Guns. Self-Defense. Inner Resources.

     An understanding of what I do not understand regarding guns emerges as I watch the news--general crime stories involving guns--and listen to coverage of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings in Newtown, Connecticut.
     My understanding--my lack of understanding--falls into two categories.  First, beliefs regarding guns as vehicles of self-defense, and secondly, is my lack of understanding regarding the facts of guns.  I shall address the first category as the foundation of my reflections for this post.  I need to reflect further on the second category, and how to formulate my thoughts, and questions into a forthcoming post.  I can ill-afford haste.
     Some individuals say they want guns for purposes of self-defense--defense of self, or of family.  I do not.  I could say that I do not feel comfortable in holding the gun, and in aiming it appropriately in a timely manner.  Such is true, and more so today with the presence of essential tremors in my left hand--tremors aggravated when I am very nervous.  So, that is true, in part.  But, to a far greater degree, I cannot bring myself to act so harshly toward another human being.  I just cannot do so.  Further, and most importantly, I believe that stronger than any bullet I might pierce the skin of another human being are my inner resources.  Gun control advocates speak of the dangers of guns being used against the owners, who purchased them for self-protection--guns being used by perpetrators of crime against gun owners.  I subscribe to that belief.
     I take it one step further.
     Beyond the reliability of any gun, whatever the type may be, is the reliability of my inner resources.  I prefer relying on my inner resources any day.
     As I child, I encountered many bullies--not everyone was a bully, but, there were more than my taste.  Whenever, I encountered bullies, I asked myself what I could say to stop their behaviors.  I failed many times, yet, I could never bring myself to return the favor of the hurt they inflicted on me, by trying to hurt them intentionally.  Although I failed many more times than I like to admit, I developed tremendous inner resources.  Some have said that I am too sensitive.  I resist that characterization.  Insights have been given to me through that sensitivity that have given me tremendous inner resources.
    We need to look at inner resources--at nurturing strong inner resources to serve us through challenges that might otherwise call for a gun.  We cannot afford to overlook the treasury of inner resources

Confessions of a Pacifist

     I have no desire to jump on the bandwagon of every hot button issue in the news.  Only when I do not hear what I believe--deeply believe--do I feel compelled to respond.  The Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings fall into that category.  Gun control.  [Presently, my thoughts regarding mental health services are not well formed--maybe later I will address that.  But, not without careful contemplation will I do so.]
     I shall examine gun control, but, not as you might think--not as it is addressed in common parlance.
     Under my rule, in a perfect society, no guns would exist.  Yet, I am not the ruler.  The world is not perfect--my understanding of guns does not suffice to be an "effective" advocate of gun control.
     We speak of background checks.  We speak of gun safety classes.  Common agreement seems to exist on the reasonable nature of those two elements of gun ownership--of gun use.
     Now, conceal and carry licenses are more controversial.
     Several issues lend themselves to consideration separately--media coverage; online information regarding guns.
     Media is moving toward avoiding mention of the names of the individuals who shoot numerous people--individuals who instigate rampages, or massacres.  Both the availability of information regarding guns, and media usage of the shooter(s)' name(s) are driven by the concern that there will be copycats, who seek fame.  That is sensible to me.  Yet, I want to address some issues, and related questions separately.
     All this is well and good.  Yet this is not all that is needed by a second group of people involved in the gun control debate--advocates of gun control.  I may be condemning all individuals who are advocates of gun control, who are more informed than I.  I will take that risk, in the hope that I might be clarifying issues and questions not sufficiently included in the discussion--the national conversation regarding gun control that seems likely to be forthcoming.  I do not know how to address directly the ardent supporters of the Second Amendment--those individuals who oppose gun control.  My intent is not to inflame the debate.  That is useless.  Clarity is the essence of effective advocacy--advocacy regarding any issue.

Bravery...Courage...Cowardice...

     I honor the men, women and children spoken of in recent days with regard to the Newtown, Connecticut.  I honor--I write to illuminate the true meaning of bravery, and courage.  This is not long held by me, rather, it is only inspired by the Newtown school shootings--by Robbie Parker, the father of Emilie Parker, a six-year-old girl, who was shot in Newton, Connecticut.
    Bravery.  Bravery is a vehicle by which a human being moves on a journey through loss, grief, challenge, or other life transition.
   "Bravery" is not--should not be--a crowning glory that serves to separate human beings from one another due to life circumstances.  Though some of us may have experiences more in common with some individuals, none of us has identical life experiences.  Yet, each of us does share with one another the experience--the gift--of being human.  We are called to share that gift.
     Too often, "bravery," and "courage" are spoken of in terms of flag waving, and throne- or perch-sitting.  I see it differently.  Finally, I see it differently--with clarity.
     When we laud those who have been in the military, we say, "the brave men and women in service or in the service.  Yet, we do not carry that over to our everyday civilian lives.  Service or the service is a commitment to a communal advancement of shared goals.
     Courage.  Courage is a personal attribute that fuels our vehicle--our bravery.  Without the initial drive we would be stuck--forever stuck--in our grief--in our loss.
     The choice, if you can call it that, not to embrace courage and bravery is to remain stuck--to fail to develop, nurture, and share the gifts we have been given.  Are we really willing to live in complete isolation, be it literal, or figurative, because we are too timid--too cowardly--to do the work necessary to free ourselves?
     I pray not. I dare you.  Be driven by courage.  Be moved by your own bravery.  Be inspired by others, but, do not use their bravery as a substitute for your responsibility to embrace--to engage in--your expression of bravery--your willingness to be driven with courage to acts of bravery.   

The Spirit of Accountability

     Last night, I tuned into a newscaster new to my ears.  Recommended by someone close to me, I was in search of new insight regarding disturbing broad generalizations made in the political arena.
     I knew my general view of the generalizations--generalizations about the 47%.  Yet, I wanted to be enlightened--dissuaded from my outrage.
     In general terms, the newscaster affirmed me--my stance regarding the 47%.  However, I was turned off, literally, by one simple word.
     "Idiots."
    Describing individuals with an opposing views as "idiots" is beyond my threshold for tolerance.  Name-calling does not give the necessary credence to any opinion, belief, or perspective.  I abhor name-calling.  I abhor it.
    Whenever challenged by beliefs, or opinions contrary to my own, I seek insight--I seek enlightenment.
    I hold decision-makers, and journalists in high esteem.  Hyperbole and sensationalism are excessive for my taste.  Yet, I will not lower my standards--my expectations--because of the lowest common denominator too often displayed.
    I am the daughter of a retired accountant.  Though retired, my father's value of being accountable remains strong--in him, and in me.  Far beyond financial accountability, forever in my memory, he has worked to advance adherence to ethical standards--professional ethics, and basic, human ethics.
    During 2012, I have been immersed in Catholic Church reform work.  Ethics--accountability--of words and actions is primary.
    Some may say I take too personally what is uttered in public.  I do not hold myself out to be injured by words spoken, or actions taken.  Yet, I must--I am called to--take personally the words of political candidates, and journalists.  Can you tell me, what am I too offer, why am I here, if not to offer my personal experience to my words, and my actions?  Why?
    I will not tolerate the broad strokes of 47%.  I will not abide by "idiots" in public discourse.
    Though other issues, and factors lead me to vote otherwise, I hoped the Republican nominee for President might listen to his wife's words--to his wife's life experience.  Interviewed during the Republican National Convention, Ann Romney spoke of living with multiple sclerosis.  She said:
    "You don't know, 'how much is it gonna chew me up and spit me out? ... How sick am I gonna get? Is this going to be progressive? Am I going to be in a wheelchair? Am I, you know, gonna lose all function?
     There's this huge unknown. And it's a very, very frightening place to be.' "
     Ann's words stick with me.  The newscaster's words stick with me--his characterization of his political opponents, "idiots."

     Where is the accountability?  Where is the spirit of accountable--to Ann, to the 47%, to journalistic seekers of truth, and enlightenment?  Where?

     Living by anything short of a spirit of accountability is sheer cowardice--sheer cowardice.

Victims. Entitlement.

