The Stairway

     2625 Vale Crest Road.  April 26, 1960.  A foundation was laid.  A baby was born.  A home.  My values.
     A split-level home.  The front door.  The front entryway.  A stairway down to the den--an office, laundry room, a Singer sewing machine.  Mom.
    A defining moment.
     Late 1960s.  Pacifists.  Vietnam.  Mom's first-born son.  My brother.  My Idol.  The  Draft.  Drawing "your" number.  Lower numbers go to Vietnam first.
     Me.  The baby of the family.  Home from school.  I walk into the front entryway.  Mom hears me.  With baited breath I ask, "What was His Number?"
     30
     Not good.  Frightening.
     30
     Conscientious Objector.
     30
     Only later--much later--did I learn how close we came.  A hearing set.  Our minister set to testify.  Last minute change.  The minister could not come.  I do not remember what followed.  How did we succeed?  My memory fails me.
     30  
    Our job?  Prove why a very young man be drafted into the quagmire known as Vietnam.  The quagmire put before our eyes by Walter Cronkite each night.
     30
    When Conscientious Objector status was granted, I understood the responsibility of pacifism.  Diplomacy.  World peace in our living room--conscientious objection at the Stairway.
    30
     Forty years have passed.  The memory--the image--of that moment is as clear as when I first stood at the Stairway.
      30
     The waving of the United Nations flag on October 24--the anniversary of the UN's founding--added to the responsibility to live conscientious of our life's commitments.  Meetings of the World Federalists in the living room--in the heart of our home--embodied the same spirit.
     30
     What happened to that young man?  Did he ever offer service?  Yes.  Yet today, he offers medical care to those who come to him in need.  Yes.  He offered service.  Yes.  He offers service.
     30
     2625 Vale Crest Road.  April 26, 1960.
     My home has changed.  Time has passed.
     30
     I pray we do not fall down The Stairway.  I pray we remain steadfast Conscientious Objectors to actions that mask themselves as National Security.  May we not pound our chests.  May we seek peace, understanding, diplomacy, and care.
     30

Family Crossfires

     My family is close.  Reconciled to inevitable differences present within any family.  Reconciled.  At peace.  Not seething silently.  We are blessed.  Some families are not so blessed.
     Christmas.  Christmas cards.  Childhood neighbors and friends remain close.  Some closer to me.
     Though not closest to me, two women are on my "must send" list, nonetheless.  One is blinded by sight.  The other?  Her mother--her housemate.
     The first woman is blinded by sight.  Yet, far beyond any physical manifestation of blindness, her mind has been blinded--blinded by her own volition-- to what might be possible if she believed.  No one forced it upon her.  By unbelief--by ultimate inaction--she has taken the strongest action.
     She is tragic of her own making.   More tragic is the blind ensnarement of her mother.  Imposed Catholic guilt is a joke most times funny.  This is no joke.  This is not funny.
     Born in a generation when etiquette, propriety, manners, and grace were virtues, the mother instilled these in her children.  Or, so she tried.  Through no fault of her own, Catholic guilt is being imposed on her by her daughter.  Though not privy to their conversations, there is no doubt.
     I need you.  Don't leave me alone in my blindness.  Literally.  Since my blindness imprisons me in this house, you cannot leave the house either.  Don't leave me alone.  If you dare, you will live to regret it.  I will take irrevocable action that you will live to regret.
     The mother's golden years are being held hostage.  The daughter's potential choked.  A travesty.  Imposed.  A travesty.  Self-imposed.  A travesty.
     What may I do?  Virtuous I am not.  I cannot violate the virtues instilled by my own mother.  So what can I do?
     A simple Christmas card.  Supporting UNICEF--supporting the belief of what is possible in each child's life, if we unite.  A simple Christmas card addressed to both mother and daughter.
     Merry Christmas.

A Changing of the Guard

     This week, a pronounced changing of the guard came clearly into view.  Two lives--two people--who have given me immeasurable strength were changed.  One by illness.  The other by death.
     Sunday.  Imminence.  Foreboding.
     How is it possible to owe more to someone than your life?  I don't know how.  Yet, I do.
     Sunday morning.  A voicemail system flashes the unnerving red signaling a call missed.
     A quart of blood lost.  Unknown cause.
     Wednesday.  Tests done.  A relatively clean bill of health.  With equal parts exhaustion, and relief, she returned home.  Yet, a huge toll has been taken on her.  Physically.  Emotionally.  Psychologically.
     Wednesday.  A gentle soul died.  Not before living very fully for many years.  Not before giving me, and many others, strength from his weakness.  Not before teaching me, and others, how to live quiet dignity.
     Thursday morning.  A never-before heard call.  A call to offer my hour's swim in thanksgiving to him--for him.  Unfamiliar though the call was, the message was clear.
     Friday.  The quart of blood lost to the woman to whom I owe my life, and so much more, is being restored more slowly than it was lost.
     My sense of imminence--forboding--has been calmed.  Yet, the strength has passed to me to offer.  The time for me to offer something back for all of the strength she has offered to me for more than a lifetime is now.    
     What will my offering be?

Facebook. Twitter. You Tube.

     Facebook.  Twitter.  YouTube.
     The three mainstream social media services elicit knee-jerk reactions:  the lowest common denominator.  Facebook is a site of value only for the purpose of maintaining social relationships.  Twitter is an outlet used by celebrities to post outrageous comments.  YouTube is the repository of videos that news outlets consult to fill air time, with very humorous, or outrageous moments.
     Such are not the only purposes for social media.  Maintaining relationships.  Expressing views that might be considered outside of what is acceptable in daily discourse.  Humorous, and outrageous moments.  These are worthy parts of our lives.
     Yet, with a little creativity, and open-mindedness, Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube may be new venues that we may avail ourselves of in meeting our information needs.  Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube are not so much the creations of a digital generation.  No, they are the fulfillment of the original vision of the creator of the World Wide Web--Tim Berners Lee.
     May we understand the vision of the World Wide Web--the free exchange of ideas throughout the world.  May we fulfill its promise, and not squander its treasury.  It is our choice.

Dr. Richard Owen

Richard R. Owen M.D.

Owen, Richard R., MD Age 83, died December 11, 2011. Preceded in death by his parents, John and Ethel Owen; step- mother, Helen "Pat" Owen; brother, John; and sister, Margaret. Survived by wife, Amy; sister, Suzy Brickley; daughter, Marnie; sons, Rick (Ann), and Don (Meg); grandchildren, Lauren Lusk (Jeremy), David Jacobs, David, and Rebecca; as well as many other relatives. Richard was a doctor of physical medicine and rehabilitation who practiced in many area hospitals and clinics. Before retiring, he was Medical Director of Sister Kenny Institute. He enjoyed wheelchair athletics as a participant and medical examiner. He served on the board of, and went on many trips with, Wilderness Inquiry. A celebration of his life will be held at First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis, 900 Mount Curve, Minneapolis at 2 PM on Saturday, December 17, 2011. Memorial contributions can be made to the Sister Kenny Foundation, First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis, or Wilderness Inquiry.

Published in Star Tribune from December 14 to December 15, 2011
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/startribune/obituary.aspx?n=richard-r-owen&pid=155035415

     A gentle man.  Wise.  Knowing.  Far-sighted.

     Dr. Owen was my physical rehabilitation medicine doctor in the 1960s.  At my first visit--before my first memory, he said, "Stand her up.  How far can your daughter walk?"
     "Don't you understand?  She can't do that! Don't you understand?" my outraged mother exclaimed.
     He stood up, transferred his brown, walking cane, and stepped forward.  He understood.  Polio met this doctor as a teenager.  Wise beyond his years, Dr. Owen understood.
     From my first memory, Mom and I went to see him to monitor the progression of my cerebral palsy, and identify courses of action we could take.  For my part, I met his reflex hammer with a kick in his face.  A grateful soul.

     Dr. Owen did not practice medicine.  He gave medical care.  Practical experience--living with polio since he was a teenager.  He was in his 40s, when I received his care.

    Dr. Owen knew the terrain of physical rehabilitation--not from a laboratory, but, from real life.   

  He was at peace with himself--with his life.  He was not aggressive.  He was affirming--with his manner, with his care.  Dr. Owen understood the geography of disability.  Without calling attention to "handicap," or "disability," he directed his energies toward how to live as fully as possible.
    Dr. Owen earned the requisite schooling to be certified a medical practitioner.  With little fanfare, and unwavering trust in his own life experience, he offered personal, medical care.
     Thank you, Dr. Owen.  Thank you.

