My left hand is my life's blood. It is the vehicle I use to craft words, the tool I use to live. My right hand has never served me. She never will. I know that. Blame is not for me to assign. Anger is not mine to wield. My right hand has never served me as others' have.
This week, a gradual diminishment--a lifelong fear--came to a head. I made progress to the outer world. Not by others misassigning it. I didn't misassign it either. Rather, I rallied the consolation I need.
A mere appointment for hand therapy, hand x-rays, and a neck MRI did not deliver this week to me...not alone.
Every 18 months or so, I receive a questionnaire to reauthorize my long-term disability insurance. A formality perhaps. Yet, this time it hit me hard--it hits me in the gut. She pulls no punches.
I have forgotten the sound of my left hand's voice propelling me up out of bed in the morning. Did she ever speak? Have I lost my hearing? Am I deaf to her call for help? How long has she--how long have they--been gone?
Did I abuse my left had so much--with such bravado--that I have lost her forever?
Will remorse...a contrite heart...a confessing of my wrongful pride...be enough that my hand may be entrusted to my service?
Voicing that thought through my still-working fingers is embarrassing. Am I losing dignity as I stand aside of my body?
I hold on for dear life in the bathtub as I pull my body to a standing position after bathing myself. Will this be the time I will lose my grip and fall?
The time for contrition has come...a shower/bath bench. I have looked from afar. This week's questions--the questions are served by only one answer. I confess a bit of vanity remains. With Amazon.com's hand to hold mine, soon I will be the proud owner of a reasonably-priced teak shower/bath bench.
I mourn a body--my body. Is it mine to blame? Is it mine to wield anger at because it is not serving me.
I must serve my body regardless of how it serves me.
Thirty-two years ago I was baptized--I joined the Catholic Church. Through friends, I learned it was more than possible to blend intellect into faith into my being. Skeptics to that blending asked, "But...resurrection...that just doesn't make any sense! Do you believe in resurrection? Do you believe in The Resurrection?"
I did not know I did not understand what words to utter.
Time has passed....years have elapsed....life has changed me...life has changed my body....much over many years has made now sense at all.
Do I understand resurrection? Do I believe in resurrection?
No. I must. I am a woman of faith, I am a woman of hope. I am a woman of love. I am a woman of belief.
Do I understand The Resurrection? Do I believe in The Resurrection.
No. I breathe seeking to believe what I do not understand.
I mourn a body--my body. I mourn a bath--the loss of a bath. I was always a woman of a shower. So, why am I mourning? I seek understanding that has yet to be delivered to me.
I mourn a body--my body.
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Friday, April 11, 2014
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Prayer...A Nascent Transformation...
The Hail Mary.
Shall we pray? Sister Immaculata proffered.
Hail Mary, full of grace.
The Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women,
And, blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God.
Pray for us,
Now, and at the hour of our death.
Amen.
Seat of wisdom, pray for us.
The prayer was a reverential invitation to understand words new to me. I was never sure whether the words were, "Seat of wisdom, pray for us," or, "Seed of wisdom, pray for us." Yet, somehow, that detail did not matter. Both Seat and Seed confirmed a nascent transformation yet to be lived.
Hail Mary, Full of Grace.
As inexplicable as the Hail Mary's beauty on my first hearing 30 years ago is its beauty today. Whenever an ambulance passes by me, the Hail Mary comes to my ears. I do not recite it at other times. Yet, at the moments of urgent need--the need of others--the Hail Mary is given to me to utter.
I have no Rosary beads. I do not know the Rosary. I do not pray the Rosary. Not by my judgment of its value. Rosary has been in my vocabulary for nary three decades. Maybe in seven more decades, I will know the Rosary. Maybe in seven decades I may pray the Rosary.
Others better versed than I could recite the precise chapter and verse. Yet, I have heard it said that we need not fear, when needs arise we shall be given the appropriate words to utter. Whether spoken aloud, or held in my heart, confidence is given, and fears assuaged. Blessed by and with a faith-filled worship community, and Christians who care deeply about the heart and soul--far more than structures they enter, no longer is prayer a formula I grab from off the rack. I cannot explain its shape--its form. Thirty years ago, a formula. Today, a precious mystery. Thirty years from now? A precious mystery to be lived, not feared.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
A Keen Ear. An Accommodating Spirit.
Little scares me.
Fearless I am not. Fear I do.
Osteoarthritis. Puffy fingers. Inflamed tissues.
Some have knobby knees. I have knobby knuckles.
I fear not the appearance. Such is vanity--pure vanity.
I fear the knobby knuckles--its killing paralysis.
I fear loss. I fear loss of my voice--loss of my voice through my left hand. I fear not the loss of my right hand--the loss of my right hand as the instrument of my voice. My right hand has never had such muscle power.
My osteoarthritis affects my left hand, my left hip, and my right ankle. God only knows as to its selectivity within my body.
I do not ask--I have never asked--"Why me?" I abhor that question. What possible answer could serve anyone or any good end.
Rather, I ask, "What lesson am I to be learning."
I take this as no punishment for any action I have taken. Some, extreme in their thinking, take that tack. I never have. I never will.
Rather, I ask, "What preparation am I being called to make?"
A lifetime ago my answer to a call seems. Just one year ago, I was counselled to look ahead,
"Think of your needs beyond the next year--beyond the next five years. I advise you to get a power wheelchair with a joystick on your left armrest. I advise you to get a head rim. At the point when you need it, a head rim will control the movement of your chair when you cannot."
I do not torture myself--I cannot--with the prospect of using the head rim. Yet, I know that I have learned that lesson--made that preparation.
Osteoarthritis. My left hip? A simple four-legged cane. Common sense born of experience--carry no heavy packages, such as groceries, any distance. A fairly easy solution. For vanity, two canes. One is multiple shades of dark blue. The other is colored in shades of brown. It looks like wood. One must be color-coordinated, of course. Living alone, one must be prepared. Though not needed today, I need to have the tools at hand--the tools for as independent a life as is possible.
Osteoarthritis. My right ankle. Zoomer, my power wheelchair, is my antidote. Should she not be enough, I have been told that it is a matter of time--ten years perhaps--that I might need ankle surgery, an ankle replacement, perhaps.
Osteoarthritis. I do my best not to torture myself with eventualities. Osteoarthritis is not a condition of steadiness or control. Osteoarthritis is an amoeba, a chameleon. Some days, people may wonder, "I don't understand. I saw her in her wheelchair yesterday, now today she is walking just fine." I wonder too.
Osteoarthritis. A snake, who lurks in the bushes, waiting to catch me unawares.
Osteoarthritis. Exercise. Not a physical cure. But a wellspring of mental, and emotional energy. Exercise. A keeping at bay of inflammation's paralysis.
Osteoarthritis. My right ankle. My left hand. My left hip. My color-coordinated canes. Exercise. Osteoarthritis.
Osteoarthritis. A keen ear. An accommodating spirit. Osteoarthritis.
Fearless I am not. Fear I do.
Osteoarthritis. Puffy fingers. Inflamed tissues.
Some have knobby knees. I have knobby knuckles.
I fear not the appearance. Such is vanity--pure vanity.
I fear the knobby knuckles--its killing paralysis.
