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.

Catholic Church Reform: What Is It?

     Catholic Church reform.  What is it?  What should it be?  Who decides?  Who should decide?
     What is it?
     Hot button issues come to mind.  Women's ordination.  Married clergy. Liturgy--lay involvement.  Liturgy--inclusive language.
     These are valid, worthy issues central to Catholic Church reform.  Yet, in defining what it should be, dangers need to be identified--dangers to effecting reform.
     Herd mentality.  Rote support of hot button issues.  Rote support of advocates, who can speak the loudest.
     I write cognizant of time's luxury, which long-term disability affords me.  I write cognizant of my time's responsibility--God's time to me.  I must not squander that precious time--that precious responsibility.  Were I to squander, I would aggravate the problems--the issues--I sought to address.
     Who decides?
     "Church Hierarchy!" is the rallying cry of church reform campaigns.  Yet, hierarchy, to some degree, is necessary for the advancement of any organization's issues.  In the extreme, anarchy is hierarchy's adversary.  Effective Catholic Church reform lies somewhere in the middle.
     Catholic Church Reform.  Who decides?
     I know my place.  I make no submissive cry to avoid responsibility.  No.  I know my place.  I have been asked to help clarify issues.  Research.  Write drafts of recommendations.  Listen.  Heed direction of individuals who will make recommendations based in part upon my research.  Revise. Rewrite.  Submit.  Listen.
     I have tremendous respect for the knowledge, experience, convictions, and beliefs of the individuals I will work with.  I pray that I will nurture and maintain that same level of respect of and for each individual I meet.
    I pray that I will seek a broad understanding of the people, issues, organizations, and perspectives within the catholic church.  I pray not to imprison myself within the popular positions on hot button issues just to do so.  Already I sense myself doing just that.
   Catholic Church Reform.  What is it?
   It is not for me to define in isolation.  For now, I shall act as a squirrel might.  I shall gather nuts--food for thought--for the work ahead--nuts that may sustain me.  Websites.  Blogs.  Publications.  These are but three of the nuts I gather for the exciting, daunting, scary, exhilarating, unknown journey ahead me--ahead of us.

Mermaid Chronicles: Weight of the World

    The weight of the world.  Goals.  Cures.
     Taking on the weight of the world is tempting.  Being a civic-minded member of society.  Being a world citizen.  Being a productive employee.  Being someone with a good work ethic.  Each is a laudable pursuit.
     Yet...each of these pursuits in excess dilutes the pursuits--negates the end goal.
     This morning, this mermaid went for her morning swim.  An hour immersed in clear water.  Although I swim in one of four lap lanes, I do not count the laps I swim in numbers' measure.  I do not set out to do a prescribed number of specific types of strokes.
     I listen.  I listen to my body.  At a higher pitch than my ears can hear, lighter than my skin can feel, sweeter than any candy, and lighter--more ethereal--than any shadow to see.  I listen to my body.   I feel her need.  Deeper than the deepest pool of water.  I feel her need welling within me.
     As I put flippers on my feet, to strengthen them further, my feeling of exertion changed.  I did not feel the exertion I felt in my shoulders, as I had raised my arms straight up in the air from beneath the water.
     I seek no cures.  I do my best--not perfect, by any stretch--to live the life I am given each day.  I set SMART goals, as they were dubbed in the corporate world in which I worked for more than 24 years.
    I swim four mornings a week, one hour each morning.  I volunteer doing research at a museum six hours a week, three hours on two afternoons.  I work on my blog writing.  I work the daily New York Times crossword puzzle..  I do it in pen.  I don't finish it often.  But...I do it.  I enjoy it.  I attend to simple household tasks.  I use my time--my life's time--constructively.  Not for grandiose purposes.  But, for purposes that I feel I can give effective voice to bear.
     My goals are SMART.  Specific.  Measurable.  Actionable.  Realistic.  Time-specific.
     When I was introduced to the concept of SMART goals, they seemed artificial--contrived.  The SMART goals were not for me.  They were to satisfy someone else's goals.  I was not very effective in setting and achieving SMART goals.
     My corporate work life ended--abruptly.  Two years after that ending, I have set my SMART goals.  Now I am living those goals--My SMART goals.   With time, my goals may change.  I will listen to the world around me.  Yet, I will not allow my keen hearing be deafened by the white noise--the screaming voices ever present in our world
     When I am in the water, I float.  When I am in the water, I do not feel the weight of the world on my shoulders.  Being graced with that privilege is not lost on me.

