Mourning A Body--My Body

My left hand is my life's blood.  It is the vehicle I use to craft words, the tool I use to live.  My right hand has never served me.  She never will.  I know that.  Blame is not for me to assign.  Anger is not mine to wield.  My right hand has never served me as others' have.
This week, a gradual diminishment--a lifelong fear--came to a head.  I made progress to the outer world.  Not by others misassigning it.  I didn't misassign it either.  Rather, I rallied the consolation I need.
A mere appointment for hand therapy, hand x-rays, and a neck MRI did not deliver this week to me...not alone.
Every 18 months or so, I receive a questionnaire to reauthorize my long-term disability insurance.  A formality perhaps.  Yet, this time it hit me hard--it hits me in the gut.  She pulls no punches.
I have forgotten the sound of my left hand's voice propelling me up out of bed in the morning.  Did she ever speak?  Have I lost my hearing?  Am I deaf to her call for help?  How long has she--how long have they--been gone?
Did I abuse my left had so much--with such bravado--that I have lost her forever?
Will remorse...a contrite heart...a confessing of my wrongful pride...be enough that my hand may be entrusted to my service?
Voicing that thought through my still-working fingers is embarrassing.  Am I losing dignity as I stand aside of my body?
I hold on for dear life in the bathtub as I pull my body to a standing position after bathing myself.  Will this be the time I will lose my grip and fall?
The time for contrition has come...a shower/bath bench.  I have looked from afar.  This week's questions--the questions are served by only one answer.  I confess a bit of vanity remains.  With Amazon.com's hand to hold mine, soon I will be the proud owner of a reasonably-priced teak shower/bath bench.
I mourn a body--my body.  Is it mine to blame?  Is it mine to wield anger at because it is not serving me.
I must serve my body regardless of how it serves me.
Thirty-two years ago I was baptized--I joined the Catholic Church.  Through friends, I learned it was more than possible to blend intellect into faith into my being.  Skeptics to that blending asked, "But...resurrection...that just doesn't make any sense!  Do you believe in resurrection?  Do you believe in The Resurrection?"
I did not know I did not understand what words to utter.
Time has passed....years have elapsed....life has changed me...life has changed my body....much over many years has made now sense at all.
Do I understand resurrection?  Do I believe in resurrection?
No.  I must.  I am a woman of faith, I am a woman of hope.  I am a woman of love.  I am a woman of belief.
Do I understand The Resurrection?  Do I believe in The Resurrection.
No.  I breathe seeking to believe what I do not understand.
I mourn a body--my body.  I mourn a bath--the loss of a bath.  I was always a woman of a shower.  So, why am I mourning?  I seek understanding that has yet to be delivered to me.
I mourn a body--my body.

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.

The Spirit of Accountability

     Last night, I tuned into a newscaster new to my ears.  Recommended by someone close to me, I was in search of new insight regarding disturbing broad generalizations made in the political arena.
     I knew my general view of the generalizations--generalizations about the 47%.  Yet, I wanted to be enlightened--dissuaded from my outrage.
     In general terms, the newscaster affirmed me--my stance regarding the 47%.  However, I was turned off, literally, by one simple word.
     "Idiots."
    Describing individuals with an opposing views as "idiots" is beyond my threshold for tolerance.  Name-calling does not give the necessary credence to any opinion, belief, or perspective.  I abhor name-calling.  I abhor it.
    Whenever challenged by beliefs, or opinions contrary to my own, I seek insight--I seek enlightenment.
    I hold decision-makers, and journalists in high esteem.  Hyperbole and sensationalism are excessive for my taste.  Yet, I will not lower my standards--my expectations--because of the lowest common denominator too often displayed.
    I am the daughter of a retired accountant.  Though retired, my father's value of being accountable remains strong--in him, and in me.  Far beyond financial accountability, forever in my memory, he has worked to advance adherence to ethical standards--professional ethics, and basic, human ethics.
    During 2012, I have been immersed in Catholic Church reform work.  Ethics--accountability--of words and actions is primary.
    Some may say I take too personally what is uttered in public.  I do not hold myself out to be injured by words spoken, or actions taken.  Yet, I must--I am called to--take personally the words of political candidates, and journalists.  Can you tell me, what am I too offer, why am I here, if not to offer my personal experience to my words, and my actions?  Why?
    I will not tolerate the broad strokes of 47%.  I will not abide by "idiots" in public discourse.
    Though other issues, and factors lead me to vote otherwise, I hoped the Republican nominee for President might listen to his wife's words--to his wife's life experience.  Interviewed during the Republican National Convention, Ann Romney spoke of living with multiple sclerosis.  She said:
    "You don't know, 'how much is it gonna chew me up and spit me out? ... How sick am I gonna get? Is this going to be progressive? Am I going to be in a wheelchair? Am I, you know, gonna lose all function?
     There's this huge unknown. And it's a very, very frightening place to be.' "
     Ann's words stick with me.  The newscaster's words stick with me--his characterization of his political opponents, "idiots."

