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.