Zoomer Chronicle: She Rides Again

     Zoomer rides again.  With television cameras in tow, Zoomer and I rode again today.
     We had better success, if you can call it that.  I am a masochist, so I do:)  Evidence of such is the driver who cut in front of me, who I gave the evil eye as I was crossing.  Once I was safely on the sidewalk, I mouthed, "Thank you!"
     The producer and photographer positioned themselves across the street from me.  Together we documented four drivers, who cut in front of me.  The producer indicated that one driver had Illinois license plates.
    An unexpected twist left me feeling a tad embarrassed.  I crossed Seventh Street on Sibley Street.  The intersection is close to the YMCA I frequent.  I proceeded across the intersection with little fanfare.  Then....unbeknownst to me, a woman in a wheelchair was behind me.  As I arrived safely on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, she was there.  The woman's presence surprised me.  I surprised her.  I turned to my right quickly.  My intent? To turn around and recross the street.  Neither of us was hurt.  She was surprised.  In an instant, any smugness I might have felt that I was bringing attention to an important issue changed to personal enlightenment.  I need to be deliberate in my travel, when I have deliberate intent.
     I do feel good about the way today's downtown intersections expedition went.
     Just now, the producer contacted me.  He said that the story will be aired sometime late next week.  I will keep you posted.  For local readers--Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota--the story will appear on KSTP TV.    I don't know whether or not this will appear on the KSTP website.  Zoomer is hoping so.  [p.s. It did appear.  http://kstp.com/news/stories/s2317400.shtml]  After, not only did she appear on camera, but, she was a part of a brief interview.  She had fun.  So did I:)

Medicare

     Medicare.  White-haired senior citizens.  Medicare.  65-year-olds.  Medicare.  Part A.  Medicare.  Part B.  Medicare.  Part C.  Medicare Part D.  Medicare.  Medigap.  Medicare. Open Enrollment.  Medicare.  Fraud.  Medicare.
     Each of these are aspects of Medicare.  Yet, Medicare--the word, "Medicare"--evokes emotions as inflamed as arthritic joints.  I cannot--I will not--inflame the word further by engaging in the political debates surrounding the federal program.
     I find myself at a peculiar crossroads.  Had you told me five years ago that I would be selecting which Medicare Parts B, C, and D options to select, I would not have believed you.
     An envelope from the Social Security Administration arrived this week.  My question, "Do I need to initiate contact regarding Medicare?" was answered.  No.  As I hoped, I could read the wealth of information given to me, sign onto a helpful website, www.Medicare.gov, and create an account.  My guard against anxiety, and obsession is a playful detachment.
   I love crossword puzzles.  I love the World Wide Web--navigating the structure of its information, the internet.
   With playful discovery, I found a database into which I may search for my doctors, hospitals, pharmacies.  Nursing homes?  No, I am far from ready for that move.
    It is ironic.  I tell one of my nephews to join the world of adult responsibility.  Yet, I tell myself not to get too obsessed regarding the eventualities with which the plan options confront me.
    One of the options I will not select is Plan H--Political Hyperbole--which plays on the emotions of senior citizens, and others eligible to receive Medicare.  I will steer clear of candidates, who use a condescending tone in their discussions of Medicare.  I will steer clear of Victims' Volley--a game too often played by politicians, in which recipients of Medicare become political footballs.
     Do you think Medicare will judge ear plugs I buy as medically necessary?

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.

Zoomer Chronicles: Zoomer Goes to Yankton

     Yankton?  Yes, Yankton, South Dakota.  Tonight, I received an email that took me back to Yankton, South Dakota--a speech I gave during college on the topic of handicap awareness.  Zoomer reminded me of Yankton.  In 1982, the speech I gave was the result of my audacity.  I made contact with someone I met at a conference addressing handicap awareness.
     A month ago, Zoomer and I were cut in front of by three different drivers during a two-week period.  The incidents led me to contact friends on Facebook to determine whether I was correct to think that I had the right to expect patient, yielding drivers.
     I was inspired to write letters to the editors of the StarTribune, and the Pioneer Press--the two local newspapers.  Then, I decided to send emails to local media outlets.
     Tonight, I was taken back to Yankton--to the audacity that led to my invitation to speak there.  Tonight, I received an email from a local news producer.
     It is odd.  I don't know yet how this will turn out, if anything is aired.  However, I never imagined myself speaking out regarding wheelchair use.  I resisted getting one, much less using one.
     We shall see what happens.  The preliminary talk is mounting a camera on Zoomer to get a perspective of travelling in a wheelchair--encountering the outside world.
     I don't know what Zoomer will show.  The image of where the camera will be mounted intrigues me.  The notion that Zoomer could open some eyes is exciting.  We shall see what happens.

