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.

At Arm's Length--Or--Take to Heart

     A fortuitous nightmare awakened me to the installation of Pope Francis I.  A moment before me--before my eyes--a moment before the eyes of the world.  The moment is now.
     Pope Francis I touched me--touched the world--with the Hand of Jesus.  He held a baby.  He went to a man unable to come to him.
     Some spoke of--whispered "the economic"--the Poor, the Weak, the Vulnerable--as others within view safely from an arm's length.
     Others speculate whether this is The Moment when administrative mismanagement within the Catholic Church will be cleaned up--whether church management will be made transparent.  Management in the Vatican.  Management in local dioceses.
     Still others ask whether this is The Moment when the Catholic Church will move into the twenty-first century.  Will the Catholic Church embrace married priesthood?  Women's ordination.  Same-sex marriage.
     I shall work--continue to work--with those dedicated to Church Transparency.  I shall work--I shall continue to work--with those dedicated to moving the Catholic Church in the twenty-first century.
     I like others are elated--surprisingly elated.  Yet, I pray of This Moment differently.
     I pray.
     May We embrace This Moment--This Franciscan Moment.
     May we embrace not just the economically--the socially--Poor--the physically Weak, and the Visibly Vulnerable.
     May we embrace our Inner Poverty, our Unifying Weakness, our Inescapable Vulnerability.
     May we not hide under the Guise of Heroism--the Cry of Pity--at those Stronger or Weaker than we see ourselves to be.
     Are you--are We--up to the task of embracing this Franciscan Moment?
      I pray.  May we open our arms to Pope Francis I--to this Franciscan Moment.

Bravery...Courage...Cowardice...

     I honor the men, women and children spoken of in recent days with regard to the Newtown, Connecticut.  I honor--I write to illuminate the true meaning of bravery, and courage.  This is not long held by me, rather, it is only inspired by the Newtown school shootings--by Robbie Parker, the father of Emilie Parker, a six-year-old girl, who was shot in Newton, Connecticut.
    Bravery.  Bravery is a vehicle by which a human being moves on a journey through loss, grief, challenge, or other life transition.
   "Bravery" is not--should not be--a crowning glory that serves to separate human beings from one another due to life circumstances.  Though some of us may have experiences more in common with some individuals, none of us has identical life experiences.  Yet, each of us does share with one another the experience--the gift--of being human.  We are called to share that gift.
     Too often, "bravery," and "courage" are spoken of in terms of flag waving, and throne- or perch-sitting.  I see it differently.  Finally, I see it differently--with clarity.
     When we laud those who have been in the military, we say, "the brave men and women in service or in the service.  Yet, we do not carry that over to our everyday civilian lives.  Service or the service is a commitment to a communal advancement of shared goals.
     Courage.  Courage is a personal attribute that fuels our vehicle--our bravery.  Without the initial drive we would be stuck--forever stuck--in our grief--in our loss.
     The choice, if you can call it that, not to embrace courage and bravery is to remain stuck--to fail to develop, nurture, and share the gifts we have been given.  Are we really willing to live in complete isolation, be it literal, or figurative, because we are too timid--too cowardly--to do the work necessary to free ourselves?
     I pray not. I dare you.  Be driven by courage.  Be moved by your own bravery.  Be inspired by others, but, do not use their bravery as a substitute for your responsibility to embrace--to engage in--your expression of bravery--your willingness to be driven with courage to acts of bravery.   

Criminals' Acts...Wasted Lives...

