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.

Changes of Worship

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

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

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

Stop Bullying: Speak Up Pledge

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

Zoomer Chronicles: A Fine Line

     This morning, I ventured out to review problematic intersections and issues in Downtown St. Paul.  The adventure heightens my attention to several facts.
    After having three drivers cut in front of me in controlled intersections--in a period of two weeks--it seemed I needed to draw attention to the overlooked safety issues. I want to be prepared for the yet-to-be scheduled time with a television producer to highlight--to focus, literally--attention on public safety issues.
     Several personal facts have come to light in recent days.  While I do what I can to highlight public safety issues for others, I need to combat internal issues.
     First, I have retreated from a healthy pace of travelling within the downtown area.
     Second, timidity and fear replaced determination and confidence--not riskiness, but confidence.
     Cooler weather intensifies my concern that I will be isolated by poorly-shoveled sidewalks, and ice.  I need to back up.  This will be my first winter with Zoomer.  Questions abound.
    What are Zoomer's intended capacities in the outside during wintertime?  Am I realistic to expect that I might have some outside travel capacities during the winter?  What will my limitations be?  What accommodations are open to me?  Are there additional safety precautions that might improve, or extend my capacity to travel outside during the Minnesota winter months?
    I know that I should not expose Zoomer to rainy weather.  I know that I should not expect to navigate ice.  
    I know that Zoomer can--will be able to--navigate the skyway system during winter months.  [The skyway system is a Godsend.  The system of enclosed walkways between downtown buildings--walkways located on the second floors of buildings--do wonders in curbing a paralyzing isolation that would occur otherwise.]
     As wonderful as skyways are, it is extremely important to get outside--to be exposed to the sun--to all elements of the out of doors.  Oddly, prior to Zoomer, having to be outside was not an issue, or priority for me.  I took for granted my capacity to get outside and be outside.
  Interesting what it takes to challenge one's values, and priorities.  Coming days and months will clarify what, if any realignment of values, and priorities occurs.

Honor

     Honor.  Family honor.  Physical honor.  Personal honor.  Honor.
     Mere mention of the word "honor" elicits a call to have good posture--to stand at attention.  To limit our understanding of "honor" does a grave disservice to the word--to everyone involved in Honor's Service.
     I confess, I am guilty of affirming that limited definition.  Yet, recent events and life stages bring honor into question.
     Family crests.  Monuments.  Physical stature.
     None of these words engenders a spirit of forgiveness.  Yet, forgiveness is perquisite.
     Personal honor, and family honor are intertwined.  My counsel of a young man struggling to find his way in the world surprised me.
     How many of us, who are adults, yearned for something our parents did not give us?  Usually, that something is not material, although it well may be.  The form of something is not important.  The revelation of forgiveness is.
    My necessary forgiveness regarded questions that only I could answer by my own life experience.  Why did my peers not understand my disabilities?  Why did they bully me?  How could I stop it?  Those are impossible questions for anyone to answer satisfactorily.
     By nature, I am very hesitant to assert my views--however urgent I feel they are needed--face to face.  I am a coward--a coward's face.  Yet, I feel emboldened by the written word.  Writing allows the reader to absorb my words "in the structure of time," as the young man I speak of might say.
     I am learning to appreciate a different dimension--physical honor.  Never have I heard others mention it.
     Physical honor.  Graceful aging calls us to it.  As babies, we are born with a set of physical capabilities.  Whatever that set may be, it is our starting point.  We take no notice of what those capabilities are.  Why should we?  We have known no other way of living than with that particular set.  We learn our limits by testing them.  All-nighters, weight-lifting--childbirth, perhaps.  Depending on our life circumstances, aging alters that set.  Our permission is NOT required.
     I was born with the set of capabilities, which were described in part as being cerebral palsy, and epilepsy.  That was my starting point.  Seen as having limits, just as any other child, I tested them--believe me, I tested them.  Just ask my therapists.
     I did not understand my limits.  Aging has changed those limits.  Age forty.  Morning stiffness.  Age forty-five. Painful hips.  Strained walking.
     Each new limit called me to respond.  Before I could accept the somethings that were given to me--to my aging body--I had to take a very different action.  To my left hip, and my right ankle, I needed to forgive  them for the service they could not give to me.  I needed to forgive myself for yearning--for demanding--that  my left hip and right ankle could give me no more.
   Cognition of my body parts' service to me was and remains essential.  Acknowledgment.  I abused my body, such that some of my body parts are wearing out.  Vigilance.  Ever I must re-cognize  my body's service.  Ever, I must acknowledge--confess--to any abuse I may be inflicting on my body for selfish reasons--for vanity.
     A brace.  An electric wheelchair--Zoomer.  Forgiveness of my parents for being human--forgiveness by my temperamental child self.
    My counsel to the young man was a question.  Have you ever considered that you need to forgive your parents for not giving you what you yearned for-for what they could not give you?  Have you ever considered honoring what they have given you?  Have you considered honoring that they have given is everything that they know to give you?
    Honor.  Standing at attention?  No, not physically.  Honor.  Attending to the gifts that have been given.  Forgiving what has not been--what could not be--given to you by your parents?
    Honor.  Family honor.  Physical honor.  Personal honor.  Honor.

