PeaceNext...Intimate...Self-Disclosure...

     During the 1960s, long before the advent of the World Wide Web, and social media, my parents involved our family in a foreign exchange program of social workers--the Twin Cities International Program--TCIP.  Mom and Dad served as a host family to Knut from Denmark, Ilsa from Austria, Jun Bok from South Korea, and a man, whose name I believe was Daniel.  These three  men and one woman stayed with us during four years before I was ten.  Knut seemed old to me, although he was probably 50:) Mature may be a more apt description than old.  He was tall with balding light brown hair.   I remember he gave me a book of Hans Christian Anderson's fairy tales.  I think Mom and Dad still have the book.  It has been many years since I have read the book.  It is fairly small book with an ivory cover, and a picture on the front cover.  Then there was Ilsa.  Her father carved wood.  Mom and Dad still have a shallow wooden plate with the names of my parents, my brother, sister, and me, carved around the edge.  My parents have it mounted on the wall at the top of the bookshelves in their library.  I can think of no more treasured symbol of our family.  I do not remember much about Daniel, other than that he was from Italy.  Jun Bok.  Ah yes, Jun Bok.  He was a borderline operator--definitely a character.  He gave my parents at least one bottle of tabasco sauce.  More memorable was his observation of my dad trying to assemble a new Weber grill.  Dad  was having the difficulty inherent to any item with the instructions, "Some assembly required."  After watching Dad struggle for quite some time, Jun Bok said, "American technology.  Nothing works."  Jun Bok returned to South Korea many years ago.  I do not know what has happened to him.  Yet his words live on in my memory.
     Each of the individuals we hosted, in addition to individuals from all around the world--not just Europe and Asia--who visited our home and attended a number of pool parties my parents hosted broadened my childhood horizons.  Although I have not kept up with any of the individuals--a sad reality of life--I do bring from that experience openness to, and individuals from other countries.
    I treasure the perspectives I have been given when I have spent time with individuals from other countries while at home, or when I have visited other countries.  I will always remember with great fondness the conversations I had with a number of individuals from Norway while I spent nine days as a graduate school course.  The  Norwegians I met apologized to me  for their poor English speaking skills.  Such was not the case.  My understanding of Norwegian was rudimentary at best.  Yet, my love of the country--the fjords, the brisk air--is difficult to describe.
    Now I find my connections to individuals in other countries through the World Wide Web--through e-mail, and social media.  A skeptical eye is given to  social media.  I would warn against brandishing all social media outlets on the basis of how some individuals on some sites choose to use the sites.
    PeaceNext.  I am an incorrigible pacifist.  Some say pacifist is synonymous with weakness, in a pejorative sense.  I beg to differ.  My interest in ecumenism led me to the PeaceNext website.  The subtitle following the "PeaceNext" website title says, "Council for a Parliament of World Religions."
    How, as someone raised to believe that there is good to be found in all world religions, could I pass up the opportunity to explore a network committed to integrity in nurturing constructive dialogue.  Slowly I find myself open to friendship from around the world.
    Some hesitate to engage in online networks of any form due to concerns for security, or personal disclosure.  Others hesitate to engage in discussions of religion--it is too personal.  Well....On one level--on an intellectual level--I understand.  I respect the right of other individuals to not so engage.
   Yet....yet....I cannot follow suit.  It was not until this moment that I understood why.  I am not a Bible-thumping woman on the street corner trying to force beliefs down people's throats.  I try to be more subtle than that.
    Long before I understood the intellectual nuances--the spiritual dimension--of engaging in social communities rooted in integrity, such as PeaceNext, I was confronted with the reality of bodily engagement.  Not physical combat.  No.  Misunderstanding of my bent right arm, and my limping right leg led my peers to tease me.  Kids mimicking my bent right wrist of my face was, "Palsy Patty."  I was called to make myself understood--to make myself palatable in the eyes of people who met me.
    No one may endanger me.  My exterior is deceiving.  As my sister says of me, "I don't worry about Patty out on the streets, I worry about the people who encounter her."
     My life calls me to unequivocal self-disclosure.  If I do not share of myself--if I do not reach out to other people-what am I living to do?  I am called to find opportunities, such as PeaceNext, and other in-person, and online forums for the sharing of diverse perspectives dedicated to deeper understanding, and transformation.