     Theater 9.  Aurora, Colorado.  James Eagan Holmes.  Alleged Criminal.  Criminal Acts.  Wasted lives.
     Engrossed in news coverage of the Aurora Shootings, some say they do not want to focus on Holmes.  They want to put the spotlight on the lives of the 12 individuals who died.
     Yes.  By all means.
     As of July 21, 2012 at 3:58:  The Denver Post reports the names of  Veronica Moser, Jessica Ghawi, Alex Sullivan, Matt McQuinn, Micayla Medek, John Thomas Larimer, Rebecca Wingo, and, on air, CNN reported A.J. Boik, and Jesse Childress.  In coming hours--in coming days, more names will emerge--more profiles shall emerge.  Read and listen to those coming names and stories, in coming days.
     For now, I offer to you a question--a response--that haunts me.
    What is the motivation--what possibly may explain such horrendous acts?  What a wasted life.
    What an excruciating extinguishment of human potential. Extinguishment of the crimes' commissioned subjects--extinguishment of the human potential of the crimes' commissioners.
     The commissioner.  A wasted life.  Extinguished hopes of what might have been.  Condemnation to a barred life--a mental hospital, a prison, an lethal injection, or an electric chair.  What a wasted life.
     Some spew anger.  Damn him to the acts he committed.  Inflict upon him an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.  Some forgive, the person, if not the act.
     Some pray.  We are called to pray.  Some for the commissioned.  Others for the commissioner.  All are called to pray for both--the commissioned, and for the commissioner.
     How may we speak--how may we act.  How may we dedicate ourselves to learn from--commit ourselves to a positive response to such horrendous acts?
     How?  We must.

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.

My Way to be Christian

The Weapon...I am a Christian....the rest of the world be damned...
Have you accepted Christ as your Lord and Savior???
Do you have all of your questions answered???
The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...

The Instrument...I am a Christian....the rest of the world be peace-filled...
I know what Christ teaches about how to save myself and the world.
I listen...I question...I challenge the call to conform...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be peace-filled...

The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world will peace-filled...
I live by Christ's words...I speak the words Christ speaks to me...
I live with Christ's heart...I act with Christ's hear...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...

The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...
Have you joined Minnesota Citizens Concerned for Life...
Do you respect all of life...or do you respect only the life as you conceive it should be...
The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...

The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
I breathe Christ...
I respect life that differs from me...I am strengthened by differences in my life...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...

The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
I am an instrument of thy peace...
Where there is hatred, I sow love...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...

A Shared Ride into the Unknown.

This week, I saw
An intimate--not of my body,
An intimate of my life.

Ravaged.  Robbed.  Quaking.  Troubled.  Resigned.  Disturbed.
Ravaged steadiness.
Stolen dignity.
Quaking confidence.
Trembling, troubled--disturbed--future.
Resigned.

Our causes differ.  Our training--our preparation--from God differs.
Yet, we share an aimless search for the moving targets.
Parkinson's Disease....Osteoarthritis...
They differ in landscape.

Yet, they share--we share--
A roller coaster ride.
Not a steady demise from the sure footing of youth,
No, we share
An unknown ride on a track with hidden, unscheduled twists and turns.

We share a ride
Toward an unknown destination,
At an unknown arrival time.

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?

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?

Changes of Worship

     In college, my political science advisor instructed us to begin with the primary source documents, rather than secondary analyses on any given subject.  He was not dismissive of the value secondary sources provide.  Yet, he advised that any quest for information begin with primary source materials.
     Such might be said of the upcoming revisions to the Catholic Mass.   Deafening analysis of the changes is being given before the changes have been implemented.
     Much is being spoken of the changes that will take place in the Catholic liturgy, before we have an experience of how we will live the changes.  Honestly, I do not know what it will mean to live the changes.  I do not have the requisite experience to reflect on how change of the Mass I celebrate will change me.
     Will it damage me?  Will it diminish my spirituality?  Will it destroy me?
     Liberals are quick to say that religious conservatives, who hold on to the words, and practices of the past, are damaging, diminishing, and destroying the Catholic Church by their resistance.  I question that.  Rather, I wonder.  As a liberal, is there any room within the upcoming changes to enrich my spiritual life--to enrich our communal spiritual life?
     I was raised by a father, who experienced rote Catholicism.  I entered a Church far different from the one he left.  Since 1982, I have been blessed by a wide variety of vibrant faith communities.  The closest I came to the Church my father left was my time at a small, traditional Catholic parish several blocks from my home.  Although I did not experience vibrancy in much of my time there, I remember with fondness the gift the Irish priest gave each Sunday.
     Father Philip nurtured in me a personal bond to God.  How?
     Children of God, was his invitation.  I shudder to think of the foundation I had, when I met him each Sunday.  Any intellectual foundation I might have had needed to be instructed--seasoned.
     Father Philip's beaming smile, and his deep faith were his invitations.  His deep faith was his prayer for mercy.
     Forgive us of any skepticism--distrust--of the motives of other people.
     Those were not his precise words.  Yet, that was the message that I heard.
      I did not embrace many of his words.  Most of what he said is lost to my memory.  Yet, I treasure the personal bond he nurtured.
     People of God.
     I needed years of instruction, much seasoning, before I was worthy of being invited to, "People of God."