Brain Damage

    I have brain damage.  I am not brain-damaged.  I am not damaged goods.  I am not--I never will be--damaged goods.
     Brain damage.  Since birth.  At birth.
     The doctors to Dad.
     We almost lost her.  We almost lost both of them.  Your daughter's umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck five times.  The oxygen supply to the left side of your daughter's brain was cut off for several seconds.  The left side of her brain controls the right side of her body.
     The doctors to Dad.
     We don't know if she will ever learn to walk or talk.
     [I have walked.  I do talk.]
     How do you hear that and not fall to your knees in awe?  How do you hear that, and not be rendered utterly speechless?

Fear of the Lord???

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of Wisdom. ...The fear which is the first step to wisdom is the fear of being untrue to God and to ourselves. It is the fear that we have lied to ourselves, that we have thrown down our lives at the feet of a false god.
     Thomas Merton. Thoughts in Solitude. (New York: Farrar, Strauss, Giroux): 73


Fear???  I understand a deep sense of awe that, if honored, paralyzes any impulse, on my part, to act unwisely.  I understand the deepest of tragedies that emerges when we lie to ourselves--"when we have  thrown down our lives at the feet of a false god."
     Yet, I cannot reconcile fear with any motivation I might have to act in wisdom.  I am not motivated to seek wisdom in the sense of fear that resides in the pit of my stomach.
     Is my understanding of fear inconsistent with its common definition--with its derivation?  Questions of word derivation lead me to the convenient knowledge the Online Etymology Dictionary affords me.  Here is the entry given for fear:
     Fear (v.) O.E. faeran "terrify, frighten," originally transitive (sense preserved in archaic I fear me).  Meaning "feel fear" is 14 c. Cognate with O.S. faron  "to lie in wait," M.Du. vaeren "to fear," O.H.G. faren "to plot against," O.N. faera "to taunt."
     Awe, perhaps?  Am I shirking moral responsibility, if I opt to live in awe in the stead of living in  fear?  The Online Etymology Dictionary offers the following offers the following derivation of awe.
     c.1300, earlier aghe, c.1200 from a Scandinavian source, cf. O.N. agi  "fright," from P.Gmc. *agiz (cf. O.E. ege "fear," O.H.G. agiso "fright, terror" Goth. agis "fear, anguish," from PIE *agh-es- (cf. Gk. akhos "pain, grief"), from base "agh-" "to be depressed, be afraid"...
     The overlap between fear and awe surprises me.  The sun setting in the northwest sky outside of my home is the best summation of awe that I know.
      I have been blessed to touch--to feel--the texture of awe.  There is a depth to pain, to grief, and to anguish that calls for growth.  I do not seek out pain, grief, or anguish, for its own sake.  Yet, when it comes knocking, I must come to the door.  I must answer the call.
  Yet, for now, I do not know any more than when I first read the passage from Thomas Merton.  How do I advocate for my belief, if I cannot articulate it more clearly?  I fear I do not know.

Neat Handwriting

     "Based on the handwriting, I know it is yours.  But, I have no idea what the paper says," my high school teacher said offhandedly.
     I laugh.  What else can I do?  What can I say?  I love school. I want to do well.  How hard did she try to read my handwriting? Is it just an excuse?
     I don't mean to be--I don't want to be--defensive.  But, tell me, "What constitutes neat handwriting?"
     ...
     I have had a wonderful weekend at Lake Superior.  How can I express my thanks for our time at Bluefin Bay?  A poem!  Yes, a poem.  Ode to Bluefin.
     The words flow from my mind.  While on the bus home, I craft the poem in my handwritten words.  Carefully shaped letters.  Carefully drawn between my ode's stanzas?  Hand-sketched bluefins.
     The words are written.  The bluefins sketched.  The ode complete.  My gift is ready to present to Mom.
     "Thank you for the poem.  I want you to know, I typed the poem, 'Ode to Bluefin,' and I framed it."
      I don't mean to be--I don't want to be--defensive.  But, can you tell me, "What constitutes neat handwriting?"
     ...
     Diagnosed.  Intentional tremors.  Cerebral palsy.  Diagnosed.  Long-term disability.  Certification questionnaire.
     "Itemize what you do from the time you wake up, until you go to bed at night."  "Address the envelope, and return it to our office."
     "I will type the form, so that my handwriting does not interfere in the message of my need."
     "No, complete the form in your handwriting, so that they may see your need."  Such was the essence of my family's advice.
     I don't mean to be--I don't want to be--defensive.  But, can you tell me, "What constitutes neat handwriting?"

Poster Cures

     I do not ask for cures--not for poster cures, at least.
     Poster children may raise money for research.  Research leads to cures.
     Yet, poster children play on other people's guilt.  Poster children are perched on the pinnacle of, "she is worse of than you are."
     Research is very worthwhile--it is a necessary endeavor.
     Yet, how do I reconcile poster children--their pinnacle--with the benefits they bring to research.  How can we reconcile poster children with the benefits they enable through research.
     Cures do nothing to address PAST anguish.  Cures ignore anguish of today.  I cannot seek cures at the cost of other's pain.  I may not hide between emotions of sorrow or pity.  I may not hide behind the pain others feel.
     Maybe...just maybe...if I raze the roadblocks of pity and sorrow each day, I may help another person to alleviate their pain--the pain of this day, of this moment.
     I may not hide behind "underprivileged--behind "those who are worse off than me." 

Mermaid Chronicles: Katy Lyons

     In the 1960s, a woman with graying brown hair wrapped in a bun, and horned-rim glasses came into my life.  Each week, Katy Lyons parked in our driveway, and carried a green and black exercise mat to our basement.  For an hour, she stretched my right leg.  Under the pot lights in the basement, she laid the groundwork for a stronger leg on which I could stand.  Katy flexed my right foot, and my right hand.

    With her firm hands, Katy gave me a gift.  A muscular yawn.  To my foot.  To my right hand.  A gift was given--a muscular yawn.  It felt so good.  The muscular yawn came slowly.  Yet, when it came,  oh, it feel so-o-o-o good.

     As any kid, I wanted little part of Mom's directive, "Do your exercises."  Memorable to me was the exercise to sit on the hearth in our living room, and propel myself up to a standing position using my right hand and arm.  Although the exercise felt good when I did it, I bored of it quickly.

     Where is my hearth? 

     This morning, this Mermaid entered the pool at the Y.  Buoyant bar bells, and hand paddles were beyond  temptations I could resist.  The only resistance I felt was from the water.  Amazing.  Absolutely amazing.  With the bar bells, I could push my right arm straight down in the water.  Feeling my right arm extended straight was amazing.  Absolutely amazing.

     Katy Lyons.

     I thought of Katy this morning.  What would she say?  How fun it would be to share it with Katy.  Yet, Katy died in the 1990s.  An occupational therapist I met with several years ago knew Katy.  The therapist and I spoke with warmth about a woman, who dedicated herself to children.  Katy dedicated her life to helping kids stand tall--to stand proud--to stand with appreciation.

     Thank you, Katy.

Changes of Worship

     In college, my political science advisor instructed us to begin with the primary source documents, rather than secondary analyses on any given subject.  He was not dismissive of the value secondary sources provide.  Yet, he advised that any quest for information begin with primary source materials.
     Such might be said of the upcoming revisions to the Catholic Mass.   Deafening analysis of the changes is being given before the changes have been implemented.
     Much is being spoken of the changes that will take place in the Catholic liturgy, before we have an experience of how we will live the changes.  Honestly, I do not know what it will mean to live the changes.  I do not have the requisite experience to reflect on how change of the Mass I celebrate will change me.
     Will it damage me?  Will it diminish my spirituality?  Will it destroy me?
     Liberals are quick to say that religious conservatives, who hold on to the words, and practices of the past, are damaging, diminishing, and destroying the Catholic Church by their resistance.  I question that.  Rather, I wonder.  As a liberal, is there any room within the upcoming changes to enrich my spiritual life--to enrich our communal spiritual life?
     I was raised by a father, who experienced rote Catholicism.  I entered a Church far different from the one he left.  Since 1982, I have been blessed by a wide variety of vibrant faith communities.  The closest I came to the Church my father left was my time at a small, traditional Catholic parish several blocks from my home.  Although I did not experience vibrancy in much of my time there, I remember with fondness the gift the Irish priest gave each Sunday.
     Father Philip nurtured in me a personal bond to God.  How?
     Children of God, was his invitation.  I shudder to think of the foundation I had, when I met him each Sunday.  Any intellectual foundation I might have had needed to be instructed--seasoned.
     Father Philip's beaming smile, and his deep faith were his invitations.  His deep faith was his prayer for mercy.
     Forgive us of any skepticism--distrust--of the motives of other people.
     Those were not his precise words.  Yet, that was the message that I heard.
      I did not embrace many of his words.  Most of what he said is lost to my memory.  Yet, I treasure the personal bond he nurtured.
     People of God.
     I needed years of instruction, much seasoning, before I was worthy of being invited to, "People of God."

