I have never given birth to any children...not that I remember, anyway. I am 51. Maternal instincts are not within my self-concept.
Yet, something quite unfamiliar is beating in me--the impulse to knock some sense into the heads of three guys, who have yet to make firm declarations of their life pursuits. To call them "boys" is inaccurate. They are in their 20s, and lower 30s. Don't get me wrong--I love these guys. Yet, "young men" exceeds their current beings. Certainly, "men" is beyond of the reach of these individuals today.
In my 20s, I was an Idealist with a capital "I." Work pulverized my Idealism, replacing it with necessary Pragmatism, with a capital "P."
A tone is creeping into my thoughts. "When I was your age...," "Listen to me, I have experience...," "Mom and Dad worked hard to live the life they enjoy now," "There is a point at which you need to put issues from your past in the past OR transform those issues into forces to serve you and others toward a better future...."
When I was in my 20s, and early 30s, I am sure my parents were thinking some of those same thoughts. They had lived through my father's year in Korea. They raised three children. They were involved in professional associations, and served in public office. They were active in their community--dedicated to creating a better world. Not with bravado. They did so with simple, clear acts rooted in deep convictions.
My grandparents of their son and daughter. It was a different time. They were proud. Their children had exceeded their achievements. One grandfather completed the eighth grade. When he sought certification to be a public accountant--a CPA--Pops went to a high school instructor. He tested his way to deem his worthiness to pursue a career. He did not test out of responsibility to education, he was tested into--proven to possess the requisite passion for--a career in accountancy. One grandmother followed the work of her time--a teacher. Ray--I'm too young to be called Grandpa--was rooted in the family logging and papermill work. Later, he worked on the railroad. One grandmother volunteered her gifts in a state hospital. She fulfilled expectations of her time--motherhood. Yet, I wonder. Had times been different might she have unwrapped her gifts--made her way into medicine? We will never know.
With all of that said, I don't know how to stifle the tone in my thoughts. Where is Archie Bunker when you need him?
I do not know what contributions my three young guys will make to the world. They have the intellect. Yet, to date, they lack the aptitude to apply their intellect--to make use of their gifts.
Technology has marvelous applications that improve many people's lives. Yet, my three guys do not know the meaning of "white noise." They lack the recognition requisite to tap technology's marvels.
They like settle for white noise. They like don't listen to the world around them. They like don't look to see where they may offer themselves--their gifts. Are they guys of their time? Only with time may we know.
Never have I conceived a child. I am not a mother. Yet, an unfamiliar impulse is beating in me--an unfamiliar tone is creeping into my thoughts.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Failed Attempts...Gifted Moments...
From the moment I woke up this morning, this was a day of failed attempts--or so it seemed.
Never setting an alarm does not mean that I value schedules any less. 7AM. That is my awakened perfection. Pills. News. Shower. Pack. 8:15 to 8:25. Enroute to the Y. 8:45 to 9AM. In the pool. 9:45AM to 10AM. Out of the pool. One hour of vigorous swimming. No calculated laps. No. Intentional right leg kicks and right arm strokes. 10:20 AM to 10:40 AM. Enroute home. E-mail message review. Writing. Explore potential adventures with Zoomer. Two hours outside with Zoomer.
Yet, I work hard not to pressure myself to abide by those guidelines. I admit, it is completely counter-intuitive, as was much of today. I set the guidelines precisely to guide me, not to dictate when, what, and how I breathe--how I live.
In 2009, years of pressuring myself to abide by someone else's standards for me came to a head. In and of themselves, the standards were and are reasonable, and essential. Corporate benchmarks. Anticonvulsant drug prescriptions. Essential.
In 2009, my life changed radically. My body. My nervous system. I could not live in accord with essential. My body--my nervous system--would hear nothing of it.
At 49, I rebuilt my life from the ground up. New drug dosages. Physical therapy. Occupational therapy. No written lists of appointments whatsoever. I needed quiet time. I knew what needed to be done. Yet, my nervous system was reeling from years of sensory overload. I needed no reminders of how I was not measuring up to expectations--even my own, especially my own expectations for myself.