     I remember earlier experiences going to Mass on campus.  I was deeply moved by the weekly exchange, "Peace be with you."

     It took me many years to be comfortable with the fullness of the exchange, "May the peace of Christ be with you."  My faith--my understanding--was not deep enough to extend myself in that manner.  I needed tremendous mercy before I was able to affirm, "May the Peace of Christ be with you."
     A friend, who was a child during the 1950s, and embraces the Catholic Church that Vatican II has nurtured, offered a telling observation.
     "Well, it is back to the 1950s."
     I do not have the credibility that living in the 1950s Catholic Church affords.  I pray her words may be an invitation, rather than a eulogy.
      I do not know what her experiences were.  I was born in 1960.  I was raised as a Universalist, some say Unitarian.
      With that said, I pray.
       May we listen to the words we utter.  May we breathe the changes that will be ushered into the Catholic Mass.  May we exhale the cynicism that some meet the changes.  May we come to the changes attentive to the nuances they might offer to us.
     I am not an apologist for the changes that Advent will bring.  I do not know enough to be so.  I welcome the challenge to discover the nuances--to uncover the pearls of wisdom--that the changes might offer.

A Mermaid's Tone

     Muscle tone.  Not of a body builder.  Muscle tone.  A Mermaid's Tone.
     I hope for it.  I will it to be.  I pray with fervor that it be--all mine.  Yet, hope, will, and prayer are not God's promise to me.  Yet, I must hope.  I must will it.  I must pray.
     Arms arise skyward.  Into the pool's water they plunge.  Alternating.  One, then the other, as oars in a river's current.  From my shoulders, this mermaid's oars are anchored.
     Arms outstretched.  Wrists pulled together.  With the force of a magnet, their cymbals clash.  With a strong will, her wrists resist the temptation of a lifelong embrace.  The force of her forearms cry out.
     "Strengthen me.  Use me.  Believe in me.  Do not waste my muscles.  Use me.  Do not will my muscles to be withering, dying willows.  Use me.  Teach me to reach outward--to branch out-- to blossom  in full glory."  
     The Mermaid's biceps believe.  Though not her eyes, the Mermaid's biceps believe in the vision--A Muscle's Tone.  With their tissues, the biceps connect the oars to the force of the forearms.
     The Mermaid's calves circle on the water's unicycle.  On her back, she floats.  The Mermaid's ankles pedal.  Her feet flutter.  The Mermaid's thighs push toward a toned spirit.  Not atrophy.  The Mermaid paddles toward a Muscle's Tone.
     I seek not the strength of the Bodybuilder.  I am the Mermaid.  I seek the strength of a Muscle's Tone.  No boorish bravado do I seek.  I seek a softer strength.  Not submissive.  Not boastful.
     I am a Mermaid.  I seek a Mermaid's Tone.

Stop Bullying: Speak Up Pledge

We all have the power to stop bullying by getting involved and performing simple actions that can make a difference in others' lives.  Together we can create a community that is committed to ending bullying.  So join me in taking the pledge to Stop Bullying:  Speak Up today.
                          Stop Bullying:  Speak Up pledge
                          http://www.facebook.com/stopbullyingspeakup
     I urge you to take the Stop Bullying:  Speak Up pledge today.
Whether it be with children, teens, adults--whatever the age--our words matter.  It does NOT matter whether  or not we know the individuals.  EVERYONE deserves basic, human respect.  Suicides have resulted, and self-respect damaged over feelings regarding sexual orientation, disabilities, and appearance, to name a few, that have been used as justifications for bullying.  Please take this pledge.
     Expedite necessary action. First, press http://www.facebook.com/stopbullyingspeakup.  Second, press the Take the Pledge icon.  Third, add your name.  Fourth, press the Like button.  Identify yourself as a teen or an adult.  Share the Stop Bullying:  Speak Up pledge with your friends.
     Further action may be taken, if you so choose.  First, you may add a Comment to your Pledge Signature.  You may join groups of others concerned.  Other options are offered on the Stop Bullying:  Speak Up  Facebook page.
     Most powerful are the words you speak--the words you tolerate.   Actions you take--actions you tolerate matter as well.

