Intentional Failings. Human Potential.

     Be it Mom's "focus on the positive, and ignore on the negative" mantra, strengthened by my necessary modification of that mantra, "focus on the positive and learn from the negative," not since my junior high school cry, "Mom, don't you know I can't do that!" have I allowed myself to itemize "the negative" and use that low "bank [of capabilities] balance" deter me from investing my life in what I could do.  In fact, many times, truth be told, use of "the negative" as a justification for not acting or doing a given task leads me to cry out in opposition.
     The Boston Marathon Bombings suspect has led me to revisit my mantra, "Focus on the positive and learn from the negative."
     We have not heard from the the Boston Marathon bombings suspect regarding his motivations and intent.    I have not addressed--I cannot--my questions, or feelings with him.  Only in prayers seeking understanding have I done so.
     I believe he might describe some failing in his upbringing that led him to his actions.  Failings in his perceptions of given aspects of his upbringing.  Economic situation.  Family dynamic.  Social interactions in the community.  Experiences and influences of formative years--of current worldview, have overridden any belief in his power to learn from his experiences and influences, and dedicate himself to others not experiencing the same situation.
     Two caveats.  First, the actions--the intents--of the individuals or groups credited with causing the negative experiences and influences must be separated from the individuals or groups credited so credited.
    Second, condemning other human beings for any action overlooks a fundamental reality.  We are all human beings created with enduring frailty.  As hard as we may try, we cannot escape the fact we fail our potential.
    Our enduring human frailty is not an excuse, or a justification for acting with intentional failing--from intentional failings.  Intentional failings that rise to the threshold of criminality must be treated as such.
     We must strive to achieve to our human potential--forever and in all ways.  Failing to do so is the ultimate intentional failing we may commit with our lives.

Living With the Cold, Hard Facts

     Zoomer.  A refrigerator--new, black, textured, cold.

     By passion, a researcher.  A children's museum my workplace--my playground.

     By birth, not a cradle Catholic.  By pursuit, reform's seeker.

     Since birth, cerebral palsy, epilepsy.  Since middle age, osteoarthritis.

     Lifelong, disability's advocate.

     In common?  This is my life.  Cold, hard facts.  Not always difficult, just cold, hard facts to be lived--to be lived fully.

     One year ago, a wheelchair was offered to my consideration.  I wanted nothing of it.

     "Think of your needs.  Not now.  Not a year from now.  Think of your needs five years from now."

     Still, I wanted nothing of it.  Yet, I slept on the offering.  I considered my life's cold, hard facts.

     I chose--I choose--to live with them, not die from them.

     Yesterday, a refrigerator was delivered.  New.  Black.  Textured.  To my liking.  To Zoomer's liking. 

     64 inches high.  My height?  64 inches.  28 inches wide.  My width?  Irrelevant.  32 inches deep.  My depth--my physical depth?  To the refrigerator's depth.

     Zoomer's reach?  The refrigerator's depth.  The freezer's height.

     Zoomer's range--range of motion?  Atop the freezer's height?  No.

     These are the dimensions of my life--the cold, hard facts.  But...these are the dimensions by which I am called to live--beyond the reach of the gifts I have been given.  

     I am an odd futurist.  Some say odd.  Others say futuristic.

     I do not know what my future will be.  None of us does.  Odd though it may seem, my new refrigerator opens a new view to the cold, hard facts by which I will be called to live.

     Covered with a texture new to me--it is fun to touch.  A new height to test.  A new depth to reach. 

     "Think of your needs.  Not now.  Not a year from now.  Think of your needs five years from now."

     I am an odd futurist.  I do not live by a clock's ticking.  My body breathes to her own rhythm--a mystery to me.  I try to live with her, not in fear of her.  Most days I abide by her.  Fewer days I succumb to them.

     I engage Zoomer to my new refrigerator.  With her, may I reach to the depths of the cold, hard facts by which I must live?  With her, may I reach beyond the gifts I have been to live? 

     I do not know what they will be.  I do not know their color.  Their height. 

     What will the texture of my spirit be to live by those cold, hard facts? 

     I pray I will abide by them, not succumb to them.

Corpus Christi. Mystery. Corpus Christi.

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

Prayer...A Nascent Transformation...

     The Hail Mary.
     Shall we pray? Sister Immaculata proffered.
     Hail Mary, full of grace.
     The Lord is with thee.
     Blessed art thou among women,
     And, blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
     Holy Mary, Mother of God.
     Pray for us,
     Now, and at the hour of our death.
     Amen.