I fear loss. I fear loss of my voice--loss of my voice through my left hand. I fear not the loss of my right hand--the loss of my right hand as the instrument of my voice. My right hand has never had such muscle power.
My osteoarthritis affects my left hand, my left hip, and my right ankle. God only knows as to its selectivity within my body.
I do not ask--I have never asked--"Why me?" I abhor that question. What possible answer could serve anyone or any good end.
Rather, I ask, "What lesson am I to be learning."
I take this as no punishment for any action I have taken. Some, extreme in their thinking, take that tack. I never have. I never will.
Rather, I ask, "What preparation am I being called to make?"
A lifetime ago my answer to a call seems. Just one year ago, I was counselled to look ahead,
"Think of your needs beyond the next year--beyond the next five years. I advise you to get a power wheelchair with a joystick on your left armrest. I advise you to get a head rim. At the point when you need it, a head rim will control the movement of your chair when you cannot."
I do not torture myself--I cannot--with the prospect of using the head rim. Yet, I know that I have learned that lesson--made that preparation.
Osteoarthritis. My left hip? A simple four-legged cane. Common sense born of experience--carry no heavy packages, such as groceries, any distance. A fairly easy solution. For vanity, two canes. One is multiple shades of dark blue. The other is colored in shades of brown. It looks like wood. One must be color-coordinated, of course. Living alone, one must be prepared. Though not needed today, I need to have the tools at hand--the tools for as independent a life as is possible.
Osteoarthritis. My right ankle. Zoomer, my power wheelchair, is my antidote. Should she not be enough, I have been told that it is a matter of time--ten years perhaps--that I might need ankle surgery, an ankle replacement, perhaps.
Osteoarthritis. I do my best not to torture myself with eventualities. Osteoarthritis is not a condition of steadiness or control. Osteoarthritis is an amoeba, a chameleon. Some days, people may wonder, "I don't understand. I saw her in her wheelchair yesterday, now today she is walking just fine." I wonder too.
Osteoarthritis. A snake, who lurks in the bushes, waiting to catch me unawares.
Osteoarthritis. Exercise. Not a physical cure. But a wellspring of mental, and emotional energy. Exercise. A keeping at bay of inflammation's paralysis.
Osteoarthritis. My right ankle. My left hand. My left hip. My color-coordinated canes. Exercise. Osteoarthritis.
Osteoarthritis. A keen ear. An accommodating spirit. Osteoarthritis.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Fear of the Lord???
The fear of the Lord is the beginning of Wisdom. ...The fear which is the first
step to wisdom is the fear of being untrue to God and to ourselves. It is the
fear that we have lied to ourselves, that we have thrown down our lives at the
feet of a false god.
Thomas Merton. Thoughts in Solitude. (New York: Farrar, Strauss, Giroux): 73
Fear??? I understand a deep sense of awe that, if honored, paralyzes any impulse, on my part, to act unwisely. I understand the deepest of tragedies that emerges when we lie to ourselves--"when we have thrown down our lives at the feet of a false god."
Yet, I cannot reconcile fear with any motivation I might have to act in wisdom. I am not motivated to seek wisdom in the sense of fear that resides in the pit of my stomach.
Is my understanding of fear inconsistent with its common definition--with its derivation? Questions of word derivation lead me to the convenient knowledge the Online Etymology Dictionary affords me. Here is the entry given for fear:
Fear (v.) O.E. faeran "terrify, frighten," originally transitive (sense preserved in archaic I fear me). Meaning "feel fear" is 14 c. Cognate with O.S. faron "to lie in wait," M.Du. vaeren "to fear," O.H.G. faren "to plot against," O.N. faera "to taunt."
Awe, perhaps? Am I shirking moral responsibility, if I opt to live in awe in the stead of living in fear? The Online Etymology Dictionary offers the following offers the following derivation of awe.
c.1300, earlier aghe, c.1200 from a Scandinavian source, cf. O.N. agi "fright," from P.Gmc. *agiz (cf. O.E. ege "fear," O.H.G. agiso "fright, terror" Goth. agis "fear, anguish," from PIE *agh-es- (cf. Gk. akhos "pain, grief"), from base "agh-" "to be depressed, be afraid"...
The overlap between fear and awe surprises me. The sun setting in the northwest sky outside of my home is the best summation of awe that I know.
I have been blessed to touch--to feel--the texture of awe. There is a depth to pain, to grief, and to anguish that calls for growth. I do not seek out pain, grief, or anguish, for its own sake. Yet, when it comes knocking, I must come to the door. I must answer the call.
Yet, for now, I do not know any more than when I first read the passage from Thomas Merton. How do I advocate for my belief, if I cannot articulate it more clearly? I fear I do not know.
Thomas Merton. Thoughts in Solitude. (New York: Farrar, Strauss, Giroux): 73
Fear??? I understand a deep sense of awe that, if honored, paralyzes any impulse, on my part, to act unwisely. I understand the deepest of tragedies that emerges when we lie to ourselves--"when we have thrown down our lives at the feet of a false god."
Yet, I cannot reconcile fear with any motivation I might have to act in wisdom. I am not motivated to seek wisdom in the sense of fear that resides in the pit of my stomach.
Is my understanding of fear inconsistent with its common definition--with its derivation? Questions of word derivation lead me to the convenient knowledge the Online Etymology Dictionary affords me. Here is the entry given for fear:
Fear (v.) O.E. faeran "terrify, frighten," originally transitive (sense preserved in archaic I fear me). Meaning "feel fear" is 14 c. Cognate with O.S. faron "to lie in wait," M.Du. vaeren "to fear," O.H.G. faren "to plot against," O.N. faera "to taunt."
Awe, perhaps? Am I shirking moral responsibility, if I opt to live in awe in the stead of living in fear? The Online Etymology Dictionary offers the following offers the following derivation of awe.
c.1300, earlier aghe, c.1200 from a Scandinavian source, cf. O.N. agi "fright," from P.Gmc. *agiz (cf. O.E. ege "fear," O.H.G. agiso "fright, terror" Goth. agis "fear, anguish," from PIE *agh-es- (cf. Gk. akhos "pain, grief"), from base "agh-" "to be depressed, be afraid"...
The overlap between fear and awe surprises me. The sun setting in the northwest sky outside of my home is the best summation of awe that I know.
I have been blessed to touch--to feel--the texture of awe. There is a depth to pain, to grief, and to anguish that calls for growth. I do not seek out pain, grief, or anguish, for its own sake. Yet, when it comes knocking, I must come to the door. I must answer the call.
Yet, for now, I do not know any more than when I first read the passage from Thomas Merton. How do I advocate for my belief, if I cannot articulate it more clearly? I fear I do not know.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Where is the Middle???
I find myself in the middle of a different search for information. The search is new to me. I am accustomed to the search for information regarding my epilepsy, and seizures most prominently. Brain damage and cerebral palsy to a lesser degree. Although all four are intertwined. My search is for how to be of compassionately informed support to someone, who is academically familiar with the medical condition he faces now as he looks in the mirror.
With some, the temptation is to throw facts, and information--research--at them to help them contain their condition into a manageable form. With others,, the temptation is to offer pity. Sometimes, that is manifest in Poster Children to attract justifiable support for individuals with the condition, and for research. On a personal level, pity well may be uncertainty, and discomfort, as to how to address the situation. Most tempting, and most frightening to me is the offer to cure or to heal someone by mystical powers.
