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."
Showing posts with label admiration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label admiration. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Saturday, March 24, 2012
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?
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.
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.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
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.”
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.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
A Changing of the Guard
This week, a pronounced changing of the guard came clearly into view. Two lives--two people--who have given me immeasurable strength were changed. One by illness. The other by death.
Sunday. Imminence. Foreboding.
How is it possible to owe more to someone than your life? I don't know how. Yet, I do.
Sunday morning. A voicemail system flashes the unnerving red signaling a call missed.
A quart of blood lost. Unknown cause.
Wednesday. Tests done. A relatively clean bill of health. With equal parts exhaustion, and relief, she returned home. Yet, a huge toll has been taken on her. Physically. Emotionally. Psychologically.
Wednesday. A gentle soul died. Not before living very fully for many years. Not before giving me, and many others, strength from his weakness. Not before teaching me, and others, how to live quiet dignity.
Thursday morning. A never-before heard call. A call to offer my hour's swim in thanksgiving to him--for him. Unfamiliar though the call was, the message was clear.
Friday. The quart of blood lost to the woman to whom I owe my life, and so much more, is being restored more slowly than it was lost.
My sense of imminence--forboding--has been calmed. Yet, the strength has passed to me to offer. The time for me to offer something back for all of the strength she has offered to me for more than a lifetime is now.
What will my offering be?
Sunday. Imminence. Foreboding.
How is it possible to owe more to someone than your life? I don't know how. Yet, I do.
Sunday morning. A voicemail system flashes the unnerving red signaling a call missed.
A quart of blood lost. Unknown cause.
Wednesday. Tests done. A relatively clean bill of health. With equal parts exhaustion, and relief, she returned home. Yet, a huge toll has been taken on her. Physically. Emotionally. Psychologically.
Wednesday. A gentle soul died. Not before living very fully for many years. Not before giving me, and many others, strength from his weakness. Not before teaching me, and others, how to live quiet dignity.
Thursday morning. A never-before heard call. A call to offer my hour's swim in thanksgiving to him--for him. Unfamiliar though the call was, the message was clear.
Friday. The quart of blood lost to the woman to whom I owe my life, and so much more, is being restored more slowly than it was lost.
My sense of imminence--forboding--has been calmed. Yet, the strength has passed to me to offer. The time for me to offer something back for all of the strength she has offered to me for more than a lifetime is now.
What will my offering be?
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Dr. Richard Owen
Richard R. Owen M.D.
Owen, Richard R., MD Age 83, died December 11, 2011. Preceded in death
by his parents, John and Ethel Owen; step- mother, Helen "Pat" Owen;
brother, John; and sister, Margaret. Survived by wife, Amy; sister, Suzy
Brickley; daughter, Marnie; sons, Rick (Ann), and Don (Meg); grandchildren,
Lauren Lusk (Jeremy), David Jacobs, David, and Rebecca; as well as many other
relatives. Richard was a doctor of physical medicine and rehabilitation who
practiced in many area hospitals and clinics. Before retiring, he was Medical
Director of Sister Kenny Institute. He enjoyed wheelchair athletics as a
participant and medical examiner. He served on the board of, and went on many
trips with, Wilderness Inquiry. A celebration of his life will be held at First
Unitarian Society of Minneapolis, 900 Mount Curve, Minneapolis at 2 PM on
Saturday, December 17, 2011. Memorial contributions can be made to the Sister
Kenny Foundation, First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis, or Wilderness
Inquiry.
Published in Star Tribune
from December 14 to December 15, 2011http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/startribune/obituary.aspx?n=richard-r-owen&pid=155035415
A gentle man. Wise. Knowing. Far-sighted.
Dr. Owen was my physical rehabilitation medicine doctor in the 1960s. At my first visit--before my first memory, he said, "Stand her up. How far can your daughter walk?"
"Don't you understand? She can't do that! Don't you understand?" my outraged mother exclaimed.
He stood up, transferred his brown, walking cane, and stepped forward. He understood. Polio met this doctor as a teenager. Wise beyond his years, Dr. Owen understood.
From my first memory, Mom and I went to see him to monitor the progression of my cerebral palsy, and identify courses of action we could take. For my part, I met his reflex hammer with a kick in his face. A grateful soul.
"Don't you understand? She can't do that! Don't you understand?" my outraged mother exclaimed.
He stood up, transferred his brown, walking cane, and stepped forward. He understood. Polio met this doctor as a teenager. Wise beyond his years, Dr. Owen understood.
From my first memory, Mom and I went to see him to monitor the progression of my cerebral palsy, and identify courses of action we could take. For my part, I met his reflex hammer with a kick in his face. A grateful soul.