     Seat of wisdom, pray for us.
     The prayer was a reverential invitation to understand words new to me.  I was never sure whether the words were, "Seat of wisdom, pray for us," or, "Seed of wisdom, pray for us."  Yet, somehow, that detail did not matter.  Both Seat and Seed confirmed a nascent transformation yet to be lived. 
     Hail Mary, Full of Grace.  
     As inexplicable as the Hail Mary's beauty on my first hearing 30 years ago is its beauty today.  Whenever an ambulance passes by me, the Hail Mary comes to my ears.  I do not recite it at other times.  Yet, at the moments of urgent need--the need of others--the Hail Mary is given to me to utter.
     I have no Rosary beads.  I do not know the Rosary.  I do not pray the Rosary.  Not by my judgment of its value.  Rosary has been in my vocabulary for nary three decades.  Maybe in seven more decades, I will know the Rosary.  Maybe in seven decades I may pray the Rosary.
     Others better versed than I could recite the precise chapter and verse.  Yet, I have heard it said that we need not fear, when  needs arise we shall be given the appropriate words to utter.  Whether spoken aloud, or held in my heart, confidence is given, and fears assuaged.  Blessed by and with a faith-filled worship community, and Christians who care deeply about the heart and soul--far more than structures they enter, no longer is prayer a formula I grab from off the rack.  I cannot explain its shape--its form.  Thirty years ago, a formula.  Today, a precious mystery.  Thirty years from now?  A precious mystery to be lived, not feared.

Relax...A Time for Joy. A Time for Sorrow.

    The premise of  Patty's Ponderings is to reflect on the fast-paced, deadline-driven world in which we live.  My disclaimer?  I am no longer in the work world.  Sometimes, I feel guilty that I am not offering my nephews an example of a good work ethic.  Yet, as my mom says, going swimming--strengthening my right arm, and preserving my right ankle as much as is possible--is my job.  I do not mean that my swimming is drudgery, as the work world often seemed to me to be.  My swimming is challenging.  Yet, it is rewarding--very rewarding.
    But, I digress.
    This morning, I went to work.  Zoomer and I left to swim at the YMCA.  Fifteen minutes after leaving home, she and I arrived at the pool,.  During those 15 minutes, I encountered two people engaged in my pet peeve--engrossment in their electronic devices.  First, a man in his twenties stood at the end of a switchback--an accessible ramp--engrossed in a conversation with someone.  Later in our travels, Zoomer and I met up with an attractive, blond woman dressed in a gray business suit, and a fuchsia blouse.  The blond businesswoman's head was buried in some electronic device.  Zoomer is my silent business partner.  Thus, while the electric wheelchairs of some people make noise that alerts people to their presence, such is not the case for me.  The businesswoman was so engrossed in her electronic encumbrances that she did not see me coming.  I spoke up.  We parted ways.
     Such encounters lead me to wonder--to ponder.  What is so important that we miss in our surroundings--people, beauty, and all that life offers?  What do we miss because of the magnetism of electronic devices?  Complaints are made that no one has time to relax anymore.  I challenge the premise.
     No one has time to relax anymore?  No.  That is wrong.  They do--we all do.  It is a choice.
     I confess that I am addicted to my computer.  I communicate with individuals living on other continents.  But, as much time as I spend sitting at my computer, I am not its slave.  Though my contact with people is radically different from my working days, such is not all bad.  I make choices.  Essential to engaged living is circulating with people every day.  Circulating without tether of wires, ear plugs, or other such appendages.  Be it the grocery store. the Y, the Children's Museum, or wherever I find myself, full attentiveness to the people I encounter, meet, and know is vital.  May  I help them?  May they help me?  May we share our joy?  Or are we called to share our sorrow.  Joy is not happy.  Sorrow is not sad.  Happy and sad are nothing more than superficial ways of gasping for air.  Joy and sorrow call us to inhale...to exhale--to live fully.
    Take time.  Take the time.  Read Ecclesiastes 3:1-15.