Comfort the Afflicted...Afflict the Comfortable

     Comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.
     This paradox troubles me. It has for a lifetime.  Yesterday, I heard the phrase in church.  I felt squeamish--I feel squeamish.  What did I do? Nothing. I left the church, and went about my business.
     I was called to return that message--literally.
     "Patty, will you call him?  He is scared," I was told.  The fear--the short-term fear--was with due cause.  Yet, there is a longer-term trepidation that need not be.  So, what was I to say?
     Comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.
Easy.  Offer comfort to his immediate circumstances--unnerving acts of nature.
     Comfort [verb] [with object] make (someone) feel less unhappy; console:  help (someone) feel at ease; reassure.  http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/comfort?region=us
     That is easy.  Comfort resonates with the daily aspirations I have.
     Yet, comfort is only half of what I am being called to do.  Comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.
     Economic dependence.  Complacency toward changing that dependence.  Finding a first job after college.  Fear.  Trepidation.  These are at the core of what I am being called to address--in every sense of the word.
     Comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.

     How, in concert with my principles, and values, am I supposed to respond?  Understand--understand the definition of terms.
     Afflict verb [with object] (of a problem or illness) cause pain or suffering to; affect or trouble. http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/afflict?region=us

     Afflict violates every principle I believe in, and aspire to conduct my daily life.  At least, that has been my approach toward the word.
     If I am being called to afflict the comfortable, then what choices does the afflict offer me to choose?
     Cause pain to.  Cause suffering to.  Affect.  Trouble.
     The first two options are not in concert with my values.  I would never knowingly inflict physical or emotional pain or suffering on anyone, especially a loved one.  I cannot, in good conscience, even consider it.  I understand the impact both may have.  I cannot be a party to effecting those consequence.
     Trouble is more nebulous to me.  I find it hard to quantify trouble, either positively or negatively.
If asked to place the four elements of afflict on a continuum, with the most egregious on the left to the most palatable on the right, I would draw the following continuum.  At the far left would be cause pain.  The next element would be cause suffering.
    The first two elements are relatively close to one another.  The third element would be further to the right--trouble.  On the far right of my continuum would be affect.  If I accept affect, it completely changes my understanding of afflict.  Somehow, it takes the emotional sting I have abhorred whenever I heard the word.

     If asked to identify my modus operandi, when it comes to affecting or seeking to affect people or causes, it is storytelling.  My maternal grandfather was a tremendous storyteller.  He shared marvelous stories about his life.  He was accessible to me, having lived with my family when I was in high school.  Ray was certainly not Catholic, nor liberal politically.  Yet, he instilled in me the value of telling stories--sharing personal history.

     I started this posting not knowing what action to take.  I knew or knew of several facts.  First, comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.  Second, I was called to comfort the afflicted--literally.  Third, I was called to afflict the comforted.  Fourth, I had a relationship to provide context to any comfort or affliction I might choose to act upon.. Finally, I was a coward in risking myself to provide needed help.  My loved ones have risked themselves to improve my life--to save me at times when I have been without knowledge of how to help myself.  I can, should, and now have taken several actions.  I do not know how they will be received.  Yet, my offerings were--are--genuine, honest, and well-intended. 

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.

