The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that, the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

                                                                               Robert Frost,  "The Road Not Taken,"  Birches

     This poem was within a collection of poems by Robert Frost that my parents gave me on Valentine's Day, 1977.   Valentine's Day gifts were not the norm.  So, Robert Frost is memorable.
     "The Road Not Taken" has inspired me since my first reading.  Yet, I could not achieve it in my own life.  At least, not to my satisfaction by my imposition of time.
     I tried to superimpose--to force--Robert Frost's words into my own life.   It seemed a worthy goal to undertake.  The undergrowth that surrounded Bassetts Creek, the wooded yards that were the foundation of my Vale Crest Road home, made it seem a sure to be achieved in short order.  Parents, who stood up for their contrarian beliefs, made "The Road Not Taken" all the easier--all the more fulfilling to pursue.
     Thirty years have passed since that first reading.  It is only now that I am beginning to understand that a poetic life may not be forced.  I didn't know how to achieve it.  I wasn't sure where to travel.  I still don't know.  The difference?  Age has graced my life with instinct, patience, and trust of the first two.
    "The Road Not Taken" is an affirmation.  It is not a roadmap.   It is not a blessing conferred on any of us. It is an affirmation that we must proclaim in and for our own lives.  No one else may do it for us.

Resignation...Acceptance...

     Resignation and acceptance are not synonymous.
     Resignation to one's life circumstances is a victim's excuse--a coward's temptation.  Resignation is made for ever and in all ways.
     Acceptance is not passive.  Acceptance is an act--a lifelong commitment to act each day.  Acceptance is not without anger....frustration...hopelessness.  Acceptance is not a singular act.  The only singular facet of acceptance is its lifelong nature.
     Resignation to one's life circumstances is wrought with a commitment to despair--to the perfection of despair's artform.  Resignation is an absolute.
     Seeking absolution--being released from one's life circumstances--is a mortal sin.  This Absolution is equivalent to seeking separation from God.  This Absolution is a Capital Offense.  
     Resignation is tempting.  Yet, resignation must be resisted.  With our will, we must seek deliverance from resignation's temptation.
     Acceptance may not be willed.  Dispatch is not her speed.  Acceptance of one's life circumstances is not an achievement.  Acceptance demands partnership--faithful engagement with accommodation.
    One's life circumstances sculpt the form of one's accommodations.  Similarly, one's accommodations are one's life engravings marking one's journey.
     Resignation is a victim's trophy.  Resignation is trumpeted for all to mourn.  No resignation should be accepted by friends...Such acceptance is tantamount to abetting the victim's crime.
    Acceptance is a sculpting--not a sculpture, but a lifelong sculpting.   Acceptance is to be a celebration--not heraldry to be borne.

Independence's Confession--Surrender

   As time moves forward toward getting an electric wheelchair--a zapoid, as my sister calls it--I am softening.  The fierce, defensive woman of days gone by, is leaving.  That is good.  Her ferocity--her defensiveness--drained me of the energy necessary to shift gears into my new life.
   I confess, I do wonder what happened to two people.  What happened to the Cub Scout, who is sitting in the background behind my ballerina alterego?  I do not remember if I ever knew him.  Probably not.
   I must confess that for a lifetime, I have tried to tiptoe, ever so quickly, past the reach of him, and others in wheelchairs.  May I be forgiven my fear masked in an advocate's bravado.  Ever the advocate that others not shun individuals who appear different, I was guilty of the very crime I abhorred.
   I knew better.
   Given the graceful acceptance of Jean--a coworker, who was beaten to death by her husband--I tried to run from her scooter.  Forever etched in my memory is the day we were headed to a lower floor.  I opted to take the stairs rather than have to accommodate her scooter--a reality I could not face.  Jean was wise.  She knew my discomfort.  Yet, she never let on.  We both knew.  Yet, she did not need my comfort--the acceptance I could not give her.  Before she died, she offered her friendship should I ever need help accommodating to my body, after I stopped working.
    I wonder what happened to a childhood friend--the daughter of my high school vice-principal.  Jeannie and I went to Michael Dowling School for Crippled Children--I think.  It may have been Courage Center's predecessor, the Curative Workshop.   Jeannie had osteogenesis imperfecta.  Her brittle bones meant she had to use a wheelchair.  She had full use of both hands.  We were educated together.  We were not crippled.  We were not cured of our live's circumstances.  None of us is.
   Jeannie and I were partners.  I was the doorkeeper.  She was the handywoman.
   I cannot say that I have surrendered completely to my independence.  Were I to blame my resistance to complete surrender, I might blame my mother:)  A lifelong family joke has been that whatever goes wrong is Mom's fault.  Only to the degree that I have heeded my mother's words so long ago, "You will learn to live independently," may I blame my mom.  Seriously, I never have.  In good conscience, I never could.  It is her words that ground me.
   I have known an individual, who has worked outside the home in the past.  Yet, now she allows partial blindness to be an excuse for not living as fully as she might--for holding her family hostage to her dependence.  It is beyond me that she can live that way.  It is beyond me that her family does not use their faith to call her on it--to nurture a fuller life for everyone.
    Surrender to independence is a tenuous balance to strike.  Each of us needs to live in partnership with one another.  We are called to make the most of our gifts--live the fullest of our days.  We must live in partnership.
    We must give what we can, and take what we must.
    Surrender to independence calls for a heartfelt confession.  Mechanical offerings have no place in a true surrender to absolute independence.  I do not claim to have made the surrender to independence that I am called to make.  I do see the surface of the confession.  Words are given to me pry open the mystery of how to make a surrender to independence without losing one's God-given dignity.
    Tempting--alluring--though it be to think, surrender is not a one-time confession to be made at a convenient time of our scheduling.  True surrender--true confession--is a call made at inconvenient, humbling moments in our day.  When our dignity is compromised, true surrender is God's ransom.
    Flailing one's arms and legs as a confession is mechanical.  Flailing strips surrender of its dignity.  Self-respect deserves dignity.  True confession is a commitment--an openness to adjusting ways of living forever.
    Independence and dependence are not absolutes.  Independence and dependence are not opponents.  Absolute independence is not humanly possible to achieve.  Absolute dependence may be possible.  Honestly, I do not know.  Yet, absolute dependence is morally, and ethically unconscionable.
     I confess, I do not understand how an individual--how a family--may not strive to achieve some degree of independence--to achieve the fullness of God's gifts.  Difficulty---the degree of difficulty--that is involved in making a true confession--from crafting a unique interdependence--is no excuse.
     Independence is not a commodity that may be bought off the rack in a store.  Independence must be custom made--custom crafted--by calling on God for partnership.
     Dependence is not the scrap material of independence.  Dependence is interwoven into the fabric of independence.  Together, they create our life's tapestry.
    May we surrender to interdependence--a partnership with God.

