my habits regarding news, I felt guilty.  I felt that I was not fulfilling my responsibilities as a citizen to be informed.  However, coverage of health care reform--the intensity and nature of the coverage--led me to seek refuge in calmer places.  I was faced with my own health challenges.      I could not handle the challenges presented by coverage of health care reform.
    My health challenges are manageable now--not gone, but, manageable.  Slowly I have developed a rich life in which I use my gifts, rather than taxing my body.
    To Congress--to individual decisionmakers who comprise Congress--I offer my comments.  The challenges before you well may be extremely difficult to address.  However, let me be quite clear.  Its nature as a difficult challenge does not serve as an excuse to delay or negate addressing the challenge.  As an individual, serious consequences would result from my failing to take the medication available to control my seizures, and tremors.
     To Congress--to individual decisionmakers who comprise Congress--I offer my comments.  Principles are good to have when serving in leadership positions.  Principles are the foundation of moral and ethical behavior.  But, principles cannot be substitutes for--obstacles to--engaging in negotiation.
None of us "gets our way" in this life.  Life is not perfect.
    Central to leadership are clear principles.  Listen.  Negotiate.  Listen.  Compromise.  Listen.
    Let me know when it is safe to come out from the rock--the refuge of peace--where I have put myself.

Antibullying and Religious Freedom

     I am a reasonable, rational person--most times.
     Antibullying legislation is being opposed by the Minnesota Catholic Conference, and Catholic dioceses in Minnesota?
     Why you ask?
     Antibullying legislation violates religious freedom!
     How!
     I am Catholic.  I was drawn to Catholicism by virtue of peace and respect that pervades Catholic traditions.
     Bullying cannot be tolerated in a civil society.  It just can't.  Case closed.
     Antibullying is an instrument of moral, and ethical accountability, which the Catholic Church must embrace.  Freedom without moral and ethical accountability is hollow at best.
     Bullying is not an academic matter to me.
     Bullying.  Patty.  Bullying.  Palsy Patty.  Bullying.  Being tossed off the junior high bus seat.  Bullying.  The principal, "Just bring in the names of the bullies, and we will take care of it,"  Bullying.  Risking a junior high school friendship-- getting the names of the bullies.  Bullying.  The principal, "Oh, we can't do anything."  Bullying.  Mimicking my bent, cerebral palsied hand.  Bullying.
     Forty years have passed between then and now.  Yet, my visceral response to bullying is undiluted.
     1974.  I vowed that whatever form it might take, I would act to ensure that no other individual had to experience--endure--the pain--the stolen dignity that bullying effects on innocent human beings.
     Bullies moved me to embrace the respect and peace that Catholicism exuded--the Treasure of Christ.
    The Catholic Church opposes antibullying legislation in the name of religious liberty.  How!  Tell me how!
That is unconscionable.  Absolutely unconscionable.
    Being Catholic has taught me to be a Child of God.  Not in the level of my maturity.  Being Catholic has taught me to be a Person of God--full of unjaded wonder, untarnished awe at life that surrounds me.
    Being Catholic has taught me to be a Person of God.  Not in the level of my maturity.  Being Catholic has taught me to be a Person of God--embracing joy, embracing God.  Relinquishing temptation to be held captive to the dark skepticism and cynicism of life that surrounds me.
    Antibullying legislation is not an obstacle to religious liberty.  Antibullying legislation is an instrumentt of love--a staff to guide us into human decency.

But...If My Life Was Perfect...

     But...if my life was perfect....
     I would not:
          Be sensitive
          Be compassionate
          Be understanding of other people--of the world around me
          Be flexible in how I approach and accomplish physical tasks
          Be flexible in how I view the diversity of people, beliefs, and cultures
          Be awe-struck by beauty around me
          Be wonder-filled about life within and around me--life distant from me
          Be appreciative of basic human capacities--thinking, and walking, to name a few
          Be attentive to how words are used--how I use words
          Be attentive to how my words and actions affect other people I know and do not know
          Be blessed with a sense of humor
          Be determined to live my life fully
          Be passionate about pursuing my interests
          Be interested in learning every day--each moment--of my life
          Be willing to apologize when I had offended someone else, or stolen someone's dignity
          Be dedicated to fulfilling my human potential, and encouraging others to do so
          Be open to the notion that this list is not complete
          Be baptized...be willing to seek an ongoing living of baptism        
     If My Life Were Perfect, I Would Not Be Human.

If My Life Was Perfect...

     I have struggled to advise a family member as to how to fulfill their unique human potential.  Knowing the position of respect bestowed on me has given me a sense of responsibility.  Only following the Boston Marathon Bombings have I been given an inkling as to how to fulfill my responsibility.
    My family member lacks the sense of how to fulfill his adult responsibilities--fulfill his human potential.  Ascribing responsibilities on other intimates how they have failed their responsibiltiies to my family member has clouded his willingness to look at his own human potential--the gift he has been given by God--by his belief in God.  I know that belief exists in him.  I do not know the form of belief.
    My belief--the form of my belief--calls me to offer something.
    From an unlikely source--the Boston Marathon Bombings suspect--I understand one way--one something--I may offer.
    Optimist--idealist--that I am, recent years have taught me, "life is not perfect."  Self-pity is not the sum of that equation in my life.  So where does that leave me--how does that affect my offering to my family member.
     A List.  An Itemized--A Humbling List.
     If My Life Was Perfect...    
     I Would Not:
          Need to wear my ankle foot orthotic--my brace on my right leg
          Need to walk long distances with a cane
          Need to use a wheelchair
          Need to take medication to control my intentional tremors
          Need to take anticonvulsants to control my seizures
          Need to grab the right handrail with my left hand when walking up or down a flight of stairs
     I Would Not Fear:
          Outstretching my left hand--lose the use of my left and right hand by:
               Opening doorknobs
               Carrying heavy bags of groceries
               Carrying heavy loads of laundry
            My capacity to stand up from the ground
     People Would:
         Think my handwriting was beautiful