     Where is the accountability?  Where is the spirit of accountable--to Ann, to the 47%, to journalistic seekers of truth, and enlightenment?  Where?

     Living by anything short of a spirit of accountability is sheer cowardice--sheer cowardice.

Corpus Christi. Mystery. Corpus Christi.

     Corpus Christi Sunday is celebrated in the Catholic Church today--the body and blood of Christ.
     I feel truly blessed by the faith community I celebrate Mass with each Sunday.  We are more than a physical structure....more than a scheduled time each week.....more than rote recitation of words....more than obedient people...more than repeated rituals shared each week....
     We are faith-filled.  We do celebrate.  We do celebrate.  We do celebrate Mass.  We do gather each Sunday. We do have a physical structure where we meet each week.  We do recite words we have heard many times.  We strive to obey--our prayerful, communal conscience, if not always that which other deem worthy of obedience.
     I confess.  I am drawn most to the Word when I enter the experience of Mass.  Throughout all aspects of my life, since I was a child, I felt most drawn to words.  Today's celebration of Corpus Christi drew me beyond the words into the experience of the celebration.  Words were the invitation to which I responded today.
    "Lent is a time when we empty our guilt, so as to enter into the fullness of the celebration of Easter."  Those were the homilist's words that spoke to my ears.  Quickly, I grabbed my pen to capture that essence.  All too familiar with the tipping of my mental wheelbarrow of short-term memory, my pen was the savior I sought.  My pen is the tool I grasp hold of to nail moments of grace to my long-term memory.
     Yet, in that moment, I was struck by the sin of squashing grace, or being so arrogant as to think I could preserve that moment for posterity.  Putting my pen away, trusting that what I need to remember I will remember, freed me to be graced by so much more.
    The four music ministers led us in singing liturgical music of celebration.  Guitar.  Piano.  Drums.  Four-part harmony.  Many times, I have seen the faces, heard the words, and the music.  Yet, this morning, I was graced with mystery.  Hearing--truly hearing--the four different parts--soprano, alto, tenor, and bass--of the musicians led me to mystery of wonderment.
     How is it that four individuals open their mouths and produce four different notes that produce such harmony?  Science may explain it, yet, it does not explain the wonder of the moment--the mystery of the experience.
    Spontaneous signing of Mass music by a woman, who lives with Asperger's Syndrome, was shown to my eyes.  No hearing impairment.  No rote recitation of words.  A simple expression of the words coming to her ears.  A personal response in tune with the singing voices of others.
    I have served as a minister of Word--as a lector.  I have served as a music minister,  though both were many years ago.  I have never served as a Eucharistic minister.
    This morning, the choreography of the Eucharist--the celebration of our human tapestry of gifts--was given to me.  I emptied myself of the words, and my eyes were opened to the diverse gifts of our faith community.  Our individual gifts stream to the front of the sanctuary to the hands of our priest, and his ministers of bread and wine.
    Corpus Christi.  Mystery.  Faith.  Body.  Blood.  Grace.  Word.  Music.  Corpus Christi.

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.

Prayer...It Makes No Sense to Me...

