Naming a Shooter...Living in Peace...

A number of officials and journalists make a big to do about not using the name of a perpatrator of a crime, such as a mass shooting when commenting or reporting on it.  The reason given is that they do not want to glorify or sensationalize the crime and its effects.

I beg to differ.

Although my analogy may seem an insult to the pain inflicted on the mass shooting in Roseburg, Oregon today, I do not mean it to be.  As a child, when teased about my cerebral palsy--"Palsy Patty", etc., I was advised to "focus on the positive and ignore the negative."  My response?  "But it hurts!  I can't do that."  It took many years to arrive at my manner of dealing with the teasing.  Knowing I could not ignore it--the teasing was not going to go away magically, I needed a strategy to cope with the teasing.  Over time, I adopted a mantra that I live by yet today.  Without a second thought, I "focus on the positive, and learn from the negative.  Instinctively, I knew that I needed to give my attention to learning as much about the people who teased me--what were their motivations, what questions did they need to have answered in order to stop teasing me.  Call me an idealist, but, I am firmly convinced that people can understand, that teasing may be stopped.  I believed--I still believe--that it is my responsible to answer their questions.

Returning to the mass shooting at Umpqua Community College in Roseburg, Oregon, our attention is drawn back to past mass shootings and what the responses that various people and groups believe should be.  Passionate on both sides, some say that gun control laws are essential.  Others say that guns are not the problem, but, that the mass shootings point to the need for mental health programs and services.

Although a pacifist, and an ardent supporter of further gun control legislation, I feel called to respond to the need for more mental health programs and services.  I agree.  However, it is not an either or question.

Addressing the need for more effective mental health programs and services demands learning about the individuals involved in perpetrating mass shootings  What were their motivations?  What was their background?  Those are just two questions that come to mind.  I am sure there are many others.  The process of asking questions must begin with the very information that investigators--police and journalists, sometimes feel compelled to not speak...the name of the crime's perpetrator.

The contribution I commit myself to regarding mass killings is threefold.  I live every minute of every day as an ardent pacifist.  Secondly, when so inspired by world events, I will share my reflections on how to live peacefully.  Third, rather than putting myself in the middle of the battle to secure further gun control legislation, or mental health programs and services, I commit myself to volunteer in my community with organizations that provide positive, peaceful, creative ways to live harmoniously.

Once a week I gather with a community of individuals committed to live in peace and harmony.  We say, "May the peace of Christ be with you."  We commit ourselves to one another to leave the physical church and return to the outside world to live in peace with individuals of all beliefs.

I pray we may ask the questions necessary to understand the motivations of individuals who commit crimes.  I pray we may take the requisite action to make peace our way of life.  It is possible.

Antibullying and Religious Freedom

     I am a reasonable, rational person--most times.
     Antibullying legislation is being opposed by the Minnesota Catholic Conference, and Catholic dioceses in Minnesota?
     Why you ask?
     Antibullying legislation violates religious freedom!
     How!
     I am Catholic.  I was drawn to Catholicism by virtue of peace and respect that pervades Catholic traditions.
     Bullying cannot be tolerated in a civil society.  It just can't.  Case closed.
     Antibullying is an instrument of moral, and ethical accountability, which the Catholic Church must embrace.  Freedom without moral and ethical accountability is hollow at best.
     Bullying is not an academic matter to me.
     Bullying.  Patty.  Bullying.  Palsy Patty.  Bullying.  Being tossed off the junior high bus seat.  Bullying.  The principal, "Just bring in the names of the bullies, and we will take care of it,"  Bullying.  Risking a junior high school friendship-- getting the names of the bullies.  Bullying.  The principal, "Oh, we can't do anything."  Bullying.  Mimicking my bent, cerebral palsied hand.  Bullying.
     Forty years have passed between then and now.  Yet, my visceral response to bullying is undiluted.
     1974.  I vowed that whatever form it might take, I would act to ensure that no other individual had to experience--endure--the pain--the stolen dignity that bullying effects on innocent human beings.
     Bullies moved me to embrace the respect and peace that Catholicism exuded--the Treasure of Christ.
    The Catholic Church opposes antibullying legislation in the name of religious liberty.  How!  Tell me how!
That is unconscionable.  Absolutely unconscionable.
    Being Catholic has taught me to be a Child of God.  Not in the level of my maturity.  Being Catholic has taught me to be a Person of God--full of unjaded wonder, untarnished awe at life that surrounds me.
    Being Catholic has taught me to be a Person of God.  Not in the level of my maturity.  Being Catholic has taught me to be a Person of God--embracing joy, embracing God.  Relinquishing temptation to be held captive to the dark skepticism and cynicism of life that surrounds me.
    Antibullying legislation is not an obstacle to religious liberty.  Antibullying legislation is an instrumentt of love--a staff to guide us into human decency.