Most helpful to me with regard to my seizures, epilepsy, cerebral palsy and brain damage is a balanced approach.
I don't seek to be cured, or to have never had brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures. I cannot roll back history. Such is a waste of precious energy. I prefer to seek insights--to how to live an insightful life--on the basis of my brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures. To some degree, I have known that since eighth grade.
I don't know how to be of help. Facts, and information are readily available. Pity is against my religion--pity that is closed to the possibility that more constructive responses are available. Healing by means of mystical powers frightens me.
I do make a distinction between healing by means of magical waving-of-a-wand means--full healing--and prayer. The distinction is difficult to articulate. Sometimes, the words may be the same, yet the tone is different--completely different. I know it when I hear it--when I feel it. I try to respond, so as to increase the likelihood of more compassion in the future.
So, where does that leave the man facing a medical condition new to him personally? We have known one another for a lifetime. We respond similarly to much of what I have described--research, pity, cures, and healing by mystical powers. I find it difficult to articulate the nuances in prayer that exist.
I am leery of the support that consumer organizations can, and do provide. I am not saying that they serve no useful purpose. My concern is that the support--their expressed mission--is aimed more at publicizing research, and raising funds for the continuation for that research. Both, essential.
Where is the spiritual element of support? Where is the spirituality of the human body in this discussion? Often, the triangle, body, mind, and spirit," is discussed. Of the three, most often, body and mind are linked. Similarly, mind and spirit are linked.
Yet, body and spirit seem miles apart. I don't know precisely how to articulate it. Maybe if I did--if we were willing to--articulate the relationship between the two, we might get beyond some ghost-in-a-white-sheet mentality of the body and the spirit.
With some, the temptation is to throw facts, and information--research--at them to help them contain their condition into a manageable form. With others,, the temptation is to offer pity. Sometimes, that is manifest in Poster Children to attract justifiable support for individuals with the condition, and for research. On a personal level, pity well may be uncertainty, and discomfort, as to how to address the situation. Most tempting, and most frightening to me is the offer to cure or to heal someone by mystical powers.
Most helpful to me with regard to my seizures, epilepsy, cerebral palsy and brain damage is a balanced approach.
I don't seek to be cured, or to have never had brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures. I cannot roll back history. Such is a waste of precious energy. I prefer to seek insights--to how to live an insightful life--on the basis of my brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures. To some degree, I have known that since eighth grade.
I don't know how to be of help. Facts, and information are readily available. Pity is against my religion--pity that is closed to the possibility that more constructive responses are available. Healing by means of mystical powers frightens me.
I do make a distinction between healing by means of magical waving-of-a-wand means--full healing--and prayer. The distinction is difficult to articulate. Sometimes, the words may be the same, yet the tone is different--completely different. I know it when I hear it--when I feel it. I try to respond, so as to increase the likelihood of more compassion in the future.
So, where does that leave the man facing a medical condition new to him personally? We have known one another for a lifetime. We respond similarly to much of what I have described--research, pity, cures, and healing by mystical powers. I find it difficult to articulate the nuances in prayer that exist.
I am leery of the support that consumer organizations can, and do provide. I am not saying that they serve no useful purpose. My concern is that the support--their expressed mission--is aimed more at publicizing research, and raising funds for the continuation for that research. Both, essential.
Where is the spiritual element of support? Where is the spirituality of the human body in this discussion? Often, the triangle, body, mind, and spirit," is discussed. Of the three, most often, body and mind are linked. Similarly, mind and spirit are linked.
Yet, body and spirit seem miles apart. I don't know precisely how to articulate it. Maybe if I did--if we were willing to--articulate the relationship between the two, we might get beyond some ghost-in-a-white-sheet mentality of the body and the spirit.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Zoomer Chronicles: Her Voice
Zoomer is tired this evening, after an inspiring day. Zoomer was fitted with a small camera on her armrest--on Lily the Lefty. I was dressed with a small microphone. Off we went. Strange as it may sound, we encountered no incidents of being cut in front of, or the like. Odd to wish for that to happen, yet, I wanted to provide the visual evidence to reinforce my point.
The KSTP-TV producer, and cameraman did not doubt what I was saying was true. However, all of us wanted to get some tangible evidence. Perverse. Truly perverse.
Zoomer and I worried that I would be so nervous that I would forget what I wanted to say--what perspective we wanted to share. We worried that information essential to wheelchair safety in traffic would be lost to nerves--that my information would be the victim of my jangled nerves. As the sleepless hours dragged on, my worries intensified. [Intimate frieinds though we are, Zoomer sleeps in the living room, not in my bed.] Fixation on the route to follow finally succumb to unconsciousness shortly after 3:18 A.M.
Zoomer and I took a last minute tour this morning.
What route were we going to follow? Would it work?
Would there be some--enough--examples of me being cut in front of to reinforce my concerns? Would I provide material worthy of their time and effort to tour downtown?
What if nothing happens? Are they going to be upset that I wasted their time? Would they think that I blew the incidents out of proportion?
Those were my early morning questions--my obsessions.
Will they say, "Well, I am sorry. We can't devote any more of our resources to this story. Maybe if something had happened that we could photograph, we would be able to do a story. Good to have met you. Have a nice day."
But...such was not the case.
"Mike, I have run out of film. What would you like to do? Should we come back another day?....Do you want to do an interview?" the cameraman asked.
"...What does your schedule look like?...I've got your email and number. Mine is on my emails," the producer said.
So, my questions were answered. I guess we did OK.
Zoomer and I conducted the tour, and narrated it splendidly. Maybe there was too much narration on my part. I am a novice to television interviews.
Splendid. Just splendid.
The KSTP-TV producer, and cameraman did not doubt what I was saying was true. However, all of us wanted to get some tangible evidence. Perverse. Truly perverse.
Zoomer and I worried that I would be so nervous that I would forget what I wanted to say--what perspective we wanted to share. We worried that information essential to wheelchair safety in traffic would be lost to nerves--that my information would be the victim of my jangled nerves. As the sleepless hours dragged on, my worries intensified. [Intimate frieinds though we are, Zoomer sleeps in the living room, not in my bed.] Fixation on the route to follow finally succumb to unconsciousness shortly after 3:18 A.M.
Zoomer and I took a last minute tour this morning.
What route were we going to follow? Would it work?
Would there be some--enough--examples of me being cut in front of to reinforce my concerns? Would I provide material worthy of their time and effort to tour downtown?
What if nothing happens? Are they going to be upset that I wasted their time? Would they think that I blew the incidents out of proportion?
Those were my early morning questions--my obsessions.
Well...nothing happened--no incidents occurred during our tour.
So, nothing happened--no incidents. Now what?Will they say, "Well, I am sorry. We can't devote any more of our resources to this story. Maybe if something had happened that we could photograph, we would be able to do a story. Good to have met you. Have a nice day."
But...such was not the case.
"Mike, I have run out of film. What would you like to do? Should we come back another day?....Do you want to do an interview?" the cameraman asked.
"...What does your schedule look like?...I've got your email and number. Mine is on my emails," the producer said.
So, my questions were answered. I guess we did OK.
Zoomer and I conducted the tour, and narrated it splendidly. Maybe there was too much narration on my part. I am a novice to television interviews.
