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.
Showing posts with label anguish. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anguish. Show all posts
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Saturday, April 7, 2012
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.
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.
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?
Friday, December 2, 2011
Fear of the Lord???
The fear of the Lord is the beginning of Wisdom. ...The fear which is the first
step to wisdom is the fear of being untrue to God and to ourselves. It is the
fear that we have lied to ourselves, that we have thrown down our lives at the
feet of a false god.
Thomas Merton. Thoughts in Solitude. (New York: Farrar, Strauss, Giroux): 73
Fear??? I understand a deep sense of awe that, if honored, paralyzes any impulse, on my part, to act unwisely. I understand the deepest of tragedies that emerges when we lie to ourselves--"when we have thrown down our lives at the feet of a false god."
Yet, I cannot reconcile fear with any motivation I might have to act in wisdom. I am not motivated to seek wisdom in the sense of fear that resides in the pit of my stomach.
Is my understanding of fear inconsistent with its common definition--with its derivation? Questions of word derivation lead me to the convenient knowledge the Online Etymology Dictionary affords me. Here is the entry given for fear:
Fear (v.) O.E. faeran "terrify, frighten," originally transitive (sense preserved in archaic I fear me). Meaning "feel fear" is 14 c. Cognate with O.S. faron "to lie in wait," M.Du. vaeren "to fear," O.H.G. faren "to plot against," O.N. faera "to taunt."
Awe, perhaps? Am I shirking moral responsibility, if I opt to live in awe in the stead of living in fear? The Online Etymology Dictionary offers the following offers the following derivation of awe.
c.1300, earlier aghe, c.1200 from a Scandinavian source, cf. O.N. agi "fright," from P.Gmc. *agiz (cf. O.E. ege "fear," O.H.G. agiso "fright, terror" Goth. agis "fear, anguish," from PIE *agh-es- (cf. Gk. akhos "pain, grief"), from base "agh-" "to be depressed, be afraid"...
The overlap between fear and awe surprises me. The sun setting in the northwest sky outside of my home is the best summation of awe that I know.
I have been blessed to touch--to feel--the texture of awe. There is a depth to pain, to grief, and to anguish that calls for growth. I do not seek out pain, grief, or anguish, for its own sake. Yet, when it comes knocking, I must come to the door. I must answer the call.
Yet, for now, I do not know any more than when I first read the passage from Thomas Merton. How do I advocate for my belief, if I cannot articulate it more clearly? I fear I do not know.
Thomas Merton. Thoughts in Solitude. (New York: Farrar, Strauss, Giroux): 73
Fear??? I understand a deep sense of awe that, if honored, paralyzes any impulse, on my part, to act unwisely. I understand the deepest of tragedies that emerges when we lie to ourselves--"when we have thrown down our lives at the feet of a false god."
Yet, I cannot reconcile fear with any motivation I might have to act in wisdom. I am not motivated to seek wisdom in the sense of fear that resides in the pit of my stomach.
Is my understanding of fear inconsistent with its common definition--with its derivation? Questions of word derivation lead me to the convenient knowledge the Online Etymology Dictionary affords me. Here is the entry given for fear:
Fear (v.) O.E. faeran "terrify, frighten," originally transitive (sense preserved in archaic I fear me). Meaning "feel fear" is 14 c. Cognate with O.S. faron "to lie in wait," M.Du. vaeren "to fear," O.H.G. faren "to plot against," O.N. faera "to taunt."
Awe, perhaps? Am I shirking moral responsibility, if I opt to live in awe in the stead of living in fear? The Online Etymology Dictionary offers the following offers the following derivation of awe.
c.1300, earlier aghe, c.1200 from a Scandinavian source, cf. O.N. agi "fright," from P.Gmc. *agiz (cf. O.E. ege "fear," O.H.G. agiso "fright, terror" Goth. agis "fear, anguish," from PIE *agh-es- (cf. Gk. akhos "pain, grief"), from base "agh-" "to be depressed, be afraid"...
The overlap between fear and awe surprises me. The sun setting in the northwest sky outside of my home is the best summation of awe that I know.
I have been blessed to touch--to feel--the texture of awe. There is a depth to pain, to grief, and to anguish that calls for growth. I do not seek out pain, grief, or anguish, for its own sake. Yet, when it comes knocking, I must come to the door. I must answer the call.
Yet, for now, I do not know any more than when I first read the passage from Thomas Merton. How do I advocate for my belief, if I cannot articulate it more clearly? I fear I do not know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)