Language of War. Language of Peace.

     Little riles me.  Underestimation of my employment worth, potential and economic contribution.  Personal confrontation necessary to meet my personal needs--perceived on my part.  Rhetoric.  Political  confrontation.  I work to dissipate such feelings before I succumb to the temptation of nervous obsession.  I strive to be at peace with myself--with the world.  Do not be mistaken.  I am passionate.  I am animated.  But...I choose the issues, and people in whom I will invest and share my passion.
     War and peace are at the core of my passions.  I work against war, and strive for peace.
     War.  Military action.  The position of conflict--be it liberal or conservative--matters none.  The means do not justify the ends.
     War.  War monger.  Enemy.  Hawk.  Play book.  War games.  Show of strength.  Win.  Lose.  War.
                   War of words.  Rhetoric.  Negotiation.  Mediation.  Compromise.  Treaty.  Peace.
     Peace.  Pacifist.  Ally.  Dove.  Diplomacy.  Tact.  Pacifist.  Conscientious objector.  Pacifist.  Peace.
     Words matter.  Civil society matters.  Reconciliation matters.
      Diversity of thought, beliefs, culture, and ways of living need not be the price we pay in order to nurture a  civil society.
     Yet, time and time again we find ourselves at the precipice--we find ourselves willing to jeopardize the peace we claim as our national aspiration.  Within my lifetime--since April 1960--we have succumb to single words.
     Vietnam.  Iran.  Iraq.  Afghanistan.  The Taliban.  Saddam Hussein.  Moammar Gahadafi.  Al Qaeda.
     I am too young to remember World War II.  Korea preceded my conception.
     However, I have witnessed the lingering effects of World War II and the Korean War.  In 1972, I was 12.  I took extreme statements literally--the hallmark of a young mind with a narrow prism through which I saw and understood the world.
     In 1972, I visited Dachau--the first World War II concentration camp opened in Germany.  More precisely, I visited the grounds of  Dachau.  I sheltered myself behind the safety of our car.
     Mom and Dad told me that the concentration camp had gas chambers in which many--countless--human beings had been killed.  I understood that it was important  to visit Dachau, to see  it.  But, I thought that I would view physical remains--bodies rotted by time, but, kept in place to be viewed such that that piece of history would never be replicated.
     I knew that I did not have the inner strength to go into the Dachau Concentration Camp.  I waited outside  while Mom and Dad spent time inside.
     That was World War II--my narrow prism into a human atrocity.
     Korea.
     The prism through which I view Korea--the war that preceded my conception--was slightly broader, not much, but slightly broader.
     My dad.  A forward observer in the Army.  A man entrenched--literally entrenched--in the most destructive human action imaginable.  My dad.  A man who used his love of photography to document his experience, so that he would remember it clearly--so that he would not glorify the human destruction he had witnessed.  It took me many years to understand that.  I could not reconcile those pictures with the advocate for peace I knew.
     Korea.
    My mom.  A young housewife--a homeowner--a woman left to wonder whether she would ever see her husband again.  My mom.  Not yet a mother.  My mom.  A witness to the other side of war--left alone to continue her life in limbo wondering what the future would bring.  A witness to the forgotten side of war.  Just as many men, who were war veterans, did not want to talk of that time of their lives, she too did not want to return to that time.
    Vietnam.  Seven years older than I, my brother came too close to being a part of that war.  Conscientious objector status.  That was his saving grace from his draft number--30.  Draft number 30, and posters in our kitchen with monthly tallies of the men killed in Vietnam--men on all sides of the war.  That was my witness to Vietnam.
    2013.  North Korea.
    I pray we may change the language of war we speak.  Words matter.  Lives matter.
    War.  War monger.  Enemy.  Hawk.  Play book.  War games.  Show of strength.  Win.  Lose.  War.    War of words.  Rhetoric.  Negotiation.  Mediation.  Compromise.  Treaty.  Peace.
     Peace.  Pacifist.  Ally.  Dove.  Diplomacy.  Tact.  Pacifist.  Conscientious objector.  Pacifist.  Peace.
     Words matter.  Civil society matters.  Reconciliation matters.
     May the Peace of Christ be with you.  May the Peace of Chris be with us all.

