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.