      On April 25, 1982, had you asked me, "what does prayer mean to you," I would have said, "Lord Make Me an Instrument of Thy Peace," "The Hail Mary,"  and "Peace be with You." 
     Formulated.  Off the Rack prayers ready for those wanting to wear religion on their sleeve.
     Not quite.  I had--I have--a deep love for each of those prayers.
     Without knowing his name, The Prayer of St. Francis, St. Francis was introduced to me by a Christian choir director in junior high school--in a public school, no less, much to the chagrin of my parents.  A Christian--not a Catholic--choir director.
     Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
     Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
     Where there is injury, pardon;
     Where there is doubt, faith;
     Where there is despair, hope;
     Where there is darkness, light;
      And, where there is sadness, joy;
      Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console.
      To be understood as to understand.
      To be loved, as to love.
      For it is in the giving that we receive.
      In the pardoning that we are pardoned.
     And, it is in the dying,
     That we are born to eternal life.
     My maternal grandfather--Ray, a man who abhorred anything Catholic--would be horrified to hear me say so, yet, his inheritance to me, "Don't feel sad when I die, I have made amends with everyone [with whom] I had differences," reaffirmed what St. Francis told me.
      Prayer.
      It makes no sense to me.  Words that speak such truth.  Words--it is in the dying that we are born to eternal life--far from affirmed in my childhood home, in my family--speak such truth to me.  It makes no sense.  Yet, they are true.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Catholic Church Reform: What Is It?

     Catholic Church reform.  What is it?  What should it be?  Who decides?  Who should decide?
     What is it?
     Hot button issues come to mind.  Women's ordination.  Married clergy. Liturgy--lay involvement.  Liturgy--inclusive language.
     These are valid, worthy issues central to Catholic Church reform.  Yet, in defining what it should be, dangers need to be identified--dangers to effecting reform.
     Herd mentality.  Rote support of hot button issues.  Rote support of advocates, who can speak the loudest.
     I write cognizant of time's luxury, which long-term disability affords me.  I write cognizant of my time's responsibility--God's time to me.  I must not squander that precious time--that precious responsibility.  Were I to squander, I would aggravate the problems--the issues--I sought to address.
     Who decides?
     "Church Hierarchy!" is the rallying cry of church reform campaigns.  Yet, hierarchy, to some degree, is necessary for the advancement of any organization's issues.  In the extreme, anarchy is hierarchy's adversary.  Effective Catholic Church reform lies somewhere in the middle.
     Catholic Church Reform.  Who decides?
     I know my place.  I make no submissive cry to avoid responsibility.  No.  I know my place.  I have been asked to help clarify issues.  Research.  Write drafts of recommendations.  Listen.  Heed direction of individuals who will make recommendations based in part upon my research.  Revise. Rewrite.  Submit.  Listen.
     I have tremendous respect for the knowledge, experience, convictions, and beliefs of the individuals I will work with.  I pray that I will nurture and maintain that same level of respect of and for each individual I meet.
    I pray that I will seek a broad understanding of the people, issues, organizations, and perspectives within the catholic church.  I pray not to imprison myself within the popular positions on hot button issues just to do so.  Already I sense myself doing just that.
   Catholic Church Reform.  What is it?
   It is not for me to define in isolation.  For now, I shall act as a squirrel might.  I shall gather nuts--food for thought--for the work ahead--nuts that may sustain me.  Websites.  Blogs.  Publications.  These are but three of the nuts I gather for the exciting, daunting, scary, exhilarating, unknown journey ahead me--ahead of us.

Being a Follower

     I have never considered myself to be a mindless follower.  The appointment of a priest new to our parish community last July put that to a test.  I was not familiar with the priest by name, although most everyone else seemed to be.  I did not know what to expect.

     Fears before the appointment were that a very conservative priest would be assigned to our parish community.  I did not engage myself in the fear.  I had a choice.  I vetoed the worship of doom. I feared the tailspin such engagement might engender in me more than I did the appointment of a conservative priest.  Not for any high-minded reason.  I could not afford to do so.

     The tension between fear and physical health is greatly underrated.   Physical calm.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Physical calm. 

     With the July, 2011 announcement all fears were allayed.  So would seem the end of the story.  The liberal...no...the spirit of engagement--engagement of the mind, spirit, and Body--would continue.  Case closed.

