Mourning A Body--My Body

My left hand is my life's blood.  It is the vehicle I use to craft words, the tool I use to live.  My right hand has never served me.  She never will.  I know that.  Blame is not for me to assign.  Anger is not mine to wield.  My right hand has never served me as others' have.
This week, a gradual diminishment--a lifelong fear--came to a head.  I made progress to the outer world.  Not by others misassigning it.  I didn't misassign it either.  Rather, I rallied the consolation I need.
A mere appointment for hand therapy, hand x-rays, and a neck MRI did not deliver this week to me...not alone.
Every 18 months or so, I receive a questionnaire to reauthorize my long-term disability insurance.  A formality perhaps.  Yet, this time it hit me hard--it hits me in the gut.  She pulls no punches.
I have forgotten the sound of my left hand's voice propelling me up out of bed in the morning.  Did she ever speak?  Have I lost my hearing?  Am I deaf to her call for help?  How long has she--how long have they--been gone?
Did I abuse my left had so much--with such bravado--that I have lost her forever?
Will remorse...a contrite heart...a confessing of my wrongful pride...be enough that my hand may be entrusted to my service?
Voicing that thought through my still-working fingers is embarrassing.  Am I losing dignity as I stand aside of my body?
I hold on for dear life in the bathtub as I pull my body to a standing position after bathing myself.  Will this be the time I will lose my grip and fall?
The time for contrition has come...a shower/bath bench.  I have looked from afar.  This week's questions--the questions are served by only one answer.  I confess a bit of vanity remains.  With Amazon.com's hand to hold mine, soon I will be the proud owner of a reasonably-priced teak shower/bath bench.
I mourn a body--my body.  Is it mine to blame?  Is it mine to wield anger at because it is not serving me.
I must serve my body regardless of how it serves me.
Thirty-two years ago I was baptized--I joined the Catholic Church.  Through friends, I learned it was more than possible to blend intellect into faith into my being.  Skeptics to that blending asked, "But...resurrection...that just doesn't make any sense!  Do you believe in resurrection?  Do you believe in The Resurrection?"
I did not know I did not understand what words to utter.
Time has passed....years have elapsed....life has changed me...life has changed my body....much over many years has made now sense at all.
Do I understand resurrection?  Do I believe in resurrection?
No.  I must.  I am a woman of faith, I am a woman of hope.  I am a woman of love.  I am a woman of belief.
Do I understand The Resurrection?  Do I believe in The Resurrection.
No.  I breathe seeking to believe what I do not understand.
I mourn a body--my body.  I mourn a bath--the loss of a bath.  I was always a woman of a shower.  So, why am I mourning?  I seek understanding that has yet to be delivered to me.
I mourn a body--my body.

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?

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

     February 11th 2013 was a day of historic surprise.  Adrift in the Mediterranean on vacation, I floated in my own excitement--surprise at my own excitement--regarding the resignation of Pope Benedict XVI.  I was aflutter with excitement over who the next pope might be--over what people at home, invested in church reform, were thinking and saying.
     My faith does not rest--does not depend upon--the stance of the Pope, or the state of the Vatican in the Catholic Church.
     Raised as a Universalist, "church hierarchy" was not an issue.  By its very nature, church hierarchy was nonexistent.  Sometimes I feel out of step when I hear that phrase, because it is not a part of my spiritual heritage.
     I am reticent to criticize the Universalist Church, more often referred to as the Unitarian Universalist Federation today.  Rather, with all due respect, I want to speak as someone who understands the need to have church hierarchy of some form in order to have a rich spiritual heritage, which may be transmitted--communicated--from one generation to the next.  The Universalist Church, as I was raised to call it, was a marvelous home for my parents.  They did not find their needs to be met in the Catholic, or Episcopalian Churches of the 1940s.  Later, the Congregationalist Church specific to their experience was a transition time for them.  Later, with young children, the Universalist Church met their needs.  From the Catholic, and Episcopalian Churches, my parents left the pageantry, not the basic Christian values of love and hope.  Although "faith" was something understood to them as a trapping--a mindless trapping of the pageantry they sought to escape.
     I came into their lives without the heritage of the Catholic or Episcopalian Churches--without the Christian tradition--to draw upon in my childhood.  I was left to draw upon the Universalist Church tradition that worshipped the mind, the intellect, and reason, as the sole sources of answers to the big questions of life.
     I value my mind, my intellect, and reason.  However, the answers I sought, and the answers I seek exceed the purview of the mind, the intellect, and reason.  Beyond words to explain--beyond any words, faith is my home in which I form my questions, and search for answers.
     Structure is necessary.  Many times when I hear people spew venom about CHURCH HIERARCHY, I silently wonder, "Do you really want religion without some hierarchy?  How do you propose to build community without some foundation."
    We idolize democracy, yet, we must not confuse democracy in religion as being free of some hierarchy--some structure--on which to build a foundation for communion.  We need some structure.  We need leadership.
     Many times in the 31 years I have been Catholic, I have heard differing views regarding the obligation to go to Mass.  I confess, I do not have a perfect attendance record at Mass.  Yet, when I hear people bemoan having to go to Mass with a heavy heart, I scream silently, "DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS LIKE NOT TO HAVE MASS TO GO TO?"
     I confess, I have been very blessed in awesome worship communities.  Save one parish, my mind has been fed, my spirit filled with joyous notes of music, and a wealth of people surrounding me as models of living what Christ taught--what Christ teaches--through the words spoken, and actions taken each Sunday at Mass.
     I do not know where Pope Francis I will lead the Church.  Where will he lead me through the life he lives?  Where will I entrust myself to be led by him.
     I am quite surprised by how excited I have felt about Pope Francis I.  Never have I felt much, if any, investment in who the Pope in the distant place called the Vatican in Rome  thousands of miles from me in St. Paul.
     Some people I know are concerned--disappointed--by his conservative stances on issues such as same-sex marriage, and women's ordination, to name a few.  I pray some day these issues will be given the heartfelt blessing of the Catholic Church they deserve.
     For now, I shall work to advance what it means to be a progressive Catholic.  For now, however contradictory it may seem, I invest myself--I celebrate--the opportunity to live the poverty of my body.  When we hear, "the poor,"  or "poverty," immediately our minds go to economic poverty, or begging for food, clothing, and shelter.  Is that the full meaning of poverty?
     Pope Francis I, teach us the meaning of Poverty that we may embrace it, not run from it.  Teach us to Listen through the vessel of Poverty.