Splendid. Just splendid.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Epilepsy Chronicles: Humor
Humorous? Yes. Humorous.
There are many serious aspects to having epilepsy--to having seizures. It is not a joke.
Yet, there have been precious moments--precious in their absurdity. Neurologists have an amazing sense of humor. They call it bedside manner.
The same neurologist, who told public television viewers this week that people with epilepsy foam at the mouth, once asked me, "how long did the seizure last."
I went into the neurologist following the seizure to have my blood levels checked. Did my medication levels need to be increased or decreased, so as to prevent future seizures? I understood the reason behind his question. He had known me for some time. He knew I lived alone. Knowing that, he still asked, "How long did the seizure last?"
A part of me was tempted to say, "Well, let's see, I looked at the clock and it said 6:40am, and I started seizing. I looked at the clock at 6:42am, and I stopped seizing. Gees. I guess I should have looked. After all, I was just lying on the floor. I wasn't doing anything at the time."
Come on, give me a break. I had a few more pressing things on my mind at the time.
"Get down to the ground. Get away from things I could grasp onto." I chanted to myself.
Equally humorous to the neurologist's question is my subsequent behavior. Since that time, I make sure to look at the clock when I feel a seizure coming on, and once again when the seizure stops. If I am lucky, my exhausted brain, and my memory will not be so impaired as to prevent me from remembering the length of the seizure. I try to be a compliant patient:) Sometimes, I go overboard:)
But, far more humorous than that incident happened several years later. I was in a neurologist's waiting room. A different neurologist. I was awaiting an appointment with him. Suddenly, I started to have a seizure. Fellow patients knew precisely what to do, and went into action calmly. The neurologist was called. He came out to the waiting room.
"Are you OK?" he asked.
"Am I OK? Sure, I always wanted to come to your office and have a seizure! Am I OK? Have you ever seen a seizure before? Am I OK!" I thought.
In my 40+ years of experience with seizures, that remains my favorite seizure experience.
There are many serious aspects to having epilepsy--to having seizures. It is not a joke.
Yet, there have been precious moments--precious in their absurdity. Neurologists have an amazing sense of humor. They call it bedside manner.
The same neurologist, who told public television viewers this week that people with epilepsy foam at the mouth, once asked me, "how long did the seizure last."
I went into the neurologist following the seizure to have my blood levels checked. Did my medication levels need to be increased or decreased, so as to prevent future seizures? I understood the reason behind his question. He had known me for some time. He knew I lived alone. Knowing that, he still asked, "How long did the seizure last?"
A part of me was tempted to say, "Well, let's see, I looked at the clock and it said 6:40am, and I started seizing. I looked at the clock at 6:42am, and I stopped seizing. Gees. I guess I should have looked. After all, I was just lying on the floor. I wasn't doing anything at the time."
Come on, give me a break. I had a few more pressing things on my mind at the time.
"Get down to the ground. Get away from things I could grasp onto." I chanted to myself.
Equally humorous to the neurologist's question is my subsequent behavior. Since that time, I make sure to look at the clock when I feel a seizure coming on, and once again when the seizure stops. If I am lucky, my exhausted brain, and my memory will not be so impaired as to prevent me from remembering the length of the seizure. I try to be a compliant patient:) Sometimes, I go overboard:)
But, far more humorous than that incident happened several years later. I was in a neurologist's waiting room. A different neurologist. I was awaiting an appointment with him. Suddenly, I started to have a seizure. Fellow patients knew precisely what to do, and went into action calmly. The neurologist was called. He came out to the waiting room.
"Are you OK?" he asked.
"Am I OK? Sure, I always wanted to come to your office and have a seizure! Am I OK? Have you ever seen a seizure before? Am I OK!" I thought.
In my 40+ years of experience with seizures, that remains my favorite seizure experience.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Zoomer Chronicles: Safety's Anger
This morning, Zoomer met fraternal twins--Safety's Anger, and Anger's Safety. Mirror images of one another, they are born of the same root. Danger. Fear.
A return to swimming was my dear ankle's hope. Pool maintenance. Facility remodeling.
A return to swimming was not to be. Not this day. Ankle's hope was dashed--dashed far short of 50 yards.
An elevator. Button pushed. A short wait. Doors opened. Zoomer wheeled in--turned around. Facing forward. Third floor's button pushed. Ankle's Hope salivating. Slow and crotchety though she was known to be, today, this elevator went nowhere fast.
Door Open's button pushed. As an accordion opens, so too the doors. Yet, just as with a fast, bad polka, an accordion closes, so too did the doors. Though Zoomer is learning to dance, the polka is not her step.
Though armed with her cell phone--a Jitterbug, I kid you not--my ankle's hope kicked back at me. Angry. With the weight of a bowling ball on her, my ankle's hope was to kick off her burden. One more time, she implored me. Third floor button, one more time. Once again, Zoomer, my ankle's hope, and I went nowhere fast.
Though Jitterbug tried to call to Ankle's Hope, she would hear none of it. Take me home, Zoomer. Take me home.
Safety's anger. She prevailed. Safety's Anger drove Zoomer and I out of Harm's Way.
Though Ankle's Hope kicked high, she fell flat into Zoomer's lap. No harm. Just anger. Frustration. Door Open's button hit. Zoomer and I sped forward. To Safety, we arrived.
No sign. Out of Order. No sign.
Anger's safety. Though Safety's Anger had spoken--rescued--now it was for Anger's Safety to speak.
To quiet solitude, find your way. Let Anger rest, let Safety's Advocate cry forth in due time.
Impatience overruled quiet solitude. A simple report. "Your elevator is out of order."
"The elevator repairman has been called. They should be out sometime today."
Safety's Anger yet satisfied, though Logic told her she should be.
"You are new to this world, there were many signs not posted before you. Many signs will not be posted in years yet to come."
Yet,"Where is the Out of Order sign--Safety's Warning?" was all this impatient soul could ask.
A return to swimming was my dear ankle's hope. Pool maintenance. Facility remodeling.
A return to swimming was not to be. Not this day. Ankle's hope was dashed--dashed far short of 50 yards.
An elevator. Button pushed. A short wait. Doors opened. Zoomer wheeled in--turned around. Facing forward. Third floor's button pushed. Ankle's Hope salivating. Slow and crotchety though she was known to be, today, this elevator went nowhere fast.
Door Open's button pushed. As an accordion opens, so too the doors. Yet, just as with a fast, bad polka, an accordion closes, so too did the doors. Though Zoomer is learning to dance, the polka is not her step.
Though armed with her cell phone--a Jitterbug, I kid you not--my ankle's hope kicked back at me. Angry. With the weight of a bowling ball on her, my ankle's hope was to kick off her burden. One more time, she implored me. Third floor button, one more time. Once again, Zoomer, my ankle's hope, and I went nowhere fast.
Though Jitterbug tried to call to Ankle's Hope, she would hear none of it. Take me home, Zoomer. Take me home.
Safety's anger. She prevailed. Safety's Anger drove Zoomer and I out of Harm's Way.
Though Ankle's Hope kicked high, she fell flat into Zoomer's lap. No harm. Just anger. Frustration. Door Open's button hit. Zoomer and I sped forward. To Safety, we arrived.
No sign. Out of Order. No sign.