Losing a Life

     Little leaves me speechless.  Tonight I read an e-mail message saying that a 32-year-old woman, who was a part of my worship community, was murdered.  I know no specifics.  I did not have the privilege of knowing Carolyn.
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
     Today, I spoke at length with several people.  Both women are legally blind.  One woman is hostile at the world for all that has befallen her in her life.  The other woman contributes to society from the root of her blindness.
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
     Hostility....cynicism....pity....
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
     I listened to pity-filled, cynical, hostile woman for nearly two hours.  I abhor pity.  I cringe at cynicism's crust.  I hate hostility.
     Pity, cynicism, and hostility need not hover over the woman's spirit.  I pray for the woman.  She speaks of resurrection--belief in transformation.  Yet, personal transformation--willingness--must go before resurrection.  No magician's black hat, and wand.  Personal transformation.
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
     I cannot--I will not--invest my brief life in hostility, cynicism, or pity.  Certainly not all three.
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
     In hopes of nurturing some infinitesimal seed of transformation, I offered \a litany of personal challenges.  A glimpse of what is possible, if only personal willingness is sacrificed for a greater good.
     I do not know.  I may never know.  Did my litany of personal challenges pierce her self-pity, her crust of cynicism, and her heartfelt hostility.  My style is not to meet self-pity with self-pity.  That is not my style.  Frankly, most of the time, I do not think of my personal challenges to be such, I have my moments as any other human being.  Yet, until I meet someone who does not surmount their own--does not try--I must challenge them.  Yet, at times, I must offer my litany as a hope-filled offering--a wake-up call.  I slowed the pity, silenced the cynicism, and halted the hostility.  But, for how long?
     The second woman I spoke with today is a different spirit.  We are alike in our abhorrence of self-pity.  We disavow ourselves of cynicism's temptation.  We have no time for such wallowing.  Hostility?  We have no hours to harbor hostility.
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
    We understand challenge.  We surmount it, when possible.  We claim no perfection.
    Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.
    Carolyn, I am sorry I did not know you.
     Life is a gift.  It is a fleeting gift.

Mermaid Chronicles: Katy Lyons

     In the 1960s, a woman with graying brown hair wrapped in a bun, and horned-rim glasses came into my life.  Each week, Katy Lyons parked in our driveway, and carried a green and black exercise mat to our basement.  For an hour, she stretched my right leg.  Under the pot lights in the basement, she laid the groundwork for a stronger leg on which I could stand.  Katy flexed my right foot, and my right hand.

    With her firm hands, Katy gave me a gift.  A muscular yawn.  To my foot.  To my right hand.  A gift was given--a muscular yawn.  It felt so good.  The muscular yawn came slowly.  Yet, when it came,  oh, it feel so-o-o-o good.

     As any kid, I wanted little part of Mom's directive, "Do your exercises."  Memorable to me was the exercise to sit on the hearth in our living room, and propel myself up to a standing position using my right hand and arm.  Although the exercise felt good when I did it, I bored of it quickly.

     Where is my hearth? 

     This morning, this Mermaid entered the pool at the Y.  Buoyant bar bells, and hand paddles were beyond  temptations I could resist.  The only resistance I felt was from the water.  Amazing.  Absolutely amazing.  With the bar bells, I could push my right arm straight down in the water.  Feeling my right arm extended straight was amazing.  Absolutely amazing.

     Katy Lyons.

     I thought of Katy this morning.  What would she say?  How fun it would be to share it with Katy.  Yet, Katy died in the 1990s.  An occupational therapist I met with several years ago knew Katy.  The therapist and I spoke with warmth about a woman, who dedicated herself to children.  Katy dedicated her life to helping kids stand tall--to stand proud--to stand with appreciation.

     Thank you, Katy.

You are an Inspiration

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

A New Beginning...

