Compassion. Read. Consider. Sign. Live.

The Charter for Compassion

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Failed Attempts...Gifted Moments...

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

Zoomer Chronicles: Mapping Out a New Life

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

A Cell of Understanding

     I feel a call to enter into the cell of understanding--a prison cell, a prisoner's life.  I know little of the terrain of prisons--of prison life.  Yet, one person I know has a key to open the cell, if I am willing to enter.
     The terrain?  Of one individual, an 8' x 11' cell, which is shared with another individual.
     The rhythm?  Unexpected lockdowns of unknown duration.  I make no judgments of or apologies for past actions.  Such distracts from the energy I may devote to understanding.  My job is not to judge.
     Where is--what is--the key to the cell of understanding?
     Relationship.   Curiosity.  Interest.  Questions.  Answers.  Relationship.  Commitment.  Interest.  Curiosity. Questions. Answers.  The cycle continues.  So long as commitment breathes, the cycle continues.
     The questions I ask, and the answers I hear are true to me alone.  Yet, others may engage themselves with a prisoner to ask the questions--to hear the answers--specific to their commitment, interest, and relationship.
     My questions?  Answers given to me?
     How big is the cell?  8' x 11' What connection to the outside world do you have? Limited telephone calls to approved phone numbers.  Limited computer time.  No Internet.  An e-mail system.  Periodic in-person visits from approved visitors.
     A new vocabulary.  BOP.  Bureau of Prisons.  FCI.  Federal Correctional Institution.  Lockdowns.  Racial tensions.  Stabbings.
     My understanding is scant best.  As is true often, knowing the right questions to ask that can open the cell of understanding, without wanting to do ANYTHING that will violate the unknown boundaries of censored mail--email, or postal mail--that the prisoner may receive.
    A cell of understanding is beginning ever so slowly to be opened.  I must build a vocabulary--I must become literate, so that I may open a cell of understanding.

Pride's Distraction

    Who are your friends?
    I do not mean names.  No.  Are the individuals you associate with important to you because they have the same ideas as you do?  In order to be your friend, what is the threshold that they must meet in terms of agreement on political issues, religious beliefs, faith, values?
    Go to your inbox, your contacts list, your written or digital, and your Facebook "friends."  How did you meet each person?  What common beliefs, and/or associations did you share that drew you  together?  Were you colleagues?  Did you worship in the same community? Are you related by blood, or marriage?  Are you childhood friends?  Did you meet in some other way?
    I pride myself on being an open-minded person.  I avoid identifying anyone as having a simple faith, a simplistic view of the world.  I avoid identifying anyone on the basis of their political beliefs.  Or, so I thought.
    Someone told me that she has different friends for different purposes, or for different reasons.  Her friends were objects that she used.  Quite to the contrary.  My friend acknowledges the diverse gifts of each individual--each friend--who blesses her life.
   This week, I was reminded of the trap of the pride I claim.  I try to be in constant conversation with internal challenges that whisper for my attention.   Yet, clearly I have fallen short.
   Humility reintroduced herself to me this week.  She did not confront me.
   Humility simply tapped me on the shoulder in the form of surprise.  I thought I was open to different perspectives in other people, my surprise to the acceptance of my own explorations challenged the integrity of my thoughts.
   I am delighted by my surprise.  I pray that my surprise may humble me.  May humility dispel any distraction prideful expression of openness may cause.

Inside Anger...Joyful Radiance...