A Mermaid's Tone

     Muscle tone.  Not of a body builder.  Muscle tone.  A Mermaid's Tone.
     I hope for it.  I will it to be.  I pray with fervor that it be--all mine.  Yet, hope, will, and prayer are not God's promise to me.  Yet, I must hope.  I must will it.  I must pray.
     Arms arise skyward.  Into the pool's water they plunge.  Alternating.  One, then the other, as oars in a river's current.  From my shoulders, this mermaid's oars are anchored.
     Arms outstretched.  Wrists pulled together.  With the force of a magnet, their cymbals clash.  With a strong will, her wrists resist the temptation of a lifelong embrace.  The force of her forearms cry out.
     "Strengthen me.  Use me.  Believe in me.  Do not waste my muscles.  Use me.  Do not will my muscles to be withering, dying willows.  Use me.  Teach me to reach outward--to branch out-- to blossom  in full glory."  
     The Mermaid's biceps believe.  Though not her eyes, the Mermaid's biceps believe in the vision--A Muscle's Tone.  With their tissues, the biceps connect the oars to the force of the forearms.
     The Mermaid's calves circle on the water's unicycle.  On her back, she floats.  The Mermaid's ankles pedal.  Her feet flutter.  The Mermaid's thighs push toward a toned spirit.  Not atrophy.  The Mermaid paddles toward a Muscle's Tone.
     I seek not the strength of the Bodybuilder.  I am the Mermaid.  I seek the strength of a Muscle's Tone.  No boorish bravado do I seek.  I seek a softer strength.  Not submissive.  Not boastful.
     I am a Mermaid.  I seek a Mermaid's Tone.

The Good Short Life

     Dudley Clendinen, a former New York Times national correspondent and editorial writer, chronicled his experience with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.  Many call it ALS. Others Lou Gehrig's disease, in honor of a New York Yankee who died of the disease in 1938.
     Dudley offers a first-person perspective of Lou, as he calls it.  Reading his chronicle, it is clear, the it is really he.  Dudley's intimacy with Lou is worthy of our embrace.
    Some are choked up to read of the final curtain call, which befalls the individuals intimate with him.  Three people come to mind, known to me, who live with or have died at Lou's hands.  I would lie to exclude myself from being choked up about Lou.
     Yet, reading Dudley's commentary in today's New York Times calls me to reflect.  I am aware of life's realities.  Dudley says, "I sometimes call it Lou, in its honor, and because the familiar feels less threatening."  I understand.  Whether it be confronting a condition personally, or facing the condition in relations with other human beings, familiarity with--intimacy with--the condition is vital.
     I have lived with cerebral palsy since my first breath.  I have known no other intimate companion.  Epilepsy seizes me at times, when I abstain from my anticonvulsants' commands for me to take.  Yet, when I awaken from the seizing moments of my life, I am left to humor my cerebral palsy.  I must not abbreviate her presence in my life by calling her CP as a means of escaping the realities she presents to me daily.  I respect the abbreviation of--the calling of--her as CP by her other intimates.
   Yet,  I am challenged enough to maintain my own balance, without taking on responsibility of another individual, however similarly conditioned they may be.  Two years ago, chemical imbalances seized my clarity of thought.  While navigating my life through the clouds, I was informed of a stunning reality.  Cerebral palsy accelerates the aging process.
    My lifelong understanding was that cerebral palsy was not a degenerative condition.  Yet, accelerates the aging process was not synonymous with degenerative condition.  I confess, I am not faced with the prospect of being choked by my cerebral palsy.  Yet,  I do endeavor to understand the distinction between accelerate and degenerative.  
     Accelerate is derived from  accelerare "to hasten, to quicken," from ad- "to"  + celerare"hasten," from celer "swift."  Whereas, degenerative is derived from de + genus (gen. generis) "birth, descent."  Figurative sense of "to fall off, decline."
     During the nine days when my anticonvulsant imbalances were addressed, my understanding of degenerative in its figurative sense was accelerated at lightning speed.  As contrary as it may seem, striving to compete with the speed of others differently conditioned than I was no longer the point of my life.  It couldn't be.  The price to do so would have been too great--it would have driven me to my immediate demise.  If I strive to exceed the boundaries of who I am meant to be--who I will myself to co-operate with God to be--then I am avoiding what is available for me to live.
   As I say this, I recognize that this is far easier said than done.  I have yet to accomplish living what is within my boundaries to live.  For this reason, and to achieve this goal, I must return to two people's wisdom.  Let me be clear, I am not speaking of imminent death for myself, that is not my point.
    ...we don't talk about how to die.  We act as if facing death weren't one of life's greatest, most absorbing thrills and challenges.  Believe me, it is.  This is not dull.  But we have to be able to see doctors and machines, medical and insurance systems, family and friends and religions as informative--not governing--to be free. 
     And that's the point.  This is not about one particular disease or even about Death.  It's about Life, when you know there's not much left.  That is the weird blessing of Lou.  There is no escape, and nothing much to do.   It's liberating.
     Reading Dudley's commentary, I am transported back to the words of my maternal grandfather--a mentor to me.  He lived with us during the last few years of his life.  While still quite lucid, he spoke words that guide my living yet today.
   "When I die, don't be sad.  I have made amends with everyone I have had differences with."
    Returning to Dudley Clendinen, "the familiar seems less threatening," is essential to how I must live--to how I may thrive.  On April 14, 2011, I took ownership of an Invacare FDX-MCG power wheelchair.  Yet, that was not the first step toward my liberating mobility.  Familiarity.  Less threatening.  These two qualities were essential to moving forward in my life.  Thus, Zoomer was born.  Zoomer moves me closer to other people, and other people closer to me.  Mechanical parts take a back seat to the persona of a more active way of living--not faster than other people, rather, different from others.
    I pray to be defined--guided--by blessing, making amends, familiar and less threatening.  May we be attuned to--listen to--the sages in our lives--in our world.

