But...If My Life Was Perfect...

     But...if my life was perfect....
     I would not:
          Be sensitive
          Be compassionate
          Be understanding of other people--of the world around me
          Be flexible in how I approach and accomplish physical tasks
          Be flexible in how I view the diversity of people, beliefs, and cultures
          Be awe-struck by beauty around me
          Be wonder-filled about life within and around me--life distant from me
          Be appreciative of basic human capacities--thinking, and walking, to name a few
          Be attentive to how words are used--how I use words
          Be attentive to how my words and actions affect other people I know and do not know
          Be blessed with a sense of humor
          Be determined to live my life fully
          Be passionate about pursuing my interests
          Be interested in learning every day--each moment--of my life
          Be willing to apologize when I had offended someone else, or stolen someone's dignity
          Be dedicated to fulfilling my human potential, and encouraging others to do so
          Be open to the notion that this list is not complete
          Be baptized...be willing to seek an ongoing living of baptism        
     If My Life Were Perfect, I Would Not Be Human.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Compassion. Read. Consider. Sign. Live.

The Charter for Compassion

The principle of compassion lies at the heart of all religious, ethical and spiritual traditions, calling us always to treat all others as we wish to be treated ourselves. Compassion impels us to work tirelessly to alleviate the suffering of our fellow creatures, to dethrone ourselves from the centre of our world and put another there, and to honour the inviolable sanctity of every single human being, treating everybody, without exception, with absolute justice, equity and respect.

It is also necessary in both public and private life to refrain consistently and empathically from inflicting pain. To act or speak violently out of spite, chauvinism, or self-interest, to impoverish, exploit or deny basic rights to anybody, and to incite hatred by denigrating others—even our enemies—is a denial of our common humanity. We acknowledge that we have failed to live compassionately and that some have even increased the sum of human misery in the name of religion.

We therefore call upon all men and women ~ to restore compassion to the centre of morality and religion ~ to return to the ancient principle that any interpretation of scripture that breeds violence, hatred or disdain is illegitimate ~ to ensure that youth are given accurate and respectful information about other traditions, religions and cultures ~ to encourage a positive appreciation of cultural and religious diversity ~ to cultivate an informed empathy with the suffering of all human beings—even those regarded as enemies.

We urgently need to make compassion a clear, luminous and dynamic force in our polarized world. Rooted in a principled determination to transcend selfishness, compassion can break down political, dogmatic, ideological and religious boundaries. Born of our deep interdependence, compassion is essential to human relationships and to a fulfilled humanity. It is the path to enlightenment, and indispensable to the creation of a just economy and a peaceful global community.

I encourage you.  Please affirm with your name.  Embrace commitments of compassion the charter offers.  Commit to your own.  Share.  Live with, by, and for compassion.

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?

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, 2011
http://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.

     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.

Brain Damage

    I have brain damage.  I am not brain-damaged.  I am not damaged goods.  I am not--I never will be--damaged goods.
     Brain damage.  Since birth.  At birth.
     The doctors to Dad.
     We almost lost her.  We almost lost both of them.  Your daughter's umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck five times.  The oxygen supply to the left side of your daughter's brain was cut off for several seconds.  The left side of her brain controls the right side of her body.
     The doctors to Dad.
     We don't know if she will ever learn to walk or talk.
     [I have walked.  I do talk.]
     How do you hear that and not fall to your knees in awe?  How do you hear that, and not be rendered utterly speechless?

Mermaid Chronicles: Katy Lyons

     In the 1960s, a woman with graying brown hair wrapped in a bun, and horned-rim glasses came into my life.  Each week, Katy Lyons parked in our driveway, and carried a green and black exercise mat to our basement.  For an hour, she stretched my right leg.  Under the pot lights in the basement, she laid the groundwork for a stronger leg on which I could stand.  Katy flexed my right foot, and my right hand.

    With her firm hands, Katy gave me a gift.  A muscular yawn.  To my foot.  To my right hand.  A gift was given--a muscular yawn.  It felt so good.  The muscular yawn came slowly.  Yet, when it came,  oh, it feel so-o-o-o good.

     As any kid, I wanted little part of Mom's directive, "Do your exercises."  Memorable to me was the exercise to sit on the hearth in our living room, and propel myself up to a standing position using my right hand and arm.  Although the exercise felt good when I did it, I bored of it quickly.

     Where is my hearth? 

     This morning, this Mermaid entered the pool at the Y.  Buoyant bar bells, and hand paddles were beyond  temptations I could resist.  The only resistance I felt was from the water.  Amazing.  Absolutely amazing.  With the bar bells, I could push my right arm straight down in the water.  Feeling my right arm extended straight was amazing.  Absolutely amazing.

     Katy Lyons.

     I thought of Katy this morning.  What would she say?  How fun it would be to share it with Katy.  Yet, Katy died in the 1990s.  An occupational therapist I met with several years ago knew Katy.  The therapist and I spoke with warmth about a woman, who dedicated herself to children.  Katy dedicated her life to helping kids stand tall--to stand proud--to stand with appreciation.

     Thank you, Katy.