"There are 47 percent of the people who will vote for the president no matter what. All right, there are 47 percent who are with him, who are dependent upon government, who believe that they are victims, who believe the government has a responsibility to care for them, who believe that they are entitled to health care, to food, to housing, to you-name-it -- that that's an entitlement. And the government should give it to them. And they will vote for this president no matter what. ... These are people who pay no income tax. ... [M]y job is not to worry about those people. I'll never convince them they should take personal responsibility and care for their lives."
                                                                        Mitt Romney
     I do my best to steer clear of political commentary.  Excessive ranting, raving does grave injustice to the issues that demand our attention.
     But...
     I must speak out against Mitt Romney's broad strokes.  You see, some may say I am within the group of which he speaks--not completely, but, sufficient to respond.  I no longer work.  Although I do pay taxes.  I receive SSDI.  I am covered by Medicare.
     Some may say, "Don't take Mitt Romney's words personally."  I must.  The only way I know to live is personally.  If I do not live from my personal experience,  then, I have nothing to offer this world.
     Oxford Dictionaries defines "victim" as, "[noun] a person harmed, injured, or killed as a result of a crime, accident, or other event or action."
      If you define "cerebral palsy," as a result of the event of my birth, then, yes, I am a victim.  However, "victim", when spoken in common parlance, has a heavy burden of pity that exceeds its dictionary definition.  I do not include myself in that group.
    "Personal" is defined as, "adjective.  of, affecting, or belonging to a particular person rather than to anyone else."
    "Responsibility" is defined as, "the state or fact of having a duty to deal with something or of having control over someone."
     I do what is within my power to take responsibility to care for myself--for the impact of "cerebral palsy," "osteoarthritis," "epilepsy," and "intentional tremors."  I take medications twice daily.  I swim three to four hours a week.  I use a straw to drink--to counteract a tremor-laden hand.  I adjust the arrangement of my home to accommodate my physical capabilities.
    Dependent?  Yes, I am dependent.
    I don an ankle-foot-orthotic--a leg brace--daily.  I use an electric wheelchair when traveling long distances.  I submit to lab tests to evaluate the amounts of medications in my bloodstream.
    Dependent?  Yes, I am dependent.  Everyone is.
    But...that is not the whole story of who I am.
    I do give back.  To my family.  To my friends.  To my church.  To my community.  As I am able, I do give back.
    Research.  Writing.  Listening.  Advising.  Advocating.  Volunteering.
    Entitlement is defined as, "the fact of having a right to something."
    Entitlement.  Respect?  Yes.  Respect--basic, human respect.  That is the Entitlement that I offer each individual I meet and know.  That is the Entitlement I expect from others.

Jan Michael Joncas

     My first experience with Michael Joncas was aural--On Eagles Wings.  I cannot put words to that experience.  Later, he presided at the Newman Center, where I attended.  Between then and now, I have been taken back to his music many times.
   Nearly ten years ago, immersed in my own stress, I was aware--vaguely--that he was very ill.  I knew little more than that.
    By no means to minimize Michael Joncas--his fullness as a human being--my only understanding of him was his music.  I love music.  I survived the travails of teenage years through music.  To this day, music is a refuge I seek.  To celebrate.  To meditate.  To contemplate.  Beyond my understanding was how anyone could give more of themselves than all of the glorious music Joncas has composed--has given to us.
    Recently, I was called upon to broaden my knowledge of Michael Joncas--Jan Michael Joncas.  Beyond a history of his vital statistics--his accomplishments--I was called upon to give voice to what he has said regarding current issues of our day.
     Suffering.
     Oxford Dictionaries defines suffering as, "the undergoing of pain, distress, or hardship."
     Suffering.  Much more is laden on the word in society.  It is difficult to quantify--to limit by the borders of words.  Pity?  Separation?  Denial?
      My experience of "suffering"--the word, not the experience--had been the syrup-laden cocoon assumed by the appearance of a reality I have lived with since the moment my umbilical cord was unwrapped from the five times it constricted oxygen from my brain.
     My reality has changed, as has been my understanding of "suffering."  However, I could not articulate that change, I could only live it.  Enter Jan Michael Joncas.
     "I learned that you do not solve the problem of suffering,...you enter into the mystery of suffering.  And it does change you, and it changes your world."

Ohhhh...

     In a time when dramatic events, and ghastly acts of inhumanity, few events, or milestones cause an audible response from me.  I imagine I am not alone in that.
     Just now, one such audible response was evoked.  Neil Armstrong died at the age of 82.  To people of a certain age, they remember where they were when they looked at the first black and white images of the moon.  To people of a certain age, they remember where they were when they heard the iconic words, "One small step for man, one giant step for mankind."
     I was in Brainerd on a family vacation.  I was a sick nine-year-old, moaning with an earache--nothing serious, but, I remember.
     Long before cable television.  Long before personal computers, Neil Armstrong took us beyond boundaries of what we imagined possible.
     How do we pay homage--meaningful homage--to Neil Armstrong?
     First, stop.  Take a look at, and return to The First Moon Landing with Neil Armstrong.
     In homage to Neil Armstrong, are we willing to commit ourselves to one action?
     Live our lives imagining a future beyond what seems possible to us now--beyond the limits imposed by our own cynicism and skepticism.
     Challenge our friends, family--our society--to live beyond what they imagine might be possible.
     Let us pay homage.

My Handwriting...My Spirit...

     I see your face before me--barely recognizable.  Not because of pen scratchings, as some might think.  No, I am surprised by how far we have drifted apart--in still waters.  My spirit.  Your body--of letters, of words.
     Not a divorce.  Not bitter.  Not amicable.  Just an imperceptible drifting in still waters.
     Not an annulment.  Our partnership.  I seek no clean break.  No erasure.  I seek no space for a new bridegroom.
     I seek not sole custody of our children.  Our children.  Conceptions of my spirit borne of your fingers, --of your hands.
     I protect our creatures--our creations--with block printing.  I intend no defensiveness.  Yet, no one can take me past my blind spot.
     Tell me.  Show me.  Your handwriting.  Others' handwriting.
     Where does legibility lie?  Where does readability rest?
      I must reconcile with you.  I must revel in time perched on my bed with pen in hand, and paper before me.  I know how to type.  I love touching keys.  Yet, handwriting touches more than my hands--he touches my spirit.  He is more than an "it,"  he is a "he."

Gun Control. May Peace Be with You.

     The Second Amendment of the Constitution of the United States
     A well regulated militia, being necessary to  the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.
     Guns.  Personally, I do not use them.  My resource of self-defense is a quick wit.  Of concern for my safety, some ask, "Aren't you afraid of being alone out in the streets of downtown.  To those who express concern, my sister says, "I don't worry about Patty.  I worry about the people who encounter Patty on the streets."
     Guns.  I do not use them.  Yet....many people do.
     Foraging for food.  Hunting for animals.  Protecting oneself.  Protecting one's home.
     How do we aim--how do we control--guns to hit their target.  Food.  Animals.  Oneself.  One's home.
     Training--target practice.  Daily hunting limits.  Gun locks.
How do we control the numbers--the amount of ammunition purchased, the rounds of ammunition used?  Can we engage law enforcement personnel?  Can we capture enforcement/conservation officers?  Can we embrace the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives?  Can we open our ears to hear the Director of Homeland Security?
     Decibels.  How many?  Ammunition.  How many rounds?
     What do we need?  When will we act?
     Peace.  May the peace of Christ be with you.  Peace.  Love.  Faith. Hope, and Love, and the greatest of these is Love.

Criminals' Acts...Wasted Lives...

     Theater 9.  Aurora, Colorado.  James Eagan Holmes.  Alleged Criminal.  Criminal Acts.  Wasted lives.
     Engrossed in news coverage of the Aurora Shootings, some say they do not want to focus on Holmes.  They want to put the spotlight on the lives of the 12 individuals who died.
     Yes.  By all means.
     As of July 21, 2012 at 3:58:  The Denver Post reports the names of  Veronica Moser, Jessica Ghawi, Alex Sullivan, Matt McQuinn, Micayla Medek, John Thomas Larimer, Rebecca Wingo, and, on air, CNN reported A.J. Boik, and Jesse Childress.  In coming hours--in coming days, more names will emerge--more profiles shall emerge.  Read and listen to those coming names and stories, in coming days.
     For now, I offer to you a question--a response--that haunts me.
    What is the motivation--what possibly may explain such horrendous acts?  What a wasted life.
    What an excruciating extinguishment of human potential. Extinguishment of the crimes' commissioned subjects--extinguishment of the human potential of the crimes' commissioners.
     The commissioner.  A wasted life.  Extinguished hopes of what might have been.  Condemnation to a barred life--a mental hospital, a prison, an lethal injection, or an electric chair.  What a wasted life.
     Some spew anger.  Damn him to the acts he committed.  Inflict upon him an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.  Some forgive, the person, if not the act.
     Some pray.  We are called to pray.  Some for the commissioned.  Others for the commissioner.  All are called to pray for both--the commissioned, and for the commissioner.
     How may we speak--how may we act.  How may we dedicate ourselves to learn from--commit ourselves to a positive response to such horrendous acts?
     How?  We must.