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.

Epilepsy Chronicles: A Firm Grip

     You have a hold on my right arm and leg no longer.  Yet, your grip on me is firm--firmer than I realize.  I try to erase you from my memory--put you in the well within me.  Yet, I look back to my own words--my sentences.  You have a firm grip on my mind.  You take words from my sentences.  You steal the precious part of me that, so desperately, I want to--I must give.
     You give me no clue as to where you are--no hint as to where to look.  You give me no key to find you.
     Where are you?  You are hiding from me.  Where are you?
     I try to understand.

The Epilepsy Chronicles: A Firm Grip on Me

   You have a hold on my right leg and arm no longer.  Yet, your grip on me is firm--firmer than I realize.  I try to erase you from my memory--put you in the well within me.  Yet, I look back to my words--to my writings.  You have a firm grip on my mind.  You take words from my my sentences.  You steal the precious part of me that I want to give.  You give me no clue as to where you are.  You give me no key to find you.  Where are you?  You are hiding from me.
     I try to understand.

Stolen Dignity

     WHY ARE THE KIDS TEASING ME?

     This is a question first asked in first grade.  The question remains with me today, not as a fixation on long-forgotten people, tangible pain, or specific places.  No,  the sting of “Why are the kids teasing me?” and specific words, phrases, or actions was removed many years ago by writing about the question, and the insights the question has given me.

     The factual basis of the question was my bent right arm, and wrist, and limping right leg.  My early understanding of the question was centered on the facts.  Yet, although I sought concrete facts from family, dissatisfaction with the answers given to me led me through a journey that I understood only in its necessity.

     My dissatisfaction was not my expression of doubt—doubt of love my family had for me.  I had, nor do I have any doubt.  They loved, and love me.  My dissatisfaction was threefold.   First, the logic of ignoring the teasing.  Second, saying that something was wrong with the bullies was no better than my feeling that something was wrong with me.  No one profited from that approach.  Finally, the cowardice of school administrators not to address specific names involving teasing that I reported is unconscionable to this day.

     “Why are the kids teasing me” was a question that offered me a nascent understanding of “stolen dignity.” 

      The understanding, response, and inaction regarding teasing was my invitation into a lifelong journey.

     “Stolen dignity” is not a word that appears in the Oxford Dictionary, http://oxforddictionaries.com/ .  It is a word that takes a lifetime to understand.  Yet, pursuit of its meaning is worthy of our earnest endeavors.

Comprehending “stolen dignity” must begin with “dignity.”  The Oxford Dictionary defines “dignity” http://oxforddictionaries.com/ as, the state or quality of being worthy of honour or respect:  the dignity of labour;  [count noun] a high rank or position:  he promised dignities to the nobles in return for his rival's murder.  2 a composed or serious manner or style:  he bowed with great dignity.  A sense of pride in oneself; self-respect:  it was beneath his dignity to shout.

     “Stolen” is defined by the Oxford Dictionary http://oxforddictionaries.com/  as an adjective.  The dictionary’s definition speaks of ideas, rather than people, although I think it is plausible to insert “individuals” in the place of “ideas.”  Oxford defined “stolen” as dishonestly pass off (another person‘s ideas) as one’s own.http://oxforddictionaries.com/.

     Dignity is not a human quality that is earned, nor is it possible without life experience.  Dignity is a gift.  Stolen dignity is an experience, which is not earned.   Similarly, it is not possible without life experience.  Yet, while dignity is a lifelong process, stolen dignity may be given in an instant—in a moment shorter than is possible to measure by any mechanism.

     Stolen dignity is not a condition that is outgrown.  Stolen dignity may be inflicted with a piercing knife any time from birth until death do us part.

     Stolen dignity is not an irreversible sentence.  Fervor is the requisite spirit, which must energize all efforts to extinguish the root causes of stolen dignity.  Fervor underlies ever word I write.