The light you give off
Did not come from a pelvis.
Your features did not begin in semen.
Do not try to hide inside anger.
Radiance that cannot be hidden.
                                A Year with Rumi: Daily Readings
                                Rumi [David Banks, ed.]
     Rumi's reflection today had been beyond my understanding.  I was born into a logical, rational life.  Inside anger, and joyful radiance must be tempered--reserved.  Anger and radiance may be revealed only under moments of tight control, and certainty.  Or, so I learned.  So I believed to be the only possible way to live a decent life.
     There is a huge difference between Minnesota Nice--putting a smile to cover up frustrations, hostilities, aggressive feelings--and radiance.  Minnesota Nice is Politeness's child.  Politeness is shallow.  Politeness is deep only in the depth of her insult to her recipient.
    There is a huge difference between happy and joyful.  I am not--I refuse to be--a happy person.  Happy is shallow.  Happy is an unwilling companion to challenge.  Happy welcomes no adventure--no lessons from challenge.
    Joyful listens, hears, feels, mourns, celebrates, and shares with all who meet her.  Joy and Radiance are intimates.  Joyful Radiance are partners of the soul.   May we be agents of Joyful Radiance.

Effective Communication??? How???

     Two examples of communication in two very different contexts lead me to a question.  "What must exist before effective communication can exist?"
     I live in the United States.  Although there is no established national language, which everyone here must speak.  In the immigration debate, some have advocated the establishment of a national language.  The premise of their position is, if everyone spoke the same language--English--in the United States, then we would be one step closer to achieving national unity.
     In Europe, smaller geographical sizes of nations demand that residents in each country be fluent in more than their native language.  Such fluency requires learning different words, different grammatical structures of the different languages being learned.
     It is simplistic to say that there is no conflict between European nations.  Government structures, political systems, different cultural, and faith traditions well may contribute to civil unrest, and discord.  Yet, having to learn another language calls for flexibility, and understanding.  These two well may serve as cornerstones of effective communication.
     The health care debate, and now the budget debate in the U.S. Congress have raised the discord among our elected officials.  I was raised with a very positive attitude--positive role models--toward elected officials.  For the most part, I have not been cynical regarding politics.  Yet, the closer I find the issues cutting to the core of my daily needs--my potential daily needs--I seek a higher level of public discourse than I hear.
     My intent in writing this blog is not to espouse a specific political position.  There are plenty of individuals who fill that need.  All that any individual needs to do is to enter the issue of interest to them in their favorite search engine, along with the word "blog," in order to find an individual, who writes a blog regarding politics.
      How does my discussion of the U.S. congressional debates relate to effective communication?  It is this.  The members of the U.S. Congress all speak English--Democrats, Republicans, and Independents, as well as liberals, and conservatives.  Yet, although the congressional representatives' speech, and writing, are governed by the same words, and the same grammatical structures, they do not communicate effectively.
     Recent miscommunication, and complete lack of communication with individuals involved in securing my wheelchair lead me to question the role of indifference.  How do we lower our voices, open our ears, open our minds?  How do we open ourselves to the notion that despite our different human experiences, and life circumstances, our commonalities are greater than our differences?  How do we transform our fears of difference into a richer, stronger bond of effective communication?

Do People Think I am Special Needs Now?