Ankle surgery. A new leg brace. An electric wheelchair.
No news...no debate about health care reform. The hyperbole hit a raw nerve. No one said, "I commit myself to making decisions rooted in the conviction that none of us is guaranteed that we will wake up tomorrow morning with the same capacities we have when we go to sleep tonight."
Years of education did not teach me to listen to my body--to submit myself to my body's wisdom. Hold less in my left hand. Respect my left hand--the irreplaceable value she contributes to my quality of life. Break down laundry into much smaller loads. Grasp nothing more than what my left hand tolerates. No more of this throwing everything together. No more putting one load of laundry in the dryer at the same time I put the previous load from the washer into the dryer. Reasonable to most people, yet, my nervous system felt overloaded by not completing the one task--the one load--before starting the next load. It was unreasonable to my nervous system to expect more of it than it could handle. Yet, that is precisely what I did for years. To have done otherwise would have meant conceding to the helpless, incapable person I felt others would see me to be.
Attend to my ankle. Step gently. Alleviate walking's burden. Alleviate walking's pain. Preserve my ankle.
With time, I rid myself of toxins that poisoned my essence. Hostility. Career potential unfulfilled. I relinquished a nebulous, yet, grandiose ambition of advocacy. Somehow I could save people from themselves--from their attitudes. With a laser, I could extract prejudices regarding disabilities, and people who have them. Or, so I thought. I could rid the world of all prejudice, if only I used the right words. Or so I prayed.
With time and patience, I have added simple elements into my aging body to create a new life. Not perfect. Not idyllic. But, a new life, nonetheless.
Swimming. Writing. Volunteering. Crossword puzzle solving. Corresponding. News. Hyperbole censored without guilt.
Family. Friends. Faith community. Neighbors. Acquaintances. Doctors.
Challenges loom. Medicare.
Questions remain. What next? Wintertime mobility?
Failed attempts. My knee jerk reaction. Yet, all my life, contrary to the belief of loved ones, I believed that each difficulty has its lesson to be learned. Each challenge has its gift to present. I do not consult my astrologer to schedule my actions--to choreograph my life. Yet, I have no doubt that what happens in my life is no mistake--each moment in my life is a gift to be lived.
Never setting an alarm does not mean that I value schedules any less. 7AM. That is my awakened perfection. Pills. News. Shower. Pack. 8:15 to 8:25. Enroute to the Y. 8:45 to 9AM. In the pool. 9:45AM to 10AM. Out of the pool. One hour of vigorous swimming. No calculated laps. No. Intentional right leg kicks and right arm strokes. 10:20 AM to 10:40 AM. Enroute home. E-mail message review. Writing. Explore potential adventures with Zoomer. Two hours outside with Zoomer.
Yet, I work hard not to pressure myself to abide by those guidelines. I admit, it is completely counter-intuitive, as was much of today. I set the guidelines precisely to guide me, not to dictate when, what, and how I breathe--how I live.
In 2009, years of pressuring myself to abide by someone else's standards for me came to a head. In and of themselves, the standards were and are reasonable, and essential. Corporate benchmarks. Anticonvulsant drug prescriptions. Essential.
In 2009, my life changed radically. My body. My nervous system. I could not live in accord with essential. My body--my nervous system--would hear nothing of it.
At 49, I rebuilt my life from the ground up. New drug dosages. Physical therapy. Occupational therapy. No written lists of appointments whatsoever. I needed quiet time. I knew what needed to be done. Yet, my nervous system was reeling from years of sensory overload. I needed no reminders of how I was not measuring up to expectations--even my own, especially my own expectations for myself.
Ankle surgery. A new leg brace. An electric wheelchair.
No news...no debate about health care reform. The hyperbole hit a raw nerve. No one said, "I commit myself to making decisions rooted in the conviction that none of us is guaranteed that we will wake up tomorrow morning with the same capacities we have when we go to sleep tonight."