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...  

Betty Ford

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

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.

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.

Personal Disclosure

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

- Jean Vanier, Our Journey Home, p. 215   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maundy Thursday and Disbelief

     Last night, belief, logic, and belittlement clashed, and I failed on all counts to live with integrity within its triangle. I was raised by my parents--two individuals who were raised during a time when they experienced the rituals of Christ's life.  Absent from their experience, as I understand it to be, was a lack of how Christ teaches us to meet and build upon the events of his life--the spirit and wisdom by which he lived his life.  How do you explain Holy Spirit in logical terms--a 1940s white ghost?
     How do we affirm the life of Christ without sterilizing it to its bare realities?  How do you prove the truths Christ lived in concrete terms.  These questions drove two people of integrity from the Christian Church.  The subsequent answers they have lived, in part, is to belittle individuals, who commit themselves to Christ's life as being simple-minded.  My parents do live lives built upon much of what Christ taught and advocated--called for in our lives.
    In 1982, I committed myself to a life of celebration that exceeded logic's limits--reason's realm.  I committed myself to learn from, grow through, and live what Jesus lived.  In so doing, I was not decrying the foundation of the Universalism of my upbringing--there is good to be found in all world faith traditions, and we should support one another in a free and disciplined search for truth.
    Drawn to Christ by questions in search of answers beyond logic, or logic as it was lived in my home, I committed myself to listen to the words of Christ, to observe, and affirm--authenticate--Christ's teachings in my own life going forward.  Contrary to first glance, Universalist/Unitarian fellowship is not, or need not be diametrically opposed to Christianity.  I did not reject my Universalist roots as it seemed to my family and a Christian mentor.  No.  I embraced Christ as I saw him in expressed in a Catholic campus community, through Mass, and in the diversity of friends.
     Since 1982, I have not done well in meeting the criticism of faith in Christ.  The only meeting I have done has been in trying to share my life freely--trying to share how I live my life.  I do not do well to meet questions of fact that I understand to be static within Jesus' life historically ignorant of its vibrancy to life today.  I do not mean to imply that the way I live is better.  I do not want to entrap myself by belittling logic's limits, or reason's realm.
     In recent years, I have heard two types of Catholics, and Christians identified.  There are the thinking Catholics, and then there are Catholics.  Polite disdain is the best description I know to give to the attitude toward Catholics.  Rather than engagement with all Catholics, as I understood the call of Universalism to be--finding the best in all faith traditions--I am met with belittlement of other Catholics, and the smug tolerance of thinking Catholics.  I hear complaints that Catholics, and other Christians, I do not witness the recognition of the smug criticism, and intolerance.  I speak of Catholics, because it is in the Catholic Church that I have met beauty.  Yet, the same basic distinction has been drawn between Christians and Christians.
    I confess I do not understand the distinction--the need for smugness, intolerance, and recognition.  I want to understand.  I do understand that I met a different Catholic Church--a different expression of Jesus--in 1982 than was experienced in the 1940s.  I do know that they experienced a monolithic expression of Christianity.  There was one, and only one, way to be Catholic.
    I was astounded to discover the rich diversity of Christian faith's expression.  My new college friends did not fit into neat little boxes.  Intellect was not mutually exclusive to Christian faith.  Yet, intellect was not a guarantor of Christian faith.  Integrity was not the titled property of intellect.  Christian faith was not--is not--integrity's competitor.
    I can etch in stone definitions of Christianity's core--of Catholicism's essence.  Yet, I cannot etch in stone a static description of Christ, of Catholicism, of Christianity, as I will live it for the rest of my life.  I can and will share as much as a tolerant door--a tolerant window--is opened to me.

