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.

The Stairway

     2625 Vale Crest Road.  April 26, 1960.  A foundation was laid.  A baby was born.  A home.  My values.
     A split-level home.  The front door.  The front entryway.  A stairway down to the den--an office, laundry room, a Singer sewing machine.  Mom.
    A defining moment.
     Late 1960s.  Pacifists.  Vietnam.  Mom's first-born son.  My brother.  My Idol.  The  Draft.  Drawing "your" number.  Lower numbers go to Vietnam first.
     Me.  The baby of the family.  Home from school.  I walk into the front entryway.  Mom hears me.  With baited breath I ask, "What was His Number?"
     30
     Not good.  Frightening.
     30
     Conscientious Objector.
     30
     Only later--much later--did I learn how close we came.  A hearing set.  Our minister set to testify.  Last minute change.  The minister could not come.  I do not remember what followed.  How did we succeed?  My memory fails me.
     30  
    Our job?  Prove why a very young man be drafted into the quagmire known as Vietnam.  The quagmire put before our eyes by Walter Cronkite each night.
     30
    When Conscientious Objector status was granted, I understood the responsibility of pacifism.  Diplomacy.  World peace in our living room--conscientious objection at the Stairway.
    30
     Forty years have passed.  The memory--the image--of that moment is as clear as when I first stood at the Stairway.
      30
     The waving of the United Nations flag on October 24--the anniversary of the UN's founding--added to the responsibility to live conscientious of our life's commitments.  Meetings of the World Federalists in the living room--in the heart of our home--embodied the same spirit.
     30
     What happened to that young man?  Did he ever offer service?  Yes.  Yet today, he offers medical care to those who come to him in need.  Yes.  He offered service.  Yes.  He offers service.
     30
     2625 Vale Crest Road.  April 26, 1960.
     My home has changed.  Time has passed.
     30
     I pray we do not fall down The Stairway.  I pray we remain steadfast Conscientious Objectors to actions that mask themselves as National Security.  May we not pound our chests.  May we seek peace, understanding, diplomacy, and care.
     30

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? 

Information

     What information do governments share?  To natives, to world citizens?  Do we listen?  Or, do we presume that government information is suspect, by virtue of its connection to political bodies?
     The less coverage given by our own media, the more important it is that we know what information sources are available to natives of a foreign country.
     I am fascinated by the many sources of information.  Discerning the veracity of that information intrigues me.       
     I was raised in a democracy.  Within that democracy, my family, friends, and culture instilled in me the belief that there are channels of government--channels within the community--to address problems.  I witnessed civil service close to home.
     Cynicism about government is not a part of my composition.  Any cynicism I might have is channeled into my votes for candidates with more positive--more constructive organizations.  Any endorsements I give to voting against a candidate, rather than for a candidate with a different view only serve to delay resolution of the problems at hand.  Time is precious.  We may ill afford such delays.  That is not to say that decisions should be made hastily.  Quite to the contrary.  Decisions need to be made with due deliberation.

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.

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.

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.

You are an Inspiration

     Many times, I have heard news features that say, "She is an inspiration."  
     I do not mean to denigrate good intentions.  I offer alternative intentions.
     Inspiration is a noun, which is derived from inspire.
     -ation is a suffix used to form abstract nouns from verbs.  It is sad.  To abstract the potency of inspire is sad.
      To say, "You are an inspiration to me," does not offer the hope that action will be taken.
      I accept the compliment.  I celebrate when I--when anyone--may stimulate anyone to leaven the gifts they have been invited to offer.
      I wonder.  What would the world be if each of us--if all of us--accepted the invitation to fully engage our gifts?