Anger's safety. Though Safety's Anger had spoken--rescued--now it was for Anger's Safety to speak.
To quiet solitude, find your way. Let Anger rest, let Safety's Advocate cry forth in due time.
Impatience overruled quiet solitude. A simple report. "Your elevator is out of order."
"The elevator repairman has been called. They should be out sometime today."
Safety's Anger yet satisfied, though Logic told her she should be.
"You are new to this world, there were many signs not posted before you. Many signs will not be posted in years yet to come."
Yet,"Where is the Out of Order sign--Safety's Warning?" was all this impatient soul could ask.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Zoomer Chronicles: A Fine Line
This morning, I ventured out to review problematic intersections and issues in Downtown St. Paul. The adventure heightens my attention to several facts.
After having three drivers cut in front of me in controlled intersections--in a period of two weeks--it seemed I needed to draw attention to the overlooked safety issues. I want to be prepared for the yet-to-be scheduled time with a television producer to highlight--to focus, literally--attention on public safety issues.
Several personal facts have come to light in recent days. While I do what I can to highlight public safety issues for others, I need to combat internal issues.
First, I have retreated from a healthy pace of travelling within the downtown area.
Second, timidity and fear replaced determination and confidence--not riskiness, but confidence.
Cooler weather intensifies my concern that I will be isolated by poorly-shoveled sidewalks, and ice. I need to back up. This will be my first winter with Zoomer. Questions abound.
What are Zoomer's intended capacities in the outside during wintertime? Am I realistic to expect that I might have some outside travel capacities during the winter? What will my limitations be? What accommodations are open to me? Are there additional safety precautions that might improve, or extend my capacity to travel outside during the Minnesota winter months?
I know that I should not expose Zoomer to rainy weather. I know that I should not expect to navigate ice.
I know that Zoomer can--will be able to--navigate the skyway system during winter months. [The skyway system is a Godsend. The system of enclosed walkways between downtown buildings--walkways located on the second floors of buildings--do wonders in curbing a paralyzing isolation that would occur otherwise.]
As wonderful as skyways are, it is extremely important to get outside--to be exposed to the sun--to all elements of the out of doors. Oddly, prior to Zoomer, having to be outside was not an issue, or priority for me. I took for granted my capacity to get outside and be outside.
Interesting what it takes to challenge one's values, and priorities. Coming days and months will clarify what, if any realignment of values, and priorities occurs.
After having three drivers cut in front of me in controlled intersections--in a period of two weeks--it seemed I needed to draw attention to the overlooked safety issues. I want to be prepared for the yet-to-be scheduled time with a television producer to highlight--to focus, literally--attention on public safety issues.
Several personal facts have come to light in recent days. While I do what I can to highlight public safety issues for others, I need to combat internal issues.
First, I have retreated from a healthy pace of travelling within the downtown area.
Second, timidity and fear replaced determination and confidence--not riskiness, but confidence.
Cooler weather intensifies my concern that I will be isolated by poorly-shoveled sidewalks, and ice. I need to back up. This will be my first winter with Zoomer. Questions abound.
What are Zoomer's intended capacities in the outside during wintertime? Am I realistic to expect that I might have some outside travel capacities during the winter? What will my limitations be? What accommodations are open to me? Are there additional safety precautions that might improve, or extend my capacity to travel outside during the Minnesota winter months?
I know that I should not expose Zoomer to rainy weather. I know that I should not expect to navigate ice.
I know that Zoomer can--will be able to--navigate the skyway system during winter months. [The skyway system is a Godsend. The system of enclosed walkways between downtown buildings--walkways located on the second floors of buildings--do wonders in curbing a paralyzing isolation that would occur otherwise.]
As wonderful as skyways are, it is extremely important to get outside--to be exposed to the sun--to all elements of the out of doors. Oddly, prior to Zoomer, having to be outside was not an issue, or priority for me. I took for granted my capacity to get outside and be outside.
Interesting what it takes to challenge one's values, and priorities. Coming days and months will clarify what, if any realignment of values, and priorities occurs.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Epilepsy Chronicles: A Firm Grip
You have a hold on my right arm and leg no longer. Yet, your grip on me is firm--firmer than I realize. I try to erase you from my memory--put you in the well within me. Yet, I look back to my own words--my sentences. You have a firm grip on my mind. You take words from my sentences. You steal the precious part of me that, so desperately, I want to--I must give.
You give me no clue as to where you are--no hint as to where to look. You give me no key to find you.
Where are you? You are hiding from me. Where are you?
I try to understand.
You give me no clue as to where you are--no hint as to where to look. You give me no key to find you.
Where are you? You are hiding from me. Where are you?
I try to understand.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
The Epilepsy Chronicles: A Firm Grip on Me
You have a hold on my right leg and arm no longer. Yet, your grip on me is firm--firmer than I realize. I try to erase you from my memory--put you in the well within me. Yet, I look back to my words--to my writings. You have a firm grip on my mind. You take words from my my sentences. You steal the precious part of me that I want to give. You give me no clue as to where you are. You give me no key to find you. Where are you? You are hiding from me.
I try to understand.
I try to understand.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Zoomer Chronicles: Much Too Close
To all drivers, stop and think. Before cutting off wheelchairs in crosswalks, please think of the consequences--the potential consequences. The people. The injuries. The lives. All that might be affected--yours, mine, and others. I am a careful wheelchair user. I live in downtown St. Paul. This morning, while crossing an intersection, I was cut off by a van. The driver decided that my fastest pace was too slow. The driver took my life in his/her hands. I stopped. Though stunned, I stopped. My wheelchair stopped. Thankfully, my wheelchair stopped. I shudder to think what might have happened. Did the driver ever shudder? I will never know. Long gone before any license number was in my view. With no hostile intent I ask, "How much time do you save by cutting in? What consequences might befall you--befall others--if you do not honor the lights, and override the crosswalks." I, for one, want to share the road with you for many intersections to come.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Epilepsy Chronicles: Ignorance. Understanding. Transformation.
My epilepsy--my brain damage--may not be willed away. Others may not wish it so, and be so fulfilled. I may not will it away--whatever amount of strength and stubbornness I will, I may not be so fulfilled.
"Focus on the positive and ignore negative behavior," Mom's words reverberate in my memory yet today.
Ignorance was never an answer. Ignorance was never the answer for me. Ignoring the ignorance of other people will not lead to a positive result. It never could be. Adding two negatives to render a positive result may work in arithmetic. Never was I a star math student--not by a long shot. But, my life is not an equation--it never was. It never will be. I will never will it to be so.
Other factors were at work. Other factors are at work.
Ignorance--ignorance of others--is not a manifestation of malice. It can't be. I am not a servant of malice. I cannot, I will not be. The only hope of advancing understanding is to be willing to learn--to be committed to look inward...to the knowledge of other people, to the language they speak.
Malice is not an evil in which I may invest myself. The return on investment--for me, for God, for others--serves no one. Evil is not a commodity in which I may invest my resources--my being.
Ignorance--my ignorance of other's experiences, and motives--is an indulgence I can ill afford. To the contrary, ignorance, doubt, questions, and anxiety are--must be--invitations to which I engage my being. I cannot presume that I have the answers--the answers universal to everyone with seizures, cerebral palsy, or osteoarthritis, for that matter. Too many variables are involved in the equation to arrive at one simple answer of facts.