A Decibelic, Hyperbolic Fast

     Lent in the Catholic Church is a time of fasting.  Food.  The only form of fasting seems to be food.  With tremendous guilt, I have resisted the admonition to fast.  I felt that to fast for a short period of time with the full knowledge that returning to the old ways defeated the purpose.  My understanding of fasting was to commit to a different long-term behavior that would contribute to living with greater commitment--with greater integrity.
     Yet, I have been offered more palatable forms of fasting to which I may be committed--to which I may will it so.  The U.S. budget debate is one offering of the inspiration to be differently committed.  My objective is to find reasonable, and logical options to participate in the debate.  I do not mean in the form of legislative proposals, or policies.  That is not where my life is centered, such that I could offer any worthy contribution.  As a child, I thought that listening to television news on a religious basis was the solution to be informed, if not directly involved.  When I left the work world, I committed myself to listening to television news as I distracted myself from personal issues beyond my control.
     As the decibel level of debate increases, fasting needs redefinition in my life.  Television news is comfortable white noise.  It does provide a marvelous front row seat to history--to Tahrir Square, most notably.  Condemning all of television news is just as bad as watching news comprised solely of hyperbole, and vitriol.
     Fasting, in my life, will be a commitment to avoid mindless listening to the vitriolic news I identify.  Fasting is a commitment to silence--to intimacy with her.  Fasting is a commitment to music to cleanse my mind of the noise around me--to direct my mind toward more constructive ideas, and perspectives that I may offer.

The Right Questions...Proper Fines...Rehabilitation...

     I confess that I am not a huge sports fan.  I listen for human profiles--human insights--within sports.
     This week, National Basketball Association [NBA] player, Kobe Bryant was fined $100,000 for uttering a racial slur at a referee.  NBA President David Stern imposed the fine to convey that the NBA was a family-friendly form of entertainment that would not endorse such behavior--such attitudes.  Criticism has been made regarding the amount of  the fine in proportion to the player's annual salary.
     I pose a different question regarding the offense, and its corresponding fine.  What impact would the imposition of fines have if they required community service relevant to the offense?  Adjustments to the ratio of the fine to the offender's income should be implicit in sentencing standards, or fines assignments standards.
     Community service seems like an easy way out--a soft sentence to impose.  Yet, it does not need to be, if properly imposed--properly administered.
     In the justice system, sentencing is supposed to be commensurate with the proven crime.  Unanimous agreement does not exist regarding the definition of commensurate.  However, that is no excuse for pursuing a definition.
     What might commensurate community service be?  First, it must be based on positive actions to lessen the occurrence of relevant offenses, in this case, hate speech.  Second, three groups must be identified.
     First, to what group, or organization is the offender accountable.  Is it a sports team?  Is it a professional association?  Is it some other institution?
     Second, who were the people incriminated?  Children?  Colleagues?  Adults?  Others?
    Third, to whom is the offender a role model?  Children? Parents?  Pet owners?  Teachers?  Religious leaders?  Others?
     Fourth, what might some commensurate community service be for an athlete?
     Speaking to fans at games at a pre-determined time within the game, and for a specified time period--once in each city played during the season?  Speaking to recruits during the training season for the sport involved?
     These are just two ideas.  I am not beholden to them.  My intent is to spur thought.
     In the U.S. judicial system, there are federal sentencing guidelines, which have been established to ensure consistency, and definitions of commensurate.  It seems that other organizations might take a cue from the U.S. judicial system.
     Kobe Bryant is not the first, nor the last athlete to engage in hate speech.  His offense can be a teaching moment for everyone--the news spotlight is on, and it is up to us to use it.

Honesty. Humility. Integrity.