Claiming Dreams and Ambitions

    Brian Lamb, the co-founder of C-Span has interviewed many authors.  For a lifetime, I have held writers in high esteem.  I treasure words--the crafting of precise ideas.  Only now am I discovering the opportunity to write.  I have waited to be inspired.  Discipline was not part of that inspiration. No longer working, and physically stronger, I am discovering the opportunity to write more fully.
   Frequent to those interviews are several questions.
   When do you write?
   I craft words during a very special hour.  Between 9AM and 10AM, I stroke and massage the words--the phrases--that bring my ideas to life.  The time is new.  The swimming is well-established in my day's rhythm--incomplete if I miss a beat.  Disciplined in writing, I have yet to be.
Balance between discipline and multitasking I
    How do you write?
    Committing words to a concrete form--be it paper, or computer is changing.  Creation of living, breathing phrases, and ideas flow in the water.  I pray--I threaten--that my short-term memory honor my words--my ideas.  As fleeting as a butterfly--a kite in a March breeze--a pen and pad must be at hand, or at least deposit slips, if paper is nowhere to be found.  As I strengthen my arms, and legs, so too, I sharpen my mind.
    How do you write, in what form?
    Given a choice--long-hand or computer--I take both.  Longhand is my bed's luxury.  A legal pad, a Zebra F-301 black pen.  Perched on my bed, my back against a maroon bedrest.  Longhand before the day has started, as the day ends.  Underneath my cozy mauve blanket, and my white down comforter.  Socks on to warm my cold feet.
   How do you write--in what form?
    At the computer.  After my morning swim, before my daily errands.  To capture the words stroked, and the phrases massaged in pristine, clear pool water.
    An element of writing that I did not understand fully was discipline.  Multi-tasking has never been my long suit.  I want to focus on individuals, rather than a group, when I am at a gathering.  Given a deadline or the opportunity to be with--to share time with--people, I would choose people any day.  I recognize that is a luxury I may afford now.  In the past, that priority may have resulted in my not climbing the corporate ladder.  I will never know.  But, I am not going to lose sleep over it.
    I am inspired by people, situations, and events that incense me.  A reckless driver who cuts in on me and Zoomer.  World conflict.  These are but two of many.  My vocabulary of inspiration has room to grow.  Now I seek to build it.
    Routine.  Discipline.  Rhythm.
    A doctor told me to get up each morning at the same time.  Get dressed as though I was going to a full-time job.  Find something I enjoy--something I can do--and pursue it.  For nearly two years, that is what I have done.  Researching.  Writing.  Corresponding.  Now my wings span opens wider.  Into the water I immerse my creative mind.  What words--what thoughts and ideas--next emerge is beyond my knowing.  I shall swim in the stream, and go with the flow.

Hope...Understanding...

My child seeks hope.
My child seeks understanding.

For a lifetime,
I have sought hope
Hope of understanding
Understanding much.

My child sought understanding.
What is cerebral palsy?
What is epilepsy?
My child sought understanding.

My child sought understanding.
How do I stop the teasing?
If you give me just the right words,
I know I can stop the teasing.
My child sought hope.

My child seeks understanding.
What can I say?
What can I do?
Give me the magic words.
My child seeks hope.

My child seeks understanding.
This was given for some reason.

Don't tell me to ignore this.
Don't tell me I must ignore a part of myself.
Don't tell me to sacrifice myself.
Is that really the secret to understanding?
I do not understand.


Is the price of your love
That other people must be wrong?
Is the cost of my love that other people are wrong?  


This day, may we love  freely.
In our diversity, may we all be worthy.

Zoomer Chronicles: Ramps...Buttons...Doors...