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

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

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

Spirituality of the Human Body

     Respect.  Body Parts.
     What on earth do these two phrases have in common?  Contrary to what you may think, a great deal.
     But, before I go further, let me establish what I will not be addressing.  First,  respect--respect for life--in its common parlance is beyond my call--abortion.  I have my views.  I respect those of other individuals with differing views than mine.  I am open to expressing, and exchanging those perspectives.  Yet, my call is to convey my thoughts in a different direction.
    Respect for life--respect for the life I have been given to live.  That is my call.  That is what I pray I will voice today.  Yet, that is a broad, unwieldy scope to address.
    Body parts.  Body parts? Yes, body parts.  How is that remotely connected to respect for the life I have been given to live?
     Once again, let me establish what I will not address--what I do not mean.  I do not drive.  I have no knowledge of auto mechanics--I have no knowledge of automobile body parts.  That is not my call.  I am called to a different direction.  I am called to convey my thoughts regarding human body parts.
     Private parts.  Betrayal.  Disability.
     I am not writing about private parts, per se.  The term is understood--there is an established definition of the term.  I do want to include the term in the context of our human body parts.  I have never heard reference to, much less definition of what might be called public parts--public human body parts.
    We have no understanding of how our bodies serve the rest of us--our mind, and spirit.  We do not attend ourselves to how we honor our body parts.  How do we serve our body parts?
     In recent years, I have been called to respond to these questions.  Until recent years, my right hand did little to serve me.  Never have I had, or will I have fine motor skills in my right hand.  Never have I known any other way to live, so that has required little adjustment of me.
    My right ankle, and my left hand are another matter entirely.  Osteoarthritis in my right ankle caused me to ask--how does my ankle serve me?  It took many months for me to reconcile the fact that my right ankle could not serve me.
    My left hand has been my lifelong workhorse.  She has been called to make up for the many times when my right hand could be of no service to me.  I am scared by little.  Yet, the onset of what I now know to be intentional tremors in my left hand rendered me speechless--a feat for anyone who knows me.  Intentional tremors.  The more I intend to do a given task when I am nervous, the shakier my left hand becomes.
    Intentional tremors made essential the honoring of my body parts, and their service to me.  I took for granted that my left hand would be at my service, at full strength, throughout my life to meet whatever need I had.  Intentional tremors called my right arm and hand to service, as a steadying force.
     Intentional tremors were the sign of the first part of spirituality of the body--spirituality of my body.  I had to identify--I had to come to terms with--what my body parts could do.  How could my body parts serve me?  That was the first step.
    Honoring my body parts.  What does that mean?  What does it call me to do?
    When I honor my body parts, I must humble myself.  I must confess, "What is it that my body part can no longer do?  Honoring my body parts, committing myself to confession is not the end.  It is the second of a three-step process that continues throughout our lives as we age.
     We argue about terms regarding people whose bodies do not function as most people's bodies do.  Yet, we have not elevated our understanding to a betrayal of our human body parts to our minds, and  spirituality of the human body--the spirituality of our human body.  The closest example of spirituality of the human body may be found in the writing of theologian Jean Vanier.  If you have never read his writings, I commend him to you.
      But, the writing of Jean Vanier does not go far enough.  Or, how we read Jean Vanier does not  challenge us to examine our own bodies as worthy of having spirituality appended to it.  We can separate his comments and compartmentalize them as applying to the residents of L'Arche, and no one else.  Whenever we receive communion, we speak of the Body of Christ.  Yet, we do not bring our human body to communion with us.
    Clinical inventory of our body parts.  Physicals, medical tests, and other medical examinations require of us little more than to go skin deep.  That is, in and of themselves.  Yet, if we are wholly attuned to our human body parts, we are called to go much deeper--far deeper than skin deep.
    Glorification of the body.  Glorification of the body may be found in two different places--in the media, and in fine art.  Glorification of the body may have positive or negative impacts in the media or in fine art.  Both need our attention--our open-mindedness.
    Spirituality of the human body...spirituality of the human being.
    How can we ascend to--advance to--a spirituality of our body parts--a spirituality of our human body-- if we separate our human body as we enter the door of the church, or if we separate the whole notion of spirituality when we open the door to leave the church?
     Can we read Julian of Norwich and choose to engage in some form of spirituality regarding our human body?  If we accept the invitation Julian of Norwich offers us, can we develop a spirituality of our human being?  I am not saying that it is necessary to go as extreme as Julian did.  That is not the point. .Yet, are we willing to go further than we have  gone up until now?  I continue to press the issue, because I believe it is possible--it is essential.
    Respect. Respect for life.  Respect for the life I have been given to live. How does my body serve me?  How may I honor my body?  How may I serve my body, so as to preserve and honor her gift--her gifts?  Am I willing to commit myself to pursuing a spirituality of my human body--a spirituality of my human being?

A Human Inventory

    Long before computers automated the inventory process of goods, a relative inventoried the goods of several grocery stores.  Many years hence, a more sophisticated world has demanded a more advanced inventorying.  Valuations are conducted by many professionals, who begin where the automated inventorying leaves off.  Valuations established a working value by which business, or the lives of divorced individuals may move forward to more profitable--more fulfilling--lives.
    I have known two professionals who engaged in inventorying and valuations.  I find myself in the midst of a different--very humbling--sort of valuation.  I am being called to itemize how I live my daily life.
    How do I live my life?  Can I 1. perform this activity independently; 2. Can I perform this activity with the use of equipment or adaptive devices; or is it true that  I cannot perform this activity.   
   Dress;  voluntary bladder and bowel control or ability to maintain a reasonable level of personal hygiene; toilet; feed yourself with food that has been prepared and made available to you; bathe (tub, shower, sponge); transfer from bed to chair.
   I feel comfortable with each today.  Yet, it is daunting to see those very real prospects as a part of my future is akin to the decision to get a power wheelchair--to opt to receive a head rim that I could use at the time in my future when my left hand might no longer be capable of manipulating a joystick.
     That is humbling, to say the least.
    You will go to college.  You will learn to live independently.
   I answer the questions with those words in my lifelong memory.  I have achieved the first.  I continue to achieve the second.  The future?
    I know how I have lived my life until now.  I have seen deterioration of my body in the last ten years, especially in the last two years.  But, the future.  Seeing its truth presented before me in black and white--starkly--that is humbling.
    So, how do I live in the present, such that I make the fullest use of my own abilities currently?  How do I live in the present, such that I do not endanger myself--my physical capacities--for the future?  How do I live in the present such that I position myself--prepare myself--for the future, with all of its humbling prospects?
    Responding to the current valuation, I thought that my visceral response to it was the section regarding activities of daily living--ADLs.  I am not partial to any acronym--clinical jargon--that abbreviates individual human beings.  To some, activities of daily living--ADLs--is a foreign word--an unknown quantity.  To others, it is a clinic scheme used to organize the occupational therapy needs of an individual.  Yet, to me activities of daily living--ADLs--represents a test that I can still pass independently, or with some equipment, or adaptive devices.
  These are humbling questions.
  Will there be a day when I cannot perform this activity--any of the activities of daily living? 
   Dress; voluntary bladder or bowel control or ability to maintain a reasonable level of personal hygiene; toilet; feed yourself with food that has been prepared and made available to you; bathe (bath, shower, or sponge); transfer from bed to chair.  These are tasks in a list--elements at the heart of dignity.