     Well...not so fast...

     The priest joined the community--the priest became pastor to our community.

     Whew!  We are safe.

     Well...not so fast...

     Symbolic of the affection for the new priest is a woman, who was a member of the previous parish to which our priest pastored.  Some refer to her as a "groupie."  I have not met her.  I know little more than the back of her head.  Yet, she came in hopes of hearing the words, and receiving Holy Communion from this priest.  After she satisfied that hunger, she left.  Or so it seems.

     It is easy to scorn her.  Tempting to say, "Move forward.  Welcome the priest, who pastors your parish now."

     Well....not so fast...

     Hospitality is not closing the door on someone on the basis of geographic boundaries.  Our parish is enriched immeasurably by the geographic diversity that is the fabric of our community.  

     The "groupie" puts a question to me, "Are you listening to all of his words, and attending to all of his pastoral actions?"  Or, "Are you getting up, walking out, and closing your ears and eyes to what you do not want to see or hear?"

    It is tempting to do nothing more than "Like" what he, or anyone else in the Church, or community might say, in order to be in good standing.  Yet, I find myself trying not to end with a Like link click, but, trying to begin with the Like link, and seeing where it leads me.

     Where do I take it?  What do I do with it? 

September 11...1948

     An oft-ask question is, "How will you be commemorating September 11th?"
     I commemorate September 11th with my life.  You see, on September 11, 1948, my parents were married.  While others commemorate the attacks on the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and on Shanksville, Pennsylvania, the people lost, the first responders--I celebrate the wedding of my parents in 1948--63 years ago.
     I commemorate September 11th--with the pursuit of peace and understanding among people--each day.  How?  A cliche? No.
     Among people is not a nebulous term.  I pursue peace and understanding with each individual I meet, know, and love each day.  I am not a Pollyanna.  Not everyone shares my views and preferences on issues and matters large and small.
     I do not claim myself to be a proud American.  I wave no flags.  I wear no pins.  I parade no routes.  I do get choked up on Election Day--on- and off-year elections just the same.  I do get choked up on Inauguration Day.  Party matters not to me.  I am not a proud American.  I am a committed world citizen.
     By definition, I am no patriot--I am not patriotic.  I devote my energies in search of peace and toward understanding, rather than in defense of America, and seeking vengeance, or being vigilant against acts of terror.  I prefer to be vigilant for acts of peace.      
     I seek peace each day with each individual I meet that day.  I seek not complete agreement.  I seek understanding.  Different views, different preferences--different perspectives--invite me to deeper understanding.
     Seeking peace--seeking understanding--is not grandiose.  Peace and understanding are my daily aspirations--one person, one day at a time.
     I commemorate the peace and understanding that was married on September 11, 1948.  Happy 63rd anniversary, Mom and Dad.  Thank you for your example of love--your commitment to peace.

A New Beginning...

