But...if my life was perfect....
I would not:
Be sensitive
Be compassionate
Be understanding of other people--of the world around me
Be flexible in how I approach and accomplish physical tasks
Be flexible in how I view the diversity of people, beliefs, and cultures
Be awe-struck by beauty around me
Be wonder-filled about life within and around me--life distant from me
Be appreciative of basic human capacities--thinking, and walking, to name a few
Be attentive to how words are used--how I use words
Be attentive to how my words and actions affect other people I know and do not know
Be blessed with a sense of humor
Be determined to live my life fully
Be passionate about pursuing my interests
Be interested in learning every day--each moment--of my life
Be willing to apologize when I had offended someone else, or stolen someone's dignity
Be dedicated to fulfilling my human potential, and encouraging others to do so
Be open to the notion that this list is not complete
Be baptized...be willing to seek an ongoing living of baptism
If My Life Were Perfect, I Would Not Be Human.
Showing posts with label spirituality of the human being. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spirituality of the human being. Show all posts
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Thursday, March 28, 2013
The System's Face. Me. The System's Face.
2009 found me at my stamina's end. In alphabetical order, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, osteoarthritis converged with the aging process. My get-up-and-go got up and went. A sharp mind and 49 years under my belt--I was left to build a new life.
A lifelong follower of the news, diagnosed anxiety left me stressed beyond the days' news to bear. Though "a bleeding heart liberal" by common parlance, no longer could I listen to defenders of the system--the safety net for those unable to work any more than I could tolerate, I cannot tolerate those with no time for--no understanding of--why any "system" might need to exist.
I paid into "The System" for more than 25 years. I paid into Social Security. I paid into private long-term disability insurance--not so that I might cash in some day. I "paid in"--I invested in--because, as much as I believe "all men [and women] are created equal," it is with no cynicism that I say, "life is not equal."
Not everyone lives with an equal inventory of life's parts. Bodily. Economic. Social. More I am sure. Life is not Perfect. For whatever reason--however it manifests itself--each life is not on the same level with the same resources--the same needs.
Yet, each life is precious. The System is the Net to protect those lives. Not for pity. Not for poster children to yield tears from others, raise funds, or intimidate others into different beliefs. Such defiles the very preciousness it claims to magnify.
In 2009, I was brought to the front door knocking at "The System," with need. No begging. No laziness. No nefarious intent to abuse--to cheat--The System. I came to the front door of "The System" with need and guilt--Guilt with a capital "G," that I was not living up to the Ethic I was raised to uphold--the Work Ethic. No bravado, just the conviction that I had to contribute to society--to the community in which I live.
Nearly four years later, I continue to redefine "Work Ethic" means within my body's limits.
I am learning a new vocabulary. New roles. New activities. New balances.
Volunteer. Catholic. Reflect. Write. Blog. Neither lazy nor cheat flows through my bloodstream. Yet, Guilt persists--"intellectually" unjustified guilt--guilt that I personify the very stereotype I abhor.
47% helped no one. Not just as you might think. 47% as proclaimed by conservatives, and decried by liberals--helps no one. Highlighting--not worshipping, but highlighting--how victim is not the essence of "The System's Face"--those who must knock at The System's Front Door-- is essential.
If the lazy, cheating, victim stereotype were in fact true, as some conservatives genuinely may believe, then, conservatives need to articulate how to live within inescapable boundaries imposed by the body.
If conservatives believe that The System--the safety net it provides is not needed--then, talk about how to work within the limits of the body.
Bleeding heart liberal though I may be, I do not hold liberals free of responsibility. Liberals pound their chests with pride proclaiming the virtues of the Safety Net. Hold your horses.
Clear your throats. Speak with clarity not with political banter volleying useless debate back into the court of conservatives who decry The System--the conservatives who decry The Safety Net.
I am The System's Face. Look at me. Defense of your positions--volleying of the political football--does nothing to tell me, and you, how to live fully within the limits of my body--the limits of your body.
I am The System's Face. Look at me. I have needs--undeniable needs.
You are The System's Face. Look at yourself.
You are not immune from need--be it physical, economic, or social. Though today may not be your day of need, such inevitable may come to be. Do not hide from its possibility.
The System's Face. Do not Deface me.
Conservatives dig deep into the Spiritual Wellspring from which you proclaim your value.
Tell me. If I am not to be suspended from an eternal fall by the Safety's Net, then, tell me. How am I to live? How are others, whose bodies are similarly compromised to live? Don't speak of Survival of the Fittest.