Dr. Owen did not practice medicine. He gave medical care. Practical experience--living with polio since he was a teenager. He was in his 40s, when I received his care.
Dr. Owen knew the terrain of physical rehabilitation--not from a laboratory, but, from real life.
He was at peace with himself--with his life. He was not aggressive. He was affirming--with his manner, with his care. Dr. Owen understood the geography of disability. Without calling attention to "handicap," or "disability," he directed his energies toward how to live as fully as possible.
Dr. Owen earned the requisite schooling to be certified a medical practitioner. With little fanfare, and unwavering trust in his own life experience, he offered personal, medical care.
Thank you, Dr. Owen. Thank you.
Dr. Owen earned the requisite schooling to be certified a medical practitioner. With little fanfare, and unwavering trust in his own life experience, he offered personal, medical care.
Thank you, Dr. Owen. Thank you.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Betty Ford
Oh, gosh. Betty Ford died today.
My heart skipped a beat--sank--upon reading that former First Lady Betty Ford died today at the age of 93. She served in office--as the First Lady--when I was a teenager. Several years after my grandmother died of breast cancer--at a time when breast cancer ravaged the spirits of women, whose tissues it invaded--Betty Ford gave voice to the disease.
Betty Ford was not an abrasive woman. She abided by the expectations of her generation. She lived the realities of a demanding political life--the wife of a long-time U.S. Representative. She raised four children. She did not do so begrudgingly. She was not seeking a career beyond her young family. Her public career--her sphere of influence--would be broadened beyond what could have been imagined by anyone, thanks to the Ford family entry into the nation's history.
Yet, at the same time, Betty Ford was hardly a spineless wallflower. In the best sense of the word, Betty Ford was an opportunist--a graceful opportunist. She took her life experiences--her personal challenges--and transformed them into sources of help from which others so challenged could find practical help, and personal strength. Just as Betty Ford was the face of a country learning how to articulate what Gloria Steinem, and others advocated--women's rights. Betty Ford was comfortable giving voice to uncomfortable social realities of our time together--marijuana, addiction, premarital sex, and abortion, among others. Betty Ford gave a face--literally--to putt
Obituaries, and memorials offered for individuals, who have died recently--Betty Ford, can seem maudlin. Yet, maudlinness survives only when we fail to ignite in our spirits the essence of Betty Ford in our own lives. How did we know her? When did we meet her? Did Betty Ford give voice to values--issues--of import to us? Did Betty Ford teach us anything about ourselves--about our world?
My heart skipped a beat--sank--upon reading that former First Lady Betty Ford died today at the age of 93. She served in office--as the First Lady--when I was a teenager. Several years after my grandmother died of breast cancer--at a time when breast cancer ravaged the spirits of women, whose tissues it invaded--Betty Ford gave voice to the disease.
Betty Ford was not an abrasive woman. She abided by the expectations of her generation. She lived the realities of a demanding political life--the wife of a long-time U.S. Representative. She raised four children. She did not do so begrudgingly. She was not seeking a career beyond her young family. Her public career--her sphere of influence--would be broadened beyond what could have been imagined by anyone, thanks to the Ford family entry into the nation's history.
Yet, at the same time, Betty Ford was hardly a spineless wallflower. In the best sense of the word, Betty Ford was an opportunist--a graceful opportunist. She took her life experiences--her personal challenges--and transformed them into sources of help from which others so challenged could find practical help, and personal strength. Just as Betty Ford was the face of a country learning how to articulate what Gloria Steinem, and others advocated--women's rights. Betty Ford was comfortable giving voice to uncomfortable social realities of our time together--marijuana, addiction, premarital sex, and abortion, among others. Betty Ford gave a face--literally--to putt
Obituaries, and memorials offered for individuals, who have died recently--Betty Ford, can seem maudlin. Yet, maudlinness survives only when we fail to ignite in our spirits the essence of Betty Ford in our own lives. How did we know her? When did we meet her? Did Betty Ford give voice to values--issues--of import to us? Did Betty Ford teach us anything about ourselves--about our world?
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Seventy Times Seven
I hear Jesus speaking to Peter more often than I remember at earlier times in my life. Peter asked Jesus how many times he had to forgive someone who had sinned against him. Seven times? Jesus says, "Seventy times seven." Forgiveness worthy of her name needs to be repeated whenever her name is called to serve.
Jesus is not admonishing me to forgive someone, who has sinned me. Rarely do I think in those terms with regard to other people. I listen to The Lord's Prayer to attune myself with how I am abiding by the call to forgive other individuals in my life.