Gun Abolition. Pacifism. Civility.

     Pistol.  Shotgun.  Rifle.  AK 47.  Militia.  The Second Amendment.  Right to bear arms.  National Rifle Association. The NRA.
     I confess.  My visceral reaction to the words preceding this paragraph are rooted in illiteracy.  Rightly or wrongly, I choose to root my life in more fertile ground--ground that nurtures the loving of the human spirit.  I understand nothing more.  I expect nothing less.
     Conflict.  War.
     Korea.  Vietnam....Iran.  Iraq.  Afghanistan.
     Etched in my memory.  My father--a Korean War veteran.  My brother--Selective Service Draft Number 30, save Conscientious Objector status.
     Iran.  Iraq.  Afghanistan.
     Blurred to my attentiveness.  Avoided that I might be not submissive--not submissive to War's Clutches.
     Pacifism.  Pacifist.
     I am grounded in "Pacifism."  Yes, my name is "Patricia--Patty."  Yet, I call myself a "Pacifist."
     Most call "pacifism" a common noun.  Proper to me, "Pacifism--Pacifist" are proper nouns.
     I resist temptations to respond to Rage's White Noise.  Yet, piano, and violin notes, CNN's words dissolve my resistance--call me to form my thoughts--call me to express my words.
     Gun Control.  Not enough.  I want more--much more.  No one speaks of Gun Abolition.  Is such too extreme?
     Gun Control.  Some advocate.  Others can legislate.  Some can enact.  Yet others may judge.  I shall reflect.  Gun Abolition.
     Let us restore civility.  Not just for today.  Not just for this week.  Not just for this Presidential campaign.  Let us restore civility beyond measure of time.

Enablement. Pity. Transformation.

     Tonight I acted such as I do rarely.  I disentangled myself from my enablement--enablement of an acquaintance.  Her lifetime.  Horrible abuse.  Justifiable anger.  Deep pain.
     I minimize no one's abuse--I minimize no one's pain.  Each of us have been given our own challenges.
     Our charge--our human dictate--is to transform our abuse--our pain--whatever its severity, whatever its source may be, into constructive motivation to live toward our future.  Though I may sound so, I am not Pollyanna's advocate--I am not her apologist.
     We may not transform our pain at the cost of another's life.
    "There, but by the grace of God, go I."  "I contribute, or act charitably on behalf of those less fortunate than I."
     Both reek of arrogance, unwillingness to understand the essence of transformation, to name but two.
     Enablement.  Pity.  Transformation.
     Enablement.  A noun.  Give (someone or something) the authority or means to do something.
     Pity.  The feeling of sorrow and compassion caused by the suffering and misfortunes of others.
     Do not get me wrong.  Sorrow and compassion are of tremendous comfort to me at moments of life's challenges.
     What I do not abide by is the rotten smell of eggs--the dripping of molasses--that protects pity's pearl.
     Tonight I was overcome.  A rotten egg.  The molasses.  It oozed out of my earpiece.  No longer could I digest the eggshells thrown in my direction.  I had to speak.
     Transformation.  A thorough or dramatic change in form or appearance.
     As someone who strives to live by the example of Jesus--living a life transforming, wallowing has no place--my wallowing, or other's wallowing.
     Wallow.  (to wallow) (of a person) indulge in an unrestrained way in (something that creates a pleasurable sensation.)  [Boldface in original text.]
     Unfortunately, wallowers do not recognize their own indulgences.  Unfortunately, people living transforming lives mistake their own transient enablement, and pity for their lives imbued with sorrow, compassion, and joy.  Such transience is normal--such transience is necessary to us mortal beings..
     I pray I may--we may all--call out those people who wallow in their abuse and pain.  I pray I may--we may all--affirm the transforming lives of the People of God who surround us.

Living With the Cold, Hard Facts

     Zoomer.  A refrigerator--new, black, textured, cold.

     By passion, a researcher.  A children's museum my workplace--my playground.

     By birth, not a cradle Catholic.  By pursuit, reform's seeker.

     Since birth, cerebral palsy, epilepsy.  Since middle age, osteoarthritis.

     Lifelong, disability's advocate.

     In common?  This is my life.  Cold, hard facts.  Not always difficult, just cold, hard facts to be lived--to be lived fully.

     One year ago, a wheelchair was offered to my consideration.  I wanted nothing of it.

     "Think of your needs.  Not now.  Not a year from now.  Think of your needs five years from now."

     Still, I wanted nothing of it.  Yet, I slept on the offering.  I considered my life's cold, hard facts.

     I chose--I choose--to live with them, not die from them.

     Yesterday, a refrigerator was delivered.  New.  Black.  Textured.  To my liking.  To Zoomer's liking. 

     64 inches high.  My height?  64 inches.  28 inches wide.  My width?  Irrelevant.  32 inches deep.  My depth--my physical depth?  To the refrigerator's depth.

     Zoomer's reach?  The refrigerator's depth.  The freezer's height.

     Zoomer's range--range of motion?  Atop the freezer's height?  No.

     These are the dimensions of my life--the cold, hard facts.  But...these are the dimensions by which I am called to live--beyond the reach of the gifts I have been given.  

     I am an odd futurist.  Some say odd.  Others say futuristic.

     I do not know what my future will be.  None of us does.  Odd though it may seem, my new refrigerator opens a new view to the cold, hard facts by which I will be called to live.

     Covered with a texture new to me--it is fun to touch.  A new height to test.  A new depth to reach. 

     "Think of your needs.  Not now.  Not a year from now.  Think of your needs five years from now."

     I am an odd futurist.  I do not live by a clock's ticking.  My body breathes to her own rhythm--a mystery to me.  I try to live with her, not in fear of her.  Most days I abide by her.  Fewer days I succumb to them.

     I engage Zoomer to my new refrigerator.  With her, may I reach to the depths of the cold, hard facts by which I must live?  With her, may I reach beyond the gifts I have been to live? 

     I do not know what they will be.  I do not know their color.  Their height. 

     What will the texture of my spirit be to live by those cold, hard facts? 

     I pray I will abide by them, not succumb to them.

Corpus Christi. Mystery. Corpus Christi.

     Corpus Christi Sunday is celebrated in the Catholic Church today--the body and blood of Christ.
     I feel truly blessed by the faith community I celebrate Mass with each Sunday.  We are more than a physical structure....more than a scheduled time each week.....more than rote recitation of words....more than obedient people...more than repeated rituals shared each week....
     We are faith-filled.  We do celebrate.  We do celebrate.  We do celebrate Mass.  We do gather each Sunday. We do have a physical structure where we meet each week.  We do recite words we have heard many times.  We strive to obey--our prayerful, communal conscience, if not always that which other deem worthy of obedience.
     I confess.  I am drawn most to the Word when I enter the experience of Mass.  Throughout all aspects of my life, since I was a child, I felt most drawn to words.  Today's celebration of Corpus Christi drew me beyond the words into the experience of the celebration.  Words were the invitation to which I responded today.
    "Lent is a time when we empty our guilt, so as to enter into the fullness of the celebration of Easter."  Those were the homilist's words that spoke to my ears.  Quickly, I grabbed my pen to capture that essence.  All too familiar with the tipping of my mental wheelbarrow of short-term memory, my pen was the savior I sought.  My pen is the tool I grasp hold of to nail moments of grace to my long-term memory.
     Yet, in that moment, I was struck by the sin of squashing grace, or being so arrogant as to think I could preserve that moment for posterity.  Putting my pen away, trusting that what I need to remember I will remember, freed me to be graced by so much more.
    The four music ministers led us in singing liturgical music of celebration.  Guitar.  Piano.  Drums.  Four-part harmony.  Many times, I have seen the faces, heard the words, and the music.  Yet, this morning, I was graced with mystery.  Hearing--truly hearing--the four different parts--soprano, alto, tenor, and bass--of the musicians led me to mystery of wonderment.
     How is it that four individuals open their mouths and produce four different notes that produce such harmony?  Science may explain it, yet, it does not explain the wonder of the moment--the mystery of the experience.
    Spontaneous signing of Mass music by a woman, who lives with Asperger's Syndrome, was shown to my eyes.  No hearing impairment.  No rote recitation of words.  A simple expression of the words coming to her ears.  A personal response in tune with the singing voices of others.
    I have served as a minister of Word--as a lector.  I have served as a music minister,  though both were many years ago.  I have never served as a Eucharistic minister.
    This morning, the choreography of the Eucharist--the celebration of our human tapestry of gifts--was given to me.  I emptied myself of the words, and my eyes were opened to the diverse gifts of our faith community.  Our individual gifts stream to the front of the sanctuary to the hands of our priest, and his ministers of bread and wine.
    Corpus Christi.  Mystery.  Faith.  Body.  Blood.  Grace.  Word.  Music.  Corpus Christi.