     I remember earlier experiences going to Mass on campus.  I was deeply moved by the weekly exchange, "Peace be with you."

     It took me many years to be comfortable with the fullness of the exchange, "May the peace of Christ be with you."  My faith--my understanding--was not deep enough to extend myself in that manner.  I needed tremendous mercy before I was able to affirm, "May the Peace of Christ be with you."
     A friend, who was a child during the 1950s, and embraces the Catholic Church that Vatican II has nurtured, offered a telling observation.
     "Well, it is back to the 1950s."
     I do not have the credibility that living in the 1950s Catholic Church affords.  I pray her words may be an invitation, rather than a eulogy.
      I do not know what her experiences were.  I was born in 1960.  I was raised as a Universalist, some say Unitarian.
      With that said, I pray.
       May we listen to the words we utter.  May we breathe the changes that will be ushered into the Catholic Mass.  May we exhale the cynicism that some meet the changes.  May we come to the changes attentive to the nuances they might offer to us.
     I am not an apologist for the changes that Advent will bring.  I do not know enough to be so.  I welcome the challenge to discover the nuances--to uncover the pearls of wisdom--that the changes might offer.

Being a Follower

     I have never considered myself to be a mindless follower.  The appointment of a priest new to our parish community last July put that to a test.  I was not familiar with the priest by name, although most everyone else seemed to be.  I did not know what to expect.

     Fears before the appointment were that a very conservative priest would be assigned to our parish community.  I did not engage myself in the fear.  I had a choice.  I vetoed the worship of doom. I feared the tailspin such engagement might engender in me more than I did the appointment of a conservative priest.  Not for any high-minded reason.  I could not afford to do so.

     The tension between fear and physical health is greatly underrated.   Physical calm.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Physical calm. 

     With the July, 2011 announcement all fears were allayed.  So would seem the end of the story.  The liberal...no...the spirit of engagement--engagement of the mind, spirit, and Body--would continue.  Case closed.

     Well...not so fast...

     The priest joined the community--the priest became pastor to our community.

     Whew!  We are safe.

     Well...not so fast...

     Symbolic of the affection for the new priest is a woman, who was a member of the previous parish to which our priest pastored.  Some refer to her as a "groupie."  I have not met her.  I know little more than the back of her head.  Yet, she came in hopes of hearing the words, and receiving Holy Communion from this priest.  After she satisfied that hunger, she left.  Or so it seems.

     It is easy to scorn her.  Tempting to say, "Move forward.  Welcome the priest, who pastors your parish now."

     Well....not so fast...

     Hospitality is not closing the door on someone on the basis of geographic boundaries.  Our parish is enriched immeasurably by the geographic diversity that is the fabric of our community.  

     The "groupie" puts a question to me, "Are you listening to all of his words, and attending to all of his pastoral actions?"  Or, "Are you getting up, walking out, and closing your ears and eyes to what you do not want to see or hear?"

    It is tempting to do nothing more than "Like" what he, or anyone else in the Church, or community might say, in order to be in good standing.  Yet, I find myself trying not to end with a Like link click, but, trying to begin with the Like link, and seeing where it leads me.

     Where do I take it?  What do I do with it? 

An Invitation

This morning, I greeted a woman at Cabrini, whom I have known by face for many years.  I, like many others, have dismissed her as having much noteworthy to offer.  In a parish--a faith community--with so many social justice activists, this woman has been overlooked.  I am not proud of that fact.
     This week, I looked on the Cabrini website.  I was taken for a moment to see a beautiful picture of the front of our church.  Who took the picture?  You guessed it.  The woman overlooked by many.  I was given the opportunity to express how much I enjoyed the picture.
    I was touched.  In many ways, I was moved.  She was clear.  She knew that people did not like her, per se. She explained that she had been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome.  Her feelings--her experience of other people--were clarified.  Awkwardness in communication.
     She expressed frustration.  "At least with you, they can see your disability."  She asked me about it.  I explained the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck five times, and the resultant cerebral palsy.  Yet, I conveyed genuine understanding of her frustration.  I explained my epilepsy to her.  We talked.
     She spoke of determination to continue working--the desire of supervisors that she stop working.
     I encouraged her to continue taking pictures.
     I learned a lot this morning.  I have been dismissive of her prayers for the Minnesota Vikings football team, at various points.  I did not view this woman to be someone, who was driven by social justice issues per se.  Fleetingly, I have asked myself, "what draws this woman to Cabrini."
    This morning, the priest, known for being outspoken on controversial issues offered a clue.  He juxtaposed recent objections to his outspokenness with the deaths--the wakes, and burials--of an 11-year-old girl, and an adult.  He needed to leave early to attend to the services for those individuals.  He said the message of this week's events to him was that we needed to be more about love.
     That may sound trite.  Not new, or earth-shaking.  Yet, in those moments this morning, it was clear.  His outspokenness is not pursued for its own sake.  His outspokenness was--is--deeply felt.
     He invited us to pray for a more loving archdioceses.

Wheelchair User Has An Urgent Message for Drivers

Patty Thorsen just wants to exercise, go to the library and volunteer in her community.  But every time she leaves home, Thorsen feels like she's taking her life in her hands.  She asked 5 EYEWITNESS NEWS to come along for the ride.

Thorsen may be headed forward, but when we watched her crossing Seventh Street in Saint Paul, her eyes were aimed directly at the cars approaching from her right.

"I try to make eye contact, talk to them," she said.  Her goal, making sure drivers see her when she's in the crosswalk. "I just have to trust them."

But Thorsen's trust is wearing thin.

An illness forced Thorsen to start using a wheelchair last spring so this is brand new to her.  She contacted us, saying she's had many crosswalk close calls over the past six months.  So we went with her, watching her cross street after street.

In less than two hours, we saw several examples of drivers cutting through the crosswalk while Thorsen was still in it.

"It scares me!" Thorsen told us.

At one point, a large box truck accelerated, ducking just behind her.

"Sometimes drivers think that I'm not going fast enough," she said.  She wants to tell them, "Hey!  You've got my life in your hands!  You're a lot heavier than I am!"

"Whether that's a marked crosswalk or a corner or an intersection, a pedestrian has the right of way," said Officer John Keating of Saint Paul Police.  In other words, if there's a person anywhere in the crosswalk, drivers have to stay back.

"Being aware of your surroundings and certainly being as visible as possible is certainly something pedestrians can do to keep themselves safe," added Keating.

But even with an orange flag flying above her chair, we saw, time after time, drivers skirting around Thorsen.

"That does create a safety hazard," said Keating.

It makes Thorsen angry.  "I wanna swear and I do swear at them."

Her patience is wearing thin. She hopes drivers will see this story and give her and the thousands of others like her a little more space.

"I can't just stay inside because I'm afraid of somebody running me over."

Click here for crosswalk laws and safety tips from the Minnesota Safety Council.

Click here for crosswalk laws and safety tips from the Minnesota Safety Council.

Where is the Middle???