Jesus stands by me, as I whisper, "this isn't fair." What? Quiet, solitary moments in the bathroom, and in bed, my ankle asserts herself. "Don't be quite so proud of your accommodations to me." I want to share my whisper, that she does not rule my spirit
. Cleansing, and restful moments may not be sacrificed. Give me time. Jesus forgive me, as you call me to forgive not a person, but, my intimate--my ankle. It is not an it. My ankle is a she. My ankle is worthy of my love, my care, my respect, my care. My ankle--she--is a partner in my life. I may not neutralize her by reducing her to the state of it--the state of material goods in my possession.
She has rendered a lifetime of service.
I revel in the accommodation to her weakness....
Several days later, I am not as hurt by her pain. We will enjoy traveling the accommodating path together...swimming, discovering a program with a personal trainer to map out the most accommodating path--not a medicinal, but, a forgiving path.
My ankle calls me now, yet, in years to come, my ankle's sisters and brothers will plead with me to stop calling them It, and treat them as my intimates.
Marking--celebrating--51 years of life today, I am evermore aware of the eternal forgiveness that Jesus spoke of. I am called not to be forgiving of my ankle seven days a week. I am called to forgive each member of my body's family.
Am I really that different from anyone else in Jesus call to forgive our intimates--our aging intimates--seventy times seven? Just a thought.
Jesus is not admonishing me to forgive someone, who has sinned me. Rarely do I think in those terms with regard to other people. I listen to The Lord's Prayer to attune myself with how I am abiding by the call to forgive other individuals in my life.
Jesus stands by me, as I whisper, "this isn't fair." What? Quiet, solitary moments in the bathroom, and in bed, my ankle asserts herself. "Don't be quite so proud of your accommodations to me." I want to share my whisper, that she does not rule my spirit
. Cleansing, and restful moments may not be sacrificed. Give me time. Jesus forgive me, as you call me to forgive not a person, but, my intimate--my ankle. It is not an it. My ankle is a she. My ankle is worthy of my love, my care, my respect, my care. My ankle--she--is a partner in my life. I may not neutralize her by reducing her to the state of it--the state of material goods in my possession.
She has rendered a lifetime of service.
I revel in the accommodation to her weakness....
Several days later, I am not as hurt by her pain. We will enjoy traveling the accommodating path together...swimming, discovering a program with a personal trainer to map out the most accommodating path--not a medicinal, but, a forgiving path.
My ankle calls me now, yet, in years to come, my ankle's sisters and brothers will plead with me to stop calling them It, and treat them as my intimates.
Marking--celebrating--51 years of life today, I am evermore aware of the eternal forgiveness that Jesus spoke of. I am called not to be forgiving of my ankle seven days a week. I am called to forgive each member of my body's family.
Am I really that different from anyone else in Jesus call to forgive our intimates--our aging intimates--seventy times seven? Just a thought.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Right Questions...Proper Fines...Rehabilitation...
I confess that I am not a huge sports fan. I listen for human profiles--human insights--within sports.
This week, National Basketball Association [NBA] player, Kobe Bryant was fined $100,000 for uttering a racial slur at a referee. NBA President David Stern imposed the fine to convey that the NBA was a family-friendly form of entertainment that would not endorse such behavior--such attitudes. Criticism has been made regarding the amount of the fine in proportion to the player's annual salary.
I pose a different question regarding the offense, and its corresponding fine. What impact would the imposition of fines have if they required community service relevant to the offense? Adjustments to the ratio of the fine to the offender's income should be implicit in sentencing standards, or fines assignments standards.
Community service seems like an easy way out--a soft sentence to impose. Yet, it does not need to be, if properly imposed--properly administered.
In the justice system, sentencing is supposed to be commensurate with the proven crime. Unanimous agreement does not exist regarding the definition of commensurate. However, that is no excuse for pursuing a definition.
What might commensurate community service be? First, it must be based on positive actions to lessen the occurrence of relevant offenses, in this case, hate speech. Second, three groups must be identified.
First, to what group, or organization is the offender accountable. Is it a sports team? Is it a professional association? Is it some other institution?
Second, who were the people incriminated? Children? Colleagues? Adults? Others?
Third, to whom is the offender a role model? Children? Parents? Pet owners? Teachers? Religious leaders? Others?
Fourth, what might some commensurate community service be for an athlete?
Speaking to fans at games at a pre-determined time within the game, and for a specified time period--once in each city played during the season? Speaking to recruits during the training season for the sport involved?
These are just two ideas. I am not beholden to them. My intent is to spur thought.