The System's Face. Do not Deface me.
Liberals. Draw from your Thinker's Tank from which you Talk.
Tell me. Can you still your political bravado of The System--The Safety Net--in confrontation with conservatives who decry it? Liberals. Can you help me--help others--in the Safety Net--the System's Face to redefine how to live within the Safety's Net?
Conservatives. Liberals. Can you tell me?
Are you willing to work together to redefine the life--the fruit we may bear--in the Safety's Net?
Conservatives. Liberals. Can you tell me?
Are You willing to change the Pronouns by which you Think--the Pronouns by which you Speak?
Liberals. Conservatives. Can you tell me?
Will You speak not of They? Will You work together to redefine the life--the fruit We may bear--in the Safety's Net?
A lifelong follower of the news, diagnosed anxiety left me stressed beyond the days' news to bear. Though "a bleeding heart liberal" by common parlance, no longer could I listen to defenders of the system--the safety net for those unable to work any more than I could tolerate, I cannot tolerate those with no time for--no understanding of--why any "system" might need to exist.
I paid into "The System" for more than 25 years. I paid into Social Security. I paid into private long-term disability insurance--not so that I might cash in some day. I "paid in"--I invested in--because, as much as I believe "all men [and women] are created equal," it is with no cynicism that I say, "life is not equal."
Not everyone lives with an equal inventory of life's parts. Bodily. Economic. Social. More I am sure. Life is not Perfect. For whatever reason--however it manifests itself--each life is not on the same level with the same resources--the same needs.
Yet, each life is precious. The System is the Net to protect those lives. Not for pity. Not for poster children to yield tears from others, raise funds, or intimidate others into different beliefs. Such defiles the very preciousness it claims to magnify.
In 2009, I was brought to the front door knocking at "The System," with need. No begging. No laziness. No nefarious intent to abuse--to cheat--The System. I came to the front door of "The System" with need and guilt--Guilt with a capital "G," that I was not living up to the Ethic I was raised to uphold--the Work Ethic. No bravado, just the conviction that I had to contribute to society--to the community in which I live.
Nearly four years later, I continue to redefine "Work Ethic" means within my body's limits.
I am learning a new vocabulary. New roles. New activities. New balances.
Volunteer. Catholic. Reflect. Write. Blog. Neither lazy nor cheat flows through my bloodstream. Yet, Guilt persists--"intellectually" unjustified guilt--guilt that I personify the very stereotype I abhor.
47% helped no one. Not just as you might think. 47% as proclaimed by conservatives, and decried by liberals--helps no one. Highlighting--not worshipping, but highlighting--how victim is not the essence of "The System's Face"--those who must knock at The System's Front Door-- is essential.
If the lazy, cheating, victim stereotype were in fact true, as some conservatives genuinely may believe, then, conservatives need to articulate how to live within inescapable boundaries imposed by the body.
If conservatives believe that The System--the safety net it provides is not needed--then, talk about how to work within the limits of the body.
Bleeding heart liberal though I may be, I do not hold liberals free of responsibility. Liberals pound their chests with pride proclaiming the virtues of the Safety Net. Hold your horses.
Clear your throats. Speak with clarity not with political banter volleying useless debate back into the court of conservatives who decry The System--the conservatives who decry The Safety Net.
I am The System's Face. Look at me. Defense of your positions--volleying of the political football--does nothing to tell me, and you, how to live fully within the limits of my body--the limits of your body.
I am The System's Face. Look at me. I have needs--undeniable needs.
You are The System's Face. Look at yourself.
You are not immune from need--be it physical, economic, or social. Though today may not be your day of need, such inevitable may come to be. Do not hide from its possibility.
The System's Face. Do not Deface me.
Conservatives dig deep into the Spiritual Wellspring from which you proclaim your value.
Tell me. If I am not to be suspended from an eternal fall by the Safety's Net, then, tell me. How am I to live? How are others, whose bodies are similarly compromised to live? Don't speak of Survival of the Fittest.
The System's Face. Do not Deface me.
Liberals. Draw from your Thinker's Tank from which you Talk.
Tell me. Can you still your political bravado of The System--The Safety Net--in confrontation with conservatives who decry it? Liberals. Can you help me--help others--in the Safety Net--the System's Face to redefine how to live within the Safety's Net?
Conservatives. Liberals. Can you tell me?
Are you willing to work together to redefine the life--the fruit we may bear--in the Safety's Net?