     This week, I joined in welcoming a priest new to our faith community--Cabrini.  This celebration was a first.
     In 1982, I accepted an inviting admonition, "Don't leave your mind outside the door of the church."  Contrary to the admonition, and to my desire to abide by it, I did not know what I was doing intellectually.  I was petrified of being discovered a fraud--a fraud for not being able to articulate what I was seeking.
    I have been blessed by involvement in four communities in 29 years.  An interloper.  A parishioner.  A member.  An engaged witness.
    A college campus faith community.  Deemed too liberal--radical--by some.  Captivating to me.
     Raised to value pacifism, I found a community--a weekly celebration--in which, "Peace be with you" was the ever faithful invitation extended to all who entered.  I sat.  I questioned.  I wondered.  I graduated.
    The only "parish" church--a very traditional, old French church.  At home in spiritual geography.
    The priest memorable to me--an Irishman with a welcoming spirit--Father Philip McArdle.  Though at home in geography, never did the spirit of that church community reside in my heart and soul.  I single and 20ish.  They married and 70ish.  Yet, what I treasure of that time was Father McArdle's endearing words, "Children of God." No tones of condescension tempered his words.  "Children of God" were filled with a spirit of wonder--loving wonder--unjaded by adult cynicism.  Long since forgotten details of my differences with Father Philip.  The gift.  The differences.  They were present--they were real.
     Moved by differences, I joined the thoughtful tradition of John Henry Cardinal Newman.  For 11 years, a member--the Newman Center.
     Students came and went.  I listened.  The Gospels--all spiritual readings and reflections I was fed.  Established traditions cradled others, were still new to me.  Priests came.  Priests went.  Yet, no sense of welcoming any priest new to our community pierces my memory.  I was an attendant member, not a faithful worshipper.
     I entered the Catholic Church long after Vatican II closed.  The Church I entered was far different than the Church others close to me left, or so I sense it was.  I never walked in their shoes--never donned their Ojibwe moccasins.  I was churched a Universalist--a parental evolution from pre-Vatican II, less engaging worship to a more intellectually-challenging fellowship.  They left, I entered.  They seeking intellectual challenge.  I answers to long-held, inarticulable questions.
     Friends faithful to the Church--the hierarchy, the dysfunctions--left.  Yet, leave?  A spiritual cavern beyond my surmounting.
    The hierarchy closed my thoughtful haven.  Some balked.  I searched.  I found.  Welcomed, I found a new home.
    Cabrini.  Celebration.  Faith.  Engagement.  Passion.  Cabrini.

    Eleven years hence, hierarchy visits our home--my new home.  No closing.  A transfer of priests.  A priest new to my home of faith.  Others knew of him.  Yet, none of us knew him.  For the first time in 29 years, I welcome a priest new to me.  Together, I join others in welcome. 

    An interloper.  A parishioner.  A member.  An engaged witness.  A new beginning....What next???  An advocate. ... Whatever it may be, a new beginning...  

Hope...Understanding...

My child seeks hope.
My child seeks understanding.

For a lifetime,
I have sought hope
Hope of understanding
Understanding much.

My child sought understanding.
What is cerebral palsy?
What is epilepsy?
My child sought understanding.

My child sought understanding.
How do I stop the teasing?
If you give me just the right words,
I know I can stop the teasing.
My child sought hope.

My child seeks understanding.
What can I say?
What can I do?
Give me the magic words.
My child seeks hope.

My child seeks understanding.
This was given for some reason.

Don't tell me to ignore this.
Don't tell me I must ignore a part of myself.
Don't tell me to sacrifice myself.
Is that really the secret to understanding?
I do not understand.


Is the price of your love
That other people must be wrong?
Is the cost of my love that other people are wrong?  


This day, may we love  freely.
In our diversity, may we all be worthy.