In the U.S. judicial system, there are federal sentencing guidelines, which have been established to ensure consistency, and definitions of commensurate. It seems that other organizations might take a cue from the U.S. judicial system.
Kobe Bryant is not the first, nor the last athlete to engage in hate speech. His offense can be a teaching moment for everyone--the news spotlight is on, and it is up to us to use it.
This week, National Basketball Association [NBA] player, Kobe Bryant was fined $100,000 for uttering a racial slur at a referee. NBA President David Stern imposed the fine to convey that the NBA was a family-friendly form of entertainment that would not endorse such behavior--such attitudes. Criticism has been made regarding the amount of the fine in proportion to the player's annual salary.
I pose a different question regarding the offense, and its corresponding fine. What impact would the imposition of fines have if they required community service relevant to the offense? Adjustments to the ratio of the fine to the offender's income should be implicit in sentencing standards, or fines assignments standards.
Community service seems like an easy way out--a soft sentence to impose. Yet, it does not need to be, if properly imposed--properly administered.
In the justice system, sentencing is supposed to be commensurate with the proven crime. Unanimous agreement does not exist regarding the definition of commensurate. However, that is no excuse for pursuing a definition.
What might commensurate community service be? First, it must be based on positive actions to lessen the occurrence of relevant offenses, in this case, hate speech. Second, three groups must be identified.
First, to what group, or organization is the offender accountable. Is it a sports team? Is it a professional association? Is it some other institution?
Second, who were the people incriminated? Children? Colleagues? Adults? Others?
Third, to whom is the offender a role model? Children? Parents? Pet owners? Teachers? Religious leaders? Others?
Fourth, what might some commensurate community service be for an athlete?
Speaking to fans at games at a pre-determined time within the game, and for a specified time period--once in each city played during the season? Speaking to recruits during the training season for the sport involved?
These are just two ideas. I am not beholden to them. My intent is to spur thought.
In the U.S. judicial system, there are federal sentencing guidelines, which have been established to ensure consistency, and definitions of commensurate. It seems that other organizations might take a cue from the U.S. judicial system.
Kobe Bryant is not the first, nor the last athlete to engage in hate speech. His offense can be a teaching moment for everyone--the news spotlight is on, and it is up to us to use it.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
If I Could Change One Thing...
"Why didn't you tell me that Rosa has cerebral palsy?"
I sat down beside her and take a deep breath. "I was going to."
"But why didn't you?"
I don't really know where to begin on this. It's been a feeling more than a rational thing, but it's true. I haven't wanted to mention it.
I shake my head. "Rosa and I write notes in class."
"So?"
"So...I didn't talk to her at all before I lost my leg. I ignored her. But now..." I lift my backpack and zip open the smallest pouch. "Sometimes she writes things." I pull out my growing collection of her notes. They're little scraps, half sheets, strips. It's a mess, really. It looks like a small pile of garbage.
"You keep them?" she asks.
"I don't really know how to explain it." I sift through the notes. "She has a way of..."
I look up at Mom. "It's like she opens my eyes."
Mom considers this a moment. "Can you give me an example?"
I'm sifting through the notes again. "Here," I say, pulling one out. "She asked me, if you could change one thing, what would it be?" I look up from the note. "Not a wish; it had to be something real."
"And what did you say?"
"That I could run again. But, when I asked her the same thing, she said"--I turn to the note--"That people would see me, not my condition."
The Running Dream by Wendelin Van Draanen
No. Jessica and Rosa have are missing the point. Rosa gives the easy answer--the answer you would expect.
If asked, "Patty, if you could change one thing what would it be?" I would offer a slightly different answer. For a lifetime, I have tried to offer my answer, yet, my words have not conveyed my convictions.
If I could change one thing, it would be that people would see themselves in me, and not my condition as an entity separate from them. I give a form to facing human vulnerabilities. I mean no threat. My vulnerabilities are visible. Others may not be visible. Yet, they are equally worthy of being surmounted.
If I could change one thing, it would be that each of us would see ourselves in one another, and seek for ourselves, and others the best that we may be. May we be courageous enough to face our vulnerabilities--our shared humanity.
I sat down beside her and take a deep breath. "I was going to."
"But why didn't you?"
I don't really know where to begin on this. It's been a feeling more than a rational thing, but it's true. I haven't wanted to mention it.
I shake my head. "Rosa and I write notes in class."
"So?"
"So...I didn't talk to her at all before I lost my leg. I ignored her. But now..." I lift my backpack and zip open the smallest pouch. "Sometimes she writes things." I pull out my growing collection of her notes. They're little scraps, half sheets, strips. It's a mess, really. It looks like a small pile of garbage.