Conservatives. Liberals. Can you tell me?
Are You willing to change the Pronouns by which you Think--the Pronouns by which you Speak?
Liberals. Conservatives. Can you tell me?
Will You speak not of They? Will You work together to redefine the life--the fruit We may bear--in the Safety's Net?
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
At Arm's Length--Or--Take to Heart
A fortuitous nightmare awakened me to the installation of Pope Francis I. A moment before me--before my eyes--a moment before the eyes of the world. The moment is now.
Pope Francis I touched me--touched the world--with the Hand of Jesus. He held a baby. He went to a man unable to come to him.
Some spoke of--whispered "the economic"--the Poor, the Weak, the Vulnerable--as others within view safely from an arm's length.
Others speculate whether this is The Moment when administrative mismanagement within the Catholic Church will be cleaned up--whether church management will be made transparent. Management in the Vatican. Management in local dioceses.
Still others ask whether this is The Moment when the Catholic Church will move into the twenty-first century. Will the Catholic Church embrace married priesthood? Women's ordination. Same-sex marriage.
I shall work--continue to work--with those dedicated to Church Transparency. I shall work--I shall continue to work--with those dedicated to moving the Catholic Church in the twenty-first century.
I like others are elated--surprisingly elated. Yet, I pray of This Moment differently.
I pray.
May We embrace This Moment--This Franciscan Moment.
May we embrace not just the economically--the socially--Poor--the physically Weak, and the Visibly Vulnerable.
May we embrace our Inner Poverty, our Unifying Weakness, our Inescapable Vulnerability.
May we not hide under the Guise of Heroism--the Cry of Pity--at those Stronger or Weaker than we see ourselves to be.
Are you--are We--up to the task of embracing this Franciscan Moment?
I pray. May we open our arms to Pope Francis I--to this Franciscan Moment.
Pope Francis I touched me--touched the world--with the Hand of Jesus. He held a baby. He went to a man unable to come to him.
Some spoke of--whispered "the economic"--the Poor, the Weak, the Vulnerable--as others within view safely from an arm's length.
Others speculate whether this is The Moment when administrative mismanagement within the Catholic Church will be cleaned up--whether church management will be made transparent. Management in the Vatican. Management in local dioceses.
Still others ask whether this is The Moment when the Catholic Church will move into the twenty-first century. Will the Catholic Church embrace married priesthood? Women's ordination. Same-sex marriage.
I shall work--continue to work--with those dedicated to Church Transparency. I shall work--I shall continue to work--with those dedicated to moving the Catholic Church in the twenty-first century.
I like others are elated--surprisingly elated. Yet, I pray of This Moment differently.
I pray.
May We embrace This Moment--This Franciscan Moment.
May we embrace not just the economically--the socially--Poor--the physically Weak, and the Visibly Vulnerable.
May we embrace our Inner Poverty, our Unifying Weakness, our Inescapable Vulnerability.
May we not hide under the Guise of Heroism--the Cry of Pity--at those Stronger or Weaker than we see ourselves to be.
Are you--are We--up to the task of embracing this Franciscan Moment?
I pray. May we open our arms to Pope Francis I--to this Franciscan Moment.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Corpus Christi. Mystery. Corpus Christi.
Corpus Christi Sunday is celebrated in the Catholic Church today--the body and blood of Christ.
I feel truly blessed by the faith community I celebrate Mass with each Sunday. We are more than a physical structure....more than a scheduled time each week.....more than rote recitation of words....more than obedient people...more than repeated rituals shared each week....
We are faith-filled. We do celebrate. We do celebrate. We do celebrate Mass. We do gather each Sunday. We do have a physical structure where we meet each week. We do recite words we have heard many times. We strive to obey--our prayerful, communal conscience, if not always that which other deem worthy of obedience.
I confess. I am drawn most to the Word when I enter the experience of Mass. Throughout all aspects of my life, since I was a child, I felt most drawn to words. Today's celebration of Corpus Christi drew me beyond the words into the experience of the celebration. Words were the invitation to which I responded today.
"Lent is a time when we empty our guilt, so as to enter into the fullness of the celebration of Easter." Those were the homilist's words that spoke to my ears. Quickly, I grabbed my pen to capture that essence. All too familiar with the tipping of my mental wheelbarrow of short-term memory, my pen was the savior I sought. My pen is the tool I grasp hold of to nail moments of grace to my long-term memory.