Zoomer Chronicles: A Door Opens

     Just now, I responded to a survey from Macy's.  I left my name number, and my willingness to address a problem.
     Several months ago, Zoomer and I tried to leave Macy's Department Store.  First, Zoomer had great difficulty navigating the clothing racks that masked the handicap door open button.  Once we found our way through the forest, we wheeled back to the door to exit the store.  Before we could get out safely, the door started to close on us.    
    We were stuck.  I sat there for a bit.  How is the best way to move?
    Slowly and deliberately.  Slowly, I back up.  I press the button again.  We hurry to get back into position.  We got through the door.  But, I was scared. How much I can I trust this door?  How much can I trust this door to get outside?
    I recognize that Zoomer and I have been together since mid-April of this year.  Many, many individuals have navigated these issues for years.
    There is a balance to be found between being frustrated, and seeking a constructive resolution.  I think I am closer to the constructive-resolution end of the continuum.
    Wintertime.  I don't know whether I will move more toward frustrated end of the continuum, or beyond frustration.  Memories of last winter--last winter's snow, particularly--concern me.  I don't know whether I will be able to get out.
   I don't want to become embittered by fear, and be blinded to the glory of a fiery red maple tree.

Honor

     Honor.  Family honor.  Physical honor.  Personal honor.  Honor.
     Mere mention of the word "honor" elicits a call to have good posture--to stand at attention.  To limit our understanding of "honor" does a grave disservice to the word--to everyone involved in Honor's Service.
     I confess, I am guilty of affirming that limited definition.  Yet, recent events and life stages bring honor into question.
     Family crests.  Monuments.  Physical stature.
     None of these words engenders a spirit of forgiveness.  Yet, forgiveness is perquisite.
     Personal honor, and family honor are intertwined.  My counsel of a young man struggling to find his way in the world surprised me.
     How many of us, who are adults, yearned for something our parents did not give us?  Usually, that something is not material, although it well may be.  The form of something is not important.  The revelation of forgiveness is.
    My necessary forgiveness regarded questions that only I could answer by my own life experience.  Why did my peers not understand my disabilities?  Why did they bully me?  How could I stop it?  Those are impossible questions for anyone to answer satisfactorily.
     By nature, I am very hesitant to assert my views--however urgent I feel they are needed--face to face.  I am a coward--a coward's face.  Yet, I feel emboldened by the written word.  Writing allows the reader to absorb my words "in the structure of time," as the young man I speak of might say.
     I am learning to appreciate a different dimension--physical honor.  Never have I heard others mention it.
     Physical honor.  Graceful aging calls us to it.  As babies, we are born with a set of physical capabilities.  Whatever that set may be, it is our starting point.  We take no notice of what those capabilities are.  Why should we?  We have known no other way of living than with that particular set.  We learn our limits by testing them.  All-nighters, weight-lifting--childbirth, perhaps.  Depending on our life circumstances, aging alters that set.  Our permission is NOT required.
     I was born with the set of capabilities, which were described in part as being cerebral palsy, and epilepsy.  That was my starting point.  Seen as having limits, just as any other child, I tested them--believe me, I tested them.  Just ask my therapists.
     I did not understand my limits.  Aging has changed those limits.  Age forty.  Morning stiffness.  Age forty-five. Painful hips.  Strained walking.
     Each new limit called me to respond.  Before I could accept the somethings that were given to me--to my aging body--I had to take a very different action.  To my left hip, and my right ankle, I needed to forgive  them for the service they could not give to me.  I needed to forgive myself for yearning--for demanding--that  my left hip and right ankle could give me no more.
   Cognition of my body parts' service to me was and remains essential.  Acknowledgment.  I abused my body, such that some of my body parts are wearing out.  Vigilance.  Ever I must re-cognize  my body's service.  Ever, I must acknowledge--confess--to any abuse I may be inflicting on my body for selfish reasons--for vanity.
     A brace.  An electric wheelchair--Zoomer.  Forgiveness of my parents for being human--forgiveness by my temperamental child self.
    My counsel to the young man was a question.  Have you ever considered that you need to forgive your parents for not giving you what you yearned for-for what they could not give you?  Have you ever considered honoring what they have given you?  Have you considered honoring that they have given is everything that they know to give you?
    Honor.  Standing at attention?  No, not physically.  Honor.  Attending to the gifts that have been given.  Forgiving what has not been--what could not be--given to you by your parents?
    Honor.  Family honor.  Physical honor.  Personal honor.  Honor.

You Inspire Me

     "You inspire me."  
     I have heard that statement made in regard to me, and to other individuals.  I seek understanding.  No  longer am I the fierce person I was once.
     I am a lover of words--a lover of language.  I covet proper usage, or so some may say.  I live undeterred. 
     I wonder.  I ask the lover of words within me, "What are the roots of inspire?
     Cassell's Dictionary of Word Histories offers definitions vital to our contemplation.
     Inspire--a transitive verb meaning to stimulate a person to action, especially creative action.
    Transitive.  What does transitive mean?
     Action passing from a subject to an object; having a direct object.
     Verb.  What does verb mean?
      A word used to describe an action, state, or occurrence, and forming the main part of a sentence, such as ashear, become, happen.
     These definitions are basic, yet essential to our reflection.
     Definitions are the introduction to full understanding.  Definitions frame the questions requisite to full understanding.  Full use of inspire demands attention to four questions.      
     1. Do I live with integrity?
     2. Do I commit myself to be worthy of action inspired by the action of another human being?
     3. Am I willing to act upon the stimulation another individual offers me?
     4. Am I willing to be the direct object of another person's action?
     The definition of terms are basic, yet vital.
     Inspired action is not action for action's sake--obligatory action.  Given the choice between obligatory action and no action, no action is preferred.
     Inspired action is possible.