     I find myself in the middle of a different search for information.  The search is new to me.  I am accustomed to the search for information regarding my epilepsy, and seizures most prominently.  Brain damage and cerebral palsy to  a lesser degree.  Although all four are intertwined.  My search is for how to be of compassionately informed support to someone, who is academically familiar with the medical condition he faces now as he looks in the mirror.
     With some, the temptation is to throw facts, and information--research--at them to help them contain their condition into a manageable form.  With others,, the temptation is to offer pity.  Sometimes, that is manifest in Poster Children to attract justifiable support for individuals with the condition, and for research.  On a personal level, pity well may be uncertainty, and discomfort, as to how to address the situation.  Most tempting, and most frightening to me is the offer to cure or to heal someone by mystical powers.
     Most helpful to me with regard to my seizures, epilepsy, cerebral palsy and brain damage is a balanced approach.
     I don't seek to be cured, or to have never had brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures.  I cannot roll back history.  Such is a waste of precious energy.  I prefer to seek insights--to how to live an insightful life--on the basis of my brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures.  To some degree, I have known that since eighth grade.
     I don't know how to be of help.  Facts, and information are readily available.  Pity is against my religion--pity that is closed to the possibility that more constructive responses are available.  Healing by means of mystical powers frightens me.
     I do make a distinction between healing by means of magical waving-of-a-wand means--full healing--and prayer.  The distinction is difficult to articulate.  Sometimes, the words may be the same, yet the tone is different--completely different.  I know it when I hear it--when I feel it.  I try to respond, so as to increase the likelihood of more compassion in the future.
    So, where does that leave the man facing a medical condition new to him personally?   We have known one another for a lifetime.  We respond similarly to much of what I have described--research, pity, cures, and healing by mystical powers.  I find it difficult to articulate the nuances in prayer that exist.
    I am leery of the support that consumer organizations can, and do provide.  I am not saying that they serve no useful purpose.  My concern is that the support--their expressed mission--is aimed more at publicizing research, and raising funds for the continuation for that research.  Both, essential.
    Where is the spiritual element of support?  Where is the spirituality of the human body in this discussion?  Often, the triangle, body, mind, and spirit," is discussed.  Of the three, most often, body and mind are linked.  Similarly, mind and spirit are linked.
    Yet, body and spirit seem miles apart.  I don't know precisely how to articulate it.  Maybe if I did--if we were willing to--articulate the relationship between the two, we might get beyond some ghost-in-a-white-sheet mentality of the body and the spirit.

Avenging Death

     Can you help me?  Math never has been my strong suit.  Can you help me?
     What is the sum of the following equation:
      Number of People Killed in the September 11th Attacks x Terrorists Involved= ???
     How many terrorists must be killed in order to avenge--inflict harm in return for (an injury or wrong done to oneself or another)--the deaths of any act of terrorism, or war?
     Are we so caught up in justified grief that we are willing to engage in ill-defined actions of retribution?
     CBS News is one organization of the Fourth Estate, who has used the phrase, "US hit list" to describe the strategy used to fight terrorism.  What does that strategy say regarding the model democracy patriotic Americans strive to present to the rest of the world?  Does that strategy speak with integrity?
     I am not someone who can quote chapter and verse of the Bible.  Innumerable problems have resulted from that practice.  With that said, I offer for your consideration the passage from Exodus 21:23-26:
     But if injury ensues, you shall give life for life,
     Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,
     Burn for burn, stripe for stripe,
                                                  Exodus: 21: 23-26                                                
    I am not a biblical scholar, I have tremendous difficulty with how the term "patriot" is used in common parlance.  I am at peace with how the term "pacifist" is defined.  So much so that I describe myself as a pacifist.
    Do those facts disqualify me?  Do those facts strip me of any credibility, and integrity my conclusions might have?
     I hope not.
     Is it plausible that families of terrorists pursue peaceful endeavors?  What would the effect of avenging death have on the families of terrorists?  Are all family members committed to engaging in acts of terrorism?
     I have so many questions.
     Can you help me to understand?

Mermaid Chronicles: Weight of the World

    The weight of the world.  Goals.  Cures.
     Taking on the weight of the world is tempting.  Being a civic-minded member of society.  Being a world citizen.  Being a productive employee.  Being someone with a good work ethic.  Each is a laudable pursuit.
     Yet...each of these pursuits in excess dilutes the pursuits--negates the end goal.
     This morning, this mermaid went for her morning swim.  An hour immersed in clear water.  Although I swim in one of four lap lanes, I do not count the laps I swim in numbers' measure.  I do not set out to do a prescribed number of specific types of strokes.
     I listen.  I listen to my body.  At a higher pitch than my ears can hear, lighter than my skin can feel, sweeter than any candy, and lighter--more ethereal--than any shadow to see.  I listen to my body.   I feel her need.  Deeper than the deepest pool of water.  I feel her need welling within me.
     As I put flippers on my feet, to strengthen them further, my feeling of exertion changed.  I did not feel the exertion I felt in my shoulders, as I had raised my arms straight up in the air from beneath the water.
     I seek no cures.  I do my best--not perfect, by any stretch--to live the life I am given each day.  I set SMART goals, as they were dubbed in the corporate world in which I worked for more than 24 years.
    I swim four mornings a week, one hour each morning.  I volunteer doing research at a museum six hours a week, three hours on two afternoons.  I work on my blog writing.  I work the daily New York Times crossword puzzle..  I do it in pen.  I don't finish it often.  But...I do it.  I enjoy it.  I attend to simple household tasks.  I use my time--my life's time--constructively.  Not for grandiose purposes.  But, for purposes that I feel I can give effective voice to bear.
     My goals are SMART.  Specific.  Measurable.  Actionable.  Realistic.  Time-specific.
     When I was introduced to the concept of SMART goals, they seemed artificial--contrived.  The SMART goals were not for me.  They were to satisfy someone else's goals.  I was not very effective in setting and achieving SMART goals.
     My corporate work life ended--abruptly.  Two years after that ending, I have set my SMART goals.  Now I am living those goals--My SMART goals.   With time, my goals may change.  I will listen to the world around me.  Yet, I will not allow my keen hearing be deafened by the white noise--the screaming voices ever present in our world
     When I am in the water, I float.  When I am in the water, I do not feel the weight of the world on my shoulders.  Being graced with that privilege is not lost on me.

Zoomer Chronicle: She Rides Again

     Zoomer rides again.  With television cameras in tow, Zoomer and I rode again today.
     We had better success, if you can call it that.  I am a masochist, so I do:)  Evidence of such is the driver who cut in front of me, who I gave the evil eye as I was crossing.  Once I was safely on the sidewalk, I mouthed, "Thank you!"
     The producer and photographer positioned themselves across the street from me.  Together we documented four drivers, who cut in front of me.  The producer indicated that one driver had Illinois license plates.
    An unexpected twist left me feeling a tad embarrassed.  I crossed Seventh Street on Sibley Street.  The intersection is close to the YMCA I frequent.  I proceeded across the intersection with little fanfare.  Then....unbeknownst to me, a woman in a wheelchair was behind me.  As I arrived safely on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, she was there.  The woman's presence surprised me.  I surprised her.  I turned to my right quickly.  My intent? To turn around and recross the street.  Neither of us was hurt.  She was surprised.  In an instant, any smugness I might have felt that I was bringing attention to an important issue changed to personal enlightenment.  I need to be deliberate in my travel, when I have deliberate intent.
     I do feel good about the way today's downtown intersections expedition went.
     Just now, the producer contacted me.  He said that the story will be aired sometime late next week.  I will keep you posted.  For local readers--Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota--the story will appear on KSTP TV.    I don't know whether or not this will appear on the KSTP website.  Zoomer is hoping so.  [p.s. It did appear.  http://kstp.com/news/stories/s2317400.shtml]  After, not only did she appear on camera, but, she was a part of a brief interview.  She had fun.  So did I:)

Epilepsy Chronicles: The Pill

     Not as you might think, I took The Pill.  Not The Pill, but, The Pill, nonetheless.  Not as a young woman, but, as a young child--a six-year-old, perhaps.
     Born not of an egg, but, of tissue wrapping my left brain--scar tissue.  Five times, at birth, my umbilical cord was roped around my neck.  Five times, my umbilical cord--my Boa--constricted the flow of oxygen to my brain.  The Boa choked the left side of my brain lifeless.  The Boa wrapped my brain in tissue--scar tissue.
The Boa damaged my brain for life.
    The Boa chokes me.  Not satisfied to choke me once for all time, the Boa wraps around my neck
 again and again.  He charges my brain with surges of electrical energy.  Bolts of lightning travel from my brain down through my right arm to my right leg.  In thunderous storms, the Boa wraps himself more tightly around the left side of my brain.
    As the winner of a bad Miss America contest, the Boa falls into a satin Miss Seizure America sash.  Through the satin sash surges the seizures electrical energy.  From left side of my brain down across to my right arm and right leg the lightning bolt travels.
    Not concerned with my eggs' cycles, my eyes see no further than The Boa's wrap.
    Not as you might think, I took The Pill.  Not The Pill, but, The Pill, nonetheless.  Not as a young woman, but, as a young child--a six-year-old, perhaps.
    Not as you might think, I remember, "The First Time."
    With great anticipation of an unimaginable "present," I received a gift I did not request--a gift I needed.
    I sat at the round, teak, dinning room table.  With my brother, sister, and dad, I waited.  I looked out the window.  On the long driveway, my eyes were fixated.  The Saturday morning sunshine lit the auburn, teak dining room table.  We sat.  We waited.  Beyond the blond pocket door, Mom prepared a special breakfast.  Pancakes, perhaps.  Something to soften what was being forced down my throat.
    Before me was presented a pale, yellow-faced pill.  A small, triangular pill.  Dilantin, Mom tells me.  It is chewable. Hmmmm.....What will it taste like.
    I place the pill into my mouth.  I bite down.  Not bad.  Not sweet.  Not candy.  I never liked candy, anyway.