Guns. Self-Defense. Inner Resources.

     An understanding of what I do not understand regarding guns emerges as I watch the news--general crime stories involving guns--and listen to coverage of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings in Newtown, Connecticut.
     My understanding--my lack of understanding--falls into two categories.  First, beliefs regarding guns as vehicles of self-defense, and secondly, is my lack of understanding regarding the facts of guns.  I shall address the first category as the foundation of my reflections for this post.  I need to reflect further on the second category, and how to formulate my thoughts, and questions into a forthcoming post.  I can ill-afford haste.
     Some individuals say they want guns for purposes of self-defense--defense of self, or of family.  I do not.  I could say that I do not feel comfortable in holding the gun, and in aiming it appropriately in a timely manner.  Such is true, and more so today with the presence of essential tremors in my left hand--tremors aggravated when I am very nervous.  So, that is true, in part.  But, to a far greater degree, I cannot bring myself to act so harshly toward another human being.  I just cannot do so.  Further, and most importantly, I believe that stronger than any bullet I might pierce the skin of another human being are my inner resources.  Gun control advocates speak of the dangers of guns being used against the owners, who purchased them for self-protection--guns being used by perpetrators of crime against gun owners.  I subscribe to that belief.
     I take it one step further.
     Beyond the reliability of any gun, whatever the type may be, is the reliability of my inner resources.  I prefer relying on my inner resources any day.
     As I child, I encountered many bullies--not everyone was a bully, but, there were more than my taste.  Whenever, I encountered bullies, I asked myself what I could say to stop their behaviors.  I failed many times, yet, I could never bring myself to return the favor of the hurt they inflicted on me, by trying to hurt them intentionally.  Although I failed many more times than I like to admit, I developed tremendous inner resources.  Some have said that I am too sensitive.  I resist that characterization.  Insights have been given to me through that sensitivity that have given me tremendous inner resources.
    We need to look at inner resources--at nurturing strong inner resources to serve us through challenges that might otherwise call for a gun.  We cannot afford to overlook the treasury of inner resources

Gun Control. May Peace Be with You.

     The Second Amendment of the Constitution of the United States
     A well regulated militia, being necessary to  the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.
     Guns.  Personally, I do not use them.  My resource of self-defense is a quick wit.  Of concern for my safety, some ask, "Aren't you afraid of being alone out in the streets of downtown.  To those who express concern, my sister says, "I don't worry about Patty.  I worry about the people who encounter Patty on the streets."
     Guns.  I do not use them.  Yet....many people do.
     Foraging for food.  Hunting for animals.  Protecting oneself.  Protecting one's home.
     How do we aim--how do we control--guns to hit their target.  Food.  Animals.  Oneself.  One's home.
     Training--target practice.  Daily hunting limits.  Gun locks.
How do we control the numbers--the amount of ammunition purchased, the rounds of ammunition used?  Can we engage law enforcement personnel?  Can we capture enforcement/conservation officers?  Can we embrace the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives?  Can we open our ears to hear the Director of Homeland Security?
     Decibels.  How many?  Ammunition.  How many rounds?
     What do we need?  When will we act?
     Peace.  May the peace of Christ be with you.  Peace.  Love.  Faith. Hope, and Love, and the greatest of these is Love.

Gun Abolition. Pacifism. Civility.