Years of education did not teach me to listen to my body--to submit myself to my body's wisdom. Hold less in my left hand. Respect my left hand--the irreplaceable value she contributes to my quality of life. Break down laundry into much smaller loads. Grasp nothing more than what my left hand tolerates. No more of this throwing everything together. No more putting one load of laundry in the dryer at the same time I put the previous load from the washer into the dryer. Reasonable to most people, yet, my nervous system felt overloaded by not completing the one task--the one load--before starting the next load. It was unreasonable to my nervous system to expect more of it than it could handle. Yet, that is precisely what I did for years. To have done otherwise would have meant conceding to the helpless, incapable person I felt others would see me to be.
Attend to my ankle. Step gently. Alleviate walking's burden. Alleviate walking's pain. Preserve my ankle.
With time, I rid myself of toxins that poisoned my essence. Hostility. Career potential unfulfilled. I relinquished a nebulous, yet, grandiose ambition of advocacy. Somehow I could save people from themselves--from their attitudes. With a laser, I could extract prejudices regarding disabilities, and people who have them. Or, so I thought. I could rid the world of all prejudice, if only I used the right words. Or so I prayed.
With time and patience, I have added simple elements into my aging body to create a new life. Not perfect. Not idyllic. But, a new life, nonetheless.
Swimming. Writing. Volunteering. Crossword puzzle solving. Corresponding. News. Hyperbole censored without guilt.
Family. Friends. Faith community. Neighbors. Acquaintances. Doctors.
Challenges loom. Medicare.
Questions remain. What next? Wintertime mobility?
Failed attempts. My knee jerk reaction. Yet, all my life, contrary to the belief of loved ones, I believed that each difficulty has its lesson to be learned. Each challenge has its gift to present. I do not consult my astrologer to schedule my actions--to choreograph my life. Yet, I have no doubt that what happens in my life is no mistake--each moment in my life is a gift to be lived.
Zoomer Chronicles: Detour's De Tour
How many ways do you travel to and from home--from Point A to Point B? One? Why? Have you ever been forced to travel from Point A to Point B using a different route? Why? Traffic. Rush hour. An accident. Construction. Weather. Personal commitments. Professional commitments. Money. The environment.
I intend no judgment. I ask nothing more than, "Why?"
Have you ever chosen to take a different route to and from home--from Point A to Point B?
Two months ago, when Zoomer and I met, I established a priority for our travels. I needed to identify as many different routes to the same destination--to and from our home. Minnesota summer's sabbatical from winter's wrath is short. Wintertime indoor sanity essential.
I have chosen to travel from Point A to Point B using different route--different routes. Why? Winter's wrath. My sanity. Experience--two winters of homebound living.
So, I ask. Why do you travel as you do? What do you know of your backyard--of your neighborhood? What do you see in your backyard--around your neighborhood?
Construction. Light-rail transit. Preparation for progress. These do, and will define my routes. Today, quite intentionally, we rode from home to the grocery store. My intent was to be without a roadmap--with only my eyes, ears, nose, and memory to guide me on my way home.
Downtown St. Paul, Minnesota is small by many urban standards--eleven blocks north to south, and eleven blocks from west to east. Yet, within the small area a large sense of adventure breathes. The simple naming of streets is an adventure of the imagination. How is it possible for 5th Street West, 6th Street West, and Seventh Street West to intersect?
OK, so the construction of the XCel Center is the logical explanation. Yet, that is a drunken Irishman's logic, in my book! I confess to Minnesotans, I am neither a cradle Catholic, nor a native St. Paulite. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I was a closet Universalist, and a native Minneapolitan--Golden Valley girl, born of Norwegians, and Englishmen--truth be told.
But, I digress. I do believe that 28 years living in St. Paul bestows on me the right to speak for her downtown--speak of her character. St. Paul, Minnesota infuses in Zoomer and me her spirit of adventure. New to her are brightly-colored pianos randomly placed inviting all to sit down and play a few bars. Engraved sidewalks, markers, and buildings long to be quoted.
How many ways do you travel from Point A to Point B?
I intend no judgment. I ask nothing more than, "Why?"
Have you ever chosen to take a different route to and from home--from Point A to Point B?
Two months ago, when Zoomer and I met, I established a priority for our travels. I needed to identify as many different routes to the same destination--to and from our home. Minnesota summer's sabbatical from winter's wrath is short. Wintertime indoor sanity essential.