Zoomer Chronicles: A Door Opens

     Just now, I responded to a survey from Macy's.  I left my name number, and my willingness to address a problem.
     Several months ago, Zoomer and I tried to leave Macy's Department Store.  First, Zoomer had great difficulty navigating the clothing racks that masked the handicap door open button.  Once we found our way through the forest, we wheeled back to the door to exit the store.  Before we could get out safely, the door started to close on us.    
    We were stuck.  I sat there for a bit.  How is the best way to move?
    Slowly and deliberately.  Slowly, I back up.  I press the button again.  We hurry to get back into position.  We got through the door.  But, I was scared. How much I can I trust this door?  How much can I trust this door to get outside?
    I recognize that Zoomer and I have been together since mid-April of this year.  Many, many individuals have navigated these issues for years.
    There is a balance to be found between being frustrated, and seeking a constructive resolution.  I think I am closer to the constructive-resolution end of the continuum.
    Wintertime.  I don't know whether I will move more toward frustrated end of the continuum, or beyond frustration.  Memories of last winter--last winter's snow, particularly--concern me.  I don't know whether I will be able to get out.
   I don't want to become embittered by fear, and be blinded to the glory of a fiery red maple tree.

Information

     What information do governments share?  To natives, to world citizens?  Do we listen?  Or, do we presume that government information is suspect, by virtue of its connection to political bodies?
     The less coverage given by our own media, the more important it is that we know what information sources are available to natives of a foreign country.
     I am fascinated by the many sources of information.  Discerning the veracity of that information intrigues me.       
     I was raised in a democracy.  Within that democracy, my family, friends, and culture instilled in me the belief that there are channels of government--channels within the community--to address problems.  I witnessed civil service close to home.
     Cynicism about government is not a part of my composition.  Any cynicism I might have is channeled into my votes for candidates with more positive--more constructive organizations.  Any endorsements I give to voting against a candidate, rather than for a candidate with a different view only serve to delay resolution of the problems at hand.  Time is precious.  We may ill afford such delays.  That is not to say that decisions should be made hastily.  Quite to the contrary.  Decisions need to be made with due deliberation.

A Mermaid's Tone

     Muscle tone.  Not of a body builder.  Muscle tone.  A Mermaid's Tone.
     I hope for it.  I will it to be.  I pray with fervor that it be--all mine.  Yet, hope, will, and prayer are not God's promise to me.  Yet, I must hope.  I must will it.  I must pray.
     Arms arise skyward.  Into the pool's water they plunge.  Alternating.  One, then the other, as oars in a river's current.  From my shoulders, this mermaid's oars are anchored.
     Arms outstretched.  Wrists pulled together.  With the force of a magnet, their cymbals clash.  With a strong will, her wrists resist the temptation of a lifelong embrace.  The force of her forearms cry out.
     "Strengthen me.  Use me.  Believe in me.  Do not waste my muscles.  Use me.  Do not will my muscles to be withering, dying willows.  Use me.  Teach me to reach outward--to branch out-- to blossom  in full glory."  
     The Mermaid's biceps believe.  Though not her eyes, the Mermaid's biceps believe in the vision--A Muscle's Tone.  With their tissues, the biceps connect the oars to the force of the forearms.
     The Mermaid's calves circle on the water's unicycle.  On her back, she floats.  The Mermaid's ankles pedal.  Her feet flutter.  The Mermaid's thighs push toward a toned spirit.  Not atrophy.  The Mermaid paddles toward a Muscle's Tone.
     I seek not the strength of the Bodybuilder.  I am the Mermaid.  I seek the strength of a Muscle's Tone.  No boorish bravado do I seek.  I seek a softer strength.  Not submissive.  Not boastful.
     I am a Mermaid.  I seek a Mermaid's Tone.

Stop Bullying: Speak Up Pledge

We all have the power to stop bullying by getting involved and performing simple actions that can make a difference in others' lives.  Together we can create a community that is committed to ending bullying.  So join me in taking the pledge to Stop Bullying:  Speak Up today.
                          Stop Bullying:  Speak Up pledge
                          http://www.facebook.com/stopbullyingspeakup
     I urge you to take the Stop Bullying:  Speak Up pledge today.
Whether it be with children, teens, adults--whatever the age--our words matter.  It does NOT matter whether  or not we know the individuals.  EVERYONE deserves basic, human respect.  Suicides have resulted, and self-respect damaged over feelings regarding sexual orientation, disabilities, and appearance, to name a few, that have been used as justifications for bullying.  Please take this pledge.
     Expedite necessary action. First, press http://www.facebook.com/stopbullyingspeakup.  Second, press the Take the Pledge icon.  Third, add your name.  Fourth, press the Like button.  Identify yourself as a teen or an adult.  Share the Stop Bullying:  Speak Up pledge with your friends.
     Further action may be taken, if you so choose.  First, you may add a Comment to your Pledge Signature.  You may join groups of others concerned.  Other options are offered on the Stop Bullying:  Speak Up  Facebook page.
     Most powerful are the words you speak--the words you tolerate.   Actions you take--actions you tolerate matter as well.

Zoomer Chronicles: Her Voice

     Zoomer is tired this evening, after an inspiring day.  Zoomer was fitted with a small camera on her armrest--on Lily the Lefty.  I was dressed with a small microphone.  Off we went.  Strange as it may sound, we encountered no incidents of being cut in front of, or the like.  Odd to wish for that to happen, yet, I wanted to provide the visual evidence to reinforce my point.
     The KSTP-TV producer, and cameraman did not doubt what I was saying was true.  However, all of us wanted to get some tangible evidence.  Perverse.  Truly perverse.
     Zoomer and I worried that I would be so nervous that I would forget what I wanted to say--what perspective we wanted to share.  We worried that information essential to wheelchair safety in traffic would be lost to nerves--that my information would be the victim of my jangled nerves.  As the sleepless hours dragged on, my worries intensified. [Intimate frieinds though we are, Zoomer sleeps in the living room, not in my bed.] Fixation on the route to follow finally succumb to unconsciousness shortly after 3:18 A.M.
      Zoomer and I took a last minute tour this morning.
     What route were we going to follow?  Would it work?
     Would there be some--enough--examples of me being cut in front of to reinforce my concerns?  Would I provide material worthy of their time and effort to tour downtown?
     What if nothing happens?  Are they going to be upset that I wasted their time?  Would they think that I blew the incidents out of proportion?
     Those were my early morning questions--my obsessions.

     Well...nothing happened--no incidents occurred during our tour. 

      So, nothing happened--no incidents.  Now what?
     Will they say, "Well, I am sorry.  We can't devote any more of our resources to this story.  Maybe if something had happened that we could photograph, we would be able to do a story.  Good to have met you.  Have a nice day."
     But...such was not the case.
     "Mike, I have run out of film.  What would you like to do?  Should we come back another day?....Do you want to do an interview?" the cameraman asked.
     "...What does your schedule look like?...I've got your email and number.  Mine is on my emails," the producer said.
      So, my questions were answered.  I guess we did OK.
     Zoomer and I conducted the tour, and narrated it splendidly.  Maybe there was too much narration on my part.  I am a novice to television interviews.
    Splendid.  Just splendid.