Epilepsy Chronicles: The Other Side

      I turned the corner.  Sixth and Cedar Streets.  The 14B bus stop.  I have arrived.  1:30 P.M.   I am ready.  A 2 P.M. appointment with my college adviser.  My purpose?  To enroll in a pastoral ministry program.  I am prepared.
     As I round the corner, a man in his mid-60s is struggling to stand up an unresponsive woman from the ground.
     "Is she having a seizure?" I ask.  I know the answer.  I need my question's time to marshal strength.
     Is she having a seizure?  I think she is having a seizure.  This is strange.  Not unfamiliar, but strange nonetheless.  Never have I been on this side of a seizure.
     I grabbed the older man's arm firmly.
     "She seems so helpless.  Are they ever going to get here?" the man cried plaintively.
     "Let the woman sit here on the bench.  The police are on their way.  I know it seems like a long time...
      You have no idea how much I understand...the time warp...I understand...seconds seem like minutes...minutes seem like hours...I understand...believe me, I understand.
     Several minutes later, help arrived.  Finally, help has arrived.  She will be safe now.  The paramedics arrived.  She will get medication in her bloodstream immediately--anticonvulsants.  They will minimize recurrence of such seizures.
...
     Moments later, the 14B bus arrived.  I was off to meet my college adviser.  I was off to explore enrolling in a pastoral ministry program.
     I boarded the bus.  I sat down.  Suddenly, tears came streaming down my face.  I lost my composure completely.
     My witness at the bus stop was no accident.

Claiming Dreams and Ambitions

    Brian Lamb, the co-founder of C-Span has interviewed many authors.  For a lifetime, I have held writers in high esteem.  I treasure words--the crafting of precise ideas.  Only now am I discovering the opportunity to write.  I have waited to be inspired.  Discipline was not part of that inspiration. No longer working, and physically stronger, I am discovering the opportunity to write more fully.
   Frequent to those interviews are several questions.
   When do you write?
   I craft words during a very special hour.  Between 9AM and 10AM, I stroke and massage the words--the phrases--that bring my ideas to life.  The time is new.  The swimming is well-established in my day's rhythm--incomplete if I miss a beat.  Disciplined in writing, I have yet to be.
Balance between discipline and multitasking I
    How do you write?
    Committing words to a concrete form--be it paper, or computer is changing.  Creation of living, breathing phrases, and ideas flow in the water.  I pray--I threaten--that my short-term memory honor my words--my ideas.  As fleeting as a butterfly--a kite in a March breeze--a pen and pad must be at hand, or at least deposit slips, if paper is nowhere to be found.  As I strengthen my arms, and legs, so too, I sharpen my mind.
    How do you write, in what form?
    Given a choice--long-hand or computer--I take both.  Longhand is my bed's luxury.  A legal pad, a Zebra F-301 black pen.  Perched on my bed, my back against a maroon bedrest.  Longhand before the day has started, as the day ends.  Underneath my cozy mauve blanket, and my white down comforter.  Socks on to warm my cold feet.
   How do you write--in what form?
    At the computer.  After my morning swim, before my daily errands.  To capture the words stroked, and the phrases massaged in pristine, clear pool water.
    An element of writing that I did not understand fully was discipline.  Multi-tasking has never been my long suit.  I want to focus on individuals, rather than a group, when I am at a gathering.  Given a deadline or the opportunity to be with--to share time with--people, I would choose people any day.  I recognize that is a luxury I may afford now.  In the past, that priority may have resulted in my not climbing the corporate ladder.  I will never know.  But, I am not going to lose sleep over it.
    I am inspired by people, situations, and events that incense me.  A reckless driver who cuts in on me and Zoomer.  World conflict.  These are but two of many.  My vocabulary of inspiration has room to grow.  Now I seek to build it.
    Routine.  Discipline.  Rhythm.
    A doctor told me to get up each morning at the same time.  Get dressed as though I was going to a full-time job.  Find something I enjoy--something I can do--and pursue it.  For nearly two years, that is what I have done.  Researching.  Writing.  Corresponding.  Now my wings span opens wider.  Into the water I immerse my creative mind.  What words--what thoughts and ideas--next emerge is beyond my knowing.  I shall swim in the stream, and go with the flow.

Do I Wish I was Younger?