Indoor/Outdoor Living

     Contrary to years gone by, I have no desire--absolutely none--to be inside.  Mind you, I seek no suntan.  I am too fair of face to have that aspiration.  I am born of Norwegian stalk.  Need I say more?  No.  I have lived from the inside looking out.  Now, I yearn to live beyond the window's shade--beyond the door's lock.  I have the wheels.   I have the time.
    Am I nothing more than a fair weather friend of nature?  I am a Minnesotan.  Need I say more?
    No, seriously.  Were I told, "You may have but one view of the world around you, the rest will be blinded to you," what would I choose.  Oh, that is easy.  I have no doubt.  A sugar maple in her full autumn glory--in fiery red.  A sugar maple in fiery red beneath a clear blue sky.  A sugar maple in her full autumn glory standing her ground on a brisk September day.  That would be my single landscape were I limited to one.
     Am I nothing more than a fair weather friend of nature?  I am a Minnesotan.  Need I say more?
     No, seriously.  Wintertime.  My heart melts at the sight of big snowflakes lacing tree branches.
     Am I nothing more than a fair weather friend of nature?  I am a Minnesotan.  Need I say more?
     No, seriously. Springtime.  Born an April's Fool,  the smell of fresh lilac.  Ah, the smell of fresh lilac.  A child born in Golden Valley nary a mile from Lilac Drive.  Hedges of lilacs breeze through my lifetime's senses.
     Wintertime ice. I slip. Wintertime snow drifts.  I fall.  Cold I may dress for.  Yet, ice and snow drifts steal my balance--inner and outer.  Ice and snow drifts steal my balance. From ice and snow--from Cabin Fever I ail.
     Am I nothing more than a fair weather friend of nature?  I am a Minnesotan.  Need I say more?
     Minnesota.  Wait five minutes, the weather will change.  A sugar maple in her full autumn glory--fiery red.  Giant snowflakes lacing tree branches.  Green pine trees laden with a fresh white coat.  Fresh lilac breezing through my lifetime's senses. 68 degrees.  No humidity.  No mosquitoes. Humidity.  Rain showers.  The 90s.  Green skies.  Thunder.  Lightning.  Tornadoes.
     Am I nothing more than a fair weather's friend?  I am a Minnesotan.  Need I say more?

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.

Getting It Right

     For a lifetime, balance has been an issue for me.  I am not so different from everyone else.  Each of us struggles with finding balance.  Be it work, money, chemicals, emotions--whatever it may be, each of us has struggles with balance.  For me, physical imbalance is my struggle--what I strive to surmount.
    I am drawn to the picture of me in 1966 dressed as a ballerina.  The little girl dressed in a pink tutu and tights, and carrying a pink, purple, and fuschia parasol is concentrating to keep her balance.  Although the beam is unusually wide, she is maintaining her balance.  A proud grandmother looking on probably didn't hurt.  That little girl wanted to be--believed that she could be--a ballerina.
     At some point in the last ten years, I had to have her in front of me at work each day to remind me that balance was possible.  Work seemed hopelessly out of balance with no hope of reconciling the imbalance.  The ballerina tiptoed past my forlorn eyes to remind me that if I concentrated, and stayed on course, I would find my way to balance.
    Much has changed since 1966.  Much has changed since she sat on my desk as a sign of hope.  Not that her meaning to me has changed.  It has grown.  She twirls in front of my imagination, to remind me how far I have come.
    Today, my struggles regarding balance are quite different.  More basic than in much of my adult life.  Physical balance.  Two years ago, chemical imbalances co-opted with emotional balances to leave me physically unbalanced.  I doubted whether I would regain any of the strength, and balance I had had previously.
     Fast forward two years.  I knew what needed to be done to work back to physical balance, if it was meant for me to have in my life.  Four mornings a week, I return to an activity I did once a week, as a child.  As many went to church on Sunday morning, I went swimming.
    This morning, something very special happened.  To the casual observer, the woman with short, brown hair, who was wearing the blue striped swimsuit, turned to her right side from her left side while doing the side stroke.  BUT....far more happened in that moment.  For the first time in her life, the woman had the strength in her right arm and leg to propel her forward.  Never before had she been able to turn to her right side.  There was not enough physical strength present--not enough confidence in any physical strength present in her right arm and leg to try to turn to her right side.
     My turn to the right side was not turned on as a light switch.  Weeks of concentration....focusing on the strengthening my right arm, and leg.....These preceded this morning's special moment.  Yet, as faith-filled, and hope-filled as I am, I did not know whether I would be able to strengthen my arm and leg by sheer exercise, and persistence.
     I do not know what is next.  Only my body...and my hairdresser....know for sure.
     I do know that this morning, I was getting it right.