Epilepsy Chronicles: Humor

     Humorous?  Yes.  Humorous.
     There are many serious aspects to having epilepsy--to having seizures.  It is not a joke.
     Yet, there have been precious moments--precious in their absurdity.  Neurologists have an amazing sense of humor.  They call it bedside manner.
     The same neurologist, who told public television viewers this week that people with epilepsy foam at the mouth, once asked me, "how long did the seizure last."
      I went into the neurologist following the seizure to have my blood levels checked.  Did my medication levels need  to be increased or decreased, so as to prevent future seizures?  I understood the reason behind his question.  He had known me for some time.  He knew I lived alone.  Knowing that, he still asked, "How long did the seizure last?"
     A part of me was tempted to say, "Well, let's see, I looked at the clock and it said 6:40am, and I started seizing.  I looked at the clock at 6:42am, and I stopped seizing.  Gees.  I guess I should have looked.  After all, I was just lying on the floor.  I wasn't doing anything at the time."
     Come on, give me a break.  I had a few more pressing things on my mind at the time.
     "Get down to the ground.  Get away from things I could grasp onto." I chanted to myself.
     Equally humorous to the neurologist's question is my subsequent behavior.  Since that time, I make sure to look at the clock when I feel a seizure coming on, and once again when the seizure stops.  If I am lucky, my exhausted brain, and my memory will not be so impaired as to prevent me from remembering the length of the seizure.  I try to be a compliant patient:)   Sometimes, I go overboard:)
     But, far more humorous than that incident happened several years later.  I was in a neurologist's waiting room.  A different neurologist.  I was awaiting an appointment with him.  Suddenly, I started to have a seizure.  Fellow patients knew precisely what to do, and went into action calmly.  The neurologist was called.  He came out to the waiting room.
     "Are you OK?" he asked.
     "Am I OK?  Sure, I always wanted to come to your office and have a seizure!  Am I OK?  Have you ever seen a seizure before? Am I  OK!" I thought.
    In my 40+ years of experience with seizures, that remains my favorite seizure experience.

Epilepsy Chronicles: Misinformed

     Deeply disturbing information was disseminated, and stereotypes were reinforced last night during a television interview.  On September 10,2011, University of Minnesota football coach--Brad Kill--had a seizure during a football game.  His players, and colleagues knew of his seizures.  I have not met Coach Kill.  I report regarding what I understand of him.  Media coverage.
     I do understand what it is to have a seizure.  I have had seizures since childhood.  I am 51.  Each individual's seizures are different.  Yet, I am compelled to respond to the misinformation given, and stereotypes reinforced by a neurologist last night.
     Most disturbing of what the neurologist said?  Something to  the effect of, "People with epilepsy foam at the mouth."
     This is not true.  Case closed. 
     "Seizures are frightening."
      Yes.  Both for the observer, and for the person having the seizure.
      However, fright is not an excuse to stand by--panic.  You can help. 
      First, it is possible that an individual having a seizure may be able to hear what is being said during a seizure.    Often, I am.  Yet, the excessive electrical activity in the brain--the anatomical thunderstorm--drains me of the energy that otherwise I would use to respond.
     Second, not holding an individual during a seizure may be too extreme of a directive.  Beyond getting the medical attention I need, the most helpful--reassuring--action ever taken was from a colleague.  While my right leg was convulsing--shaking violently--she caressed my leg.  She told me I had done nothing wrong, I had no reason to feel embarrassed, and I would be OK.
     She caressed my leg.
     My colleague trusted what I had said--valued what preferences I had expressed to her regarding my seizures--such that she resisted the nurse who said not to hold my leg.  She was not restraining me from movement.  She was touching me firmly--reassuringly.  There is a huge difference.  Never have I heard a medical professional make that distinction.  There is a difference--a huge difference.
     As to embarrassment--being embarrassed by having a seizure--I understand.
     Yet, far more embarrassing than any seizure could be ever is not telling someone how you prefer to have your seizures handled, if you have seizures.
    Early in my career, my loved ones were concerned about I would say during an interview that I had seizures.  I understand.  I appreciate their advice.  Fear existed, and exists yet today.  I assure you, I did not walk into job interviews and say, "Hi, I am Patty Thorsen.  I have seizures.  Can I have a job?"
    I did inform my supervisors, and colleagues that I had seizures.  I gave them the basic emergency contact information.  I took one more important action.  I informed my supervisors, and friends how I preferred to have my seizures handled.  Embarrassment, or fear I felt in doing so was mitigated by the knowledge that they would know how to handle my seizures.
    Embarrassed by having a seizure?  Yes and no.  Yes, the times I have had a seizure in public are not my proudest moments.  Yet, once I have a seizure, I need to channel every ounce of energy I have, and every ounce that I don't have toward staying as calm as possible during the seizure--praying that the words I spoke about my seizures were heard.  During a seizure, I pray that people around me--people who have the energy to take constructive action--are courageous enough to do so.
    Whatever embarrassment we well may feel, we--any of us who have seizures--need to channel that embarrassment into helping other people to help us.  We need to make an investment in creating calm understanding--not fearful chaos.
    Friends and family may offer their loving questions as to how someone with seizures how they wish to have them handled.  Whether it be a reassuring word or touch, humor or whatever.  Honesty is the only way to dispel awkwardness, fear, and chaos.
    I have serious doubts about some medical professionals I have known, and with whom I have had interactions.  I have had, and continue to have the benefit of extremely helpful, competent medical professionals.
     Yet, the comments made by the neurologist this week made necessary my response.

Medicare

     Medicare.  White-haired senior citizens.  Medicare.  65-year-olds.  Medicare.  Part A.  Medicare.  Part B.  Medicare.  Part C.  Medicare Part D.  Medicare.  Medigap.  Medicare. Open Enrollment.  Medicare.  Fraud.  Medicare.
     Each of these are aspects of Medicare.  Yet, Medicare--the word, "Medicare"--evokes emotions as inflamed as arthritic joints.  I cannot--I will not--inflame the word further by engaging in the political debates surrounding the federal program.
     I find myself at a peculiar crossroads.  Had you told me five years ago that I would be selecting which Medicare Parts B, C, and D options to select, I would not have believed you.
     An envelope from the Social Security Administration arrived this week.  My question, "Do I need to initiate contact regarding Medicare?" was answered.  No.  As I hoped, I could read the wealth of information given to me, sign onto a helpful website, www.Medicare.gov, and create an account.  My guard against anxiety, and obsession is a playful detachment.
   I love crossword puzzles.  I love the World Wide Web--navigating the structure of its information, the internet.
   With playful discovery, I found a database into which I may search for my doctors, hospitals, pharmacies.  Nursing homes?  No, I am far from ready for that move.
    It is ironic.  I tell one of my nephews to join the world of adult responsibility.  Yet, I tell myself not to get too obsessed regarding the eventualities with which the plan options confront me.
    One of the options I will not select is Plan H--Political Hyperbole--which plays on the emotions of senior citizens, and others eligible to receive Medicare.  I will steer clear of candidates, who use a condescending tone in their discussions of Medicare.  I will steer clear of Victims' Volley--a game too often played by politicians, in which recipients of Medicare become political footballs.
     Do you think Medicare will judge ear plugs I buy as medically necessary?

Peace's Curiosity

     I am perplexed by the application of Libyan rebels, and Palestinians seeking statehood to the United Nations.  Yesterday, I was alerted to the successful application of Libyan rebels' National Transitional Council.
     I pray I am not so ardent a supporter of the United Nations that I am blind to nuances of these two applications.
    A threshold question comes to my mind here.  What threshold of hope do we need before we give credibility to those participants seeking admission to or members of the United Nations?  Of the UN member states, do we support only those members we agree with?
    The United Nations was founded on October 24, 1945.  Many nations have become UN Member States  since that time.
    Afghanistan.  1946.  Cambodia.  1955.  China.  A UN founding member.  Cuba. A UN founding member.  Egypt.  A UN founding member.  India.  1945.  Iran. A UN founding member.  Iraq.  1945.  Ireland.  1955.  Israel. 1949.  Japan.  1956.  Jordan.  1955.  Kuwait.  1963.  Laos.  1955.  Lebanon.  A UN founding member.  Pakistan.  1947.  The Russian Federation.  A UN founding member.  Saudi Arabia.  A UN founding member.  Sudan.  1956.  South Sudan.  A member since 2011--the same year it became a nation separate from Sudan.  Syria.  A UN founding member. Viet Nam--the former North Vietnam--1977.  Yemen.  1947.
     A boring recitation?  I hope not.  My intent?  Evidence.  The members listed hardly may be claimed as safe homes for peace.  The United Nations, as a whole--as one body--may not ensure peace.  It is to each member to further that cause.  Yet, membership--application for membership--seems to indicate a willingness to be held accountable to negotiation--to peace.  Member states, and those applying for member status, subject themselves to the sanctions of the United Nations.  Sanction in both senses of the word.  Approval. Encouragement.  Endorsement.  Seal of approval.  Stamp of approval.  Sanction--the responsibility to sanction.  Ban.  Boycott.  Embargo.  Penalty.  Punitive Measure.
     Although we--the United States--have had serious differences of policy, and ideology--with nations such as China, France, the Russian Federation, and the United Kingdom--we have united ourselves permanently as guarantors of peace with these four other member states, as the five permanent members of the UN Security Council.
     The Obama Administration--many others--are squeamish to vehemently opposed to the approval of the Palestinians membership to the United Nations.  We were hardly buddy buddy with China, and Russia for many years after October 24, 1945.  Yet, we understood the cost of two world wars, the horrific toll of our atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki on August 6, and August 9, 1945 respectively.  The United Nations' founding was a commitment that such destruction need not occur at any time in our future.
     For many years, US Presidents have struggled to find ways to bring parties involved in the Middle East together to discuss issues critical to their survival.
    Why is this so difficult?  If we are committed to diplomacy--truly committed--then why is this so difficult?