Boredom. Deny. Fear. Befriend. Boredom

     Boredom.  Boredom? Yes, boredom.  Well, that doesn't sound very interesting.  Humor me.  Tell me whether hours of sleeplessness regarding a family member was the breeding ground for worthwhile insight.
     I know three people who are at different stages of their careers, who are facing boredom's reality.
     Two years ago--a lifetime ago now--my health ended a 24-year career, which was boredom's intimate. Not a constant intimate, but, an intimate, nonetheless. 
     When my career ended, my family doctor gave me excellent advice.  Get up at the same time every day.  Find something that you are interested in, and go to it as though it was your full-time job.  Though my doctor had not known me long, he did know that I was reasonably intelligent--he knew that I thrived on  intellectual stimulation.
     Of the three individuals, my influence over them varies.  I am not a confrontational person.  My default behaviors are compassion, and empathy.  I am uncomfortable being over in relation to anyone in my life, so, by that standard, I do not have influence over anyone.  I might strive to be the compassionate, yet, straightforward friend a mentor of mine is.  He does not volunteer his opinions--his judgments--readily, or with any fanfare.  Yet, if I seek out his counsel, he is honest with me, not polite and proper, but, straightforward and caring.
     The young man needs the most guidance.  He yearns for excitement.  He goes one step beyond fearing boredom in potential jobs he might secure.  He denies that boredom is a possibility.  If he denies boredom's possibility, then it will not be.  I would make a lousy mother.  I am too wishy-washy.  I want to offer the example of my life, rather than risking the rejection that a more confrontational approach might render.
     The second individual--a woman--is in the middle of her working career.  She understands the realities of the work world.  She has worked in jobs that were boring--jobs that did a grave injustice to her gifts.  Yet, she understood the basic need to be self-supporting.  Or, so I thought.  Extended unemployment has nurtured an idealism that, at other times might be healthy.  Yet, there is a time in one's career--when seeking employment--when serving as an outraged citizen advocate usurps the energy necessary to find employment.  This woman fears boredom.  She remembers its omnipresence in her work life.  She has discovered social justice--advocacy--as a realm within her reach.  Yet, her fear of boredom has the opposite effect that she wants.  She wants to pursue advocacy.  Yet, her resistance to the necessary boredom in aspects of gainful employment will distance her from the social justice she yearns to pursue.  Her eroding self-confidence is the price she is paying for her fear.
     The third individual--a woman--is in the late stages of her working career.  She is boredom's intimate.  Not a constant intimate, but, an intimate nonetheless.  She does not fear boredom.  She does not deny boredom out of fear.  She befriends boredom.  She has a tremendous threshold for boredom that many overlook--she is not a woman of fanfare.  She has flair.  She has creativity.  But, she is not someone who draws attention to herself as being some poor soul.  She lives life fully.  She pursues her passions.  She treasures people.  She is a loyal friend, and is marvelous to her family. 
     Were I more courageous, I would shake the young man, and the first woman, so that I might rid them of their fear, and denial.  Of the second woman, I need little courage to offer my support.  Yet, I fall short.  I know that I am not faced with the work world.  No longer do I need to worry about finding a job, or changing a job.  During the many years I was in the work world, I denied boredom.  I feared boredom.  I befriended boredom.  Never did I surmount boredom as I want to chastise the young man, and two women for not surmounting.  So, I find it difficult to chastise the three individuals for a standard I could not uphold.
     No longer am I in the work world.  I am working in a different world--creating a post-work world life.  Funny.  You might think that being freed of imposed boredom would be replaced by days of constant excitement.  I don't know what that is.
   Gradually, I am trying to put together elements of what I enjoy, what is necessary, and what I may do to serve other people.
    What do I enjoy?  
    Writing.  Online research.  American history--New England, specifically.  Genealogy.  Letter writing.
    What is necessary?  
    Physical exercise.  Swimming.  Being outside.  People--being in circulation with other people.  Being in community with a worshipping community that celebrates life, death, and all that is possible with the same exuberance.
    What may I do to serve?
    Identify organizations needing the skills, abilities, talents, and gifts I have been given to share with those in need.  Challenge people I know to live up to their potential.  Offer my life--my discoveries--with friends, family, neighbors, and worshipping community--fellow believers.  Be open to the lives of my friends, family, neighbors, and worshipping community--fellow believers.
     This is the structure of a new life.  Much remains to be identified.  I don't think I am alone in striving to create this new life--to recognize boredom, acknowledge denial, confess to fear, and befriend boredom, all in the hope of surmounting boredom.  I confess I have a long way to go.  I have forgotten what it is I want to do.  I am not sure if that it is denial, fear, or both.
     Boredom.  Deny.  Fear.  Befriend.  Boredom.