My Way to be Christian

The Weapon...I am a Christian....the rest of the world be damned...
Have you accepted Christ as your Lord and Savior???
Do you have all of your questions answered???
The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...

The Instrument...I am a Christian....the rest of the world be peace-filled...
I know what Christ teaches about how to save myself and the world.
I listen...I question...I challenge the call to conform...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be peace-filled...

The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world will peace-filled...
I live by Christ's words...I speak the words Christ speaks to me...
I live with Christ's heart...I act with Christ's hear...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...

The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...
Have you joined Minnesota Citizens Concerned for Life...
Do you respect all of life...or do you respect only the life as you conceive it should be...
The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...

The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
I breathe Christ...
I respect life that differs from me...I am strengthened by differences in my life...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...

The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
I am an instrument of thy peace...
Where there is hatred, I sow love...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...

A Shared Ride into the Unknown.

This week, I saw
An intimate--not of my body,
An intimate of my life.

Ravaged.  Robbed.  Quaking.  Troubled.  Resigned.  Disturbed.
Ravaged steadiness.
Stolen dignity.
Quaking confidence.
Trembling, troubled--disturbed--future.
Resigned.

Our causes differ.  Our training--our preparation--from God differs.
Yet, we share an aimless search for the moving targets.
Parkinson's Disease....Osteoarthritis...
They differ in landscape.

Yet, they share--we share--
A roller coaster ride.
Not a steady demise from the sure footing of youth,
No, we share
An unknown ride on a track with hidden, unscheduled twists and turns.

We share a ride
Toward an unknown destination,
At an unknown arrival time.

Prayer...A Nascent Transformation...

     The Hail Mary.
     Shall we pray? Sister Immaculata proffered.
     Hail Mary, full of grace.
     The Lord is with thee.
     Blessed art thou among women,
     And, blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
     Holy Mary, Mother of God.
     Pray for us,
     Now, and at the hour of our death.
     Amen.


     Seat of wisdom, pray for us.
     The prayer was a reverential invitation to understand words new to me.  I was never sure whether the words were, "Seat of wisdom, pray for us," or, "Seed of wisdom, pray for us."  Yet, somehow, that detail did not matter.  Both Seat and Seed confirmed a nascent transformation yet to be lived. 
     Hail Mary, Full of Grace.  
     As inexplicable as the Hail Mary's beauty on my first hearing 30 years ago is its beauty today.  Whenever an ambulance passes by me, the Hail Mary comes to my ears.  I do not recite it at other times.  Yet, at the moments of urgent need--the need of others--the Hail Mary is given to me to utter.
     I have no Rosary beads.  I do not know the Rosary.  I do not pray the Rosary.  Not by my judgment of its value.  Rosary has been in my vocabulary for nary three decades.  Maybe in seven more decades, I will know the Rosary.  Maybe in seven decades I may pray the Rosary.
     Others better versed than I could recite the precise chapter and verse.  Yet, I have heard it said that we need not fear, when  needs arise we shall be given the appropriate words to utter.  Whether spoken aloud, or held in my heart, confidence is given, and fears assuaged.  Blessed by and with a faith-filled worship community, and Christians who care deeply about the heart and soul--far more than structures they enter, no longer is prayer a formula I grab from off the rack.  I cannot explain its shape--its form.  Thirty years ago, a formula.  Today, a precious mystery.  Thirty years from now?  A precious mystery to be lived, not feared.

Prayer...It Makes No Sense to Me...

      On April 25, 1982, had you asked me, "what does prayer mean to you," I would have said, "Lord Make Me an Instrument of Thy Peace," "The Hail Mary,"  and "Peace be with You." 
     Formulated.  Off the Rack prayers ready for those wanting to wear religion on their sleeve.
     Not quite.  I had--I have--a deep love for each of those prayers.
     Without knowing his name, The Prayer of St. Francis, St. Francis was introduced to me by a Christian choir director in junior high school--in a public school, no less, much to the chagrin of my parents.  A Christian--not a Catholic--choir director.
     Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
     Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
     Where there is injury, pardon;
     Where there is doubt, faith;
     Where there is despair, hope;
     Where there is darkness, light;
      And, where there is sadness, joy;
      Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console.
      To be understood as to understand.
      To be loved, as to love.
      For it is in the giving that we receive.
      In the pardoning that we are pardoned.
     And, it is in the dying,
     That we are born to eternal life.
     My maternal grandfather--Ray, a man who abhorred anything Catholic--would be horrified to hear me say so, yet, his inheritance to me, "Don't feel sad when I die, I have made amends with everyone [with whom] I had differences," reaffirmed what St. Francis told me.
      Prayer.
      It makes no sense to me.  Words that speak such truth.  Words--it is in the dying that we are born to eternal life--far from affirmed in my childhood home, in my family--speak such truth to me.  It makes no sense.  Yet, they are true.

Crucifixion...Resurrection....

     May the peace of Christ be with you.
     It took me many years to utter those words without fear of crucifixion--crucifixion impaled by reason, and logic, crucifixion beyond any hope of faith to surmount.
     I was surrounded by the living of values Christ proclaimed.  Yet, that was not enough.
     There was an invisible stereotype that permeated our home.  Bible-thumping Baptist.  Evangelical.  Unwilling missionary work--infliction of conversion within our house.  Speaking of tongues.  The Holy Ghost--a white-sheeted being antithetical to reason and logic.
     I was surrounded by the living of the values Christ espoused.
     Yet, it took many years to shed my fear of crucifixion--crucifixion impaled by reason, and logic.  Resurrection.  How can you possibly reconcile that with any degree of reason, or logic?  How can you possibly live with any integrity, if you subscribe to the notion of resurrection?  How can you explain resurrection?
      Complicated, yet, simple--not simplistic, but, simple.  I cannot explain the resurrection of a body in logic's tomb.
      I was given a body beyond reason and logic to explain--to reconcile.  No reason--no logic--satisfied those who met my body to understand it--to understand me.
     May the Peace of Christ be with You.  The Prayer of St. Francis.  The Hail Mary.  These three prayers ground me.  Far beyond the words to convey, I had no hope of avoiding a mystery beyond reason, and logic to explain.
     Others better versed than I in the Bible could recite the precise chapter and verse.  Yet, I have heard it said that we need not fear, when  needs arise, we shall be given the appropriate words to utter.  Whether spoken aloud, or held in my heart, confidence has been given, and fears have been assuaged.  Blessed by and with a faith-filled worship community, and Christians who care about more than structures they enter, no longer is prayer a formula I grab from off the rack.  I cannot explain its shape--its form.  Thirty years ago, a formula.  Today,  a precious mystery.  Thirty years from now?
    Crucifixion.  Resurrection.  I cannot explain it.
    But...I can--I must--live it.  We can--we must live it.

A Keen Ear. An Accommodating Spirit.