I have chosen to travel from Point A to Point B using different route--different routes. Why? Winter's wrath. My sanity. Experience--two winters of homebound living.
So, I ask. Why do you travel as you do? What do you know of your backyard--of your neighborhood? What do you see in your backyard--around your neighborhood?
Construction. Light-rail transit. Preparation for progress. These do, and will define my routes. Today, quite intentionally, we rode from home to the grocery store. My intent was to be without a roadmap--with only my eyes, ears, nose, and memory to guide me on my way home.
Downtown St. Paul, Minnesota is small by many urban standards--eleven blocks north to south, and eleven blocks from west to east. Yet, within the small area a large sense of adventure breathes. The simple naming of streets is an adventure of the imagination. How is it possible for 5th Street West, 6th Street West, and Seventh Street West to intersect?
OK, so the construction of the XCel Center is the logical explanation. Yet, that is a drunken Irishman's logic, in my book! I confess to Minnesotans, I am neither a cradle Catholic, nor a native St. Paulite. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I was a closet Universalist, and a native Minneapolitan--Golden Valley girl, born of Norwegians, and Englishmen--truth be told.
But, I digress. I do believe that 28 years living in St. Paul bestows on me the right to speak for her downtown--speak of her character. St. Paul, Minnesota infuses in Zoomer and me her spirit of adventure. New to her are brightly-colored pianos randomly placed inviting all to sit down and play a few bars. Engraved sidewalks, markers, and buildings long to be quoted.
How many ways do you travel from Point A to Point B?
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Getting It Right
For a lifetime, balance has been an issue for me. I am not so different from everyone else. Each of us struggles with finding balance. Be it work, money, chemicals, emotions--whatever it may be, each of us has struggles with balance. For me, physical imbalance is my struggle--what I strive to surmount.
I am drawn to the picture of me in 1966 dressed as a ballerina. The little girl dressed in a pink tutu and tights, and carrying a pink, purple, and fuschia parasol is concentrating to keep her balance. Although the beam is unusually wide, she is maintaining her balance. A proud grandmother looking on probably didn't hurt. That little girl wanted to be--believed that she could be--a ballerina.
At some point in the last ten years, I had to have her in front of me at work each day to remind me that balance was possible. Work seemed hopelessly out of balance with no hope of reconciling the imbalance. The ballerina tiptoed past my forlorn eyes to remind me that if I concentrated, and stayed on course, I would find my way to balance.
Much has changed since 1966. Much has changed since she sat on my desk as a sign of hope. Not that her meaning to me has changed. It has grown. She twirls in front of my imagination, to remind me how far I have come.
Today, my struggles regarding balance are quite different. More basic than in much of my adult life. Physical balance. Two years ago, chemical imbalances co-opted with emotional balances to leave me physically unbalanced. I doubted whether I would regain any of the strength, and balance I had had previously.
Fast forward two years. I knew what needed to be done to work back to physical balance, if it was meant for me to have in my life. Four mornings a week, I return to an activity I did once a week, as a child. As many went to church on Sunday morning, I went swimming.
This morning, something very special happened. To the casual observer, the woman with short, brown hair, who was wearing the blue striped swimsuit, turned to her right side from her left side while doing the side stroke. BUT....far more happened in that moment. For the first time in her life, the woman had the strength in her right arm and leg to propel her forward. Never before had she been able to turn to her right side. There was not enough physical strength present--not enough confidence in any physical strength present in her right arm and leg to try to turn to her right side.
My turn to the right side was not turned on as a light switch. Weeks of concentration....focusing on the strengthening my right arm, and leg.....These preceded this morning's special moment. Yet, as faith-filled, and hope-filled as I am, I did not know whether I would be able to strengthen my arm and leg by sheer exercise, and persistence.
I do not know what is next. Only my body...and my hairdresser....know for sure.
I do know that this morning, I was getting it right.
I am drawn to the picture of me in 1966 dressed as a ballerina. The little girl dressed in a pink tutu and tights, and carrying a pink, purple, and fuschia parasol is concentrating to keep her balance. Although the beam is unusually wide, she is maintaining her balance. A proud grandmother looking on probably didn't hurt. That little girl wanted to be--believed that she could be--a ballerina.