A Declarative Act of Living...A Defiant Part of Speech

     Make today a declarative act of living, not a defiant part of speech.
     These words were given to me on April 14, 2011, when I took ownership of a red Invacare FDX-MCG.  After hours of labor that enabled me to have a power wheelchair, I struggled.  I did not want to be victim of--a victim to--FDX-MCG.
     I am a woman of words.  I need clarity as my advocate.  FDX-MCG hardly fits the bill.
     Make today a declarative act of living.
     A declarative act is an expression of faith--a belief of what can be, if I will it.  Faith begins in prayer. I pray.  I believe it may be.  I will it. If it be, I pray.
     Do not be mistaken.  A declarative act of living is not a guarantee of a life as I want it to be.     
     Will.
     Will the faculty of conscious and especially of deliberate action.  Will is quite different from defiance.
     Not a defiant part of speech.
     Defy.  Defiant.  Defiance.
     Defy--to challenge the power of; resist boldly or openly; to challenge (a person) to do something deemed impossible.
    Defiant--boldly resistant or challenging.
    Defiance--a challenge to meet in combat or in a contest.
    Most of my life--before knowing how to do otherwise, and long after I was old enough to know better--I have lived in defiance.  I defied expectations of surgeons, "she may never walk or talk," the expectations of educators, "if I were to guess, I would say she might be mentally retarded," and occupational therapists, "here are exercises to help you to learn to use your right hand."
    As my Dad has said, "We didn't if you would learn to talk, but, once you started to talk, we didn't know if you would stop talking."  Though never a stellar student in graded terms, I did graduate from college, then, I completed graduate school.  There need be no apology for my life's story.  Only if I do not share it must I apologize.  Only if I share it will I ever learn.
      Long before graduate school--long before learning to speak--I defied the best-intentioned expectations of occupational therapists.  Carefully planned exercises--customized to my needs--were blown to smithereens.  Honestly, it was so long ago--I do not know if I could know, if I could remember.  How did I perform the assigned tasks with just one, and not two hands.  My intent was not defiant.  My act was.
   Throughout my life, if driven by nothing else, I am driven to excel-lence by, "I don't think you can do that."  "Do you want to make a bet."  Yet, such defiance comes at a heavy price.  I lived an act of defiance.  My body crumbled under its load.
     Far better than any dose of defiance is a measure of will. 
     I do not know the precise content of my acts--of my living.  I do know that I can not live under the destruction defiance delivers to my soul.  
     Make today a declarative act of living, not a defiant part of speech.

Failed Attempts...Gifted Moments...

     From the moment I woke up this morning, this was a day of failed attempts--or so it seemed.
     Never setting an alarm does not mean that I value schedules any less. 7AM.  That is my awakened perfection.  Pills.  News.  Shower.  Pack.  8:15 to 8:25.  Enroute to the Y. 8:45 to 9AM. In the pool. 9:45AM to 10AM.  Out of the pool. One hour of vigorous swimming.  No calculated laps.  No.  Intentional right leg kicks and right arm strokes.   10:20 AM to 10:40 AM. Enroute home.  E-mail message review.  Writing.  Explore potential adventures with Zoomer.  Two hours outside with Zoomer.
     Yet, I work hard not to pressure myself to abide by those guidelines.  I admit, it is completely counter-intuitive, as was much of today.  I set the guidelines precisely to guide me, not to dictate when, what, and how I breathe--how I live.
     In 2009, years of pressuring myself to abide by someone else's standards for me came to a head.  In and of themselves, the standards were and are reasonable, and essential.  Corporate benchmarks.  Anticonvulsant drug prescriptions.  Essential.  
     In 2009, my life changed radically.  My body.  My nervous system.  I could not live in accord with essential.  My body--my nervous system--would hear nothing of it.
     At 49, I rebuilt my life from the ground up.  New drug dosages.  Physical therapy.  Occupational therapy. No written lists of appointments whatsoever.  I needed quiet time.  I knew what needed to be done.  Yet, my nervous system was reeling from years of sensory overload.  I needed no reminders of how I was not measuring up to expectations--even my own, especially my own expectations for myself.
    Ankle surgery.  A new leg brace.  An electric wheelchair.
    No news...no debate about health care reform.  The hyperbole hit a raw nerve.  No one said, "I commit myself to making decisions rooted in the conviction that none of us is guaranteed that we will wake up tomorrow morning with the same capacities we have when we go to sleep tonight."
     Years of education did not teach me to listen to my body--to submit myself to my body's wisdom.  Hold less in my left hand.  Respect my left hand--the irreplaceable value she contributes to my quality of life.  Break down laundry into much smaller loads.  Grasp nothing more than what my left hand tolerates.  No more of this throwing everything together.  No more putting one load of laundry in the dryer at the same time I put the previous load from the washer into the dryer.  Reasonable to most people, yet, my nervous system felt overloaded by not completing the one task--the one load--before starting the next load.  It was unreasonable to my nervous system to expect more of it than it could handle.  Yet, that is precisely what I did for years.  To have done otherwise would have meant conceding to the helpless, incapable person I felt others would see me to be.
    Attend to my ankle.  Step gently.  Alleviate walking's burden.  Alleviate walking's pain.  Preserve my ankle.
    With time, I rid myself of toxins that poisoned my essence.  Hostility.  Career potential unfulfilled.  I relinquished a nebulous, yet, grandiose ambition of advocacy.  Somehow I could save people from themselves--from their attitudes.  With a laser, I could extract prejudices regarding disabilities, and people who have them.   Or, so I thought.  I could rid the world of all prejudice, if only I used the right words.  Or so I prayed.
     With time and patience, I have added simple elements into my aging body to create a new life.  Not perfect.  Not idyllic.  But, a new life, nonetheless.
     Swimming.  Writing.  Volunteering.  Crossword puzzle solving.  Corresponding.  News.  Hyperbole censored without guilt.
     Family.  Friends.  Faith community.  Neighbors.  Acquaintances.  Doctors.
     Challenges loom.  Medicare.
     Questions remain.  What next?  Wintertime mobility?
     Failed attempts.  My knee jerk reaction.  Yet, all my life, contrary to the belief of loved ones, I believed that each difficulty has its lesson to be learned.  Each challenge has its gift to present.  I do not consult my astrologer to schedule my actions--to choreograph my life.  Yet, I have no doubt that what happens in my life is no mistake--each moment in my life is a gift to be lived.