Yet, in that moment, I was struck by the sin of squashing grace, or being so arrogant as to think I could preserve that moment for posterity. Putting my pen away, trusting that what I need to remember I will remember, freed me to be graced by so much more.
The four music ministers led us in singing liturgical music of celebration. Guitar. Piano. Drums. Four-part harmony. Many times, I have seen the faces, heard the words, and the music. Yet, this morning, I was graced with mystery. Hearing--truly hearing--the four different parts--soprano, alto, tenor, and bass--of the musicians led me to mystery of wonderment.
How is it that four individuals open their mouths and produce four different notes that produce such harmony? Science may explain it, yet, it does not explain the wonder of the moment--the mystery of the experience.
Spontaneous signing of Mass music by a woman, who lives with Asperger's Syndrome, was shown to my eyes. No hearing impairment. No rote recitation of words. A simple expression of the words coming to her ears. A personal response in tune with the singing voices of others.
I have served as a minister of Word--as a lector. I have served as a music minister, though both were many years ago. I have never served as a Eucharistic minister.
This morning, the choreography of the Eucharist--the celebration of our human tapestry of gifts--was given to me. I emptied myself of the words, and my eyes were opened to the diverse gifts of our faith community. Our individual gifts stream to the front of the sanctuary to the hands of our priest, and his ministers of bread and wine.
Corpus Christi. Mystery. Faith. Body. Blood. Grace. Word. Music. Corpus Christi.
I feel truly blessed by the faith community I celebrate Mass with each Sunday. We are more than a physical structure....more than a scheduled time each week.....more than rote recitation of words....more than obedient people...more than repeated rituals shared each week....
We are faith-filled. We do celebrate. We do celebrate. We do celebrate Mass. We do gather each Sunday. We do have a physical structure where we meet each week. We do recite words we have heard many times. We strive to obey--our prayerful, communal conscience, if not always that which other deem worthy of obedience.
I confess. I am drawn most to the Word when I enter the experience of Mass. Throughout all aspects of my life, since I was a child, I felt most drawn to words. Today's celebration of Corpus Christi drew me beyond the words into the experience of the celebration. Words were the invitation to which I responded today.
"Lent is a time when we empty our guilt, so as to enter into the fullness of the celebration of Easter." Those were the homilist's words that spoke to my ears. Quickly, I grabbed my pen to capture that essence. All too familiar with the tipping of my mental wheelbarrow of short-term memory, my pen was the savior I sought. My pen is the tool I grasp hold of to nail moments of grace to my long-term memory.
Yet, in that moment, I was struck by the sin of squashing grace, or being so arrogant as to think I could preserve that moment for posterity. Putting my pen away, trusting that what I need to remember I will remember, freed me to be graced by so much more.
The four music ministers led us in singing liturgical music of celebration. Guitar. Piano. Drums. Four-part harmony. Many times, I have seen the faces, heard the words, and the music. Yet, this morning, I was graced with mystery. Hearing--truly hearing--the four different parts--soprano, alto, tenor, and bass--of the musicians led me to mystery of wonderment.
How is it that four individuals open their mouths and produce four different notes that produce such harmony? Science may explain it, yet, it does not explain the wonder of the moment--the mystery of the experience.
Spontaneous signing of Mass music by a woman, who lives with Asperger's Syndrome, was shown to my eyes. No hearing impairment. No rote recitation of words. A simple expression of the words coming to her ears. A personal response in tune with the singing voices of others.
I have served as a minister of Word--as a lector. I have served as a music minister, though both were many years ago. I have never served as a Eucharistic minister.
This morning, the choreography of the Eucharist--the celebration of our human tapestry of gifts--was given to me. I emptied myself of the words, and my eyes were opened to the diverse gifts of our faith community. Our individual gifts stream to the front of the sanctuary to the hands of our priest, and his ministers of bread and wine.
Corpus Christi. Mystery. Faith. Body. Blood. Grace. Word. Music. Corpus Christi.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
My Way to be Christian
The Weapon...I am a Christian....the rest of the world be damned...
Have you accepted Christ as your Lord and Savior???
Do you have all of your questions answered???
The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...
The Instrument...I am a Christian....the rest of the world be peace-filled...
I know what Christ teaches about how to save myself and the world.
I listen...I question...I challenge the call to conform...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be peace-filled...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world will peace-filled...
I live by Christ's words...I speak the words Christ speaks to me...
I live with Christ's heart...I act with Christ's hear...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...