    "Will you be sitting with Rosa?"
     For a moment my mind's a blank.  Then I realize she means the special needs girl who sits at the back of the classroom.
     The girl in the motorized wheelchair.
     The girl who rarely talks and, when she does, is very hard to understand.
     I didn't even know her name was Rosa.
     "There's plenty of room at that table," Ms. Rucker says without looking over her shoulder.
     Inside, I panic.
     Yes, I'm missing a leg, but the rest of me is...well, it's normal.
     Do people think I'm special-needs now?
     Is that how they see me?
     No!  They can't!
     But...but if I start sitting with special-needs kids, that is what people will think.
     It just is.
     Ms. Rucker turns and gives me a cool, blank look.
     She wants an answer.
     My mind is a flurry of contradictions.  I want to lie and say I'm nearsighted.  That  I need to be up front in my own chair.  That I hope just fine.
     But I also think about my terror in returning to school.  Feeling like a freak.
     Is that how Rosa feels?
                         The Running Dream by Wendelin Van Draanen
     I have not lost my leg in a car accident, as did Jessica in The Running Dream.  No, my cerebral palsy, and my aging body leave me at a crossroads.  Jessica, a teenager, met her new body.  She did not like what she saw.  She wanted to run from her wheelchair.
     A childhood friend recommended The Running Dream to me.  Only recently have we re-established contact.
     Jessica brought to mind two individuals, at two very different points in my life.  Laura Johnson.  Jean Wassenaar.
     Laura Johnson was a junior high school classmate.  I was affected mildly by my cerebral palsy.  I walked with a slight limp, and my right hand was bent at my wrist.  Some, not all, of my peers made fun of me for my physical appearance.  I yearned to be seen as normal.   Laura was part of the SLBP [Slow-Learning Behavior Problem Program.]  She was very friendly--overly so for my normal-seeking teenage being.  I wanted nothing to do with Laura.
     Ironically, for as much as I yearned for a distinct identity from Laura, my salvation--advanced-level classes--was my nemesis in my search for peer acceptance.  Being placed in advanced classes earned me the moniker, brain.  
     Jean Wassenaar.  I am haunted by how I treated Jean.  She was a colleague I knew for five to ten years.  Only in her obituary did I learn that Jean was a polio survivor, who learned to walk again at the age of 13.  By the time I met Jean, she used a cane to walk.  During the last two to three years that I knew her, Jean used a scooter.  She was a very outgoing person, who had a wonderful laugh.  We had a good working relationship. Yet, I remember once, if not more than times, when we were headed downstairs.  She needed to use the elevator.  I could not deal with her use of a scooter.  So, I opted to take the stairs, and meet her downstairs.  She never confronted me about it.  In fact, when I left work due to my failing body, she extended herself to me in a note saying that if she could help in any way to let her know.  She was beaten to death by her husband--an act rooted in mental illness.
    With Laura Johnson, I well may not have been buddy-buddy with her.  We had different interests.  It is not that I should have sought out her friendship just because she was labeled SLBP.  To have done so would have been just as bad as shunning her on the basis of what she represented to me.
    With Jean Wassenaar, I believe we may have had a deeper relationship had I been more accepting of the device she used to live fully.

Moving forward....Almost.

     I never imagined what is exciting me right now.  I believe I am within several weeks of getting my wheelchair--a red wheelchair.  This week, I have felt the sense that everyone wants to see me getting what I never imagined might be best for me--the woman at the insurance company, my physiatrist, primarily.  I do not mean, by any stretch of the imagination, to slight the tremendous of family and friends.  It took me a year to come to terms with the notion that a wheelchair was my vehicle to living fully.  I knew I needed to come to terms with the idea--be emotionally comfortable with the idea--before I could engage in the advocacy necessary to go through the doctor appointments, the physical mobility assessments, and the stress associated with how well I could use the wheelchair.
   It is quite odd, at the moment my level of anticipation outweighs the prospect of losing use of my left hand.  That is MUCH more significant than you might appreciate, unless you know me.  All of my life I have had no fine motor skills in my right hand.  I use my left hand to a FAR greater degree than other people, who have full use of both hands.  That is not worthy of trumpeting on a daily basis.  In simple terms, I have never known any other way of living with regard to my hands.  Today, I said yes to the option to getting something that I may use if I come to the point of not having the requisite use of my left hand.  The full implications of not having the use of my left hand that I have today is not something that I can fixate my attention at this moment.
    My excitement may be more aptly described as satisfaction with myself.  In late December, when I met with my doctor to have the requisite mobility assessment for a motor scooter/wheelchair, I wanted nothing to do with either.  I begrudgingly opted for a scooter.  That was all that my emotions could handle.  In fact, when I tried to use several scooters, I was shown a wheelchair to try using.  I accepted the invitation to try it in the store.  Something seemed different, but, I didn't know what it was.  I stood up, and the man at the medical supply store said that I had been using an electric wheelchair.
   "What?"
     It couldn't be.  It just couldn't be.  I was too young.  Only old people--people who were slumped over-- used wheelchairs.  People in wheelchairs had speech impairments.  They could not be understood.  Their thinking was impaired.
     I am too young.  I don't have any speech impairments.  The doctors may have had serious doubts as to whether I would ever talk.  But, I proved them wrong.  And my thinking is not delayed--it is not impaired.  OK, my thinking is not exactly clear immediately following a seizure.  But, my seizures are rare.  I made my way through college.  I was not a star student by a long shot.  But, I did return, and was graduated with a master's degree.  And they said I would fall flat on my face--not in so many words, but through actions of doubt.
    "You did well with the wheelchair."
    "What?  That can't be."
     I left the store bewildered.  My insurance case manager called me.
    "Patty, think long term.  Think beyond what your immediate needs are.  Think what you will need in five years."
      "I don't want to.  That is too much.  That is too daunting for me.  What are YOU going to need in five years?"
     Dreaming that I was in a combination scooter/wheelchair, as I was crashing into the activity room of an assisted care facility unable to find the brakes did not help one bit.  I was completely out of control.  The nightmare of crashing into people was so vivid.  I was out of control--completely out of control.
     So, what was the turning point?  There were two.   First was time.  Second, the experience of being able to turn around 360 degrees in the elevator, while sitting in the wheelchair.  Not having to back out of an elevator.  I am sure there will be some of that.  Right now, I cannot focus on that.
     This has been a long road.  One and three-quarter years of not working, having diminishing stamina, and an arthritic ankle have taken their toll.  My mind needs what a wheelchair will offer.  To feel the support, and affirmation of my doctor, my case manager, and the medical supply company president was....no....is empowering.