"Focus on the positive and ignore negative behavior," Mom's words reverberate in my memory yet today.
Ignorance was never an answer. Ignorance was never the answer for me. Ignoring the ignorance of other people will not lead to a positive result. It never could be. Adding two negatives to render a positive result may work in arithmetic. Never was I a star math student--not by a long shot. But, my life is not an equation--it never was. It never will be. I will never will it to be so.
Other factors were at work. Other factors are at work.
Ignorance--ignorance of others--is not a manifestation of malice. It can't be. I am not a servant of malice. I cannot, I will not be. The only hope of advancing understanding is to be willing to learn--to be committed to look inward...to the knowledge of other people, to the language they speak.
Malice is not an evil in which I may invest myself. The return on investment--for me, for God, for others--serves no one. Evil is not a commodity in which I may invest my resources--my being.
Ignorance--my ignorance of other's experiences, and motives--is an indulgence I can ill afford. To the contrary, ignorance, doubt, questions, and anxiety are--must be--invitations to which I engage my being. I cannot presume that I have the answers--the answers universal to everyone with seizures, cerebral palsy, or osteoarthritis, for that matter. Too many variables are involved in the equation to arrive at one simple answer of facts.
Mirrored Outward Image. Egami Drawtuo DerorriM
I cry pains of rejection...
Yet...
When my outward image egami drawtuo
Is mirrored derorrim to me
In the body of another person,
I fear....
I am not the model of acceptance
I so desperately seek in others.
When my outward image egami drawtuo
Is mirrored derorrim to me,
What questions do I need answered
To quell my fear?
When my outward image egami drawtuo
Is mirrored derorrim to me,
How much reassurance must I be given
That I am beyond the pain of that teenager,
Whose Strengthe were hidden from others
By her outer packaging?
Epilepsy Chronicles: The Other Face
Some coworkers feared I might have a seizure on command. Others feared it happening in their presence. I understand. Being out of control of my body in my mind's eye. I understand. Yet, not moreso than when I happened upon a seizure of a man awaiting a bus.
"Focus on the positive, and ignore negative behavior," Mom chants in the deep reaches of my memory. From my earliest memory, "Focus on the positive, and ignore negative behavior."
I understood what he needed. Not medically. Yet, I knew what help he needed from the many helpless people who surrounded him. I knew the helpless individuals, who surrounded him, were far from helpless. While others surrounding me were viewing their first seizure, I was on the other end of the seizure. I understood what he needed.
I had never met the seizing man before witnessing his seizure. I have not seen him since that day.
Yet, I was given a voice--words to speak---for a reason. I am not committed to vengeance against other individuals. Yet, I can and must commit myself to positive vengeance against the excessive electrical energy in my brain, the root of my disabilities. I can and must be the human irritant--the nacre--that contributes to pearls of understanding.
"Focus on the positive, and ignore negative behavior," Mom chants in the deep reaches of my memory. From my earliest memory, "Focus on the positive, and ignore negative behavior."
I understood what he needed. Not medically. Yet, I knew what help he needed from the many helpless people who surrounded him. I knew the helpless individuals, who surrounded him, were far from helpless. While others surrounding me were viewing their first seizure, I was on the other end of the seizure. I understood what he needed.
I had never met the seizing man before witnessing his seizure. I have not seen him since that day.
Yet, I was given a voice--words to speak---for a reason. I am not committed to vengeance against other individuals. Yet, I can and must commit myself to positive vengeance against the excessive electrical energy in my brain, the root of my disabilities. I can and must be the human irritant--the nacre--that contributes to pearls of understanding.
Epilepsy Chronicles: The Morning After
...
Slowly...ever so slowly....I awaken from a deep sleep. I awaken. I have slept off my throbbing headache. Or so I think. Is my epileptic hangover over?
Can I be so bold as to hold out that hope?
Slowly, I question....
Was that just a bad dream--a nightmare--or did I have a seizure last night?
My headache is gone. Will I have another seizure?
My knees feel wobbly. The firmness of my step tentative. Will I have another seizure? Honestly, I don't know. But, I can't admit that, at least not to everyone.
What can I do? What should I do? What action will give me what I need--what we need, to move us forward from doubt, uncertainty, and fear? God, I don't think I am being selfish. But, what can I do? What should I do?
I can't add to the doubts, and anxiety of my coworkers as to whether I will have another seizure. God knows, some people are convinced that I can have a seizure on command, without my feeding into their fears.
I need their confidence in me. So, what do I do? How do I garner that confidence--that positive energy?
Slowly...ever so slowly....I awaken from a deep sleep. I awaken. I have slept off my throbbing headache. Or so I think. Is my epileptic hangover over?
Can I be so bold as to hold out that hope?
Slowly, I question....
Was that just a bad dream--a nightmare--or did I have a seizure last night?
My headache is gone. Will I have another seizure?
My knees feel wobbly. The firmness of my step tentative. Will I have another seizure? Honestly, I don't know. But, I can't admit that, at least not to everyone.
What can I do? What should I do? What action will give me what I need--what we need, to move us forward from doubt, uncertainty, and fear? God, I don't think I am being selfish. But, what can I do? What should I do?
I can't add to the doubts, and anxiety of my coworkers as to whether I will have another seizure. God knows, some people are convinced that I can have a seizure on command, without my feeding into their fears.
I need their confidence in me. So, what do I do? How do I garner that confidence--that positive energy?
Epilepsy Chronicles: In the Throes...
I fear the worst. My body is out of control.
Relieve me of my consciousness. At this moment, relieve me of my consciousness. Help me. God, help me. Help me to hang on.
My right arm and leg are falling off my body.
God, help me. ... Mom, help me. I need you. Mom, help me.
Home alone, I cry as though Mom can hear me from the next room.
Mom, help me. I need you.
"You will learn to live independently," she said. "You will learn to live independently."
My roommate is gone. I need you. How dare you leave me in my time of need! How dare you leave me in my time of need.
I am alone. Someone has been here, always someone has been here--within earshot of my cries. However embarrassed, or shame filled I have been that I have not taken my medicatiion, someone has been within earshot.
I am alone.
Maybe if I turn on my right side, my arm and leg will stop shaking. Maybe, they won't fall off my body. What else can I do?
Relieve me of my consciousness. Let me sleep. My head is throbbing. Let me sleep off my throbbing headache. My head is throbbing.
Finally, without my knowing, sleep is given to me. My consciousness relieved.
Relieve me of my consciousness. At this moment, relieve me of my consciousness. Help me. God, help me. Help me to hang on.
My right arm and leg are falling off my body.
God, help me. ... Mom, help me. I need you. Mom, help me.
Home alone, I cry as though Mom can hear me from the next room.
Mom, help me. I need you.
"You will learn to live independently," she said. "You will learn to live independently."
My roommate is gone. I need you. How dare you leave me in my time of need! How dare you leave me in my time of need.
I am alone. Someone has been here, always someone has been here--within earshot of my cries. However embarrassed, or shame filled I have been that I have not taken my medicatiion, someone has been within earshot.
I am alone.
Maybe if I turn on my right side, my arm and leg will stop shaking. Maybe, they won't fall off my body. What else can I do?
Relieve me of my consciousness. Let me sleep. My head is throbbing. Let me sleep off my throbbing headache. My head is throbbing.