     Little scares me.
     Fearless I am not.  Fear I do.
     Osteoarthritis.  Puffy fingers. Inflamed tissues.
     Some have knobby knees.  I have knobby knuckles.
     I fear not the appearance.  Such is vanity--pure vanity.
     I fear the knobby knuckles--its killing paralysis.
     I fear loss.  I fear loss of my voice--loss of my voice through my left hand.  I fear not the loss of my right hand--the loss of my right hand as the instrument of my voice.  My right hand has never had such muscle power.
     My osteoarthritis affects my left hand, my left hip, and my right ankle.  God only knows as to its selectivity within my body.
     I do not ask--I have never asked--"Why me?"  I abhor that question.  What possible answer could serve anyone or any good end.
     Rather, I ask, "What lesson am I to be learning." 
     I take this as no punishment for any action I have taken.  Some, extreme in their thinking, take that tack.  I never have.  I never will.
     Rather, I ask, "What preparation am I being called to make?"
     A lifetime ago my answer to a call seems.  Just one year ago, I was counselled to look ahead,
     "Think of your needs beyond the next year--beyond the next five years.  I advise you to get a power wheelchair with a joystick on your left armrest.  I advise you to get a head rim.  At the point when you need it, a head rim will control the movement of your chair when  you cannot."
     I do not torture myself--I cannot--with the prospect of using the head rim.  Yet, I know that I have learned that lesson--made that preparation.
     Osteoarthritis.  My left hip?  A simple four-legged cane.  Common sense born of experience--carry no heavy packages, such as groceries, any distance.  A fairly easy solution.  For vanity, two canes.  One is multiple shades of dark blue.  The other is colored in shades of brown.  It looks like wood.  One must be color-coordinated, of course.  Living alone, one must be prepared.  Though not needed today, I need to have the tools at hand--the tools for as independent a life as is possible.
     Osteoarthritis.  My right ankle.  Zoomer, my power wheelchair, is my antidote.  Should she not be enough, I have been told that it is a matter of time--ten years perhaps--that I might need ankle surgery, an ankle replacement, perhaps.
     Osteoarthritis.  I do my best not to torture myself with eventualities.  Osteoarthritis is not a condition of steadiness or control.  Osteoarthritis is an amoeba, a chameleon.  Some days, people may wonder, "I don't understand.  I saw her in her wheelchair yesterday, now today she is walking just fine."  I wonder too.
     Osteoarthritis.  A snake, who lurks in the bushes, waiting to catch me unawares.
     Osteoarthritis.  Exercise.  Not a physical cure.  But a wellspring of mental, and emotional energy.  Exercise.  A keeping at bay of inflammation's paralysis.
     Osteoarthritis.  My right ankle.  My left hand.  My left hip.  My color-coordinated canes.  Exercise.  Osteoarthritis.
     Osteoarthritis.  A keen ear.  An accommodating spirit.  Osteoarthritis.

Calculation of an Ankle...Solving for X...

     Algebra was never my forte.  Yet, now I understand applied algebra, or I think I do.  Applied algebra, or is it Christian algebra.  You tell me.
     Walking from the bus to church--or at least to an intersection at which someone from church welcomes me into their car--is a very prayerful time.  Today came "the Calculation of an Ankle and a Hip--my Ankle, and My Hip."
     My memory has faded.  I do believe that algebra is adding several factors to solve for X.  The young Patty did not understand.  Humor this nearly 52-year-old woman, as she solves for X.
     Factors.
     Oxford Dictionaries defines factors as "expression by which another is exactly divisible."
     Variables.
     Oxford Dictionaries defines variable as "a quantity that during calculation is assumed to vary or be capable of varying."  I am not satisfied with any definition that uses another form of itself to define itself.  Vary is a verb, whereas variable is a noun.  Therefore, let us define the verb.  Vary is defined as, "differ in size, amount, degree, or nature from something else of the same general class."
     My eyes are starting to glaze over now.  Let me offer just one more definition to solve for X.
     Constants.  Oxford defines constants as, "noun.  a situation or state of affairs that does not change."  The example offered is ironic--truly ironic.  "the condition of struggle remained a constant."
     Definitions are established.  Let us proceed.
     A multitude of factors makes solving for X complex.  However, it is essential.
     X=Living inspired by, and insightful from, the lessons my ankle--my osteoarthritis--my cerebral palsy, and my epilepsy have taught, and continue to teach me.
    X=Sharing the inspirations, the insights my disabilities--my life conditions have given me; advocating for the full living of each of our individual life conditions.
     Constants.
     Brain damage.  Cerebral palsy.  Osteoarthritis.  Intentional tremors.  Epilepsy.      
     Factors.
     Inner calm.  Humor.  Optimism.  Keen listening.
     Variables.
     Humidity.  Distance traveled on my ankle.  Weight borne on my left hip, and my right ankle.  Do I listen to my body--to her instructions regarding my pace, and my activity?
     This morning I witnessed the baptisms of three babies.  The priest affirmed truth.  The babies are entering a world far more difficult than those of us, who are older.
   "There are no easy answers."
     The priest asked the community, whether we were willing to offer support to the parents in raising their newly baptized children.  His request was not hollow.  Clear was how much we are called to share the joys and the sorrows with other people we meet--other people with whom we are in communion.  I try not to feel discouragement.  Yet, our unwillingness to share both our joys and our sorrows, and our strengths, and our vulnerabilities is a sad commentary on our commitment to our lives.
     Why is it so hard to solve for X?  What are our joys?  What are our sorrows?   Are we inspired in our lives?  By what?  By whom?  Are we mindful of any insights in our day?  What are they?  Do we share them?
     Why is self-disclosure so difficult?  What is our purpose, if we are not to disclose our selves?
     Why is it so difficult to solve for  X?

Betrayal of My Body...Stolen Dignity

    Selective amnesia.  I just noticed two posts in a row addressed a connection I see between health insurance, and auto insurance.  Though I feel a tad guilty for abusing the privilege of the precious time we are given each day, the two successive posts do speak to a larger truth about my daily life.  Most of my life, I have tried to stay abreast of world affairs, and the nuances of current affairs on the national, and local levels of government.
    Since I stopped working due to my cerebral palsy, and osteoarthritis, I have become keenly aware of inner calm--the priority, above all else, that my pursuit of inner calm must take.  My neurologist diagnosed that I have what is known as "intentional tremors."   Throughout my life, my left hand has been the powerhouse that has muscled me through college, a master's program, a 24-year career at a legal publishing company, and through living independently.  I have never had full use of my right hand, so, not until three years ago did I even question the role that my left hand plays in my life.  A friend, who has cerebral palsy affecting use of her right hand, and I have often said that we were frightened of something ever happening to our left hands.
    Then, July 8, 2009, the life as I had known it, changed radically.  Optimist that I always have been, I can say that the ending of my career in the paid workforce made possible the diagnosis of an unknown, frightening tremor in my left hand and arm.  The only possibility to explain my tremors seemed to be Parkinson's Disease.  It was not.  It may sound strange, but, being told that I had--that I have--intentional tremors enabled me to determine how to  live with it.
    Intentional Tremors.
   At its core, intentional tremors are shaking that becomes more intense the more a person with them tries to do a given task.  Three tasks come to mind.  Eating.  Drinking.  Handwriting.  To some, reasonable accommodation is a term that describes a central concept within the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990.  To me, reasonable accommodation is my intimate.  I try not to succumb to stolen dignity--the betrayal of my body.
    Drinking.  Reasonable accommodations took time.  Straws.  But, not just any straws.  With any reasonable accommodation, there must be a reasonable amount of fun, without the bendable, store-bought disposable straws, or boring straws found in catalogs for individuals far older than I.  To that end, I found colorfully-ribboned straws.  I do not want to be consumed by a body that confines me to a world outside the vibrancy life offers.
    Eating.  Strange though it may sound, eating in public is truly humbling.  While drinking may be reasonably accommodated, eating in public is much trickier.  I have never been much of a soup aficionado.  Thank God.
Forks are my friends.  With them, I have a half a chance with food.  With the exception of Breyer's vanilla ice cream, spoons are a slippery slope to use.  Knives are fairly useless, not obstacles, not my enemies, just benign tools.
    Handwriting.
    For a lifetime, my handwriting--its readability--has been a bone of contention.
    My high school teacher said of my homework, "I know it is from you, but, I have no idea what it says."  Ouch! That hurt.  I loved--I love--to write.  That hurt.
    So, in some ways, handwriting has been less traumatic, or less of a new trauma with which to cope, and adjust.  I learned to type one-handed in high school.  Technology has made available technology that I may use one day should my left hand give up.  I am  in no rush.  Typing--or the worlds it opens--brings enormous joy.  If need be I will learn to use a program called Dragon Naturally Speaking.
    Dragon Naturally Speaking does not ameliorate a very fundamental loss.  At Christmastime, receiving cards and letters is enveloped in something as special as the letter.  The handwriting of a friend, or a family member engenders emotions far beyond that which is ever conveyed.  I may be presumptuous to believe that others feel the same of me or my written communication.
     Yet, the pain of the significant loss of my handwriting due to my intentional tremors runs deep.  No one can take from me my  signature.  I do not fear identity theft:)  No one can duplicate my handwritten signature.
    I could torment myself by focusing on any of these realities.  I cannot run from them, literally, or figuratively.  Call me a Pollyanna, if you must.  Yet, I can concentrate my energies on my signature abilities,  gifts, passions, and people in my life.  Optimism.  Humor.  Purpose.  My survival skills.  My pathway to inner calm--inner peace.  I am no saint.  One look  at my bedroom can tell you that.
   Essential to pursuing passions is filtering out all of the excess noise that surrounds hot button issues.  Essential to pursuing my passions is in concentrating on what is truly life-giving.  I cannot engage myself in--embrace a world that offers no receptiveness to the nuances of living vibrantly.