What Will Independence Include?

     What will independence include?
     This has been a lifelong question that I have rushed in to answer before anyone else dared to define it--to deny its possibility.  Age has called me to question my irrefutable, infallible lifetime's answers.  Defiance was my youth's inseparable companion.  Age severed friendship.  The strain was too costly.
     My child took on faith my mother's inheritance to me.  You will live independently.
     Though neither of us knew the details, we accepted on faith that her commandment could be--would be--followed.  Her inheritance to me was that commandment.  Her inheritance to me was defiance--a commitment to defiance.  She defied doctors' doubts of my life's capabilities.  She defied educators' questions of my mentality.  She defied all doubters of my life's potential.  She would hear nothing of doubts, or questions.
    She committed herself beyond defiance.  She committed herself to action.  Unsupported defiance was hollow.  It still is.
    To doctors, she used knowledge of her two older children to call on her advocate's spirit.  She demanded diagnosis, when no need for such diagnosis was recognized.
     To educators, she committed herself to identify needed services. To counselors, she refused doubts.  She committed her time, her energy--her determination--for her commandment's adherence. She committed her strength to fortify her mantras.
     To me, she instilled the mantra. You will go to college.  I responded.  Passion about world events.  Pursuit of an undergraduate degree.  Graduation resulting from my pursuits.  Not a star student by a grade's measure of my mind.  But, graduation nonetheless. An inquisitive mind was nurtured.  In defiance of all expectations--mine included--I pursued graduate-level education.  I was granted graduation as a master.
     Not a boasting.  No.  Defiance.  Faithfulness.
     Mom, I bet you never thought I would take you so seriously.
     Family pride.  Friends' celebration.
     You will learn to live independently.
     I had no idea of its details.  Yet, I adhered.  On faith, I adhered to this commandment.  I adhered to this commandment.  For 24 years, I adhered.
    Then....then....a life's body of work died at the hands of a desperate body--a ravaged body demanding healing.  Mom and I are called to question her commandment--her mantra.  It worked for a lifetime.  Not without its serious imperfections.  But, it worked, nonetheless.
    Now what?
    What will independence include?