"You keep them?" she asks.
"I don't really know how to explain it." I sift through the notes. "She has a way of..."
I look up at Mom. "It's like she opens my eyes."
Mom considers this a moment. "Can you give me an example?"
I'm sifting through the notes again. "Here," I say, pulling one out. "She asked me, if you could change one thing, what would it be?" I look up from the note. "Not a wish; it had to be something real."
"And what did you say?"
"That I could run again. But, when I asked her the same thing, she said"--I turn to the note--"That people would see me, not my condition."
The Running Dream by Wendelin Van Draanen
No. Jessica and Rosa have are missing the point. Rosa gives the easy answer--the answer you would expect.
If asked, "Patty, if you could change one thing what would it be?" I would offer a slightly different answer. For a lifetime, I have tried to offer my answer, yet, my words have not conveyed my convictions.
If I could change one thing, it would be that people would see themselves in me, and not my condition as an entity separate from them. I give a form to facing human vulnerabilities. I mean no threat. My vulnerabilities are visible. Others may not be visible. Yet, they are equally worthy of being surmounted.
If I could change one thing, it would be that each of us would see ourselves in one another, and seek for ourselves, and others the best that we may be. May we be courageous enough to face our vulnerabilities--our shared humanity.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Courage. Bravery. Heroes.
The words "courage," "bravery," and "heroes," re-present themselves through the stories in the Tuscon Shootings tapestry.
Never have I been comfortable with any of these three words. Yet, others gravitate toward them--blare them proudly from a megaphone. Why do I shun the words? Why do others claim them worthy of admiration?
Courage.
Twelfth century Old French defined courage as, "heart, innermost feelings; temper."
In my humble opinion, to laud any human being as a hero serves only one purpose. "A hero" is an excuse not to aspire to living beyond ourselves--beyond what we imagine we of ourselves.
Bravery.
In the 1540s, the French braverie was defined as "daring, defiance, boasting." I doubt that bravery is used today intent on conveying boasting.
In the 14th century, hero was defined as "man of superhuman strength or courage." By virtue of the 14th century definition, it seems impossible for any human being to be a hero. How is it possible to be super-human?
To laud any human a hero serves nothing but a selfish purpose. A hero prevents any of us from striving for--aspiring--more than what we imagine we might be capable of being.
Bravery. Courage. Hero.
We have yet to embrace a word that nurtures a curious spirit committed to learning, and exceeding what any one of us has accomplished yet today.
I have resisted admiration for precisely the same reason. Yet, my view has change. I feel deep admiration--a quality that in no way is encapsulated in deep respect, or deep regard. I have been given deep admiration for my family, my friends, and my life. Deep respect, nor deep regard do not go deep enough to embrace the fullness admiration offers.
So, I continue to search. Deep respect is the pathway to deep admiration.
May deep admiration be the journey toward a companion more worthy than a brave, courageous hero. May we admire deeply--may we be admired deeply--for the companions we may be on this journey.
Never have I been comfortable with any of these three words. Yet, others gravitate toward them--blare them proudly from a megaphone. Why do I shun the words? Why do others claim them worthy of admiration?
Courage.
Twelfth century Old French defined courage as, "heart, innermost feelings; temper."
In my humble opinion, to laud any human being as a hero serves only one purpose. "A hero" is an excuse not to aspire to living beyond ourselves--beyond what we imagine we of ourselves.
Bravery.
In the 1540s, the French braverie was defined as "daring, defiance, boasting." I doubt that bravery is used today intent on conveying boasting.
In the 14th century, hero was defined as "man of superhuman strength or courage." By virtue of the 14th century definition, it seems impossible for any human being to be a hero. How is it possible to be super-human?
To laud any human a hero serves nothing but a selfish purpose. A hero prevents any of us from striving for--aspiring--more than what we imagine we might be capable of being.
Bravery. Courage. Hero.
We have yet to embrace a word that nurtures a curious spirit committed to learning, and exceeding what any one of us has accomplished yet today.
I have resisted admiration for precisely the same reason. Yet, my view has change. I feel deep admiration--a quality that in no way is encapsulated in deep respect, or deep regard. I have been given deep admiration for my family, my friends, and my life. Deep respect, nor deep regard do not go deep enough to embrace the fullness admiration offers.
So, I continue to search. Deep respect is the pathway to deep admiration.
May deep admiration be the journey toward a companion more worthy than a brave, courageous hero. May we admire deeply--may we be admired deeply--for the companions we may be on this journey.
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