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.

Zoomer Chronicles: Speed. Torque.

     Finessing turns, and calculating speed are key to reigning in Zoomer.  Destinations emerge.  That is my department.  Zoomer has given me four choices of speed I may travel.  OK, five.  I forget.  As my intimate, she reminds me--with Joy, I may turn on Zoomer.   I forget.  If Zoomer takes advantage of me--of our partnership--I may simply turn off her reckless abuse of me.
    Speed choices.  Having never before driven, I do not know whether the speed range 1-4 options equal gears used on a manual car.  My formal instruction was minimal.  If memory serves me, the overall potential speed of Zoomer was calibrated to be slow on the speed scale--Zoomer's speed potential was calibrated before she was named.
    The overall speed of Zoomer was calibrated by the manufacturer.  It has been--it is, and it will be always--for me to calibrate the speeds 1-4 based on my confidence initially.  He advises me not to travel at  top speed--on 4.  Fear leads me to agreement.
     Torque.  Torque?  Initially, I recognized only the word--not its meaning.  The vendor told me torque is the power that speed allows me to travel.  OK, I thought.  With time, I may understand.  Words' meanings eluded me.  Traveling up hilly terrain, now I understand.  Speed.  Torque.  Calibration.  Speed.  Torque.  Success.
     My learning curve is steep by my personal expectations.  Yet, by the chronology of our partnership, we--Zoomer and I--are becoming intimate in due time.  Zoomer has the enthusiasm of a young child--an impetuous child.
     "So what if I nick a few walls, run into some basis, get caught in handicap accessible doors?  You've gotta admit, I am better with elevators."
     "Tell me, Patty.  Have I ever hurt you?  Has my "impetuousness" every caused bodily harm to you?  Has my "enthusiasm" ever hurt anyone we have met along the way???"

Seventy Times Seven

     I hear Jesus speaking to Peter more often than I remember at earlier times in my life.  Peter asked Jesus how many times he had to forgive someone who had sinned against him.  Seven times?  Jesus says, "Seventy times seven."  Forgiveness worthy of her name needs to be repeated whenever her name is called to serve.
     Jesus is not admonishing me to forgive someone, who has sinned me.  Rarely do I think in those terms with regard to other people.  I listen to The Lord's Prayer to attune myself with how I am abiding by the call to forgive other individuals in my life.
     Jesus stands by me, as I whisper, "this isn't fair."  What? Quiet, solitary moments in the bathroom, and in bed, my ankle asserts herself.  "Don't be quite so proud of your accommodations to me."  I want to share my whisper, that she does not rule my spirit
 .  Cleansing, and restful moments may not be sacrificed.  Give me time.  Jesus forgive me, as you call me to forgive not a person, but, my intimate--my ankle.  It is not an it.  My ankle is a she.  My ankle is worthy of my love, my care, my respect, my care.  My ankle--she--is a partner in my life.  I may not neutralize her by reducing her to the state of it--the state of material goods in my possession.
     She has rendered a lifetime of service.
     I revel in the accommodation to her weakness....
    Several days later, I am not as hurt by her pain.  We will enjoy traveling the accommodating path together...swimming, discovering a program with a personal trainer to map out the most accommodating path--not a medicinal, but, a forgiving path.
    My ankle calls me now, yet, in years to come, my ankle's sisters and brothers will plead with me to stop calling them It, and treat them as my intimates.
    Marking--celebrating--51 years of life today, I am evermore aware of the eternal forgiveness that Jesus spoke of.  I am called not to be forgiving of my ankle seven days a week.  I am called to forgive each member of my body's family.
     Am I really that different from anyone else in Jesus call to forgive our intimates--our aging intimates--seventy times seven?  Just a thought.