Independence's Confession--Surrender

   As time moves forward toward getting an electric wheelchair--a zapoid, as my sister calls it--I am softening.  The fierce, defensive woman of days gone by, is leaving.  That is good.  Her ferocity--her defensiveness--drained me of the energy necessary to shift gears into my new life.
   I confess, I do wonder what happened to two people.  What happened to the Cub Scout, who is sitting in the background behind my ballerina alterego?  I do not remember if I ever knew him.  Probably not.
   I must confess that for a lifetime, I have tried to tiptoe, ever so quickly, past the reach of him, and others in wheelchairs.  May I be forgiven my fear masked in an advocate's bravado.  Ever the advocate that others not shun individuals who appear different, I was guilty of the very crime I abhorred.
   I knew better.
   Given the graceful acceptance of Jean--a coworker, who was beaten to death by her husband--I tried to run from her scooter.  Forever etched in my memory is the day we were headed to a lower floor.  I opted to take the stairs rather than have to accommodate her scooter--a reality I could not face.  Jean was wise.  She knew my discomfort.  Yet, she never let on.  We both knew.  Yet, she did not need my comfort--the acceptance I could not give her.  Before she died, she offered her friendship should I ever need help accommodating to my body, after I stopped working.
    I wonder what happened to a childhood friend--the daughter of my high school vice-principal.  Jeannie and I went to Michael Dowling School for Crippled Children--I think.  It may have been Courage Center's predecessor, the Curative Workshop.   Jeannie had osteogenesis imperfecta.  Her brittle bones meant she had to use a wheelchair.  She had full use of both hands.  We were educated together.  We were not crippled.  We were not cured of our live's circumstances.  None of us is.
   Jeannie and I were partners.  I was the doorkeeper.  She was the handywoman.
   I cannot say that I have surrendered completely to my independence.  Were I to blame my resistance to complete surrender, I might blame my mother:)  A lifelong family joke has been that whatever goes wrong is Mom's fault.  Only to the degree that I have heeded my mother's words so long ago, "You will learn to live independently," may I blame my mom.  Seriously, I never have.  In good conscience, I never could.  It is her words that ground me.
   I have known an individual, who has worked outside the home in the past.  Yet, now she allows partial blindness to be an excuse for not living as fully as she might--for holding her family hostage to her dependence.  It is beyond me that she can live that way.  It is beyond me that her family does not use their faith to call her on it--to nurture a fuller life for everyone.
    Surrender to independence is a tenuous balance to strike.  Each of us needs to live in partnership with one another.  We are called to make the most of our gifts--live the fullest of our days.  We must live in partnership.
    We must give what we can, and take what we must.
    Surrender to independence calls for a heartfelt confession.  Mechanical offerings have no place in a true surrender to absolute independence.  I do not claim to have made the surrender to independence that I am called to make.  I do see the surface of the confession.  Words are given to me pry open the mystery of how to make a surrender to independence without losing one's God-given dignity.
    Tempting--alluring--though it be to think, surrender is not a one-time confession to be made at a convenient time of our scheduling.  True surrender--true confession--is a call made at inconvenient, humbling moments in our day.  When our dignity is compromised, true surrender is God's ransom.
    Flailing one's arms and legs as a confession is mechanical.  Flailing strips surrender of its dignity.  Self-respect deserves dignity.  True confession is a commitment--an openness to adjusting ways of living forever.
    Independence and dependence are not absolutes.  Independence and dependence are not opponents.  Absolute independence is not humanly possible to achieve.  Absolute dependence may be possible.  Honestly, I do not know.  Yet, absolute dependence is morally, and ethically unconscionable.
     I confess, I do not understand how an individual--how a family--may not strive to achieve some degree of independence--to achieve the fullness of God's gifts.  Difficulty---the degree of difficulty--that is involved in making a true confession--from crafting a unique interdependence--is no excuse.
     Independence is not a commodity that may be bought off the rack in a store.  Independence must be custom made--custom crafted--by calling on God for partnership.
     Dependence is not the scrap material of independence.  Dependence is interwoven into the fabric of independence.  Together, they create our life's tapestry.
    May we surrender to interdependence--a partnership with God.