Bringing Reason to the Shrill

     I strive to bring reason to the shrill.  Health care mandate.  Health care reform.  Health insurance.  Auto insurance.
     First, the health care mandate.
     Why is mandating the purchase of health insurance different from vehicle insurance?
     No one is addressing this seeming parallel.  I am not a driver.  Am I missing something?  Tell me.  I want to understand.
     Health care reform.
     To decision makers, I ask a simple question:
     Do you believe that each of us is guaranteed that we will wake up tomorrow with the same capacities we had when we go to sleep tonight?  On what basis?  Do you believe in a God that shelters us from life's unavoidable realities?  How does that influence your decision making?
     Can you tell me what your medical needs will be tomorrow?  What will the cost of those needs be?  I do not know the precise sum of my needs.  Yet, life has given me a good idea.
     I pray we may celebrate the joys of our daily living.  I pray we may embrace the sorrows of our soul's breathing.  Simplistic though that may sound, that is how I define sanctity of life.

Driven to a Healthy Pondering

     The U.S. Supreme Court is hearing arguments regarding the 2010 Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act.  Some call it, "Obamacare."  I cannot--I will not--stoop to that level.
     I have simple questions.  Health insurance.  Auto insurance.
     Tell me.  Drivers must purchase automobile insurance in order to drive an automobile.  Is that correct?
     I am not a licensed automobile driver.  I want to ensure my facts are correct.  If my statements are not correct, I welcome being corrected.  The truth is more important than my ego.
     I have simple questions.  Auto insurance.  Health insurance.
     Much ado is being made regarding the personal mandate portion of the act--the requirement that everyone purchase health insurance.  I confess.  I have stopped listening.  My mental well-being is more important than my civic responsibility to be an informed voter.  Listening to every last argument regarding an issue is no longer my definition of what it means to be a good citizen.
     Tell me.  Is there a parallel to be drawn between the requirement to purchase auto insurance, and the personal mandate requirement that every individual purchase health insurance?
     Tell me.  Is the purpose of auto insurance to provide financial remuneration, and protection to automobile  drivers in the case of an accident?
     Tell me.  Why is no one raising these questions?
     Tell me.  Why is no one offering this parallel in defense of the personal mandate case?
     Tell me.  Why is hyperbole valued more than reason, logic, calm, and integrity?
     Tell me.  When will it be safe to listen without fear of hyperbole hijacking reason?
     Tell me.  Is there a parallel to be drawn between the requirement to purchase auto insurance, and the personal mandate to purchase health insurance?
     Tell me.  Do I understand the basic premise of auto insurance?
     Tell me.  Is there a parallel to be drawn between auto insurance and the personal mandate to buy health insurance?
     Tell me.  I am listening.  Tell me.

Verbal Abuse

     Recently, I heard myself to say that verbal abuse, and sexual abuse are not the same.  I abhor little.  Yet, abuse of any form, I abhor--tremble away from.  I cannot speak to sexual abuse from first-hand experience.  I know one, maybe two individuals whose lives have been touched--violently touched--by sexual abuse.  Hostility, and submissiveness, respectively, make it difficult for me to address with compassion my friends' experiences.
   Hostility, and submissiveness are common responses to sexual abuse.  Yet, I do not feel I may address the issue with the respect it deserves.
   For those reasons, I direct my ponderings to what I do understand from life experience.  Bullying.  Verbal abuse.
   I do not feel the piercing sting--the deep pain--inflicted by Palsy Patty, and the mimicking of my bent right arm in my face during my childhood.  It was not everyone--each of my peers, or every day of my life.  Yet, I never knew the moment, when the bullying would attack.
    My only response was to identify the words I could speak--the explanations I could give--that would make other kids understand why I looked different.
    I do not understand.  Contrary to each and every belief of everyone I knew, I knew that all I needed to be given were the words--the explanations--that would make people understand.  I knew that I could create the understanding that did not exist--in which kids and parents were not willing to engage.
    Compounding the verbal abuse---the lack of understanding--of my peers was the attitude--the belief--of adults that bullying--verbal abuse--was nothing more than a phase kids go through.  No credence was given to the notion that the self-esteem of the kid being teased was not a phase that would be outgrown.  No credence was given to the notion that the nurturing of positive self-esteem was essential--the positive self-esteem of kids who were being teased.  I understood.  Yet, far deeper than the physical disability I had, I was disabled from enlisting the support of my parents, the parents in my neighborhood, the authority figures--principals, most teachers, and counselors--people who I thought were supposed to know better.
     I do not understand quite where my conviction came from--my belief that I could nurture understanding, if only some one of these adults would give me simple, logical, reasonable, understandable words, and explanations.  Nascent faith, perhaps?  I do not know. All I do know, is that in eight grade, I made a commitment to myself--I did not have a sense of God, or that might be what I might call it--to dedicate myself to work toward nurturing the understanding that I did not experience.  It took me years to understand--to identify--what  form my missionary work might take.  Writing?  That seemed the most likely to me, yet, I had no notion of what my outlet would be.  My self-confidence--my introversion--did not lend itself to speaking, or assuming any leadership positions.
    1978.  College.  A staff member asked if I was interested in serving on a campus-wide "Handicap Awareness Committee."  Bingo.  While people close to me did not understand my involvement, my dedication that precluded the studying I should have been doing, I knew better.  I knew that if there was any hope of my making any meaningful contribution to society, I needed to work through the issues
    Pervasive though my paralyzing fear was--fear that others would criticize me, and my actions--I assumed leadership of the Handicap Awareness Committee.  I was driven by the knowledge that I was pursuing my missionary work.  No trips to  Central America for me.  My missionary work was right at home.
     My missionary work was being carried  out.  I spoke to education students at a college in South Dakota.  I nurtured understanding in future teachers of the necessity of nurturing understanding, and building self-esteem.  I shared the transcript of the speech I gave with parents in my neighborhood.  I took the necessary risk of building understanding--of communicating to them what I had not been able to do twenty years earlier.
    Palsy Patty died.  No longer would she have negative, hurtful power over me.  I do call upon her when communicating understanding, and compassion are my call to do.
     "There goes another gimp," spoken by a coworker, who must have seen someone behind me with a walking disability, called the spirit of Palsy Patty to me in an instant.  Gimp is not a word I use to describe myself.  Gimp is not a word worthy of my speaking--reflective of the respect of other individuals I am called to express--to or in regard to any other human being.
     Verbal abuse is not the same as sexual abuse.  Yet, they do share an untenable violation of the human spirit.
     Verbal abuse.  Hostility.  Anger.  Submissiveness.  Others may choose to respond in such spirit.  I cannot respond in such a spirit. [In the heat of political debate, and hyperbole, name-calling of the individuals with opposite convictions is unthinkable.  Yet, far too often, that seems the norm.] It is not a matter of whether I will not respond so.  My will is not in question.
     Verbal abuse.  For a lifetime, I have been called to nurture understanding, build self-esteem, and most importantly separate actions from the individuals responsible for their commission.  Verbal abuse--name calling.  Physical proximity has no part in the commission of verbal abuse.  I abhor the infliction of any derogatory word on the basis of different beliefs, or actions.
    When I asked my father why the kids were teasing me, he said, with deep love, "There is nothing you did wrong, it is something wrong with them."    Emotionally, I did not question his love.  Yet, I could not reconcile how something could be wrong with the kids teasing me.  Young as I was, that seemed an untenable response.  An eye for an eye?
     Verbal abuse.  Bullying.
     Thank God, bullying is finally getting its due in the United States.  It has taken us until suicides rooted in sexual orientation-based situations for society to take bullying seriously.  Suicides are the sad impetus to take seriously a grievous violation of the gifts of being human.
     Verbal abuse.  Bullying.
     Whatever the subject may be, whoever the object may be, I cannot so engage.  Such is my missionary work.  I do so act.  With Compassion.  With Joy.  With Resolution.
     Verbal abuse.  Bullying.
     How do you respond?  Do you erect physical boundaries?  Or, is defamation limited to those human beings within your earshot?

PeaceNext...Intimate...Self-Disclosure...