A Study in Words

     Many words come to mind as the debt ceiling debate.  Disgust.  Astonishment.  Frustration.  These are but a few of the words regarding how the debate is being conducted that come to my mind.
     I plead guilty to any accusation that I am obsessed with how words are used--how words are used in describing individuals, and interactions, most notably.  Words define the structure of a sentence--the foundation of a conversation.  The most important words are the subtle words--the words that are deemed acceptable.
     I have heard descriptions of this weekend's congressional proceedings.  I include both the House and the Senate in the term, "congress."  Sometimes, only the House is intended by speaking of "congressional."
     News reports have described actions in Congress this weekend as, "political theater."  Others have spoken with little fanfare of the "players" in the "game."  
     I cannot comprehend the economic figures being discussed.  I know what my political--governmental--spending priorities are, yet, my focus is elsewhere.  Some question what will happen if our nation's debt ceiling is not lifted.   As important as the answer to that question is, I am much more concerned about the words by which the debate is framed.
     Dumbfounded.  Whose life involves no compromise?  Whose life is ideal?  Do any of us choose the life circumstances we have been given to live?  Yes, we do have control--some control--over the quality of our lives. But, that is because we have chosen how we will live the circumstances we have been given to live.
     I don't like some of the compromises that my life circumstances have called me to make.  Yet, the alternative--not making any compromises--would be to paralyze me from living a meaningful life.  I am not willing to be so principled that I overlook the critical need for pragmatism.  Being willing to compromise--being pragmatic--is not a guarantee of getting the desired result--or the entirety of any desired result.  But, pragmatism, and compromise are unavoidable--necessary starting points.  Engaging in pragmatism, and compromise is the only hope I know of to preserve a high quality of living.
    At this point in time, we do not know the impact of the debt ceiling debate will be.  In my own life, the compromises I have been called to make to date have not been implemented for long enough to know of their impact on my life.  I do not know the specific compromises I will be called to make in the future.  The same is true of the U.S. Congress, and the President.  Yet, the price of not making compromises we are called to make is greater than making compromises, as a sign of being adults.

Civic Responsibility

     More and more, as time goes on, I find myself much less ardent in my advocacy for a given cause.  Although if called to label myself politically, I would describe myself as liberal, that does not suffice to describe my perspective.  I am far more ardent an advocate for civility, respect, pragmatism, and civic engagement.
     I am a resident of St. Paul, Minnesota.  As such, I witnessed an irresponsible government shutdown.  Irresponsible--the negotiation strategies employed, rather than any of the facts that resulted in the shutdown warrant irresponsible.  Time elapsed.  Compromise prevailed.  Now, the Minnesota State government is open, and operational now.  I was not affected directly.  I am a friend of a state employee.  I am a citizen of Minnesota.  Yet, on a day-to-day basis, the shutdown did not have a short-term impact on me.
     Civic responsibility.  The debt ceiling negotiations.  I am not an economist.  I do not play one on television.  I am a citizen of the United States.  I am a recipient of SSDI.  Neither of these elements of me may have any part in the debt ceiling negotiations.  Yet, both elements lead me to reflection.
     Many people are heard to say, "throw the bums out!" in relation to officeholders, who vote for a given piece of legislation, or a given political persuasion.  I am not so inclined.  I vote on the basis of the current needs at Election Day, and the needs I perceive for the future.  I do not vote for a given political candidate as a vote against the opposing candidate.  Such an approach does not give anyone the mandate he or she needs to govern.  I do not engage in name-calling with regard to a given officeholder, candidate, or political movement.  To do so dilutes my integrity, credibility, and influence for my convictions.
     Principled pragmatism.
     Typical  of many college students, I was an idealist.  I was a passionate advocate for issues of personal interest, knowledge, and understanding.  Had life been perfect, I would have pursued paid work promoting the awareness of disabilities.
      With time--with the realities of career disappointments, among other factors--I became more of a pragmatist.  College ideals gave way to the need for a job, health insurance, among other things.
      Recently, I have listened with disgust to the individuals engaged in the debt ceiling debate.  Participants are so firmly entrenched in their principles that there is no room for compromise--for pragmatism.
     Principles and pragmatism need not be diametrically opposed.  In fact, they are intimates.  Principles are the starting point from which negotiations regarding any debate.  Yet, at the point that listening, understanding, pragmatism, and compromise are left out of the discourse, principles--however genuinely held they may be--lose their credence.
     Civic Responsibility.  Principles.  Listening.  Understanding.  Listening.  Pragmatism.  Compromise.  Principled Pragmatism.  Civic Responsibility.   These need not be complicated undertakings.  These are worthy of celebration.  When they prevail, we may inhale civility's breath.