     Pistol.  Shotgun.  Rifle.  AK 47.  Militia.  The Second Amendment.  Right to bear arms.  National Rifle Association. The NRA.
     I confess.  My visceral reaction to the words preceding this paragraph are rooted in illiteracy.  Rightly or wrongly, I choose to root my life in more fertile ground--ground that nurtures the loving of the human spirit.  I understand nothing more.  I expect nothing less.
     Conflict.  War.
     Korea.  Vietnam....Iran.  Iraq.  Afghanistan.
     Etched in my memory.  My father--a Korean War veteran.  My brother--Selective Service Draft Number 30, save Conscientious Objector status.
     Iran.  Iraq.  Afghanistan.
     Blurred to my attentiveness.  Avoided that I might be not submissive--not submissive to War's Clutches.
     Pacifism.  Pacifist.
     I am grounded in "Pacifism."  Yes, my name is "Patricia--Patty."  Yet, I call myself a "Pacifist."
     Most call "pacifism" a common noun.  Proper to me, "Pacifism--Pacifist" are proper nouns.
     I resist temptations to respond to Rage's White Noise.  Yet, piano, and violin notes, CNN's words dissolve my resistance--call me to form my thoughts--call me to express my words.
     Gun Control.  Not enough.  I want more--much more.  No one speaks of Gun Abolition.  Is such too extreme?
     Gun Control.  Some advocate.  Others can legislate.  Some can enact.  Yet others may judge.  I shall reflect.  Gun Abolition.
     Let us restore civility.  Not just for today.  Not just for this week.  Not just for this Presidential campaign.  Let us restore civility beyond measure of time.

Prayer...It Makes No Sense to Me...

      On April 25, 1982, had you asked me, "what does prayer mean to you," I would have said, "Lord Make Me an Instrument of Thy Peace," "The Hail Mary,"  and "Peace be with You." 
     Formulated.  Off the Rack prayers ready for those wanting to wear religion on their sleeve.
     Not quite.  I had--I have--a deep love for each of those prayers.
     Without knowing his name, The Prayer of St. Francis, St. Francis was introduced to me by a Christian choir director in junior high school--in a public school, no less, much to the chagrin of my parents.  A Christian--not a Catholic--choir director.
     Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
     Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
     Where there is injury, pardon;
     Where there is doubt, faith;
     Where there is despair, hope;
     Where there is darkness, light;
      And, where there is sadness, joy;
      Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console.
      To be understood as to understand.
      To be loved, as to love.
      For it is in the giving that we receive.
      In the pardoning that we are pardoned.
     And, it is in the dying,
     That we are born to eternal life.
     My maternal grandfather--Ray, a man who abhorred anything Catholic--would be horrified to hear me say so, yet, his inheritance to me, "Don't feel sad when I die, I have made amends with everyone [with whom] I had differences," reaffirmed what St. Francis told me.
      Prayer.
      It makes no sense to me.  Words that speak such truth.  Words--it is in the dying that we are born to eternal life--far from affirmed in my childhood home, in my family--speak such truth to me.  It makes no sense.  Yet, they are true.

The Stairway

     2625 Vale Crest Road.  April 26, 1960.  A foundation was laid.  A baby was born.  A home.  My values.
     A split-level home.  The front door.  The front entryway.  A stairway down to the den--an office, laundry room, a Singer sewing machine.  Mom.
    A defining moment.
     Late 1960s.  Pacifists.  Vietnam.  Mom's first-born son.  My brother.  My Idol.  The  Draft.  Drawing "your" number.  Lower numbers go to Vietnam first.
     Me.  The baby of the family.  Home from school.  I walk into the front entryway.  Mom hears me.  With baited breath I ask, "What was His Number?"
     30
     Not good.  Frightening.
     30
     Conscientious Objector.
     30
     Only later--much later--did I learn how close we came.  A hearing set.  Our minister set to testify.  Last minute change.  The minister could not come.  I do not remember what followed.  How did we succeed?  My memory fails me.
     30  
    Our job?  Prove why a very young man be drafted into the quagmire known as Vietnam.  The quagmire put before our eyes by Walter Cronkite each night.
     30
    When Conscientious Objector status was granted, I understood the responsibility of pacifism.  Diplomacy.  World peace in our living room--conscientious objection at the Stairway.
    30
     Forty years have passed.  The memory--the image--of that moment is as clear as when I first stood at the Stairway.
      30
     The waving of the United Nations flag on October 24--the anniversary of the UN's founding--added to the responsibility to live conscientious of our life's commitments.  Meetings of the World Federalists in the living room--in the heart of our home--embodied the same spirit.
     30
     What happened to that young man?  Did he ever offer service?  Yes.  Yet today, he offers medical care to those who come to him in need.  Yes.  He offered service.  Yes.  He offers service.
     30
     2625 Vale Crest Road.  April 26, 1960.
     My home has changed.  Time has passed.
     30
     I pray we do not fall down The Stairway.  I pray we remain steadfast Conscientious Objectors to actions that mask themselves as National Security.  May we not pound our chests.  May we seek peace, understanding, diplomacy, and care.
     30