     During the 1960s, long before the advent of the World Wide Web, and social media, my parents involved our family in a foreign exchange program of social workers--the Twin Cities International Program--TCIP.  Mom and Dad served as a host family to Knut from Denmark, Ilsa from Austria, Jun Bok from South Korea, and a man, whose name I believe was Daniel.  These three  men and one woman stayed with us during four years before I was ten.  Knut seemed old to me, although he was probably 50:) Mature may be a more apt description than old.  He was tall with balding light brown hair.   I remember he gave me a book of Hans Christian Anderson's fairy tales.  I think Mom and Dad still have the book.  It has been many years since I have read the book.  It is fairly small book with an ivory cover, and a picture on the front cover.  Then there was Ilsa.  Her father carved wood.  Mom and Dad still have a shallow wooden plate with the names of my parents, my brother, sister, and me, carved around the edge.  My parents have it mounted on the wall at the top of the bookshelves in their library.  I can think of no more treasured symbol of our family.  I do not remember much about Daniel, other than that he was from Italy.  Jun Bok.  Ah yes, Jun Bok.  He was a borderline operator--definitely a character.  He gave my parents at least one bottle of tabasco sauce.  More memorable was his observation of my dad trying to assemble a new Weber grill.  Dad  was having the difficulty inherent to any item with the instructions, "Some assembly required."  After watching Dad struggle for quite some time, Jun Bok said, "American technology.  Nothing works."  Jun Bok returned to South Korea many years ago.  I do not know what has happened to him.  Yet his words live on in my memory.
     Each of the individuals we hosted, in addition to individuals from all around the world--not just Europe and Asia--who visited our home and attended a number of pool parties my parents hosted broadened my childhood horizons.  Although I have not kept up with any of the individuals--a sad reality of life--I do bring from that experience openness to, and individuals from other countries.
    I treasure the perspectives I have been given when I have spent time with individuals from other countries while at home, or when I have visited other countries.  I will always remember with great fondness the conversations I had with a number of individuals from Norway while I spent nine days as a graduate school course.  The  Norwegians I met apologized to me  for their poor English speaking skills.  Such was not the case.  My understanding of Norwegian was rudimentary at best.  Yet, my love of the country--the fjords, the brisk air--is difficult to describe.
    Now I find my connections to individuals in other countries through the World Wide Web--through e-mail, and social media.  A skeptical eye is given to  social media.  I would warn against brandishing all social media outlets on the basis of how some individuals on some sites choose to use the sites.
    PeaceNext.  I am an incorrigible pacifist.  Some say pacifist is synonymous with weakness, in a pejorative sense.  I beg to differ.  My interest in ecumenism led me to the PeaceNext website.  The subtitle following the "PeaceNext" website title says, "Council for a Parliament of World Religions."
    How, as someone raised to believe that there is good to be found in all world religions, could I pass up the opportunity to explore a network committed to integrity in nurturing constructive dialogue.  Slowly I find myself open to friendship from around the world.
    Some hesitate to engage in online networks of any form due to concerns for security, or personal disclosure.  Others hesitate to engage in discussions of religion--it is too personal.  Well....On one level--on an intellectual level--I understand.  I respect the right of other individuals to not so engage.
   Yet....yet....I cannot follow suit.  It was not until this moment that I understood why.  I am not a Bible-thumping woman on the street corner trying to force beliefs down people's throats.  I try to be more subtle than that.
    Long before I understood the intellectual nuances--the spiritual dimension--of engaging in social communities rooted in integrity, such as PeaceNext, I was confronted with the reality of bodily engagement.  Not physical combat.  No.  Misunderstanding of my bent right arm, and my limping right leg led my peers to tease me.  Kids mimicking my bent right wrist of my face was, "Palsy Patty."  I was called to make myself understood--to make myself palatable in the eyes of people who met me.
    No one may endanger me.  My exterior is deceiving.  As my sister says of me, "I don't worry about Patty out on the streets, I worry about the people who encounter her."
     My life calls me to unequivocal self-disclosure.  If I do not share of myself--if I do not reach out to other people-what am I living to do?  I am called to find opportunities, such as PeaceNext, and other in-person, and online forums for the sharing of diverse perspectives dedicated to deeper understanding, and transformation.

Relax...A Time for Joy. A Time for Sorrow.

    The premise of  Patty's Ponderings is to reflect on the fast-paced, deadline-driven world in which we live.  My disclaimer?  I am no longer in the work world.  Sometimes, I feel guilty that I am not offering my nephews an example of a good work ethic.  Yet, as my mom says, going swimming--strengthening my right arm, and preserving my right ankle as much as is possible--is my job.  I do not mean that my swimming is drudgery, as the work world often seemed to me to be.  My swimming is challenging.  Yet, it is rewarding--very rewarding.
    But, I digress.
    This morning, I went to work.  Zoomer and I left to swim at the YMCA.  Fifteen minutes after leaving home, she and I arrived at the pool,.  During those 15 minutes, I encountered two people engaged in my pet peeve--engrossment in their electronic devices.  First, a man in his twenties stood at the end of a switchback--an accessible ramp--engrossed in a conversation with someone.  Later in our travels, Zoomer and I met up with an attractive, blond woman dressed in a gray business suit, and a fuchsia blouse.  The blond businesswoman's head was buried in some electronic device.  Zoomer is my silent business partner.  Thus, while the electric wheelchairs of some people make noise that alerts people to their presence, such is not the case for me.  The businesswoman was so engrossed in her electronic encumbrances that she did not see me coming.  I spoke up.  We parted ways.
     Such encounters lead me to wonder--to ponder.  What is so important that we miss in our surroundings--people, beauty, and all that life offers?  What do we miss because of the magnetism of electronic devices?  Complaints are made that no one has time to relax anymore.  I challenge the premise.
     No one has time to relax anymore?  No.  That is wrong.  They do--we all do.  It is a choice.
     I confess that I am addicted to my computer.  I communicate with individuals living on other continents.  But, as much time as I spend sitting at my computer, I am not its slave.  Though my contact with people is radically different from my working days, such is not all bad.  I make choices.  Essential to engaged living is circulating with people every day.  Circulating without tether of wires, ear plugs, or other such appendages.  Be it the grocery store. the Y, the Children's Museum, or wherever I find myself, full attentiveness to the people I encounter, meet, and know is vital.  May  I help them?  May they help me?  May we share our joy?  Or are we called to share our sorrow.  Joy is not happy.  Sorrow is not sad.  Happy and sad are nothing more than superficial ways of gasping for air.  Joy and sorrow call us to inhale...to exhale--to live fully.
    Take time.  Take the time.  Read Ecclesiastes 3:1-15.

Losing a Life

     Little leaves me speechless.  Tonight I read an e-mail message saying that a 32-year-old woman, who was a part of my worship community, was murdered.  I know no specifics.  I did not have the privilege of knowing Carolyn.
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
     Today, I spoke at length with several people.  Both women are legally blind.  One woman is hostile at the world for all that has befallen her in her life.  The other woman contributes to society from the root of her blindness.
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
     Hostility....cynicism....pity....
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
     I listened to pity-filled, cynical, hostile woman for nearly two hours.  I abhor pity.  I cringe at cynicism's crust.  I hate hostility.
     Pity, cynicism, and hostility need not hover over the woman's spirit.  I pray for the woman.  She speaks of resurrection--belief in transformation.  Yet, personal transformation--willingness--must go before resurrection.  No magician's black hat, and wand.  Personal transformation.
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
     I cannot--I will not--invest my brief life in hostility, cynicism, or pity.  Certainly not all three.
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
     In hopes of nurturing some infinitesimal seed of transformation, I offered \a litany of personal challenges.  A glimpse of what is possible, if only personal willingness is sacrificed for a greater good.
     I do not know.  I may never know.  Did my litany of personal challenges pierce her self-pity, her crust of cynicism, and her heartfelt hostility.  My style is not to meet self-pity with self-pity.  That is not my style.  Frankly, most of the time, I do not think of my personal challenges to be such, I have my moments as any other human being.  Yet, until I meet someone who does not surmount their own--does not try--I must challenge them.  Yet, at times, I must offer my litany as a hope-filled offering--a wake-up call.  I slowed the pity, silenced the cynicism, and halted the hostility.  But, for how long?
     The second woman I spoke with today is a different spirit.  We are alike in our abhorrence of self-pity.  We disavow ourselves of cynicism's temptation.  We have no time for such wallowing.  Hostility?  We have no hours to harbor hostility.
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
    We understand challenge.  We surmount it, when possible.  We claim no perfection.
    Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
    Carolyn, I am sorry I did not know you.
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.