At some point in the last ten years, I had to have her in front of me at work each day to remind me that balance was possible. Work seemed hopelessly out of balance with no hope of reconciling the imbalance. The ballerina tiptoed past my forlorn eyes to remind me that if I concentrated, and stayed on course, I would find my way to balance.
Much has changed since 1966. Much has changed since she sat on my desk as a sign of hope. Not that her meaning to me has changed. It has grown. She twirls in front of my imagination, to remind me how far I have come.
Today, my struggles regarding balance are quite different. More basic than in much of my adult life. Physical balance. Two years ago, chemical imbalances co-opted with emotional balances to leave me physically unbalanced. I doubted whether I would regain any of the strength, and balance I had had previously.
Fast forward two years. I knew what needed to be done to work back to physical balance, if it was meant for me to have in my life. Four mornings a week, I return to an activity I did once a week, as a child. As many went to church on Sunday morning, I went swimming.
This morning, something very special happened. To the casual observer, the woman with short, brown hair, who was wearing the blue striped swimsuit, turned to her right side from her left side while doing the side stroke. BUT....far more happened in that moment. For the first time in her life, the woman had the strength in her right arm and leg to propel her forward. Never before had she been able to turn to her right side. There was not enough physical strength present--not enough confidence in any physical strength present in her right arm and leg to try to turn to her right side.
My turn to the right side was not turned on as a light switch. Weeks of concentration....focusing on the strengthening my right arm, and leg.....These preceded this morning's special moment. Yet, as faith-filled, and hope-filled as I am, I did not know whether I would be able to strengthen my arm and leg by sheer exercise, and persistence.
I do not know what is next. Only my body...and my hairdresser....know for sure.
I do know that this morning, I was getting it right.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Zoomer Chronicles: An Anniversary
On April 14, 2011, my life changed dramatically. One year of denial and resistance to my needs. One year of fear, "People are going to be condescending toward me." Finally, my resistance gave way in the face of debilitating ankle weakness--complete lack of stamina.
Two months ago, that changed. Invacare FDX-MCG is hardly captivating, or intuitive. Yes, FDX means "front-wheel drive," and "MCG" means "center of gravity." Front-wheel drive gives me the traction I need to navigate in wet conditions, although we should not be out in heavy rain.
Zoomer has transformed my electric wheelchair fears into personal liberation.
Never have I been an outdoors person. I am not athletic. Childhood neighbors' GREAT DANES instilled in me paralyzing fears of animals. They were far taller than I was. I wanted no part of being trampled by these GIANTS. So, little has tantalized any outdoor desires I might have had.
Then....then, an interminably long Minnesota winter, the magnitude of snow not seen since the late 1960s, germinated in me not just a desire, but a yearning to be outside--to stay outside--to live beyond health's necessary confines dictated by a weak ankle. Opportunity presented itself from an unlikely place to open the doors--exceed the confines of my necessary confines--an insurance company advocate knowledgeable of available vehicles of freedom. She guided me through the winding roads of the adoption process. Truly amazing.
Fast forward to April 14, 2011. Four months of labor gave birth to Invacare FDX-MCG--Zoomer.
Never a mother, never a driver, this large infant--an elephant in my room--was frightening. Unbelievable to many, my long confinement extinguished knowledge of where do I want to go? Fundamental survival instincts were beyond my comprehension.
Door jambs, narrow hallways, doors, handicap-accessible doors, and elevators were among the infant steps to be taken at a snail's pace on level 2 of the four levels of the wheelchair available to me. Interminable--painful--sounds of Zoomer's dancing wheels did not help my confidence. Yet, that yearning for freedom overrode my fears. Slowly, the knowledge that the nicks never dented my body--never injured anyone else--or Zoomer's seemingly indestructible body accelerated my confidence.
I have never been a risk taker, or so I think. I have been fiesty--one who tried to push the envelope of others' expectations--yet, never a risk taker. I have never been a risk taker--never a gambler. Yet, now placed on the table before me is a necessary risk--a gamble I must take. I am not a person of stupid risks. Though poor in math, I am a calculating person. Before I knew to count, I was naturally calculating in my breaths.