Zoomer Chronicles: Safety's Anger

     This morning, Zoomer met fraternal twins--Safety's Anger, and Anger's Safety.  Mirror images of one another, they are born of the same root.  Danger.  Fear.
     A return to swimming was my dear ankle's hope.  Pool maintenance.  Facility remodeling.
     A return to swimming was not to be.  Not this day.  Ankle's hope was dashed--dashed far short of 50 yards.
     An elevator.  Button pushed.  A short wait.  Doors opened. Zoomer wheeled in--turned around.  Facing forward.  Third floor's button pushed.  Ankle's Hope salivating.  Slow and crotchety though she was known to be, today, this elevator went nowhere fast.
     Door Open's button pushed.  As an accordion opens, so too the doors.  Yet, just as with a fast, bad polka, an accordion closes, so too did the doors.  Though Zoomer is learning to dance, the polka is not her step.
     Though armed with her cell phone--a Jitterbug, I kid you not--my ankle's hope kicked back at me.  Angry. With the weight of a bowling ball on her, my ankle's hope was to kick off her burden.  One more time, she implored me.  Third floor button, one more time.  Once again, Zoomer, my ankle's hope, and I went nowhere fast.
    Though Jitterbug tried to call to Ankle's Hope, she would hear none of it.  Take me home, Zoomer.  Take me home.
    Safety's anger. She prevailed.  Safety's Anger drove Zoomer and I out of Harm's Way.
    Though Ankle's Hope kicked high, she fell flat into Zoomer's lap.  No harm.  Just anger.  Frustration.  Door Open's button hit.  Zoomer and I sped forward.  To Safety, we arrived.
    No sign.  Out of Order.  No sign.
    Anger's safety.  Though Safety's Anger had spoken--rescued--now it was for Anger's Safety to speak.
To quiet solitude, find your way.  Let Anger rest, let Safety's Advocate cry forth in due time.
    Impatience overruled quiet solitude.   A simple report. "Your elevator is out of order."  
    "The elevator repairman has been called.  They should be out sometime today."
    Safety's Anger yet satisfied, though Logic told her she should be.
      "You are new to this world, there were many signs not posted before you.  Many signs will not be posted in years yet to come."
     Yet,"Where is the Out of Order sign--Safety's Warning?" was all this impatient soul could ask.

Zoomer Chronicles: A Fine Line

     This morning, I ventured out to review problematic intersections and issues in Downtown St. Paul.  The adventure heightens my attention to several facts.
    After having three drivers cut in front of me in controlled intersections--in a period of two weeks--it seemed I needed to draw attention to the overlooked safety issues. I want to be prepared for the yet-to-be scheduled time with a television producer to highlight--to focus, literally--attention on public safety issues.
     Several personal facts have come to light in recent days.  While I do what I can to highlight public safety issues for others, I need to combat internal issues.
     First, I have retreated from a healthy pace of travelling within the downtown area.
     Second, timidity and fear replaced determination and confidence--not riskiness, but confidence.
     Cooler weather intensifies my concern that I will be isolated by poorly-shoveled sidewalks, and ice.  I need to back up.  This will be my first winter with Zoomer.  Questions abound.
    What are Zoomer's intended capacities in the outside during wintertime?  Am I realistic to expect that I might have some outside travel capacities during the winter?  What will my limitations be?  What accommodations are open to me?  Are there additional safety precautions that might improve, or extend my capacity to travel outside during the Minnesota winter months?
    I know that I should not expose Zoomer to rainy weather.  I know that I should not expect to navigate ice.  
    I know that Zoomer can--will be able to--navigate the skyway system during winter months.  [The skyway system is a Godsend.  The system of enclosed walkways between downtown buildings--walkways located on the second floors of buildings--do wonders in curbing a paralyzing isolation that would occur otherwise.]
     As wonderful as skyways are, it is extremely important to get outside--to be exposed to the sun--to all elements of the out of doors.  Oddly, prior to Zoomer, having to be outside was not an issue, or priority for me.  I took for granted my capacity to get outside and be outside.
  Interesting what it takes to challenge one's values, and priorities.  Coming days and months will clarify what, if any realignment of values, and priorities occurs.

Zoomer Chronicles: Zoomer Goes to Yankton

     Yankton?  Yes, Yankton, South Dakota.  Tonight, I received an email that took me back to Yankton, South Dakota--a speech I gave during college on the topic of handicap awareness.  Zoomer reminded me of Yankton.  In 1982, the speech I gave was the result of my audacity.  I made contact with someone I met at a conference addressing handicap awareness.
     A month ago, Zoomer and I were cut in front of by three different drivers during a two-week period.  The incidents led me to contact friends on Facebook to determine whether I was correct to think that I had the right to expect patient, yielding drivers.
     I was inspired to write letters to the editors of the StarTribune, and the Pioneer Press--the two local newspapers.  Then, I decided to send emails to local media outlets.
     Tonight, I was taken back to Yankton--to the audacity that led to my invitation to speak there.  Tonight, I received an email from a local news producer.
     It is odd.  I don't know yet how this will turn out, if anything is aired.  However, I never imagined myself speaking out regarding wheelchair use.  I resisted getting one, much less using one.
     We shall see what happens.  The preliminary talk is mounting a camera on Zoomer to get a perspective of travelling in a wheelchair--encountering the outside world.
     I don't know what Zoomer will show.  The image of where the camera will be mounted intrigues me.  The notion that Zoomer could open some eyes is exciting.  We shall see what happens.

September 11...1948

     An oft-ask question is, "How will you be commemorating September 11th?"
     I commemorate September 11th with my life.  You see, on September 11, 1948, my parents were married.  While others commemorate the attacks on the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and on Shanksville, Pennsylvania, the people lost, the first responders--I celebrate the wedding of my parents in 1948--63 years ago.
     I commemorate September 11th--with the pursuit of peace and understanding among people--each day.  How?  A cliche? No.
     Among people is not a nebulous term.  I pursue peace and understanding with each individual I meet, know, and love each day.  I am not a Pollyanna.  Not everyone shares my views and preferences on issues and matters large and small.
     I do not claim myself to be a proud American.  I wave no flags.  I wear no pins.  I parade no routes.  I do get choked up on Election Day--on- and off-year elections just the same.  I do get choked up on Inauguration Day.  Party matters not to me.  I am not a proud American.  I am a committed world citizen.
     By definition, I am no patriot--I am not patriotic.  I devote my energies in search of peace and toward understanding, rather than in defense of America, and seeking vengeance, or being vigilant against acts of terror.  I prefer to be vigilant for acts of peace.      
     I seek peace each day with each individual I meet that day.  I seek not complete agreement.  I seek understanding.  Different views, different preferences--different perspectives--invite me to deeper understanding.
     Seeking peace--seeking understanding--is not grandiose.  Peace and understanding are my daily aspirations--one person, one day at a time.
     I commemorate the peace and understanding that was married on September 11, 1948.  Happy 63rd anniversary, Mom and Dad.  Thank you for your example of love--your commitment to peace.