Finally, without my knowing, sleep is given to me. My consciousness relieved.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Boredom. Deny. Fear. Befriend. Boredom
Boredom. Boredom? Yes, boredom. Well, that doesn't sound very interesting. Humor me. Tell me whether hours of sleeplessness regarding a family member was the breeding ground for worthwhile insight.
I know three people who are at different stages of their careers, who are facing boredom's reality.
Two years ago--a lifetime ago now--my health ended a 24-year career, which was boredom's intimate. Not a constant intimate, but, an intimate, nonetheless.
When my career ended, my family doctor gave me excellent advice. Get up at the same time every day. Find something that you are interested in, and go to it as though it was your full-time job. Though my doctor had not known me long, he did know that I was reasonably intelligent--he knew that I thrived on intellectual stimulation.
Of the three individuals, my influence over them varies. I am not a confrontational person. My default behaviors are compassion, and empathy. I am uncomfortable being over in relation to anyone in my life, so, by that standard, I do not have influence over anyone. I might strive to be the compassionate, yet, straightforward friend a mentor of mine is. He does not volunteer his opinions--his judgments--readily, or with any fanfare. Yet, if I seek out his counsel, he is honest with me, not polite and proper, but, straightforward and caring.
The young man needs the most guidance. He yearns for excitement. He goes one step beyond fearing boredom in potential jobs he might secure. He denies that boredom is a possibility. If he denies boredom's possibility, then it will not be. I would make a lousy mother. I am too wishy-washy. I want to offer the example of my life, rather than risking the rejection that a more confrontational approach might render.
The second individual--a woman--is in the middle of her working career. She understands the realities of the work world. She has worked in jobs that were boring--jobs that did a grave injustice to her gifts. Yet, she understood the basic need to be self-supporting. Or, so I thought. Extended unemployment has nurtured an idealism that, at other times might be healthy. Yet, there is a time in one's career--when seeking employment--when serving as an outraged citizen advocate usurps the energy necessary to find employment. This woman fears boredom. She remembers its omnipresence in her work life. She has discovered social justice--advocacy--as a realm within her reach. Yet, her fear of boredom has the opposite effect that she wants. She wants to pursue advocacy. Yet, her resistance to the necessary boredom in aspects of gainful employment will distance her from the social justice she yearns to pursue. Her eroding self-confidence is the price she is paying for her fear.
The third individual--a woman--is in the late stages of her working career. She is boredom's intimate. Not a constant intimate, but, an intimate nonetheless. She does not fear boredom. She does not deny boredom out of fear. She befriends boredom. She has a tremendous threshold for boredom that many overlook--she is not a woman of fanfare. She has flair. She has creativity. But, she is not someone who draws attention to herself as being some poor soul. She lives life fully. She pursues her passions. She treasures people. She is a loyal friend, and is marvelous to her family.
Were I more courageous, I would shake the young man, and the first woman, so that I might rid them of their fear, and denial. Of the second woman, I need little courage to offer my support. Yet, I fall short. I know that I am not faced with the work world. No longer do I need to worry about finding a job, or changing a job. During the many years I was in the work world, I denied boredom. I feared boredom. I befriended boredom. Never did I surmount boredom as I want to chastise the young man, and two women for not surmounting. So, I find it difficult to chastise the three individuals for a standard I could not uphold.
No longer am I in the work world. I am working in a different world--creating a post-work world life. Funny. You might think that being freed of imposed boredom would be replaced by days of constant excitement. I don't know what that is.
Gradually, I am trying to put together elements of what I enjoy, what is necessary, and what I may do to serve other people.
What do I enjoy?
Writing. Online research. American history--New England, specifically. Genealogy. Letter writing.
What is necessary?
Physical exercise. Swimming. Being outside. People--being in circulation with other people. Being in community with a worshipping community that celebrates life, death, and all that is possible with the same exuberance.
What may I do to serve?
Identify organizations needing the skills, abilities, talents, and gifts I have been given to share with those in need. Challenge people I know to live up to their potential. Offer my life--my discoveries--with friends, family, neighbors, and worshipping community--fellow believers. Be open to the lives of my friends, family, neighbors, and worshipping community--fellow believers.
This is the structure of a new life. Much remains to be identified. I don't think I am alone in striving to create this new life--to recognize boredom, acknowledge denial, confess to fear, and befriend boredom, all in the hope of surmounting boredom. I confess I have a long way to go. I have forgotten what it is I want to do. I am not sure if that it is denial, fear, or both.
Boredom. Deny. Fear. Befriend. Boredom.
I know three people who are at different stages of their careers, who are facing boredom's reality.
Two years ago--a lifetime ago now--my health ended a 24-year career, which was boredom's intimate. Not a constant intimate, but, an intimate, nonetheless.
When my career ended, my family doctor gave me excellent advice. Get up at the same time every day. Find something that you are interested in, and go to it as though it was your full-time job. Though my doctor had not known me long, he did know that I was reasonably intelligent--he knew that I thrived on intellectual stimulation.
Of the three individuals, my influence over them varies. I am not a confrontational person. My default behaviors are compassion, and empathy. I am uncomfortable being over in relation to anyone in my life, so, by that standard, I do not have influence over anyone. I might strive to be the compassionate, yet, straightforward friend a mentor of mine is. He does not volunteer his opinions--his judgments--readily, or with any fanfare. Yet, if I seek out his counsel, he is honest with me, not polite and proper, but, straightforward and caring.
The young man needs the most guidance. He yearns for excitement. He goes one step beyond fearing boredom in potential jobs he might secure. He denies that boredom is a possibility. If he denies boredom's possibility, then it will not be. I would make a lousy mother. I am too wishy-washy. I want to offer the example of my life, rather than risking the rejection that a more confrontational approach might render.
The second individual--a woman--is in the middle of her working career. She understands the realities of the work world. She has worked in jobs that were boring--jobs that did a grave injustice to her gifts. Yet, she understood the basic need to be self-supporting. Or, so I thought. Extended unemployment has nurtured an idealism that, at other times might be healthy. Yet, there is a time in one's career--when seeking employment--when serving as an outraged citizen advocate usurps the energy necessary to find employment. This woman fears boredom. She remembers its omnipresence in her work life. She has discovered social justice--advocacy--as a realm within her reach. Yet, her fear of boredom has the opposite effect that she wants. She wants to pursue advocacy. Yet, her resistance to the necessary boredom in aspects of gainful employment will distance her from the social justice she yearns to pursue. Her eroding self-confidence is the price she is paying for her fear.
The third individual--a woman--is in the late stages of her working career. She is boredom's intimate. Not a constant intimate, but, an intimate nonetheless. She does not fear boredom. She does not deny boredom out of fear. She befriends boredom. She has a tremendous threshold for boredom that many overlook--she is not a woman of fanfare. She has flair. She has creativity. But, she is not someone who draws attention to herself as being some poor soul. She lives life fully. She pursues her passions. She treasures people. She is a loyal friend, and is marvelous to her family.
Were I more courageous, I would shake the young man, and the first woman, so that I might rid them of their fear, and denial. Of the second woman, I need little courage to offer my support. Yet, I fall short. I know that I am not faced with the work world. No longer do I need to worry about finding a job, or changing a job. During the many years I was in the work world, I denied boredom. I feared boredom. I befriended boredom. Never did I surmount boredom as I want to chastise the young man, and two women for not surmounting. So, I find it difficult to chastise the three individuals for a standard I could not uphold.