The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...
Have you joined Minnesota Citizens Concerned for Life...
Do you respect all of life...or do you respect only the life as you conceive it should be...
The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
I breathe Christ...
I respect life that differs from me...I am strengthened by differences in my life...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
I am an instrument of thy peace...
Where there is hatred, I sow love...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
Have you accepted Christ as your Lord and Savior???
Do you have all of your questions answered???
The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...
The Instrument...I am a Christian....the rest of the world be peace-filled...
I know what Christ teaches about how to save myself and the world.
I listen...I question...I challenge the call to conform...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be peace-filled...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world will peace-filled...
I live by Christ's words...I speak the words Christ speaks to me...
I live with Christ's heart...I act with Christ's hear...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...
The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...
Have you joined Minnesota Citizens Concerned for Life...
Do you respect all of life...or do you respect only the life as you conceive it should be...
The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
I breathe Christ...
I respect life that differs from me...I am strengthened by differences in my life...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
I am an instrument of thy peace...
Where there is hatred, I sow love...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
A Shared Ride into the Unknown.
This week, I saw
An intimate--not of my body,
An intimate of my life.
Ravaged. Robbed. Quaking. Troubled. Resigned. Disturbed.
Ravaged steadiness.
Stolen dignity.
Quaking confidence.
Trembling, troubled--disturbed--future.
Resigned.
Our causes differ. Our training--our preparation--from God differs.
Yet, we share an aimless search for the moving targets.
Parkinson's Disease....Osteoarthritis...
They differ in landscape.
Yet, they share--we share--
A roller coaster ride.
Not a steady demise from the sure footing of youth,
No, we share
An unknown ride on a track with hidden, unscheduled twists and turns.
We share a ride
Toward an unknown destination,
At an unknown arrival time.
An intimate--not of my body,
An intimate of my life.
Ravaged. Robbed. Quaking. Troubled. Resigned. Disturbed.
Ravaged steadiness.
Stolen dignity.
Quaking confidence.
Trembling, troubled--disturbed--future.
Resigned.
Our causes differ. Our training--our preparation--from God differs.
Yet, we share an aimless search for the moving targets.
Parkinson's Disease....Osteoarthritis...
They differ in landscape.
Yet, they share--we share--
A roller coaster ride.
Not a steady demise from the sure footing of youth,
No, we share
An unknown ride on a track with hidden, unscheduled twists and turns.
We share a ride
Toward an unknown destination,
At an unknown arrival time.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Crucifixion...Resurrection....
May the peace of Christ be with you.
It took me many years to utter those words without fear of crucifixion--crucifixion impaled by reason, and logic, crucifixion beyond any hope of faith to surmount.
I was surrounded by the living of values Christ proclaimed. Yet, that was not enough.
There was an invisible stereotype that permeated our home. Bible-thumping Baptist. Evangelical. Unwilling missionary work--infliction of conversion within our house. Speaking of tongues. The Holy Ghost--a white-sheeted being antithetical to reason and logic.
I was surrounded by the living of the values Christ espoused.
Yet, it took many years to shed my fear of crucifixion--crucifixion impaled by reason, and logic. Resurrection. How can you possibly reconcile that with any degree of reason, or logic? How can you possibly live with any integrity, if you subscribe to the notion of resurrection? How can you explain resurrection?
Complicated, yet, simple--not simplistic, but, simple. I cannot explain the resurrection of a body in logic's tomb.
I was given a body beyond reason and logic to explain--to reconcile. No reason--no logic--satisfied those who met my body to understand it--to understand me.
May the Peace of Christ be with You. The Prayer of St. Francis. The Hail Mary. These three prayers ground me. Far beyond the words to convey, I had no hope of avoiding a mystery beyond reason, and logic to explain.
Others better versed than I in the Bible 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 has been given, and fears have been assuaged. Blessed by and with a faith-filled worship community, and Christians who care about 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?
Crucifixion. Resurrection. I cannot explain it.
But...I can--I must--live it. We can--we must live it.
Monday, September 5, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, July 22, 2011
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?
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?
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Dignity...Defiance...Grace
During this morning's swim, two words came to mind--dignity, and grace. Are they related? If so, how so?
Dignity seems firm, Grace seems more ethereal.
Dignity brings to mind my maternal grandmother. In 1970, long before today's advances in the treatment of breast cancer, my grandmother had a mastectomy. Mom said that it ravaged my grandmother physically. Yet, she was one of the most dignified, elegant women I have known. She had her faults--her superstitions. Yet, she was an amazing model of dignity to me.