     Some people wish they were younger--that they could relive their lives differently.  I do not.  Don't be mistaken, I have not lived unblemished by ill-advised words, and actions.  Yet, to relive my youth differently would be to negate the lessons I've learned--the insights I've been given.
     I would return to people, to places, and to events.  Not to change them.  To celebrate them.  To honor them.  But, not to change them.  To friends, to family, you know who you are.  Words escape me.  We know what we have lived--before us is our future.
     To unlikely people my mind is drawn.  To Katie, you taught me the meaning of grace--of disgrace, her antonym, as well.  You gave me poetry--"Brazen Honesty"http://patty-pattysponderings.blogspot.com/2011/03/brazen-honesty.html--a gift I shall treasure forever.  An unlikely gift, I dare say.  A gift nonetheless.  To Janet, never before had I met, and never again will I know, a piece of work such as you are.  Into my core, "there goes another gimp," you did gore.  Yet, your words broadened my vocabulary--sharpened my ear.
     My alter egos.  Pre-school giraffe.  A ballerina.  Patrushka.  Patty Tricia.  Pat.  Ms. P.T.  Thorsen.  Zoomer.  Aunt Patty.  Roboaunt.
     To places.  Michael Dowling School for Crippled Children.  Bassetts Creek.  2625 Vale Crest Road.  Washington, D.C.  Oslo.  The College of St. Catherine.  Grand Marais.  West Publishing.  Developmental Disabilities Council.
     To events.  Teasing.  Junior high school choir class.  My first class at St. Catherine's.  Baptism.  Graduation.  Master's degree graduation.  Master's degree graduation celebration.
     Do I wish I was younger?  Do I wish my youth I could reclaim?  No.  I treasure the joys.  I honor the sorrows.  Neither joy, nor sorrow could enrich me now, if I was younger.
     Once I was asked, "If you had not been born left handed, do you think you would have been right handed?"  I was tempted to say, "If you had not been born a woman, would you have been born a man?"

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...  

Listen. Pray. Speak. Act. Pray. Listen

My tears—my sadness—are God’s nudging me to arise.

Listen.  Pray.  Speak.  Act.  Pray.  Listen.

Long after your name—your face--is eclipsed by wonder-filled days,

Your words echo—reverberate—in the depths of my being.

The rhythm of your words inspires in me a constant drumbeat.

Listen.  Pray.  Speak.  Act.  Pray.  Listen.

What do I say?

When do I speak?

How do I voice my sadness to you?

Will you listen?

Will you hear me?

Listen.  Pray.  Speak.  Act.  Pray.  Listen.

Lend me your ear.

Give me a voice.

Give me a plan.

Grace me with faith.

Listen.  Pray.  Speak.  Act.  Pray.  Listen. 

You will listen.

You will hear.

You will change.

Listen.  Pray.  Speak.  Act.  Pray.  Listen.  

                                           September 4, 2007

     One day, a former coworker and I were working alone in the library.  With my back turned to him, my coworker must have seen someone who used a wheelchair.
     Without thinking anything of it, she said, "Oh, there goes another gimp."

     What?

     I was stunned--absolutely stunned.  I was rendered uncharacteristically speechless.  Never had anyone called me a gimp--never had I called myself "gimp."
     Writing has been the vehicle I have used to process my feelings--the deeper the hurt, the clearer the writing.  This piece was my attempt to process what happened, and what my feelings were.
     I do remember Janet.  She was not malicious per se--she was genuinely naive, and totally clueless.  Janet was a piece of work.  She is retired now.  I know nothing more of her life now.

     Ever since I was a little kid, I have believed that if I found the right words I could foster understanding.  I don't know if Janet ever understood--truly understood--the impact of her words.  The relationship that followed was based in nervous fear.  Janet was put on notice that if she ever so misspoke again, there would be consequences.

     It is ironic.  At the time that I wrote Listen. Pray.  Speak.  Act.  Pray.  Listen, my energies were focused on the word "gimp" and my inclusion in the word's definition.  I was walking with an ankle-foot-orthotic--a brace-- at the time, but, I was not in any way shape, or form, using a wheelchair.  Nor was I about to do so.

     Five years later, my circumstances are quite different.  No, I do not call myself a "gimp."  That has not changed. What has changed is that I use an electric wheelchair to live--to move long distances.  I don't know how I might have responded.  I guess the word "gimp" still would have been the main issue.  Yet, I wonder how would Janet and I have interacted.  I cannot mourn a lost friendship.  Close friendship far exceeded any physical differences.
     Although much has changed in five years, in all aspects of my life today, I continue to be committed to listen...pray....speak...act...pray...listen.