I cannot live within the confines of my home's safe cocoon. I must open the door. I must lap up the pool's buoyant waters. I must strengthen my legs. I must kick the arthritis from my ankle's innards. Zoomer is the vehicle to drive me toward my goals--to fulfill my needs, to satisfy my desires.
Yet, Zoomer, "What are your capabilities--your capacities? What are your limits? Rain? How much? How heavy? Snow? What depth? How far may I travel by the power of Baron's battery? Watt must I do? Am I speaking the language native to your understanding? TELL me. Do tell me. I MUST know.
These are the this anniversary's answers I seek. Yet, I know you may not choose to wrap up these answers and present them to me today. This is my wish list. Should you wish to present me with answers in a future anniversary's gift, I would not complain.
For now, engage me--present me with engagement in today's life.
Two months ago, that changed. Invacare FDX-MCG is hardly captivating, or intuitive. Yes, FDX means "front-wheel drive," and "MCG" means "center of gravity." Front-wheel drive gives me the traction I need to navigate in wet conditions, although we should not be out in heavy rain.
Zoomer has transformed my electric wheelchair fears into personal liberation.
Never have I been an outdoors person. I am not athletic. Childhood neighbors' GREAT DANES instilled in me paralyzing fears of animals. They were far taller than I was. I wanted no part of being trampled by these GIANTS. So, little has tantalized any outdoor desires I might have had.
Then....then, an interminably long Minnesota winter, the magnitude of snow not seen since the late 1960s, germinated in me not just a desire, but a yearning to be outside--to stay outside--to live beyond health's necessary confines dictated by a weak ankle. Opportunity presented itself from an unlikely place to open the doors--exceed the confines of my necessary confines--an insurance company advocate knowledgeable of available vehicles of freedom. She guided me through the winding roads of the adoption process. Truly amazing.
Fast forward to April 14, 2011. Four months of labor gave birth to Invacare FDX-MCG--Zoomer.
Never a mother, never a driver, this large infant--an elephant in my room--was frightening. Unbelievable to many, my long confinement extinguished knowledge of where do I want to go? Fundamental survival instincts were beyond my comprehension.
Door jambs, narrow hallways, doors, handicap-accessible doors, and elevators were among the infant steps to be taken at a snail's pace on level 2 of the four levels of the wheelchair available to me. Interminable--painful--sounds of Zoomer's dancing wheels did not help my confidence. Yet, that yearning for freedom overrode my fears. Slowly, the knowledge that the nicks never dented my body--never injured anyone else--or Zoomer's seemingly indestructible body accelerated my confidence.
I have never been a risk taker, or so I think. I have been fiesty--one who tried to push the envelope of others' expectations--yet, never a risk taker. I have never been a risk taker--never a gambler. Yet, now placed on the table before me is a necessary risk--a gamble I must take. I am not a person of stupid risks. Though poor in math, I am a calculating person. Before I knew to count, I was naturally calculating in my breaths.
I cannot live within the confines of my home's safe cocoon. I must open the door. I must lap up the pool's buoyant waters. I must strengthen my legs. I must kick the arthritis from my ankle's innards. Zoomer is the vehicle to drive me toward my goals--to fulfill my needs, to satisfy my desires.
Yet, Zoomer, "What are your capabilities--your capacities? What are your limits? Rain? How much? How heavy? Snow? What depth? How far may I travel by the power of Baron's battery? Watt must I do? Am I speaking the language native to your understanding? TELL me. Do tell me. I MUST know.
These are the this anniversary's answers I seek. Yet, I know you may not choose to wrap up these answers and present them to me today. This is my wish list. Should you wish to present me with answers in a future anniversary's gift, I would not complain.
For now, engage me--present me with engagement in today's life.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Safe Communication--Communicating Safety
Today, communicating personal safety via a safe vehicle came to my consciousness. How? By what vehicles?
Several factors motivate my desire to communicate personal safety. A lifelong history of seizures. Being single. A desire to leave "breadcrumbs" as to my general whereabouts--my general well-being.