Peace's Curiosity

     I am perplexed by the application of Libyan rebels, and Palestinians seeking statehood to the United Nations.  Yesterday, I was alerted to the successful application of Libyan rebels' National Transitional Council.
     I pray I am not so ardent a supporter of the United Nations that I am blind to nuances of these two applications.
    A threshold question comes to my mind here.  What threshold of hope do we need before we give credibility to those participants seeking admission to or members of the United Nations?  Of the UN member states, do we support only those members we agree with?
    The United Nations was founded on October 24, 1945.  Many nations have become UN Member States  since that time.
    Afghanistan.  1946.  Cambodia.  1955.  China.  A UN founding member.  Cuba. A UN founding member.  Egypt.  A UN founding member.  India.  1945.  Iran. A UN founding member.  Iraq.  1945.  Ireland.  1955.  Israel. 1949.  Japan.  1956.  Jordan.  1955.  Kuwait.  1963.  Laos.  1955.  Lebanon.  A UN founding member.  Pakistan.  1947.  The Russian Federation.  A UN founding member.  Saudi Arabia.  A UN founding member.  Sudan.  1956.  South Sudan.  A member since 2011--the same year it became a nation separate from Sudan.  Syria.  A UN founding member. Viet Nam--the former North Vietnam--1977.  Yemen.  1947.
     A boring recitation?  I hope not.  My intent?  Evidence.  The members listed hardly may be claimed as safe homes for peace.  The United Nations, as a whole--as one body--may not ensure peace.  It is to each member to further that cause.  Yet, membership--application for membership--seems to indicate a willingness to be held accountable to negotiation--to peace.  Member states, and those applying for member status, subject themselves to the sanctions of the United Nations.  Sanction in both senses of the word.  Approval. Encouragement.  Endorsement.  Seal of approval.  Stamp of approval.  Sanction--the responsibility to sanction.  Ban.  Boycott.  Embargo.  Penalty.  Punitive Measure.
     Although we--the United States--have had serious differences of policy, and ideology--with nations such as China, France, the Russian Federation, and the United Kingdom--we have united ourselves permanently as guarantors of peace with these four other member states, as the five permanent members of the UN Security Council.
     The Obama Administration--many others--are squeamish to vehemently opposed to the approval of the Palestinians membership to the United Nations.  We were hardly buddy buddy with China, and Russia for many years after October 24, 1945.  Yet, we understood the cost of two world wars, the horrific toll of our atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki on August 6, and August 9, 1945 respectively.  The United Nations' founding was a commitment that such destruction need not occur at any time in our future.
     For many years, US Presidents have struggled to find ways to bring parties involved in the Middle East together to discuss issues critical to their survival.
    Why is this so difficult?  If we are committed to diplomacy--truly committed--then why is this so difficult?