Betty Ford

     Oh, gosh.  Betty Ford died today.
     My heart skipped a beat--sank--upon reading that former First Lady Betty Ford died today at the age of 93.  She served in office--as the First Lady--when I was a teenager.  Several years after my grandmother died of breast cancer--at a time when breast cancer ravaged the spirits of women, whose tissues it invaded--Betty Ford gave voice to the disease.
     Betty Ford was not an abrasive woman.  She abided by the expectations of her generation. She lived the realities of a demanding political life--the wife of a long-time U.S. Representative.  She raised four children.  She did not do so begrudgingly.  She was not seeking a career beyond her young family.  Her public career--her sphere of influence--would be broadened beyond what could have been imagined by anyone, thanks to the Ford family entry into the nation's history.
     Yet, at the same time, Betty Ford was hardly a spineless wallflower.  In the best sense of the word, Betty Ford was an opportunist--a graceful opportunist.  She took her life experiences--her personal challenges--and transformed them into sources of help from which others so challenged could find practical help, and personal strength.  Just as Betty Ford was the face of a country learning how to articulate what Gloria Steinem, and others advocated--women's rights.  Betty Ford was comfortable giving voice to uncomfortable social realities of our time together--marijuana, addiction, premarital sex, and abortion, among others.  Betty Ford gave a face--literally--to putt
     Obituaries, and memorials offered for individuals, who have died recently--Betty Ford, can seem maudlin.  Yet, maudlinness survives only when we fail to ignite in our spirits the essence of Betty Ford in our own lives.  How did we know her? When did we meet her?  Did Betty Ford give voice to values--issues--of import to us?  Did Betty Ford teach us anything about ourselves--about our world?

Three Young Lives

     I have never given birth to any children...not that I remember, anyway.  I am 51.  Maternal instincts are not within my self-concept.
     Yet, something quite unfamiliar is beating in me--the impulse to knock some sense into the heads of three guys, who have yet to make firm declarations of their life pursuits.  To call them "boys" is inaccurate.  They are in their 20s, and lower 30s.  Don't get me wrong--I love these guys.  Yet, "young men" exceeds their current beings.  Certainly, "men" is beyond of the reach of these individuals today.
     In my 20s, I was an Idealist with a capital "I."  Work pulverized my Idealism, replacing it with necessary Pragmatism, with a capital "P."
     A tone is creeping into my thoughts.  "When I was your age...,"  "Listen to me, I have experience...," "Mom and Dad worked hard to live the life they enjoy now,"  "There is a point at which you need to put issues from your past in the past OR transform those issues into forces to serve you and others toward a better future...."
     When I was in my 20s, and early 30s, I am sure my parents were thinking some of those same thoughts.  They had lived through my father's year in Korea.  They raised three children.  They were involved in professional associations, and served in public office.  They were active in their community--dedicated to creating a better world.  Not with bravado.  They did so with simple, clear acts rooted in deep convictions.
    My grandparents of their son and daughter.  It was a different time.  They were proud.  Their children had exceeded their achievements.  One grandfather completed the eighth grade.  When he sought certification to be a public accountant--a CPA--Pops went to a high school instructor.  He tested his way to deem his worthiness to pursue a career.  He did not test out of responsibility to education, he was tested into--proven to possess the requisite passion for--a career in accountancy.  One grandmother followed the work of her time--a teacher.  Ray--I'm too young to be called Grandpa--was rooted in the family logging and papermill work.  Later, he worked on the railroad.  One grandmother volunteered her gifts in a state hospital.  She fulfilled expectations of her time--motherhood.  Yet, I wonder.  Had times been different might she have unwrapped her gifts--made her way into medicine?  We will never know.
     With all of that said, I don't know how to stifle the tone in my thoughts.  Where is Archie Bunker when you need him?
     I do not know what contributions my three young guys will make to the world.  They have the intellect.  Yet, to date, they lack the aptitude to apply their intellect--to make use of their gifts.
     Technology has marvelous applications that improve many people's lives.  Yet, my three guys do not know the meaning of "white noise."  They lack the recognition requisite to tap technology's marvels.
     They like settle for white noise.  They like don't listen to the world around them.  They like don't look to see where they may offer themselves--their gifts.  Are they guys of their time?  Only with time may we know.
     Never have I conceived a child.  I am not a mother.  Yet, an unfamiliar impulse is beating in me--an unfamiliar tone is creeping into my thoughts.