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

                                                           "The Journey," Mary Oliver
     "The Journey" was given to me by a hospital chaplain, several years ago.  She came into a defining moment in my life--a life-changing medication overdosage that called me to decide whether to struggle in the work world, or to enter into a completely foreign world--long-term disability.
    The chaplain visited me twice.  
    On Monday, my mind was in the deepest fog imaginable, thanks to Depakote's hold on me.  I was crying out for help--to be listened to--using words I do not know to be able to retell today.  Yet,  I craved a keenly attuned ear--her listening soul.
     On Friday, my brain had been drained of Depakote's excesses.  My mind was clear.  My perspective was fresh.  Two extremes of the same person was the chaplain's view that week.  She knew--we both knew--many difficult months lay ahead to be navigated.  The chaplain gave me "The Journey."  
     I have not read this poem in some time.  I passed her occasionally in my drafts.  But, I  needed to reach a rest stop on the very narrow, winding road free of any icy patches.
     I still don't know what this foreign land's name is.  It is not retirement.  I am not old in mind, or so I like to claim.  I am not young in body.  I am old enough to know that much.  
     I keep thinking that I will get to a point--a definite point--where I know what that word is.  Yet, that is just the point. There is no single point.  Mary Oliver talks about finding your voice.  Yet, she says much more, though it can be easily lost in its subtlety.  It is "The Journey" that Mary Oliver wrote.  Mary Oliver did not write,  "The Destination."
    I will heed Mary Oliver's words.  I will continue to seek my voice, and continue in search of retirement's synonym, as I redefine this new life.

The First Amendment

     Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

     Whether or not we embrace--live by--these words, the First Amendment of our U.S. Constitution grants us these words by which we may choose to conduct our lives.
     The establishment of religion.
     Though we may feel imposing constraints to do so, we do have the choice of religions by which we will live--direct our lives.  We may disagree with our religion's structures--our religion's face.  We may disagree with our religion's face.  We may pray for a faith truer to whom we are created to be, so that we may be guided anew with a different spirit.
    The freedom of speech.
    We may disagree with--object to--the words others speak.  Yet, we may disagree.  We may object.
     The freedom of the press.
     We may disagree with the specific political, or religious leanings of a given newspaper, or television network.  Yet, we may not be governed by one state press--one state television network.
     The freedom to petition the Government for redress of grievances.
     If we feel our freedoms have been compromised according to what has been affirmed by the First Amendment, we have been granted a system--a structure--by which we may appeal for our freedom's restoration. Fortifying this freedom, our society has created the fertile ground in which businesses may publish the laws--the rules--which structure how our freedoms may be exercised.  The publication of those laws reaffirms the freedom of press.  Without the freedom of press, private enterprise would be unable to conduct their business of publishing government's rules.
    All of these freedoms secure no superiority.  Such serve only to dilute freedom's effect.  Each of us must exercise our individual freedoms as our conscience dictates.  If we do not, we live by no fuller freedom than those individuals whose lives are structured by external dictates.

A Whisper of Hope

     I am captivated by the uprising in Egypt, the protests for democracy, the analysis of the individuals, and groups who may emerge as the next generation of leaders in Egypt. Enheartening are the sentiments of most everyone in this country--it is for Egyptians to determine who their leaders shall be.
     A Whisper of Hope.
     President Obama said, "the world is watching."  Ever so true.  We hold our collective breath.  We pray that whatever the Egyptians determine to be their future may be done in peace.
     A Bookend to September 11th.
     May it be that we are at a bookend to the hostility, and suspicion that followed events of September 11th.  Whatever Egyptians decide, may we continue with our more deliberate, thoughtful approach to each individual--to all individuals--whatever their beliefs may be.  At the end of our day, all of us are human.