Zoomer Chronicles: Mapping Out a New Life

     Zoomer and I set out today to explore the southeast quadrant of Downtown St. Paul.  I am not delusional.  Downtown St. Paul, in toto, is small in geographic terms.
     St. Peter.  Wabasha.  Cedar.  Minnesota.  Robert.  Jackson.  Temperance.  Sibley.  Wacouta.  Wall.  Broadway.  Eleven blocks from west to east.
     Eleventh.  Tenth.  Exchange.  Ninth.  Eighth.  Seventh.  Seventh Place.  Sixth.  Fifth.  Fourth.  Kellogg.  Eleven blocks from north to south.
     Within these eleven west- to east-bound streets, and within these eleven north- to south-bound streets are a myriad of adventures.  The precise quotation escapes me,  yet, one sidewalk inscription said it best.  Essentially, it compared walking a dog with love.  There is a whole world out there to explore.  I will return to that quote in the sidewalk...once I remember its precise location:)
     Intersections.  Fifth and Sixth Streets are both parallel, and perpendicular.  I kid you not.  Twists and turns.  Light-rail transit construction.  I-94.  I-35E.  The Mississippi River.  These are the boundaries of Downtown St. Paul.  Yet, the question remains.  How far may I push the envelope--how far may I push myself beyond the geographic boundaries of Downtown St. Paul?
     This is not grandiose.  This is not the stuff of graduate coursework.  This is not the stuff of climbing the corporate ladder.  I achieved academic goals.  I worked in state government, a large corporation, and with an individual over a period of 27 years. Never did I approach the lowest rung on the corporate ladder.  That is the past.  Character building, to say the least.   But, that is the past.  It must be.  I cannot let any unharnessed frustration or anger steer me off course.  I may not know the direction I am to head, yet, I cannot allow any anger or frustration steer me off course from my journey.
     Now I am called to live a different life.  What does it look like? I am not sure.  We have a new map.  Now,  Zoomer and I must begin using it.  We must discover our new address.  That is my choice. Today. That is my choice.
     The geographic boundaries in which Zoomer and I travel are the framework of a different life--a life I am carving out for myself now, and for the future.  This is not brain surgery.  Yet, the only way I may know how to operate in this new life is to travel its arteries--breathe its air.  So desperately, I want to encourage friends and family to do the same in their varied lives.
      I do not have a vision for my friends, and family, any more than I understand what it is that I am supposed to live.  I do have faith in them--faith in their potential.  I do believe--understand--with every ounce of my being, that college graduation, release from prison, and unemployment are all times when lifework needs to be mapped out.
     Frustration--anger--channeled is a sign of hope.  Frustration--anger--unharnessed is a squandered opportunity.