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.

Safe Communication--Communicating Safety

     Today, communicating personal safety via a safe vehicle came to my consciousness.  How?  By what vehicles?
     Several factors motivate my desire to communicate personal safety.  A lifelong history of seizures.  Being single.  A desire to leave "breadcrumbs" as to my general whereabouts--my general well-being.
     Voicemail.  Audible breadcrumbs are the humorous voicemail messages that I leave conveying my whereabouts.
     Facebook?  I have been very slow to understand how I want to use Facebook in my life.  No technology is inherently evil, as is sometimes implied.  That is a copout.  It is the use of the technology, or application that determines the value of the application.
    Facebook.  I was introduced by a younger relative, someone in his 20s.  I am 51.  I was motivated to learn about Facebook as a means of communicating better with my relative.  So, I observed on the sidelines.  I was reticent to engage in the technological party line of the 21st century.
    Voicemail.  Facebook.  Breadcrumbs.  I have changed.  My understanding of human interaction has changed dramatically since 2009.  I was familiar with communicating in the workplace..with my family...with my friends...with my faith community...Zoomer.
    My e-mail system was unavailable temporarily tonight.  Twenty years ago that would have been inconceivable.  Funny how just a few years can make some vehicle of communication indispensable.  Loss of Internet access is worse yet.  Funny.  Yet, true.
Yes, in moderation, Facebook.  I am aware of my generational distinction with my younger relatives in relation to Facebook.
    In 2009 and 2010, the Internet, and e-mail became a critical connection to the outside world.  Now, Zoomer has mitigated some of the isolation that made the Internet, and e-mail such a vital connection in my life.  Now, as Zoomer and I explore our environs, and get to know one another, sharing that story electronically has expanded my understanding fundamentally.
    How we live--how we feel about our lives--is a choice.  Giving up on our lives is inexcusable.  Feigning weakness is nothing more than an unwillingness to make a positive commitment to our lives.  Facebook, and, I guess blogs are different ways to explore--to share--that commitment.
    In the workplace, trying to navigate challenges, my default behavior was to exude optimism, in hopes of generating it in other people.  I continue in that mode today.  It is selfish.  Optimism returned is a source of enormous strength.
   I try to use voicemail, email, and Facebook for two purposes--communicate my own safety, and share
my convictions regarding optimism via my experiences with Zoomer.  Truth be told, I don't know where Zoomer and I are headed.  No, I have a street atlas.  It is summer in Minnesota, or so they say.  Winter in Minnesota lasts forever.  Summer is a fleeting moment in time.  Winter, snow, and ice will come.  How far will Zoomer and I be able to travel?  Regardless of weather, how far may Zoomer and I travel?  Both questions--the fears regarding answers to those questions are in the back of my mind.  Yet, I must focus on today--on today's adventures--to mitigate my fears.  I must choose to commit myself to today's adventures.  If I choose not to commit myself, then, I have no one to blame, but myself, for being unfulfilled.