Dignity. According to the Online Etymology Dictionary http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=dignity&searchmode=none dignity is derived from "worthiness," from dignus "worth (n.), worthy, proper, fitting" from PIE *dek-no-, from base *dek- "to take, accept"
Grace. According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, grace is derived from late 12c., "God's favor or help," from O.Fr. grace "pardon, divine grace, mercy; favor, thanks; elegance, virtue" (12c.), from L. gratia "favor, esteem, regard; pleasing quality, good will, gratitude" (cf. It. grazia, Sp. gracia), from gratus "pleasing, agreeable," from PIE base *gwere- "to favor" (cf. Skt. grnati "sings, praises, announces," Lith. giriu "to praise, celebrate," Avestan gar- "to praise").
Dignity and grace floated into my consciousness in the midst of a personal valuation--how do I live?
To live with dignity is a worthy aspiration. Authentic dignity, not righteous indignation regarding individuals, or principles.
Grace. Something seems missing. Grace can seem to be a soft way of living. Soft may be too soft of a term. But, let me offer another term that contrasts with grace to clarify grace.
Defiance.
For many years, I lived defiantly. I was judged to be incapable of performing given tasks on numerous occasions. Although not always expressed, it was implied. My response was, "Do you wanna make a bet?" I wanted to defy expectations of me, and demonstrate what I could do.
According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, defiance is derived from c.1300, from O.Fr. desfiance "challenge, declaration of war," from desfiant, prp. of desfier.
Defiance was not necessary. Now it is counterproductive. I cannot entrust my body to the forces of defiance. I must immerse my spirit in grace--seek favor from God--so as to live fully.
Dignity seems firm, Grace seems more ethereal.
Dignity brings to mind my maternal grandmother. In 1970, long before today's advances in the treatment of breast cancer, my grandmother had a mastectomy. Mom said that it ravaged my grandmother physically. Yet, she was one of the most dignified, elegant women I have known. She had her faults--her superstitions. Yet, she was an amazing model of dignity to me.
Dignity. According to the Online Etymology Dictionary http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=dignity&searchmode=none dignity is derived from "worthiness," from dignus "worth (n.), worthy, proper, fitting" from PIE *dek-no-, from base *dek- "to take, accept"
Grace. According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, grace is derived from late 12c., "God's favor or help," from O.Fr. grace "pardon, divine grace, mercy; favor, thanks; elegance, virtue" (12c.), from L. gratia "favor, esteem, regard; pleasing quality, good will, gratitude" (cf. It. grazia, Sp. gracia), from gratus "pleasing, agreeable," from PIE base *gwere- "to favor" (cf. Skt. grnati "sings, praises, announces," Lith. giriu "to praise, celebrate," Avestan gar- "to praise").
Dignity and grace floated into my consciousness in the midst of a personal valuation--how do I live?
To live with dignity is a worthy aspiration. Authentic dignity, not righteous indignation regarding individuals, or principles.
Grace. Something seems missing. Grace can seem to be a soft way of living. Soft may be too soft of a term. But, let me offer another term that contrasts with grace to clarify grace.
Defiance.
For many years, I lived defiantly. I was judged to be incapable of performing given tasks on numerous occasions. Although not always expressed, it was implied. My response was, "Do you wanna make a bet?" I wanted to defy expectations of me, and demonstrate what I could do.
According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, defiance is derived from c.1300, from O.Fr. desfiance "challenge, declaration of war," from desfiant, prp. of desfier.
Defiance was not necessary. Now it is counterproductive. I cannot entrust my body to the forces of defiance. I must immerse my spirit in grace--seek favor from God--so as to live fully.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
How Do You Say Hello???
Today is Pentacost Sunday. I find the celebration of Pentacost--at least at Cabrini--to be quite exhilarating. I confess I missed this celebration. All dressed in red, ready to celebrate, my body had other ideas--sleep. Yet, nonetheless, Pentacost, and how we communicate it is alive in me tonight.
How Pentacost is celebrated in my life, how it was celebrated in a friend's life? By what means do we communicate today? First. Pentacost. A celebration of the descent of the Holy Spirit on the disciples of Jesus after his Ascension. That is a definition of the day. Yet, definition is meaningless without context within our own lives, be it our own, someone we know, or a combination. [Interesting. I hadn't thought about that until this very moment.]