Employing Yourself

     Today, unemployment--finding work--touched me. Not me, Patty Thorsen, but, rather, someone I know was thrown by the bureaucracy of unemployment benefits--how they are administered.
     I feel somewhere on the continuum with Guilty at one end, Gratitude in the middle, and Insensitivity at the other end.  How can I possibly offer the support, and encouragement a friend deserves?
     My guilt? I am not faced with the challenge--the stress--of finding, and keeping a job.  The unemployment statistics.  Job creation.
     Gratitude?  My pace is mine to set.  I am free from the expectations of others--arbitrarily-established benchmarks of performance.  Swimming is mine to lap up.  I awaken to no alarms--my bladder takes care of that.
     Insensitive?  Yes.  I fear I am insensitive to the challenges--psychological challenges--of pursuing and applying for work that is below one's gifts--below one's potential.
     I hear the self-destruction that, in the long run, well may erode the faith, and hope necessary to make the most of one's gifts.  Self-destruction found in job hunting is masked by outrage at the system, outrage at the plight that individuals without any resources necessary to find a job.
     Never would I have imagined that I would forget the years of unfulfilling work, the frustration of being underestimated.  Yet, nearly two years have passed since I made an unexpected exit from the full-time work world--an exit after 24 years.  Occasionally I dream that I am trying to get back to work, yet, I never make it.  In the dream, I wonder, "What is wrong with this situation?"
     I know that finding a job is not easy.  I understand that seeking job opportunities that are beneath one's gifts, and potential is a painful compromise--a compromise of conscience.
     I do understand that persevering those trying times is paying off now.  A stable income...not excessive, but, stable, and secure.  Retirement.  Pension.
     I know that I wanted no part of what I am saying now, when I was working full-time.  For that reason, I question the integrity of my prayer.  Yet, my desire that friends, and family, who are in this situation, invest themselves fully in creating their new lives.
    My prayer for anyone who finds themselves underemployed?
    May you pour the anger, hostility, outrage, and frustration into an earthen vessel that you store out of your sight--separate from the human being, who must be employed.
    May you relinquish the burden of civic responsibility, and advocacy for others with fewer resources while you heal your wounded self.
    Civic responsibility, and advocacy will re-form itself within your spirit, when you emerge from the chapter of unemployment, or underemployment.  Have faith.
    May you define compromise.
    May you make necessary compromises.
    May you continue the pursuit of a more fulfilling life--a fulfillment of your potential.
    May you give no one the satisfaction of knowing that you are the person they may imagine--a person of lesser potential.
     You are better than that.  You are worthy of the challenge.  You can and will surmount the challenge.
     Employ your gifts.  Present them to the world with humility, grace, and determination.

What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up???