September 11...1948

     An oft-ask question is, "How will you be commemorating September 11th?"
     I commemorate September 11th with my life.  You see, on September 11, 1948, my parents were married.  While others commemorate the attacks on the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and on Shanksville, Pennsylvania, the people lost, the first responders--I celebrate the wedding of my parents in 1948--63 years ago.
     I commemorate September 11th--with the pursuit of peace and understanding among people--each day.  How?  A cliche? No.
     Among people is not a nebulous term.  I pursue peace and understanding with each individual I meet, know, and love each day.  I am not a Pollyanna.  Not everyone shares my views and preferences on issues and matters large and small.
     I do not claim myself to be a proud American.  I wave no flags.  I wear no pins.  I parade no routes.  I do get choked up on Election Day--on- and off-year elections just the same.  I do get choked up on Inauguration Day.  Party matters not to me.  I am not a proud American.  I am a committed world citizen.
     By definition, I am no patriot--I am not patriotic.  I devote my energies in search of peace and toward understanding, rather than in defense of America, and seeking vengeance, or being vigilant against acts of terror.  I prefer to be vigilant for acts of peace.      
     I seek peace each day with each individual I meet that day.  I seek not complete agreement.  I seek understanding.  Different views, different preferences--different perspectives--invite me to deeper understanding.
     Seeking peace--seeking understanding--is not grandiose.  Peace and understanding are my daily aspirations--one person, one day at a time.
     I commemorate the peace and understanding that was married on September 11, 1948.  Happy 63rd anniversary, Mom and Dad.  Thank you for your example of love--your commitment to peace.

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: Precursory Shakiness

     Honestly, I don't know if what I am about to describe is germane to the Epilepsy Chronicles.  I think it is.      My thoughts, words, and descriptions deal with brain damage most directly, moreso than epilepsy per se.
     I work very hard to stay as calm as is possible--humor, empathy, patience, among other attributes that elude me.  These attributes may be seen as laudable, and, in one sense, they may be.  Yet, there is a neurological basis that makes these attributes essential.  I am not a doctor.   I have not studied neurology, or any scientific discipline that might offer me insight.
     I can quantify the dosages of anticonvulsants I am prescribed to tame the extra electrical activity in my brain--milligrams.  I can quantify the level of anticonvulsants in my bloodstream, which are determined by a blood test--a therapeutic blood level range.  Based on my weight, at least, there is a numeric scale established. If the therapeutic blood level is too low, my experience has been that more medication is prescribed.  The opposite is true, too.  In my experience, blood levels that are too high on that scale lead doctors to prescribe a higher dosage of medications.  Sometimes, an altogether different anticonvulsant is prescribed.
    Yet, I cannot quantify the threshold I have for anger, and frustration, which leads to shakiness of my whole body--I cannot quantify it for myself or for others.  I recognize it myself.  All I know to do is to cry, and then, isolate myself until my jangled nerves are tamed, and my body is steadied physically.  The crying is the cleansing agent essential to taming the extra electrical activity in my brain.
    Compounding my own response, I know that the apologies of other people, well-intended though I know they are, only exacerbate my initial response.  Trying to be rational long enough to isolate myself for my necessary cry, and quiet time is extremely difficult.  I know that a part of that quiet means removing any activities that I know will involve further neurological agitation.  I try to be rational, so as to explain that I can withstand some tension, frustration, and anger.  Yet, my rational efforts are useless.  My nervous system has been hijacked such that being physically steady is next to impossible.
     What I have just described is not a seizure, as I understand it, after having lived with epilepsy for more than 40 years.  My description today is fresh to my life--fresh to this moment.  After anticipating a personal training session for several weeks--a session to identify further efforts I may take to strengthen my arms, hands, and legs--I met with tremendous disappointment, frustration, and anger that a perfectly understandable mixup in appointment times occurred.  Not knowing precisely what to ask for to reschedule--what specific terms to use (a neurosis of mine)--my neurological response is intensified.
     I need peace--inner peace, calm, perspective, and determination to reclaim goals I know have been strengthening me, irrespective of reliable help I expected, and hoped I would be given today.  I need insight. Am I merely making an excuse for unnecessary, irrational behavior, or is there some credibility to my thoughts--my descriptions?

Osama bin Laden???