Project Gutenberg

     Hi, my name is Patty.  I am a recovering proofreader.  I am a recovering publishing company employee.  I am a recovering librarian.
     Engaging in productive pursuits after exiting the paid work-world  is vital.  Not altruistic.  Essential.
     Volunteering.  Applying my gifts to the needs of other individuals, and organizations.  Essential.
     Today, I found mention of Project Gutenberg.
     Gutenberg?  Yes.  Gutenberg--Johannes Gutenberg--the inventor of the first printing press in 1440.  Project Gutenberg?  In 1971, Michael D. Hart was inspired to found Project Gutenberg.  The intent?  Digitize the printed word--digitize books.
     Publishers, librarians, and authors have grave concerns regarding this trend.  Lack of revenue.  Loss of the experience of holding a book.  The love of  turning the pages.  Preserving  the intellectual property of authors, who create the words we read, in whatever form those words may be.  My academic background is in library and information science.  For 24 years, I worked in a publishing company.  I have worked in a variety of libraries over thirty years.  I know authors.  I have known others.  I have deep respect for the craft of writing.  I dabble in the art of writing myself.  I revel in its celebration of words.
     Yet, I would like to offer a different perspective.
     The architecture of the Internet is a tremendous gem.  The electronic structure that we call the Internet was developed in the late 1960s.  The World Wide Web, on the other hand, was developed by Tim Berners-Lee, and his colleagues, in 1989.  The World Wide Web is a life line to many individuals.
     Most people can hop in a car, or walk to the nearest bookstore or library.  Yet, other individuals, for a variety of reasons, are not so capable.  Will is not the issue.  Unchangeable, unavoidable, life realities are the issues that rob--that can hijack--an individual's capability to roam the roads, or browse the open stacks.
     The Internet.  I support the foundation of the Internet.  The World Wide Web.  I surf the Information Superhighway.  Project Gutenberg.  I will explore that endeavor.
     Authors.  Librarians.  Publishers.  Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com--I will continue to support you.  Fear not.  I will continue to support you.
    Osteoarthritis.  Cerebral palsy.  Recovering proofreader.  Recovering proofreader.  Recovering librarian.  These simple realities lead me to an opportunity--proofreading printed works that are in the public domain.  Abetting a large digitizer of free e-books.  That is the crime to which I confess.
     May the debate over e-books be broadened to include those individuals, whose horizons may be expanded by access to information that well may be beyond their reach otherwise.
     Project Gutenberg.

Words. Abbreviated. Language. Corrupted.

     Obamacare.  "Ronnie Ree gun."  Pro-life.  Pro-abortion.  Romney-care.

     I am not a fan of  any of these words.  Corruption of words.  These four phrases are not political statements of my beliefs.  Not at all.

     Abbreviation of words.  Corruption of language.

    I value health care.  I am not opposed to Obama's health care programs.  "Obamacare" obliterates the reasons--the objections--people who use the phrase have.  Romney-care is nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction--an attention-getting word created specifically to express objection.

     Obstruction of justice.  Obamacare.  No, I don't mean "Obamacare" program is an obstruction of justice.  Obstruction of justice?  The term "Obamacare" obstructs the ability to revisit areas, which may be problematic in the execution of the statutes.  If Senators, and/or Representatives want to propose any provisions to correct unintended consequences of the program, their efforts are hindered by the emotionally-explosive term, "Obamacare."  O falls into the same pitfalls as does "Obamacare."

     Abbreviation of language.  Corruption of words.

   "Ronnie Ree' gun."  My elders have referred to President Ronald Reagan as, "Ronnie Ree' gun."  Contrary to the pronunciation the President preferred during his political career, "Ronald Ray' gun."  My sense  is that he may have used the previous pronunciation during his movie career.  If that is true, that does not forgive a "Ronnie Ree' gun." moniker being ascribed.  Those who know me know that I am not a Ronald Reagan-apologist.  I abhor name-calling.

     I do not feel particularly effective in affirming my convictions.  I pray my convictions will be heard without full benefit of my clearly-expressed thoughts and words.

    Abbreviation of words.  Corruption of language.

    Pro-life.  Pro-abortion.  Pro-choice.  Anti-choice.

    Abbreviation of words.  Corruption of language.  

   I intend no discussion of the issue of abortion.  Many people on both sides of the issue are far better advocates than I could ever be, or aspire, if I were so inclined.

    Life.  Abortion.  Choice.  Respect.

    Broad scope.  Vast intent.

    I treasure life.  Abortion has never visited my door.  I cannot speak from experience, or invest my precious energies in fighting for or against an issue with which I have no experience.  My life has given me a well-spring of experience to which I feel called to advocate.  I revere life.  I value choice.  I have made many choices, which are at the core of my past, current, and future life.  I have deep respect for each human being I have met, know, love, and  will  never know.

    Yet, I cannot distill my beliefs, simplify my convictions into nicknames, and slogans.  My convictions exceed the tight spaces afforded by abbreviated language.  My beliefs deserve more deliberation than nicknames, and abbreviated language afford. 

   Whatever the word, the language, or cause may be, may we abide by the treasure of life, the chalice from which our choice is poured, and the revere what respect deserves.   This is my prayer.

De-Baptism

Rene Lebouvier requested that his local Catholic church erase his name from the baptismal register

…

“Baptism is a spiritual gift, it’s bigger than we are,” said Bernard Podvin, spokesman for the French Bishops Confederation, who would not comment on the specifics of the Normandy case. “It can’t be confined to a purely administrative framework.”

      http://www.religionnews.com/index.php?/rnstext/growing_de-baptisms_reflect_europes_secular_drift/

     A dagger pierces my chest, as I read of Rene Lebouvier’s de-baptism.—Rene, and apparently many others in Europe.

     De-baptism.

     Pain.  Deep…deep sadness.

     De-baptism.

     I am a woman guided by deep respect, and admiration for the deliberate commitments other individuals make.  Deep respect, and admiration for such deliberation surmounts any disagreement I may have with the decisions made--with the individual deliberation.

     De-baptism.

     Yet, I feel pain.  Deep…deep sadness.

     De-baptism.

     I am neither a Church apologist, nor am I a crusader against the failings of the Church.

     I know people, who are committed apologists, and dedicated crusaders.  I know individuals, who have left the Church in anger, with deep hurt, disappointment, disillusionment, as well as for reasons I may never know, or understand.

     I know them.  I respect them.  I admire them.  I love them.

     Yet, none of that appeases deep...deep sadness this news delivers to my spirit.

     I do not feel anger.  No outrage.  No betrayal.

     Confusion?  Disillusionment?

     No.  Such call for more energy than is mine to give.

     De-baptism.

     Pain.  Deep...deep sadness.

     Baptism.  My own baptism.

     I remember that Day.

     Baptism day.  Sheer terror.  "Wait.  I can't do this.  I don't have all of the answers yet."

     Baptism day.  Sheer terror.  "Wait.  I am supposed to know much more than I do."

     Baptism day.  Sheer terror.  "Wait.  They are going to find out I am a fraud."

     De-baptism.  

     Sadness...deep sadness.

     Baptism.  My own baptism.

     I remember that Day.

     Joy.  Celebration.  An ecumenical blast.

     May individuals, who commit themselves to de-baptism, discover joy--be blessed with celebration.

A Fulfilling Living

     An amazing day.  An amazing week.
     January's ice box has moved into St. Paul today.  Yet, the sun shines.  Nary a cloud in the sky.  Cold hard facts.  I am warming to perfection.
     Monday's moments?
     Personal training.  New swimming equipment identified.  Noodles.  Paddles.  New exercises.  A stronger right hand perhaps?  Volunteering.  Research.  Pay dirt.  Struck gold.  Hit the jackpot.
     Tuesday's treasures?
     Catholic Church reform.  A new council.  The first of its kind.  Supporting researcher.  A witness to history that has yet to be made.  An invitation--a special invitation.  Do you want to share your story as part of a retreat on transition?  Amazing.
     Wednesday's wonders?
     Twenty-one Council members.  Twenty-one life stories.  Twenty-one crafters of a more democratic Catholic Church.  Wonder-filled.  Awe-inspiring.
     Thursday's triumph?  The noodle--the white noodle.  A hand clenched for a lifetime.  Through no fault of her own, my hand clenched tightly nonetheless.  Past efforts to open my clenched hand met with unwilling resistance from a stubborn soul.  There was just no possibility of an Open Hand--Outstretched Fingers, a Strong Wrist with a Firm Grip.
    An Open Hand.  Outstretching Fingers.  A Strengthening Wrist.  A Firming Grip.
    Amazing.  Wonder-filled.  Awe-inspiring.  Simple to some.  Amazing to me.