Voicemail. Audible breadcrumbs are the humorous voicemail messages that I leave conveying my whereabouts.
Facebook? I have been very slow to understand how I want to use Facebook in my life. No technology is inherently evil, as is sometimes implied. That is a copout. It is the use of the technology, or application that determines the value of the application.
Facebook. I was introduced by a younger relative, someone in his 20s. I am 51. I was motivated to learn about Facebook as a means of communicating better with my relative. So, I observed on the sidelines. I was reticent to engage in the technological party line of the 21st century.
Voicemail. Facebook. Breadcrumbs. I have changed. My understanding of human interaction has changed dramatically since 2009. I was familiar with communicating in the workplace..with my family...with my friends...with my faith community...Zoomer.
My e-mail system was unavailable temporarily tonight. Twenty years ago that would have been inconceivable. Funny how just a few years can make some vehicle of communication indispensable. Loss of Internet access is worse yet. Funny. Yet, true.
Yes, in moderation, Facebook. I am aware of my generational distinction with my younger relatives in relation to Facebook.
In 2009 and 2010, the Internet, and e-mail became a critical connection to the outside world. Now, Zoomer has mitigated some of the isolation that made the Internet, and e-mail such a vital connection in my life. Now, as Zoomer and I explore our environs, and get to know one another, sharing that story electronically has expanded my understanding fundamentally.
How we live--how we feel about our lives--is a choice. Giving up on our lives is inexcusable. Feigning weakness is nothing more than an unwillingness to make a positive commitment to our lives. Facebook, and, I guess blogs are different ways to explore--to share--that commitment.
In the workplace, trying to navigate challenges, my default behavior was to exude optimism, in hopes of generating it in other people. I continue in that mode today. It is selfish. Optimism returned is a source of enormous strength.
I try to use voicemail, email, and Facebook for two purposes--communicate my own safety, and share
my convictions regarding optimism via my experiences with Zoomer. Truth be told, I don't know where Zoomer and I are headed. No, I have a street atlas. It is summer in Minnesota, or so they say. Winter in Minnesota lasts forever. Summer is a fleeting moment in time. Winter, snow, and ice will come. How far will Zoomer and I be able to travel? Regardless of weather, how far may Zoomer and I travel? Both questions--the fears regarding answers to those questions are in the back of my mind. Yet, I must focus on today--on today's adventures--to mitigate my fears. I must choose to commit myself to today's adventures. If I choose not to commit myself, then, I have no one to blame, but myself, for being unfulfilled.
Several factors motivate my desire to communicate personal safety. A lifelong history of seizures. Being single. A desire to leave "breadcrumbs" as to my general whereabouts--my general well-being.
Voicemail. Audible breadcrumbs are the humorous voicemail messages that I leave conveying my whereabouts.
Facebook? I have been very slow to understand how I want to use Facebook in my life. No technology is inherently evil, as is sometimes implied. That is a copout. It is the use of the technology, or application that determines the value of the application.
Facebook. I was introduced by a younger relative, someone in his 20s. I am 51. I was motivated to learn about Facebook as a means of communicating better with my relative. So, I observed on the sidelines. I was reticent to engage in the technological party line of the 21st century.
Voicemail. Facebook. Breadcrumbs. I have changed. My understanding of human interaction has changed dramatically since 2009. I was familiar with communicating in the workplace..with my family...with my friends...with my faith community...Zoomer.
My e-mail system was unavailable temporarily tonight. Twenty years ago that would have been inconceivable. Funny how just a few years can make some vehicle of communication indispensable. Loss of Internet access is worse yet. Funny. Yet, true.
Yes, in moderation, Facebook. I am aware of my generational distinction with my younger relatives in relation to Facebook.
In 2009 and 2010, the Internet, and e-mail became a critical connection to the outside world. Now, Zoomer has mitigated some of the isolation that made the Internet, and e-mail such a vital connection in my life. Now, as Zoomer and I explore our environs, and get to know one another, sharing that story electronically has expanded my understanding fundamentally.
