Enthusiasm's Moderator

     High clouds wisp over a blue springtime sky.  65 degrees in St. Paul's May lure me outside--with Zoomer.  

     Dressed properly.  Pursed with a phone for emergencies.  Keyed for safety.

     All set???  

     Well....Not quite.

     Zoomer must be as charged as I for an adventure.  Last night's tiredness left Zoomer forgotten, with no recharging.

     Zoomer's battery state.  Empty.  

     Zoomer's Battery States???  Empty.  Partially Charged.  Battery Ready.

     You may know your car's Empty does not mean truly empty.  You may know you have ten miles to go until you will be with gas can in hand.  I do not Empty's distance.  You may no the equivalence of Half of a Tank in Gallons.  You may know the miles per gallon your car affords you.

     Yet, Zoomer is a heavyweight.  Without the umpphh from Joy the Joystick, Zoomer is dead weight.  Brainy the Blockhead is no help.  He may Elevate me to reach to higher places.  He may offer relief with his state of Recline.  He may lift and lower my Leg Rests.  Yet, Brainy the Blockhead is of NO help in charging Zoomer's Enthusiasm for our adventures.

      Zoomer's dead weight frustrates me--frustrates my enthusiasm.  Yet, my frustration--my impatience--has no pull with Zoomer.  I cannot push Zoomer into full power--fully charged energy--with my impatience.  My inflated sense of self does nothing to empower Zoomer's tired state.

     So, I must wait.  I must welcome Patience as a visitor into Enthusiasm's Sanctuary.

     What does Empty mean?  How many blocks?  How many hills?  How many curb cuts?  How many intersections?

      How do I measure Partially Charged?  Does that mean I will limp along painfully with a broken ankle's speed.

      I--my Enthusiasm--celebrates Battery Ready.

      I may be safe in the States of Empty, and Partially-Charged.  Yet, I cannot take that risk.  My health is more precious to me.  

     Yet, I will not submit to Empty, and Partially-Charged.  Battery Ready, and Enthusiasm shall prevail.  We shall prevail.  Zoomer, you will not fail me.  We shall prevail.  We must.  My health depends upon it.

Zoomer Chronicles: Thursday's Sidewalks

    How long have you lived in your current home?  What do you know of your neighborhood?

    Today, Zoomer and I went out to bask in the splendid Minnesota spring day.  My goals?  Get out and about during the precious clement weather days in Minnesota.  Gain experience in navigating in downtown St. Paul.  Goals achieved?  Yes.  But, today had nothing to do with checkmarks and everything to do with experiencing life around me this day.

     St. Paul, Minnesota is said by some to have been designed by a bunch of drunken Irishmen.  Born across the River--the Mississippi River--in a suburb of Minneapolis, Minnesota, I did the unthinkable--I moved to St. Paul.  What is the big deal, you ask?  Don't ever tell a native St. Paulite that navigating the streets is difficult.
    Their claim is as perplexing as the St. Paul Streets
     In Minneapolis, 300 Nicollet Mall is located on Third Street and Nicollet Mall.  Streets in Northeast Minneapolis follow U.S. Presidents.

    St. Paul.

    The numbering of streets is continuous.  

    The addressing of streets throughout St. Paul differs from Minneapolis.  500 Cedar Street is not located on 5th and Cedar streets as you might think.  No, 500 Cedar Street is located at the intersections of 11th and Cedar streets.
     Oftentimes, I have called myself navigationally challenged.  My condition did not begin when I moved to St. Paul to go to college in 1978.  Yet, it didn't help:)

     All that said, I feel comfortable in Downtown St. Paul.  I have lived here since 1983.  Yet, today, I discovered new places I never knew existed--a downtown park, several apartment buildings, among others.  I visited places that I had heard of, and had a general idea of--St. Mary's Catholic Church, and the First Baptist Church.
     I have not deviated from my appointed paths--to and from the bus stop, and to and from the store.  Zoomer has freed me of the calculation of paces, by which I measured my days.