     Last night, a friend reminded me of the ever-present quest for a perfect job--a perfect life--abundant in fulfillment, and accomplishment, and free of frustration.  Oh, and could you give me meaningful days free of boredom, and monotony.
     To some degree, I live a life of luxury. Well...I could eat bon bons, if I wanted.  I have the time.  But, truth be told, that is not the life I want to live.  I do not have the responsibilities of a full-time, or a part-time employee, for that matter.  So, it is easy for me to make pronouncements about a perfect job---a perfect life.
     My struggle with finding the perfect job were put to an end with the failure of my body.  My mind-filled wish for the perfect job was no matter for my consideration.
     A perfect life???
     Hmmmm....I am still working on that one.
     Any delusion of keen listening--of being able to offer constructive suggestions solely by virtue of listening with a keen ear--were dispelled, when my conversation with my friend ended.
     What are my job responsibilities today?
I have tended to apologize for my current life, as compared to when I was employed by a large corporation.  I am not providing any quantifiable product or service to my "customers," in the lingo of corporate America.  So, what contribution am I offering?
     What are my job responsibilities today?  Who are my customers? What contributions am I offering. 
     Tending to the needs of my body.  Exercising it to make sure that I take the actions within my power to preserve this vessel I was given 51 years ago in the best condition possible.  I cannot take on responsibilities beyond my real or intended capacities.
     For many years, I have had a mutual understanding--offering--with a different friend.  Both of us serve one another as ceiling therapists.  This service is not daily, per se.  As a ceiling therapist, I have agreed to lend an ear, when the need arises.  My friend and I have committed a willingness to be available to do nothing more than listen, while my friend gets off her chest whatever problems, or situations are out of control.  As a ceiling therapist, I agree to pull my friend off of the ceiling after such overwhelming problems, or situations occur.
    At other times, I have served as a control panel specialist, when the need arises.  What? A control panel specialist.  I provide my friend with basic understanding of how to make the computer, most oftentimes the basic software applications sing as they are designed to sing.  Once again, my service as a control panel specialist is provided on an on-call, as needed, basis.
     I feel I am falling short of another job I have undertaken--a prison correspondent.
     I set high expectations.  I fail to give myself credit for what I am doing.  The same is true for volunteering that I am doing.  Yet, with my volunteering, I know that the sheer contact with people is tremendous.  That is the part of my job commitment to myself.
     So, does any of that contain a pearl of wisdom that I could have offered my friend last night?  I do not intend to present myself as some sage--some sole source of wisdom to my friend.  I knew most of what I expressed here last night.
     Yet, as much as I value words, I could not find the words to convey an oftentimes unattractive truth:  Life isn't perfect.  I couldn't bring myself to say, "The party's what you make it," as a travel acquaintance once said.  Both truths seemed to trivialize the desire of my friend to create for herself a life of service--grand service.
     For many years, I resisted sage advice my mother offered over and over and over.  "Focus on the positive, and ignore the negative."  I resisted her advice.  Though the first part, "Focus on the positive," made complete sense to me, I could not reconcile, "ignore the negative."  The "negative" that I was fighting was hurtful reality hurled at me repeatedly.
     It took me many years to understand a difficult, yet extremely valuable truth that I try to live by today.    
     Each problem--each situation--whatever it may be, has some lesson that it offers me to learn from.
     I have a choice.  Do I want to attend to the lesson--seek answers--or do I want to wallow in life's imperfections?
    My choice may be warped by the many years I have been in formal classrooms, be they pre-school, special education, the regular classroom, college, or graduate school.  Yet, again and again, I come back to my choice--I must attend to the lessons.  I must seek answers.
     Yet, who among us live lives of grand service--or grandiose service?
      Do we lose track of the gifts we have been given to offer, when we try to pursue grandiose service?
      Do we lose track of what good there may be in grandiose service, when we try to create it for ourselves?
      I don't know the answers.  Yet, I commit to seek the answers as a friend, as a daughter, as an aunt, as a sister, as a neighbhor, and as a seeker of truth, who has been blessed with an amazing worship community.

It Takes A Village

     It takes a village came to life twice during the last several days--once in a life memorialized, and once trying to enter the cell of understanding regarding prison life.  The lifelong friend memorialized counselled many high school students regarding their life pursuits.  He wrote many letters of recommendation.  His relationships continued many years following his counsel.  My life was changed with his counsel.  He was not the only agent of change.  Yet, he understood the role he could play, if he chose to invest his energies--dedicate himself to the individuals who crossed his path.
     It takes a village.
     The future of one individual in prison is a question I feel compelled to pursue.  Why?  How?
     Answers to those questions are found by exploring other questions.  Answers to these questions may explain why others--others who seem to me to be suited to help--are not responding to the call. Or so I pray.
     I was not burned.  I did not feel equipped to respond directly.  I offered my ideas, thoughts, and insights to a loved one, who volunteered to serve on the front line.  Now, I feel equipped to answer the call to the front lines.  I bring different resources.  I offer different gifts.  I have a different relationship.  Is it possible that being burned--being hurt--while on the front lines leads to her lack of recall.
      Expectations.  What are our hopes?  Are conditions of achievement attached to active response.
     Results.  If our hopes for our help are not met, does that mean our offerings of help are worthless?  Worse yet, should we never have offered our help?
     Memories of our own beginnings.  How were we helped in our own beginnings?  Who spoke up on our behalf? Who answered our calls for help?
     What do our lives allow us--enable us--to offer?  What is our rate of interest?  What capital investment of our lives are we willing to make?  What resources do our lives allow us to offer--monetary, material, or personal?