No longer am I in the work world. I am working in a different world--creating a post-work world life. Funny. You might think that being freed of imposed boredom would be replaced by days of constant excitement. I don't know what that is.
Gradually, I am trying to put together elements of what I enjoy, what is necessary, and what I may do to serve other people.
What do I enjoy?
Writing. Online research. American history--New England, specifically. Genealogy. Letter writing.
What is necessary?
Physical exercise. Swimming. Being outside. People--being in circulation with other people. Being in community with a worshipping community that celebrates life, death, and all that is possible with the same exuberance.
What may I do to serve?
Identify organizations needing the skills, abilities, talents, and gifts I have been given to share with those in need. Challenge people I know to live up to their potential. Offer my life--my discoveries--with friends, family, neighbors, and worshipping community--fellow believers. Be open to the lives of my friends, family, neighbors, and worshipping community--fellow believers.
This is the structure of a new life. Much remains to be identified. I don't think I am alone in striving to create this new life--to recognize boredom, acknowledge denial, confess to fear, and befriend boredom, all in the hope of surmounting boredom. I confess I have a long way to go. I have forgotten what it is I want to do. I am not sure if that it is denial, fear, or both.
Boredom. Deny. Fear. Befriend. Boredom.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Osama bin Laden???
Osama bin Laden.
What do we know of the man named Osama bin Laden? What do we know of the human being named, "Osama bin Laden?"
Can you tell me, who were bin Laden's parents? How old was Osama bin Laden? How many years older or younger than you was Osama bin Laden? Did Osama bin Laden have siblings? If so, how many?
Osama bin Laden was born in 1957--three years before I was born. Bin Laden was the seventh son of 50 sons, and daughters born to a Syrian mother, and a father from Saudi Arabia. His father was a strict disciplinarian. He died when Osama was only 13 years old?
Did you know that Osama bin Laden graduated from college in 1981 with a degree in public administration?
These questions simply scratch the surface of understanding the man named Osama bin Laden, who lived for 57 years. I offer these questions for your reflection.
Bin Laden's early life did not justify the actions he took during his life. That is true of each of us. Our early life may not be a justification for our adult lives. Yet, our early life does inform our adult actions.
How do we view individuals, who are labeled as "terrorists." Do we go beyond scary pictures, frightening recordings, and haunting threats? Are we held captive not by terrorists, but, by our own fears, and broad generalities regarding a group of individuals who act in the same way?
My intent is not to place judgment, or minimize the effects of Osama bin Laden's actions. My intent is straightforward. Do we view terrorists as individuals? How would our relationship to the threats made be if we viewed terrorists as human beings, not as evil enemies? Is it possible to render peace, if we have labeled people as "terrorists," before we know them to be human beings?
We have much to reflect upon. Satisfaction, and jubilation are not within the feelings in my heart tonight.
How may we be instruments of peace?
What do we know of the man named Osama bin Laden? What do we know of the human being named, "Osama bin Laden?"
Can you tell me, who were bin Laden's parents? How old was Osama bin Laden? How many years older or younger than you was Osama bin Laden? Did Osama bin Laden have siblings? If so, how many?
Osama bin Laden was born in 1957--three years before I was born. Bin Laden was the seventh son of 50 sons, and daughters born to a Syrian mother, and a father from Saudi Arabia. His father was a strict disciplinarian. He died when Osama was only 13 years old?
Did you know that Osama bin Laden graduated from college in 1981 with a degree in public administration?
These questions simply scratch the surface of understanding the man named Osama bin Laden, who lived for 57 years. I offer these questions for your reflection.
Bin Laden's early life did not justify the actions he took during his life. That is true of each of us. Our early life may not be a justification for our adult lives. Yet, our early life does inform our adult actions.
How do we view individuals, who are labeled as "terrorists." Do we go beyond scary pictures, frightening recordings, and haunting threats? Are we held captive not by terrorists, but, by our own fears, and broad generalities regarding a group of individuals who act in the same way?
My intent is not to place judgment, or minimize the effects of Osama bin Laden's actions. My intent is straightforward. Do we view terrorists as individuals? How would our relationship to the threats made be if we viewed terrorists as human beings, not as evil enemies? Is it possible to render peace, if we have labeled people as "terrorists," before we know them to be human beings?
We have much to reflect upon. Satisfaction, and jubilation are not within the feelings in my heart tonight.
How may we be instruments of peace?
Monday, April 4, 2011
Left With Fear
I fear little. Not because I am brave, or courageous, not be a long shot. I fear little.
Fear's expenditure lessens my deposits of strength to take on necessary human challenges. My moment's challenges? They are few. Preserve my mind's vitality. Nurture my spirit. Treat my hand gently. Preserve the gifts she gives me--the strength I have taken for granted--abused--for a lifetime.
My vehicle's challenge? There is but one. Preserve the strength of my left hand. Right-handed I am not. Ambidextrous I am not. My mind--my spirit--are conveyed through the strength of my left hand. Friends, family, and a spiritual community revitalize my mind and spirit. With them, my voice sharpens.
Exercise might strengthen the hands of some. Yet, my lifelong abuse of my left hand fertilizes this moment's fear. Osteorthritis attacks with anxious fear.
Writing is my voice. I attend to my ankle--I accommodate her anxiety. Yet, I fear threats to my left hand's grip--the strength she brings to me. I must give her due gentleness, that she not be lost to me--to my mind, to my spirit.
Am I alone in such piercing fear? I don't think so. Yet, I cannot say what for others is the unrealized piercing fear that awaits an honest revelation--a revelation that would bring a much more authentic life. I don't know what my left hand's compromise is--or my compromise to my left hand's honor. If I did know, I would challenge friends, family, and strangers to be open to their body's revelation--an invitation to authenticity.
To sleep I go. Healing--rejuvenation--I seek.
Fear's expenditure lessens my deposits of strength to take on necessary human challenges. My moment's challenges? They are few. Preserve my mind's vitality. Nurture my spirit. Treat my hand gently. Preserve the gifts she gives me--the strength I have taken for granted--abused--for a lifetime.
My vehicle's challenge? There is but one. Preserve the strength of my left hand. Right-handed I am not. Ambidextrous I am not. My mind--my spirit--are conveyed through the strength of my left hand. Friends, family, and a spiritual community revitalize my mind and spirit. With them, my voice sharpens.
Exercise might strengthen the hands of some. Yet, my lifelong abuse of my left hand fertilizes this moment's fear. Osteorthritis attacks with anxious fear.
Writing is my voice. I attend to my ankle--I accommodate her anxiety. Yet, I fear threats to my left hand's grip--the strength she brings to me. I must give her due gentleness, that she not be lost to me--to my mind, to my spirit.
Am I alone in such piercing fear? I don't think so. Yet, I cannot say what for others is the unrealized piercing fear that awaits an honest revelation--a revelation that would bring a much more authentic life. I don't know what my left hand's compromise is--or my compromise to my left hand's honor. If I did know, I would challenge friends, family, and strangers to be open to their body's revelation--an invitation to authenticity.
To sleep I go. Healing--rejuvenation--I seek.
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