Zoomer Chronicles: Pacifism.

     Sunshine, and 66 degrees Fahrenheit are Minnesota callings to go outside.  The destination?  Outside.
     Inclines.  Curb cuts.  Intersections.  Curb cuts. Hills. Curb cuts. Sidewalk. Curb cut.  Home.
     Speed.  1?  Slow.  A snail's pace.  2?  Some UMPH to get over thresholds.  3?  Moderate speed.  A safe speed to avoid taking out anyone, who crosses my path.  4?  Indoor straightaways where no one else is in sight. 4?  Intersections.
     Torque.  A turtle's pace?  A hare's race?
      A turtle's pace?  My condominium walls--narrow openings.  Tight spaces.  Elevator doe-si-doing.
      A hare's race?  Intersections.  Inclines.
     My credibility is being challenged--my values tested.  I thought I was a pacifist.  No pleasure taken in being aggressive. No aggressiveness in my bones.  Or so I thought.
     The first day out,  each intersection was preceded by an offering of the Hail Mary prayer.  That and facial contortions to ensure a safe expedition--a safe arrival on the other side.
      I thought I was a pacifist.....But....
      Today.  Steep incline.  Sidewalk.  Curb cut.
     4....a Hare's Speed...Gun It!!!
     Safe landing.  Curb cut.
     4...a Hare's Speed...Gun It!!!
     Touchdown.  Sidewalk.  Curb cut.
     4...A Hare's Speed...Gun It!!!
     Sidewalk.  Curb cut.
     4...A Hare's Speed...Gun It!!!
      Intersection.
      4....A Hare's Speed...Gun It!!!
      Patty:  Gun It!!!
      Zoomer:  OK.  OK.  I'll Gun It, You Pacifist.

A Universalist Catholic

     I am a Universalist Catholic.  Being raised as a Universalist informs my Catholic being.
     In 29 years, my understanding of being Catholic has evolved.  Raised as a Universalist, more commonly referred to as a Unitarian, my basic orientation was different than it is now--not in opposition, but different.
     Catholic means universal.  For many years, I was timid in admitting, "I am a Catholic."  That proclamation was ladened with many stereotypes.  To say, "I am a Universalist Catholic," sounded as a contradiction of terms.  It is not.
     Just now, I am able to articulate a distinction that has been elusive to me.  By external terminology, the name Universalist-Unitarian Fellowship identifies the religion.  
    Faith is a term anthetical to many Universalists, or Unitarians.  I was raised to believe that intellect and faith were mutually exclusive.  I continue to discover how faith is informed by the intellect, and how the intellect is informed by faith.
     I did not know any Unitarian individuals by name.  Yet, I had a sense of a distinction between the two.  I am willing to be challenged as to my claims.  Yet, I resent attempts to engage in "gotcha" discourse in which  my knowledge is challenged as a means of discrediting me.  The first is possible.  The first is enlightening.  The first is engagement that broadens everyone involved. "Gotcha discourse" begins when someone asks what you know about a given person, term, or basic tenet central to faith and religion without any interest in broadening anyone's understanding.
    Being raised in the Universalist tradition, I was raised to believe that there is good to be found in all world religions--in all traditions.  Although I identify myself as Christian, and Catholic now, my belief that there is good to be found in all world religions--in all traditions--is strong.  It is alive and well within who I am, and how I pray I live in communion with family, and friends.
    Although I never knew an individual who identified themselves as Unitarians, I had a militant sense of what it meant to be a Unitarian.  Part of that sense was in the context of the time--the end of the 1960s in the midst of the Vietnam War.  I do not know if there was a Unitarian church in my area that was engaged in a vociferous protest of the Vietnam War.  The sentiment was certainly the same in the Universalist church community in which I was raised.  The distinction I sense may be Uni tarian versus trinitarian.  There was no way to intellectualize the Holy Spirit.  The notion of Holy Ghost was still alive and well casting white shadows over any understanding that may have existed.
   My return to my Universalist roots is inspired by a change in pastors, where I belong.  My approach to any announcement was cautious patience.  I wanted to wait until I met, and worshipped with the priest before making pronouncements about those in leadership, who are responsible for the naming.
   I am encouraged by what I have read and heard.  I do not want any excitement I feel cloud my experience of his preaching--of his pastoral care.  I want a keen ear, and an open heart to greet him--to greet how we come together in communion.
    Much has changed in 29 years.
    I entered the Catholic Church with clear values, and instructions.  Be intellectual.  Obey my admonitions.  "Don't keep your mind outside the door of the church."  "Know the meanings of the words you utter them."
   Twenty-nine years later, different values guide me.  I have not abandoned my intellect.
   I am guided by different voices.  Although the voices have no human faces visible to me, the message is clear.
  Don't let your mind consume awe--swallow wonder.
  Treasure each moment.
  Life is a gift.
  For better or for worse, life is a lesson to be learned--answers to be lived.