A Universalist Catholic

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

Insurance...Prayer for Safekeeping...

     Watching coverage of the 97 tornadoes this weekend, and updating my homeowner's insurance policy seem at odds.  Survivors of tornadoes are heard to say that the loss of their property is unimportant in light of the preservation of their own lives.  Although I have never survived a natural disaster, or other loss of property, my perspective has been challenged.
     No homeowner's insurance, literally, may insure my family, my friends, my faith community.  Faith--prayer--is the only "investment" that I may make toward preserving my loved ones, to the degree that I am able to do so.
     As to my personal property, I find it difficult to summarize my valuable personal assets.  I understand.
     My kitchen?  My kitchen poses no problems.  My kitchen? An electric self-cleaning oven, freezer/refrigerator, microwave, and dishwasher.  My living room?  A couch, chairs, dining room set, stereo, stereo cabinet, glass/wood display case, and teak chest/table.  My bedroom:  bed, computer, printer/copier, cds, clothing, books. Original price paid.  Some were homemade.  Others were purchased so many years ago that their original price is hard to ascertain.  Current estimated value?  This raises two questions.  First, using a search engine, it is possible to approximate some concrete value of the goods.  Second, what would the price be to replace the goods?
     I do not wish any natural disaster test my statements.  With that said, I find myself questioning what to consider worthy of  replacement.  I do not consider myself to be a materialistic person.  I intend no self-aggrandizement.
     Rather, what is most important to me?  I confess I love clothing.  It is not grand, no do I wear any specific piece of clothing to impress anyone--to be elevated to a higher class in society.  My enjoyment of classic clothing is for the positive attitude with which it clothes my spirit.  I love music.  I do not purchase, and own cds in order to be a fan of a musical genre, or of a specific musician.  My love of music soothes my soul--calms my spirit.
     Books.  Were something to take all of my books, there are many that I would not replace per se.  How do I place a value on poetry books from my parents--Robert Frost, and a children's anthology book?  How do I value a book from my paternal grandfather?  My parents' World Book Encyclopedia set from the 1960s.    
     Pictures of my ancestors dating back to the early 1900s.  Writing about my disabilities, research about my ancestors, correspondence from friends and family, and pictures taken throughout a lifetime.  These are priceless.  In the context of my family, friends, faith community, no prayer of safekeeping is appropriate.
     Thank you.  Rarely am I speechless to identify what is of value--what are gifts--to me.  Yet, when trying to compare what may be replaced with what is priceless, I was left without a single word to enter on a spreadsheet.
    The one gift--the one treasure--that I can put a price on is the electric wheelchair that spans the width of my hallway.  When insured, she will transport me to destinations that I have forgotten during the past two years.  I am grateful for the time and support that have moved me from fear to resistance, to acceptance, and excitement.

Take Advantage of....Life...

     Thinking about taking advantage of the many features on my new wheelchair leads me to understand take advantage of from an entirely new perspective.
     I am still ambulatory.  In coming days, I will be learning about the features of my new wheelchair.  I forget.  I am still ambulatory.  In coming days, I will need to flesh out what features I do need now, and can use with practice.  I am still ambulatory.  I need to preserve what capacities I do have--my mind, my spirit, and my muscle tone.  I am still ambulatory.
     I do have physical needs that led me to face the prospect of getting a wheelchair.  I am aging. My right ankle is on her last leg.  I am aging.  My left hip is making known the weight she has carried for a lifetime--accommodating to a shorter right leg.  I am aging.  My left hip deserves due respect for her service.
    I am ambulatory, yet I do have physical needs.  I need to take advantage of what features are helpful to me now--the chair itself, which relieves my right ankle of stress she cannot bear.
  Wheelchairs were for old people.  I am still ambulatory.  Wheelchairs are for people whose speech is impaired.
    My right ankle is on her last leg.  I am still ambulatory.  My left hip is weaker because of the undue burden she has shouldered for a lifetime.  She did it without complaint for many years.  Yet, she met her limit.  She needed help.  Take advantage of.  How? An ankle foot orthotic.  Is that enough?  No.  Take advantage of.  What?  What is available?  Take advantage of. A wheelchair.
    Take advantage of.  I am still ambulatory.
    The future?  I may become immobile.  Take advantage of.  What?  The wheelchair's headrim.  I may become immobile.  Take advantage of.  I may become immobile.  The seat elevation feature.
    I am ambulatory.  I am aging.  I have physical needs.
    There is far more of a difference in tense between taken advantage of, and take advantage of.  One thrives on the vulnerability of an individual.  While the other--take advantage of--thrives on making the fullest of the life--the precious gift--one is given.