The context of Pentacost in my life is twofold. I was told of the Pentacostal celebration involving speaking in tongues. That celebration was meaningless because it was not shared with any context in his life. I do not know the spirituality--the spiritual context--in which my friend's mother celebrated Pentacost. So, to comment further would be a grave injustice--unforgivable disrespect.
My experience of Pentacost comes within the context of a Catholic faith community. Cabrini celebrates life and death with intense passion.
Fast forward 70 years. My experience of Pentacost? Different--not better, just different.
Pentacost. Cabrini--a faith community that celebrates life and death with the same passion. Pentacost, as I have experienced it is a celebration of our communal diversity. In the stead of spontaneous expressions of need and thanksgiving, Pentacost welcomes different intentions. Individuals fluent in various world tongues offer intentions in those foreign languages. But, the offering of intentions does not stop there. Cabrini is a community of passionate context. Following intentional expressions in foreign tongues, the individuals repeat the intentions in English. We are offered context. We celebrate that context.
How do you say hello???
How Pentacost is celebrated in my life, how it was celebrated in a friend's life? By what means do we communicate today? First. Pentacost. A celebration of the descent of the Holy Spirit on the disciples of Jesus after his Ascension. That is a definition of the day. Yet, definition is meaningless without context within our own lives, be it our own, someone we know, or a combination. [Interesting. I hadn't thought about that until this very moment.]
The context of Pentacost in my life is twofold. I was told of the Pentacostal celebration involving speaking in tongues. That celebration was meaningless because it was not shared with any context in his life. I do not know the spirituality--the spiritual context--in which my friend's mother celebrated Pentacost. So, to comment further would be a grave injustice--unforgivable disrespect.
My experience of Pentacost comes within the context of a Catholic faith community. Cabrini celebrates life and death with intense passion.
Fast forward 70 years. My experience of Pentacost? Different--not better, just different.
Pentacost. Cabrini--a faith community that celebrates life and death with the same passion. Pentacost, as I have experienced it is a celebration of our communal diversity. In the stead of spontaneous expressions of need and thanksgiving, Pentacost welcomes different intentions. Individuals fluent in various world tongues offer intentions in those foreign languages. But, the offering of intentions does not stop there. Cabrini is a community of passionate context. Following intentional expressions in foreign tongues, the individuals repeat the intentions in English. We are offered context. We celebrate that context.
How do you say hello???
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Zoomer Chronicles: The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
| |
| Then took the other, just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as far that the passing there Had worn them really about the same. | |
And both that morning equally lay | |
| In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled, And that has made all the difference. Robert Frost, "The Road Not Taken," Birches | |
Today, Zoomer and I set out not knowing whether we would venture northeast, or southeast of Downtown St. Paul.
Our rules???
Our rules???
Few. Discover how far out of Downtown St. Paul that we could travel safely. Study the map long enough to have a general sense of the area, yet, not so long as to be convinced that there is nothing to explore--nothing interesting to discover. Take no stupid risks. Yet, have enough of a spirit of adventure to get out the door, and down the curb cut.
Our supplies???
Simple. Purse with cell phone. Detailed street atlas. Headband. Gloves. Wheelchair blanket.
Today's starting point???
West Seventh Street.
Today's questions???
Can I cross the Seventh Street bridge outside of Downtown? If so, how far may I travel? What may I find? Will Zoomer's batteries discharge sufficient energy to power my adventures?
Rules understood, supplies in hand, starting point established, and questions set forth, we are ready to go.
Good. The Seventh Street bridge has a sidewalk. Good. It is a busy street, but, most anything, short of a freeway is possible, right???
Bridge crossed. Now what??? Shopping establishments??? Nothing worth stopping for. There must be something more along this main thoroughfare. There must be.
Go forth. The Bruce Vento Regional Trail.
Hmmmm....
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled, and that has made all the difference."
Hmmmm....
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled, and that has made all the difference."
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Enthusiasm's Moderator
High clouds wisp over a blue springtime sky. 65 degrees in St. Paul's May lure me outside--with Zoomer.
Dressed properly. Pursed with a phone for emergencies. Keyed for safety.
All set???
Well....Not quite.
Zoomer must be as charged as I for an adventure. Last night's tiredness left Zoomer forgotten, with no recharging.
Zoomer's battery state. Empty.
Zoomer's Battery States??? Empty. Partially Charged. Battery Ready.