Personal Disclosure

Praying as Self-discovery 
 Prayer is not, first and foremost, saying prayers. It is opening the most intimate part of ourselves to God. It is discovering that in the deepest part of our body and our being there is a source, and that source is God. God is the power that unites the universe and gives everything meaning.

- Jean Vanier, Our Journey Home, p. 215   

   Personal disclosure.  Several instances this week have brought personal disclosure to mind.  Most recently, learning about a new search engine—Blekko—that I wanted to try.  I am a research geek mind you.  Logging on to Blekko called for me to reveal information about me, my life, and my values.  I am not embarrassed about myself, my life, or my values.  It has taken me many years to arrive at that point.  Personal disclosure is the price to be paid for learning, and exploring.

   Personal disclosure.  Facebook.  This week, a number of friends, family members, and organizations made me aware of the degree to which I am comfortable in sharing about myself with other people.   Looking at the Facebook pages of friends, and younger relatives, who are at varying degrees of involvement with Facebook reveal what my boundaries are.  Some question the privacy concerns of being involved on Facebook.  My view is that it is not the medium, but, how I or others use it that establish its value in my life.  

     Personal disclosure.  My threshold for personal disclosure are being tested currently.  How?  PrisonTalk would allow me to gain insight I need to understand prison life, so that I may be more supportive.  I am drawn to PrisonTalk by the opportunities to learn about and gain insight into prison life.  Trust is clashing with personal disclosure.  I find personal disclosure regarding my own life, and values to be fairly easy.  Yet, I do not want to make disclosures about someone else in hopes of gaining the information I am seeking that would endanger them in any way.

  Personal disclosure.  Delusions I had that I was very comfortable with what other people think of me--of my capabilities--were shattered to smithereens.  I began volunteering.  Good grief.  I am working with delightful people.  I know how to do what they want, at least the essence of what they want.  Yet, my nervousness--my personal need to be impressive on the first day made for a disaster, from my eyes, not from other people's judgments of me.  I think I have purged myself of the nervousness, so I am hoping that I will be able to go in on Friday to offer help....

     [Friday evening] I succeeded.  Fears of having lost my capacities to work in the work world again were for naught--the fear of revealing my human imperfection.

    Personal disclosure.  In conversations we have had about sympathy versus empathy, Mom said that we could never understand what another person experiences.  To some degree that is true.  Yet, I believe understanding another person's experiences--truly understanding someone else's experiences is possible, if we are willing to invest our experiences in communion with other individuals.

    Personal disclosure.  I consider myself to have principles.  Or, I have considered myself to be a woman of principles.  Yet, Jean Vanier, Blekko, Facebook, and PrisonTalk challenge my principles.  Jean Vanier leads me to question whether I want to be a woman of principle, or am I willing to be a woman of personal disclosure.