     One of the most liberating aspects of Zoomer is her capacity to go from my condominium to the YMCA's pool.  Four days a week, I start my morning by riding with Zoomer to the pool.
     Four mornings a week, I honor my right ankle.  After long discussions, and many arguments, my osteoarthritis and my right ankle won out.  No longer did she have the strength to stand by me each day.  After the dust settled, it was clear.  I needed an electric wheelchair.  I needed regular exercise to loosen osteoarthritis' hold on me--her inflamed ego.
     I swim one day a week for each month that I spent working to secure Zoomer.  I swim one hour a day to be of one mind.  I will not be fierce, and argumentative, yet, neither will I roll over and play dead.
      With Zoomer, I traveled to the YMCA.   I gave myself a birthday present.  I am known by name.  Jen, Jeannie, and Matt.  On guard, Lucy, and Collin, among others.  A fellow swimmer greeted me, "Hi, Mermaid."
      Elevated walkways--skyways--enable Zoomer and me to travel to the YMCA whatever the outside weather may be--snow, ice, wind, windchill.  During St. Paul's precious springtime, and summer, Zoomer cries to be outside.  That seemed a reasonable request.
       Ramps are common companions to stairs.  Just as stairs lead to doors--to open doors--so too should we expect of ramps to be.   On one summertime St. Paul day, I succumb to Zoomer's cries.  I pressed the door opener button, and readied myself to guide Zoomer down the ramp.
       Well...I must digress.  Minnesota does not have four seasons--it has two.  Winter, and road construction.  Particularly, a multiyear project to construct a light-rail transit system that will pass through downtown St. Paul.
      Having detoured, let me return to our journey.  Zoomer's cry, "Outside...outside....let me out...let me out..."  So, I pressed the door opener button.  So far, so good.  I positioned myself to go through the door without injury--without a nick, or crash.  Feat accomplished.  It was downhill from there on out.  Or, so I thought.  A orange-and-white striped sign made clear that I had met my match.  We needed to backtrack.  Zoomer and I needed to find another pathway.  Logic told us to turn around to go back inside the building, and traverse the skyways.  But, that was not to be.  We found no automatic door opener button on the outside door leading into the building.  Who would lead someone, raise someone's expectations of entering the building without ascending insurmountable steps?  I have yet to meet the person.
      With my first option a failure, we turned around again.  The hours of swimming--the strengthening of my left upper arm--proved quite helpful.  I re-examined the orange-and-white striped sign.  Fortunately, yellow sandbags secured the sign from a winds' power.  So, I exercised my muscle to lift the sandbag, ever so slightly, such that I could bypass the sign.
      The hijacker and I are in negotiations as to how to assert my needs without losing my inner calm.  Zoomer is grateful for my arm's strength.  I am too.

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?

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.

Zoomer Chronicles: Rules of the Road

     Zoomer has asked that I share with you some basic rules of the road.  Zoomer has been very impressed with how cooperative everyone has been.  So, these rules of the road are short, and sweet.
     Pedestrians.
     First, do not block the curb cut, when you are stepping off the sidewalk onto the street.  Second, do not block the curb cut, when you are stepping on the sidewalk from the street.  Third, do not leave Zoomer lingering in the street behind you, because you are dilly dallying in the street.
     Drivers.
     Zoomer would love you if you did not park in front of curb cuts.  Zoomer won't report you to the park police should you choose to park elsewhere, and engage in other activities:)
     Automatic door openers.
     Zoomer means no offense if she declines offers of help.  She doesn't want to injure you.  If you are feeling offended, please look at the cuts and abrasions she has incurred, when she was trying to be gracious to you.  She is appreciative of your offers of help.  Righteous indignation messes with Zoomer's nervous system, so, she does not get riled up about anything.
    Elevators.
    Sometimes, Zoomer may need to refuse your invitation to join you in the elevator.  Sometimes, the elevator is too small for her to maneuver within the elevator.  She enjoys riding with you, when it is possible.

Zoomer Chronicles: John Steinbeck

...I discovered that I did not know my own country.  I, an American writer, writing about America, was working from memory, and the memory is at best a faulty, warpy reservoir.  I had not heard the speech of America, smelled the grass and trees and sewage, seen its hills and water, its color and quality of light.  I knew the changes only from books and newspapers....Once I traveled about in an old bakery wagon, double-doored rattler with a mattress on its floor.  I stopped where people stopped or gathered, I listened and looked and felt, and in the process had a picture of my country the accuracy of which was impaired only by my own shortcomings.
     So it was that I determined to look again, to try to rediscover this monster land.  Otherwise, in writing, I could not tell the small diagnostic truths which are the foundation of the larger truth....
     With all this in mind I wrote to the head office of a great corporation which manufactures trucks.  I specified my purpose and my needs.  I wanted a three-quarter-ton pick-up truck, capable of going anywhere under possibly rigorous conditions, and on this truck I wanted a little house built like the cabin of a small  boat.  A trailer is difficult to maneuver on mountain roads, is impossible and often illegal to park, and is subject to many restrictions.  In due time, specifications came through, for a tough, fast, comfortable vehicle, mounting a camper top--a little house with a double bed, a four-burner stove, a heater, refrigerator and lights operating on butane, a chemical toilet, closet space, storage space, windows screened against insects--exactly what I wanted.
                            Travels with Charley:  In Search of America
                            John Steinbeck, pp. 5,6,7.
     My ego is not so inflated as to think that I am riding with John Steinbeck across America.  Yet, the genius of a good writer is that he or she may take you as a passenger--their traveling companion--on their written journey.  I accept his invitation.  He has the room.  I have the time.
    On April 14, 2011, to take liberties with Steinbeck's words, Zoomer, "in due time, specifications came through...exactly what I wanted" was delivered to me.  Frankly, I did not know exactly what I wanted--what was possible to want.  I still don't know precisely what I want--what the life I am to lead is missing.
   As much an optimist as I put myself out to be--as much as I have lived my life as--I did not know whether my body had come to the end of its line.  Had my body closed the line of credit it extended to me to use--to move through my life?
   The intent--the purpose--of my journey with Zoomer is to determine what my physical limits are.  Put another way, how far may I travel.  My mind still works.  Zoomer and I know that that is not enough.  She has not lived through a Minnesota wintertime, but, my stories do not snow her--she finds them chilling.  My goal?  The scope of my pursuits--downtown St. Paul and its environs--is far smaller than Steinbeck's.    
    Wintertime memories cloud my optimism of the distance I may travel.  If I may be so bold--if I may divine--past wintertime's isolation shall remain the past.
    I am not asking that Zoomer and I see America.  I do not seek a four-burner stove, or a refrigerator.  Although heater, and windows screened from insects would be nice.  I can get by with Joy the Joystick, Brainy the Blockhead, and Zoomer.  I can get by with Sally the swing-away arm, Selia the seat recline, Lars the leg tilt, and Ellen the elevate, if I must.
     Zoomer, may we discover our country.  How far may we go?  Where must we not go?  When may we not go?  Night.  On freeways.  When may we go?  During winter?  In snow?  On ice?
    As Zoomer and I embark on a journey to create a new life, I watch a new college graduate take his tentative steps toward a new life--an adult life.  I would not change my place for his--I have gone through the angst that awaits him.  John, may we travel with you to discover our country--to find our way.