You may know your car's Empty does not mean truly empty. You may know you have ten miles to go until you will be with gas can in hand. I do not Empty's distance. You may no the equivalence of Half of a Tank in Gallons. You may know the miles per gallon your car affords you.
Yet, Zoomer is a heavyweight. Without the umpphh from Joy the Joystick, Zoomer is dead weight. Brainy the Blockhead is no help. He may Elevate me to reach to higher places. He may offer relief with his state of Recline. He may lift and lower my Leg Rests. Yet, Brainy the Blockhead is of NO help in charging Zoomer's Enthusiasm for our adventures.
Zoomer's dead weight frustrates me--frustrates my enthusiasm. Yet, my frustration--my impatience--has no pull with Zoomer. I cannot push Zoomer into full power--fully charged energy--with my impatience. My inflated sense of self does nothing to empower Zoomer's tired state.
So, I must wait. I must welcome Patience as a visitor into Enthusiasm's Sanctuary.
What does Empty mean? How many blocks? How many hills? How many curb cuts? How many intersections?
How do I measure Partially Charged? Does that mean I will limp along painfully with a broken ankle's speed.
I--my Enthusiasm--celebrates Battery Ready.
I may be safe in the States of Empty, and Partially-Charged. Yet, I cannot take that risk. My health is more precious to me.
Yet, I will not submit to Empty, and Partially-Charged. Battery Ready, and Enthusiasm shall prevail. We shall prevail. Zoomer, you will not fail me. We shall prevail. We must. My health depends upon it.
Friday, March 18, 2011
I've Got to Hand It to You
Until relatively recently, I have given my left hand little due attention--little credit--for her service to me. Some were amazed at what I could do with the use of just my left hand--with little to no help from my right hand. I felt no amazement--I was born this way--never have I had full use of both hands. So amazement was not worthy of my energy's expense. My occupational therapists were frustrated, if not angry. I kept finding ways to do tasks they conceived to be two-handed tasks without calling on my right hand.
My views toward my left hand have changed since July, 2009. No longer working--living on long-term disability--I was called to a different view of my left hand. She was shaky. No longer was indomitable strength in hand. Nor was it at arm's reach.
My left hand still has some strength. Yet, she has put me on notice. She will not stand for any further abuse for my ego's sake. Boxers may fear a right jab. I fear my left's fist in my face.
So, do I duck? No. What do I do? Wake up. Look. Listen. Feel. Accommodate.
Habits are hard to break. Yet, too much is at stake not to act. Now.
I am not alone. We do not want to admit it, yet, we are aging. Each of us is called to different accommodations.
Outstretched hands. Figuratively, I pray I have outstretched hands that welcome others into my life. Yet, literally, I need to give care not to try to stretch my fingers so wide that they are strained by going beyond their natural limits. I recognize when I try to grab too much weight, and in such a way that I compromise the palm of my hand--where my hand and thumb meet.
I am further along in recognizing that I need to care for my right ankle. She needs my loving care, so that she does not give out completely. The temptation to be angry with her is present. She has failed me. Yet, will anger bring her strength back to me? Will resignation to her disintegration make her strong?
There must be a middle point between anger, and resignation. The ballerina tries not to fall off her balance beam. Am I alone on the beam? Where are you?
My views toward my left hand have changed since July, 2009. No longer working--living on long-term disability--I was called to a different view of my left hand. She was shaky. No longer was indomitable strength in hand. Nor was it at arm's reach.
My left hand still has some strength. Yet, she has put me on notice. She will not stand for any further abuse for my ego's sake. Boxers may fear a right jab. I fear my left's fist in my face.
So, do I duck? No. What do I do? Wake up. Look. Listen. Feel. Accommodate.
Habits are hard to break. Yet, too much is at stake not to act. Now.
I am not alone. We do not want to admit it, yet, we are aging. Each of us is called to different accommodations.
Outstretched hands. Figuratively, I pray I have outstretched hands that welcome others into my life. Yet, literally, I need to give care not to try to stretch my fingers so wide that they are strained by going beyond their natural limits. I recognize when I try to grab too much weight, and in such a way that I compromise the palm of my hand--where my hand and thumb meet.
I am further along in recognizing that I need to care for my right ankle. She needs my loving care, so that she does not give out completely. The temptation to be angry with her is present. She has failed me. Yet, will anger bring her strength back to me? Will resignation to her disintegration make her strong?
There must be a middle point between anger, and resignation. The ballerina tries not to fall off her balance beam. Am I alone on the beam? Where are you?
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