     Personal indignation and corporate humility intersected today.
     I believe firmly that experiences I share in my writing are by no means my sole province.  My hope is to illuminate what is common within us, that we might be comfortable to explore what we have been unknown to us, or too threatening to confront.  I use the pronoun we intentionally.  When I begin writing any post to this blog, I do not know what my conclusion will be.  What I do know is that I am called to be reflective.  I endeavor to heed that call with a keen ear--I listen for unresolved issues.
    Today I told the medical vendor I have been working with for three and a half months that he WOULD tell me the delivery time of my wheelchair within the next 24 hours.  I was not saying that I wanted to know when the delivery time would be.  As uncharacteristic as it is of me, I did not equivocate.  I declared my needs.  My threshold for delay had been surpassed.  My patience for a wheelchair was spent.  My heart raced.  Yet, my ankle received her due advocacy today.
     I am a peaceful person.  I live my days in reason, logic, and compassion.   Often, I put on a happy face on less than happy realities.  Some of my happy face is important to a positive outlook--mental health.  Yet, when I overdue happy face, I deserve the moniker given to many in the State of Minnesota, where I live.  Overdone happy face makes me eligible for Minnesota Nice.
    Today's events--today's interactions--were as far from Minnesota Nice as I get.  Within four hours of my first phone call with the medical vendor, I had two messages from him confirming that delivery will take place tomorrow.  As uncustomary as my assertions were, I achieved my goal.
     I learned about corporate humility today.  The medical manufacturer is sending a letter of apology to the vendor for all of the mixups--the omission of a joystick on my wheelchair.  I do not know that I can take any credit for inspiring the corporate letter of apology.  Without having too inflated a sense of myself, I did convey on numerous occasions the seriousness of my need.
    I well may never know the precise contribution I may have had in the communications regarding the acquisition of my wheelchair.  None of us may know the precise contribution we make in our daily communications.  Yet, what we can control is to communicate with integrity.  We must communicate our needs honestly--without exaggeration of content.  We must not affirm our needs with increased decibel levels.    The higher the decibel level of our speech, the more likely it is that our affirmations are false.
     May each of us, and all of us speak with honesty, humility, and integrity.  May we ever be cognizant of the fragility of making amends within our daily lives.
     This is easy to say.  I know that whatever the degree of commitment to these beliefs, I will fall short of sustaining them.

A Cherished Life

For the most part--and you can believe this or not as you choose--I consider my life unusually privileged.  How many people get to adapt themselves deliberately to their circumstances?  How many get to adopt a pace that suits them--or even have a chance to puzzle what that pace might be?  How many get to devote themselves fully to the pursuits that most delight them:  in my case, observing, reflecting, conversing, writing?  How many cherish what little they have on any given day, in the full knowledge that on some tomorrow it inevitable will be lost?
                                Nancy Mairs, Waist-High in the World, p. 38
     Cherishing the unexpected is a true gift.  A colleague died this week at a very young age.  Her poignant funeral amplified how wonderful it has been--how wonderful it is--to be allowed to craft a life on my own terms.  I am not free of boundaries, or limits, but, I am free of artificially-imposed boundaries and limits.  My body--my geography of space--sets boundaries.  But, no longer am I bound by corporate etiquette, or corporate pressures.  Beyond a number of individuals, I do not think about where I worked for 24 years.
    Since I have stopped working in the 9-to-5 work world, I have been given new opportunities.  I followed the best advice given to me--get up every day at the same time, and get dressed as though you were going to a job at a set time.  I set no alarm.  My bladder takes care of that.  I love words, crosswords, current events, and world affairs, as well as reading, researching, writing, and reflecting.  Encouraged by friends, and family, I go to sleep each night knowing I am living by my lifelong passions.
     I do not impose anxiety on myself by setting unrealistic goals.  As active a volunteer as was my late colleague, her neighbor said that her vacation was doing nothing.  She understood the importance of playing to living fully.  Whereas many people try to fill the hours of their day meeting quotas, she understood that her work time was more productive--more enjoyable--by her rich playing, and re-creation.
     My colleague faced a ravaging illness.  Yet, she navigated it on her own terms.  Not perfectly, but, its imperfections are hers alone to know.  It is for us to know that her navigation was not worthy of heroic admiration, rather, it was her gift for us to appreciate.  I abhor saying that there are always people who are less fortunate than I am.  I have no intent to elevate my life experiences in the context of others.  Quite to the contrary.  My colleague touched deeply the individuals who helped her to navigate her dying days.  She knew she was dying--her death was imminent.  So, she surrounded herself with people who would celebrate her with stories, laughter, and beautiful poetry.
     Nancy Mairs, and my colleagues remind me how fortunate I feel--not by their dictate, but, by my own keen ear.  I work no longer, though, normally, my age prescribes it.  Yet, my "work" is my life's work--crafting my time and surroundings with what brings the most joy.  Reading, researching, reflection, and writing.  A cherished living is not free of challenge.  Cherished living must not atrophy my mind or my spirit.  Atrophying of my body parts tempts my mind, and my spirit to be obedient followers.
     My colleague allowed my embrace with old "partners in crime" from whom my body dictated my abrupt departure.  We may or may not gather again as a group.  Perhaps at the funeral of another colleague.  Yet, yesterday, each of us were able to say to one another, "Life is better now.  Despite the abrupt, painful circumstances surrounding our partings, life is better now."