Zoomer Chronicles: Global Maps and Positions

     Cartographic scale is deceptive.  Small scale maps minimize potential explorations, yet to be undertaken.  Large scale maps provide perspective necessary to orientation--spatial orientation.
     Zoomer empowers my exploration.  Yet, her power is conditional.  She is not compatible with other powers--any other systems.  Any desire to position myself systematically--globally--beyond the view of Zoomer's position--must be disengaged.
     The medium of old--paper--must guide my explorations.  Yet, all the paper does not determine my explorations.  With faith I begin, while logic and reason I suspend.  Were logic and reason to reign me in, I might never have discovered the Vento Regional Trail...the Ramsey County Medical Examiner...the Alexander Ramsey House...the Science Museum exterior exhibits...the Robert Street Bridge...the Wabasha Street Bridge...Lowertown....
     Logic and reason have not been trashed.  Come snowfall, they will reign me in.  Yet, between now and then, I must take leaps of faith crossing curb cuts, will strong strides crossing streets, and jinx not my adventures with confining precision.
     Zoomer, teach me your ways that we may weather the storms, be steady in snow.  Zoomer, I pray, may we learn how to travel from November to May in fresh air, confined to no inner sanctum.

Zoomer Chronicles: Adventure's Name

     Zoomer v. Invacare, FDX-MCG, Front-Wheel Drive, Center of Gravity.
     Many individuals with scooters, electric wheelchairs, and the like adorn their vehicles with American flags, safety flags, and the like.  I have not motorized the American flag, although I seek the power of protection a bright orange safety flag is promoted as affording me.
     Some people are branded as Jazzy.  I have not been so bestowed.  Were I branded, I would be known as FDX-MCG, or front-wheel drive, center of gravity.  While the balance center of gravity promises, and the power front-wheel drive promises, FDX-MCG or center of gravity is hardly intuitive, much less catchy.
    Wheelchair-bound, or wheelchair-confined is hardly the way I pray that I will proceed through my life.
     If it be so, that is how I will go.  Yet, for now, I vow to take a different road--the less traveled road--toward adventure.
     Adventure--lived fully--must flow from A to Z.  If I am so to travel the road of Adventure, my companion must be Zoomer.
     I hate to be a woman of delusion.  Saying I use an electric wheelchair still stings a bit.  Say it if I must, I will do.  Yet, somehow, Zoomer removes the stinger, and allows me adventure and does bind or confine me to a wheelchair, even if it be mine.  Zoomer is a power-filled princess, while Front-wheel Drive, Center of Gravity is a frightening dictator.
     For now, Zoomer and I shall travel down the road less traveled toward whatever unknown adventure awaits.  We shall travel together, yet, still not alone.  In the spirit of three--Robert Frost, John Hockenberry, and John Steinbeck we shall travel.  Travels with Charley:  In Search of America I must read.