     Osama bin Laden.
     What do we know of the man named Osama bin Laden?  What do we know of the human being named, "Osama bin Laden?"
     Can you tell me, who were bin Laden's parents?  How old was Osama bin Laden?  How many years older or younger than you was Osama bin Laden?  Did Osama bin Laden have siblings? If so, how many?
     Osama bin Laden was born in 1957--three years before I was born.  Bin Laden was the seventh son of 50 sons, and daughters born to a Syrian mother, and a father from Saudi Arabia.  His father was a strict disciplinarian.  He died when Osama was only 13 years old?
     Did you know that Osama bin Laden graduated from college in 1981 with a degree in public administration?
     These questions simply scratch the surface of understanding the man named Osama bin Laden, who lived for 57 years.  I offer these questions for your reflection.
     Bin Laden's early life did not justify the actions he took during his life.  That is true of each of us.  Our early life may not be a justification for our adult lives.  Yet, our early life does inform our adult actions.
     How do we view individuals, who are labeled as "terrorists."  Do we go beyond scary pictures, frightening recordings, and haunting threats?  Are we held captive not by terrorists, but, by our own fears, and broad generalities regarding a group of individuals who act in the same way?
     My intent is not to place judgment, or minimize the effects of Osama bin Laden's actions.  My intent is straightforward.  Do we view terrorists as individuals?  How would our relationship to the threats made be if we viewed terrorists as human beings, not as evil enemies?  Is it possible to render peace, if we have labeled people as "terrorists," before we know them to be human beings?
    We have much to reflect upon.  Satisfaction, and jubilation are not within the feelings in my heart tonight.
    How may we be instruments of peace?

bin Laden....Enemies...Evil...Peace...

     Last night, President Barack Obama announced that Osama bin Laden was killed.  I sat transfixed, remembering, as many others where I was when the twin towers of the World Trade Center were attacked.  Transfixed as I was, discomfort set in as the killing of Osama bin Laden--a human being--was celebrated with jubilation.  Complexity of my convictions set in--a Christian, a supporter of pro-choice, a pacifist, and an ardent supporter of "respect for life" in a broad sense.  See A Geography of Respect for Life  to discover how I understand "respect for life."
     In our daily lives, our elders advise us not to engage in acts of retaliation.  Clearly, the stakes involved in the advice we are given does not approximate the extremity of bin Laden's actions.  Yet, common to both situations is retaliation.  Is retaliation--an eye-for-an-eye, a tooth-for-a-tooth--a mentality constructive to addressing extreme crimes, and grave injustices?  Common to both situations, everyone involved is a human being.
     Do I celebrate that the underlying basis for our entry into Afghanistan is gone now?  Yes.  Do I believe that extinguishing Osama bin Laden helps our society to live with greater civility?  No.  Do I believe civility is essential for a fulfilling society?  Yes.  Extinguishing Osama bin Laden's life presents an opportunity to affirm a peace-filled alternative to future needs presented by Osama bin Laden's life, values, and actions.
     How may we be instruments of peace?

Threshold of Life

     Just now, I read that Moamer Gadhafi's son, and several of his grandsons have been killed.  The United Nations is pulling out its staff from Libya due to the violence there.
     The Catholic Bishop of Tripoli, Giovanni Martinelli was quoted as appealing "to NATO, the United Nations and the international community to end the bombing of Libya. 'I ask, please, out of respect for the pain due to the loss of a son, a gesture of humanity towards the leader,'"...
     We need to discern how to execute policies of humanitarian aid--policies to preserve the lives from the potent threat of despots.  How do we exact a number to guide a foreign aid policy--humanitarian aid?  How many individuals associated with despots may we execute to justify including arms within the framework of humanitarian aid policies?  Do we want to affirm an eye-for-an-eye, a-tooth-for-a-tooth model of foreign policy in relation to despots?  Do we think that we can extinguish evil--extinguish the prospect of enemies--once and for all by targeting one despot at a time?  Where does it stop?

Words of War....The Silence of Peace

     The implementation of the Libyan no-fly zone--Operation Odyssey Dawn--amplifies the words we use to dictate how we conduct human affairs.
     I must confess.  Two statements uttered during each Catholic Mass move me.
     Peace be with you.  May the peace of Christ be with you.
     Words of war.  Perplexing phrases.
     What is the end game? 
     We can win this war.
     We cannot lose the war.
      The U.N. seeks a coalition of willing partners to implement the no-fly zone against Libya.  Diplomatic affairs are crafted by the Department of State, the United Nations, primarily in the United States.  We have progressed from the United States Department of War. From 1798 through 1947, the United States governed its foreign affairs through a Department of State.

      Movements to establish a Department of Peace in the United States has never gotten any traction.  A Department of Peace has never been taken seriously.
     Is it too little, too late?  
     This question is being asked regarding the implementation of military actions in Libya.
     I pose a different question.
     Peace.  Is it ever too little, too late?