How we live--how we feel about our lives--is a choice. Giving up on our lives is inexcusable. Feigning weakness is nothing more than an unwillingness to make a positive commitment to our lives. Facebook, and, I guess blogs are different ways to explore--to share--that commitment.
In the workplace, trying to navigate challenges, my default behavior was to exude optimism, in hopes of generating it in other people. I continue in that mode today. It is selfish. Optimism returned is a source of enormous strength.
I try to use voicemail, email, and Facebook for two purposes--communicate my own safety, and share
my convictions regarding optimism via my experiences with Zoomer. Truth be told, I don't know where Zoomer and I are headed. No, I have a street atlas. It is summer in Minnesota, or so they say. Winter in Minnesota lasts forever. Summer is a fleeting moment in time. Winter, snow, and ice will come. How far will Zoomer and I be able to travel? Regardless of weather, how far may Zoomer and I travel? Both questions--the fears regarding answers to those questions are in the back of my mind. Yet, I must focus on today--on today's adventures--to mitigate my fears. I must choose to commit myself to today's adventures. If I choose not to commit myself, then, I have no one to blame, but myself, for being unfulfilled.
How Do You Say Hello???
Today is Pentacost Sunday. I find the celebration of Pentacost--at least at Cabrini--to be quite exhilarating. I confess I missed this celebration. All dressed in red, ready to celebrate, my body had other ideas--sleep. Yet, nonetheless, Pentacost, and how we communicate it is alive in me tonight.
How Pentacost is celebrated in my life, how it was celebrated in a friend's life? By what means do we communicate today? First. Pentacost. A celebration of the descent of the Holy Spirit on the disciples of Jesus after his Ascension. That is a definition of the day. Yet, definition is meaningless without context within our own lives, be it our own, someone we know, or a combination. [Interesting. I hadn't thought about that until this very moment.]
The context of Pentacost in my life is twofold. I was told of the Pentacostal celebration involving speaking in tongues. That celebration was meaningless because it was not shared with any context in his life. I do not know the spirituality--the spiritual context--in which my friend's mother celebrated Pentacost. So, to comment further would be a grave injustice--unforgivable disrespect.
My experience of Pentacost comes within the context of a Catholic faith community. Cabrini celebrates life and death with intense passion.
Fast forward 70 years. My experience of Pentacost? Different--not better, just different.
Pentacost. Cabrini--a faith community that celebrates life and death with the same passion. Pentacost, as I have experienced it is a celebration of our communal diversity. In the stead of spontaneous expressions of need and thanksgiving, Pentacost welcomes different intentions. Individuals fluent in various world tongues offer intentions in those foreign languages. But, the offering of intentions does not stop there. Cabrini is a community of passionate context. Following intentional expressions in foreign tongues, the individuals repeat the intentions in English. We are offered context. We celebrate that context.
How do you say hello???
How Pentacost is celebrated in my life, how it was celebrated in a friend's life? By what means do we communicate today? First. Pentacost. A celebration of the descent of the Holy Spirit on the disciples of Jesus after his Ascension. That is a definition of the day. Yet, definition is meaningless without context within our own lives, be it our own, someone we know, or a combination. [Interesting. I hadn't thought about that until this very moment.]
The context of Pentacost in my life is twofold. I was told of the Pentacostal celebration involving speaking in tongues. That celebration was meaningless because it was not shared with any context in his life. I do not know the spirituality--the spiritual context--in which my friend's mother celebrated Pentacost. So, to comment further would be a grave injustice--unforgivable disrespect.
My experience of Pentacost comes within the context of a Catholic faith community. Cabrini celebrates life and death with intense passion.
Fast forward 70 years. My experience of Pentacost? Different--not better, just different.
Pentacost. Cabrini--a faith community that celebrates life and death with the same passion. Pentacost, as I have experienced it is a celebration of our communal diversity. In the stead of spontaneous expressions of need and thanksgiving, Pentacost welcomes different intentions. Individuals fluent in various world tongues offer intentions in those foreign languages. But, the offering of intentions does not stop there. Cabrini is a community of passionate context. Following intentional expressions in foreign tongues, the individuals repeat the intentions in English. We are offered context. We celebrate that context.
How do you say hello???
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