     At one point, I was transported back to the sidewalks surrounding 3906 Vincent Avenue in Minneapolis--the home of my maternal grandparents, who lived near the 45th parallel.  3906 Vincent Avenue was filled with hours of fun--sidewalks.  To a kid, who lived in the sidewalk-less suburbs, my grandparents' home--3906 Vincent Avenue--was a tricycle rider's heaven.  Sidewalks.  My brother, sister, and I could go and ride to our heart's content down the tree-lined sidewalks.
     Today, the trees do not shade the sidewalks.  I have traded in my three wheels for four.  Much has changed since then to now.  Yet, from then til now, my goal?  To see how far I could go.  From then til now, my destination?  As far as my wheels will take me.  No departure times.  No ETAs.  Thus, no delays.
      Time to go out to play.

A Cell of Understanding

     I feel a call to enter into the cell of understanding--a prison cell, a prisoner's life.  I know little of the terrain of prisons--of prison life.  Yet, one person I know has a key to open the cell, if I am willing to enter.
     The terrain?  Of one individual, an 8' x 11' cell, which is shared with another individual.
     The rhythm?  Unexpected lockdowns of unknown duration.  I make no judgments of or apologies for past actions.  Such distracts from the energy I may devote to understanding.  My job is not to judge.
     Where is--what is--the key to the cell of understanding?
     Relationship.   Curiosity.  Interest.  Questions.  Answers.  Relationship.  Commitment.  Interest.  Curiosity. Questions. Answers.  The cycle continues.  So long as commitment breathes, the cycle continues.
     The questions I ask, and the answers I hear are true to me alone.  Yet, others may engage themselves with a prisoner to ask the questions--to hear the answers--specific to their commitment, interest, and relationship.
     My questions?  Answers given to me?
     How big is the cell?  8' x 11' What connection to the outside world do you have? Limited telephone calls to approved phone numbers.  Limited computer time.  No Internet.  An e-mail system.  Periodic in-person visits from approved visitors.
     A new vocabulary.  BOP.  Bureau of Prisons.  FCI.  Federal Correctional Institution.  Lockdowns.  Racial tensions.  Stabbings.
     My understanding is scant best.  As is true often, knowing the right questions to ask that can open the cell of understanding, without wanting to do ANYTHING that will violate the unknown boundaries of censored mail--email, or postal mail--that the prisoner may receive.
    A cell of understanding is beginning ever so slowly to be opened.  I must build a vocabulary--I must become literate, so that I may open a cell of understanding.

It Takes A Village

     It takes a village came to life twice during the last several days--once in a life memorialized, and once trying to enter the cell of understanding regarding prison life.  The lifelong friend memorialized counselled many high school students regarding their life pursuits.  He wrote many letters of recommendation.  His relationships continued many years following his counsel.  My life was changed with his counsel.  He was not the only agent of change.  Yet, he understood the role he could play, if he chose to invest his energies--dedicate himself to the individuals who crossed his path.
     It takes a village.
     The future of one individual in prison is a question I feel compelled to pursue.  Why?  How?
     Answers to those questions are found by exploring other questions.  Answers to these questions may explain why others--others who seem to me to be suited to help--are not responding to the call. Or so I pray.
     I was not burned.  I did not feel equipped to respond directly.  I offered my ideas, thoughts, and insights to a loved one, who volunteered to serve on the front line.  Now, I feel equipped to answer the call to the front lines.  I bring different resources.  I offer different gifts.  I have a different relationship.  Is it possible that being burned--being hurt--while on the front lines leads to her lack of recall.
      Expectations.  What are our hopes?  Are conditions of achievement attached to active response.
     Results.  If our hopes for our help are not met, does that mean our offerings of help are worthless?  Worse yet, should we never have offered our help?
     Memories of our own beginnings.  How were we helped in our own beginnings?  Who spoke up on our behalf? Who answered our calls for help?
     What do our lives allow us--enable us--to offer?  What is our rate of interest?  What capital investment of our lives are we willing to make?  What resources do our lives allow us to offer--monetary, material, or personal?