Honor

     Honor.  Family honor.  Physical honor.  Personal honor.  Honor.
     Mere mention of the word "honor" elicits a call to have good posture--to stand at attention.  To limit our understanding of "honor" does a grave disservice to the word--to everyone involved in Honor's Service.
     I confess, I am guilty of affirming that limited definition.  Yet, recent events and life stages bring honor into question.
     Family crests.  Monuments.  Physical stature.
     None of these words engenders a spirit of forgiveness.  Yet, forgiveness is perquisite.
     Personal honor, and family honor are intertwined.  My counsel of a young man struggling to find his way in the world surprised me.
     How many of us, who are adults, yearned for something our parents did not give us?  Usually, that something is not material, although it well may be.  The form of something is not important.  The revelation of forgiveness is.
    My necessary forgiveness regarded questions that only I could answer by my own life experience.  Why did my peers not understand my disabilities?  Why did they bully me?  How could I stop it?  Those are impossible questions for anyone to answer satisfactorily.
     By nature, I am very hesitant to assert my views--however urgent I feel they are needed--face to face.  I am a coward--a coward's face.  Yet, I feel emboldened by the written word.  Writing allows the reader to absorb my words "in the structure of time," as the young man I speak of might say.
     I am learning to appreciate a different dimension--physical honor.  Never have I heard others mention it.
     Physical honor.  Graceful aging calls us to it.  As babies, we are born with a set of physical capabilities.  Whatever that set may be, it is our starting point.  We take no notice of what those capabilities are.  Why should we?  We have known no other way of living than with that particular set.  We learn our limits by testing them.  All-nighters, weight-lifting--childbirth, perhaps.  Depending on our life circumstances, aging alters that set.  Our permission is NOT required.
     I was born with the set of capabilities, which were described in part as being cerebral palsy, and epilepsy.  That was my starting point.  Seen as having limits, just as any other child, I tested them--believe me, I tested them.  Just ask my therapists.
     I did not understand my limits.  Aging has changed those limits.  Age forty.  Morning stiffness.  Age forty-five. Painful hips.  Strained walking.
     Each new limit called me to respond.  Before I could accept the somethings that were given to me--to my aging body--I had to take a very different action.  To my left hip, and my right ankle, I needed to forgive  them for the service they could not give to me.  I needed to forgive myself for yearning--for demanding--that  my left hip and right ankle could give me no more.
   Cognition of my body parts' service to me was and remains essential.  Acknowledgment.  I abused my body, such that some of my body parts are wearing out.  Vigilance.  Ever I must re-cognize  my body's service.  Ever, I must acknowledge--confess--to any abuse I may be inflicting on my body for selfish reasons--for vanity.
     A brace.  An electric wheelchair--Zoomer.  Forgiveness of my parents for being human--forgiveness by my temperamental child self.
    My counsel to the young man was a question.  Have you ever considered that you need to forgive your parents for not giving you what you yearned for-for what they could not give you?  Have you ever considered honoring what they have given you?  Have you considered honoring that they have given is everything that they know to give you?
    Honor.  Standing at attention?  No, not physically.  Honor.  Attending to the gifts that have been given.  Forgiving what has not been--what could not be--given to you by your parents?
    Honor.  Family honor.  Physical honor.  Personal honor.  Honor.

Epilepsy Chronicles: A Firm Grip

     You have a hold on my right arm and leg no longer.  Yet, your grip on me is firm--firmer than I realize.  I try to erase you from my memory--put you in the well within me.  Yet, I look back to my own words--my sentences.  You have a firm grip on my mind.  You take words from my sentences.  You steal the precious part of me that, so desperately, I want to--I must give.
     You give me no clue as to where you are--no hint as to where to look.  You give me no key to find you.
     Where are you?  You are hiding from me.  Where are you?
     I try to understand.

Epilepsy Chronicles: Precursory Shakiness

     Honestly, I don't know if what I am about to describe is germane to the Epilepsy Chronicles.  I think it is.      My thoughts, words, and descriptions deal with brain damage most directly, moreso than epilepsy per se.
     I work very hard to stay as calm as is possible--humor, empathy, patience, among other attributes that elude me.  These attributes may be seen as laudable, and, in one sense, they may be.  Yet, there is a neurological basis that makes these attributes essential.  I am not a doctor.   I have not studied neurology, or any scientific discipline that might offer me insight.
     I can quantify the dosages of anticonvulsants I am prescribed to tame the extra electrical activity in my brain--milligrams.  I can quantify the level of anticonvulsants in my bloodstream, which are determined by a blood test--a therapeutic blood level range.  Based on my weight, at least, there is a numeric scale established. If the therapeutic blood level is too low, my experience has been that more medication is prescribed.  The opposite is true, too.  In my experience, blood levels that are too high on that scale lead doctors to prescribe a higher dosage of medications.  Sometimes, an altogether different anticonvulsant is prescribed.
    Yet, I cannot quantify the threshold I have for anger, and frustration, which leads to shakiness of my whole body--I cannot quantify it for myself or for others.  I recognize it myself.  All I know to do is to cry, and then, isolate myself until my jangled nerves are tamed, and my body is steadied physically.  The crying is the cleansing agent essential to taming the extra electrical activity in my brain.
    Compounding my own response, I know that the apologies of other people, well-intended though I know they are, only exacerbate my initial response.  Trying to be rational long enough to isolate myself for my necessary cry, and quiet time is extremely difficult.  I know that a part of that quiet means removing any activities that I know will involve further neurological agitation.  I try to be rational, so as to explain that I can withstand some tension, frustration, and anger.  Yet, my rational efforts are useless.  My nervous system has been hijacked such that being physically steady is next to impossible.
     What I have just described is not a seizure, as I understand it, after having lived with epilepsy for more than 40 years.  My description today is fresh to my life--fresh to this moment.  After anticipating a personal training session for several weeks--a session to identify further efforts I may take to strengthen my arms, hands, and legs--I met with tremendous disappointment, frustration, and anger that a perfectly understandable mixup in appointment times occurred.  Not knowing precisely what to ask for to reschedule--what specific terms to use (a neurosis of mine)--my neurological response is intensified.
     I need peace--inner peace, calm, perspective, and determination to reclaim goals I know have been strengthening me, irrespective of reliable help I expected, and hoped I would be given today.  I need insight. Am I merely making an excuse for unnecessary, irrational behavior, or is there some credibility to my thoughts--my descriptions?

Comfort the Afflicted...Afflict the Comfortable

     Comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.
     This paradox troubles me. It has for a lifetime.  Yesterday, I heard the phrase in church.  I felt squeamish--I feel squeamish.  What did I do? Nothing. I left the church, and went about my business.
     I was called to return that message--literally.
     "Patty, will you call him?  He is scared," I was told.  The fear--the short-term fear--was with due cause.  Yet, there is a longer-term trepidation that need not be.  So, what was I to say?
     Comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.
Easy.  Offer comfort to his immediate circumstances--unnerving acts of nature.
     Comfort [verb] [with object] make (someone) feel less unhappy; console:  help (someone) feel at ease; reassure.  http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/comfort?region=us
     That is easy.  Comfort resonates with the daily aspirations I have.
     Yet, comfort is only half of what I am being called to do.  Comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.
     Economic dependence.  Complacency toward changing that dependence.  Finding a first job after college.  Fear.  Trepidation.  These are at the core of what I am being called to address--in every sense of the word.
     Comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.

     How, in concert with my principles, and values, am I supposed to respond?  Understand--understand the definition of terms.
     Afflict verb [with object] (of a problem or illness) cause pain or suffering to; affect or trouble. http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/afflict?region=us

     Afflict violates every principle I believe in, and aspire to conduct my daily life.  At least, that has been my approach toward the word.
     If I am being called to afflict the comfortable, then what choices does the afflict offer me to choose?
     Cause pain to.  Cause suffering to.  Affect.  Trouble.
     The first two options are not in concert with my values.  I would never knowingly inflict physical or emotional pain or suffering on anyone, especially a loved one.  I cannot, in good conscience, even consider it.  I understand the impact both may have.  I cannot be a party to effecting those consequence.
     Trouble is more nebulous to me.  I find it hard to quantify trouble, either positively or negatively.
If asked to place the four elements of afflict on a continuum, with the most egregious on the left to the most palatable on the right, I would draw the following continuum.  At the far left would be cause pain.  The next element would be cause suffering.
    The first two elements are relatively close to one another.  The third element would be further to the right--trouble.  On the far right of my continuum would be affect.  If I accept affect, it completely changes my understanding of afflict.  Somehow, it takes the emotional sting I have abhorred whenever I heard the word.

     If asked to identify my modus operandi, when it comes to affecting or seeking to affect people or causes, it is storytelling.  My maternal grandfather was a tremendous storyteller.  He shared marvelous stories about his life.  He was accessible to me, having lived with my family when I was in high school.  Ray was certainly not Catholic, nor liberal politically.  Yet, he instilled in me the value of telling stories--sharing personal history.

     I started this posting not knowing what action to take.  I knew or knew of several facts.  First, comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.  Second, I was called to comfort the afflicted--literally.  Third, I was called to afflict the comforted.  Fourth, I had a relationship to provide context to any comfort or affliction I might choose to act upon.. Finally, I was a coward in risking myself to provide needed help.  My loved ones have risked themselves to improve my life--to save me at times when I have been without knowledge of how to help myself.  I can, should, and now have taken several actions.  I do not know how they will be received.  Yet, my offerings were--are--genuine, honest, and well-intended.