Jan Michael Joncas

     My first experience with Michael Joncas was aural--On Eagles Wings.  I cannot put words to that experience.  Later, he presided at the Newman Center, where I attended.  Between then and now, I have been taken back to his music many times.
   Nearly ten years ago, immersed in my own stress, I was aware--vaguely--that he was very ill.  I knew little more than that.
    By no means to minimize Michael Joncas--his fullness as a human being--my only understanding of him was his music.  I love music.  I survived the travails of teenage years through music.  To this day, music is a refuge I seek.  To celebrate.  To meditate.  To contemplate.  Beyond my understanding was how anyone could give more of themselves than all of the glorious music Joncas has composed--has given to us.
    Recently, I was called upon to broaden my knowledge of Michael Joncas--Jan Michael Joncas.  Beyond a history of his vital statistics--his accomplishments--I was called upon to give voice to what he has said regarding current issues of our day.
     Suffering.
     Oxford Dictionaries defines suffering as, "the undergoing of pain, distress, or hardship."
     Suffering.  Much more is laden on the word in society.  It is difficult to quantify--to limit by the borders of words.  Pity?  Separation?  Denial?
      My experience of "suffering"--the word, not the experience--had been the syrup-laden cocoon assumed by the appearance of a reality I have lived with since the moment my umbilical cord was unwrapped from the five times it constricted oxygen from my brain.
     My reality has changed, as has been my understanding of "suffering."  However, I could not articulate that change, I could only live it.  Enter Jan Michael Joncas.
     "I learned that you do not solve the problem of suffering,...you enter into the mystery of suffering.  And it does change you, and it changes your world."

My Handwriting...My Spirit...

     I see your face before me--barely recognizable.  Not because of pen scratchings, as some might think.  No, I am surprised by how far we have drifted apart--in still waters.  My spirit.  Your body--of letters, of words.
     Not a divorce.  Not bitter.  Not amicable.  Just an imperceptible drifting in still waters.
     Not an annulment.  Our partnership.  I seek no clean break.  No erasure.  I seek no space for a new bridegroom.
     I seek not sole custody of our children.  Our children.  Conceptions of my spirit borne of your fingers, --of your hands.
     I protect our creatures--our creations--with block printing.  I intend no defensiveness.  Yet, no one can take me past my blind spot.
     Tell me.  Show me.  Your handwriting.  Others' handwriting.
     Where does legibility lie?  Where does readability rest?
      I must reconcile with you.  I must revel in time perched on my bed with pen in hand, and paper before me.  I know how to type.  I love touching keys.  Yet, handwriting touches more than my hands--he touches my spirit.  He is more than an "it,"  he is a "he."

Living With the Cold, Hard Facts

     Zoomer.  A refrigerator--new, black, textured, cold.

     By passion, a researcher.  A children's museum my workplace--my playground.

     By birth, not a cradle Catholic.  By pursuit, reform's seeker.

     Since birth, cerebral palsy, epilepsy.  Since middle age, osteoarthritis.

     Lifelong, disability's advocate.

     In common?  This is my life.  Cold, hard facts.  Not always difficult, just cold, hard facts to be lived--to be lived fully.

     One year ago, a wheelchair was offered to my consideration.  I wanted nothing of it.

     "Think of your needs.  Not now.  Not a year from now.  Think of your needs five years from now."

     Still, I wanted nothing of it.  Yet, I slept on the offering.  I considered my life's cold, hard facts.

     I chose--I choose--to live with them, not die from them.

     Yesterday, a refrigerator was delivered.  New.  Black.  Textured.  To my liking.  To Zoomer's liking. 

     64 inches high.  My height?  64 inches.  28 inches wide.  My width?  Irrelevant.  32 inches deep.  My depth--my physical depth?  To the refrigerator's depth.

     Zoomer's reach?  The refrigerator's depth.  The freezer's height.

     Zoomer's range--range of motion?  Atop the freezer's height?  No.

     These are the dimensions of my life--the cold, hard facts.  But...these are the dimensions by which I am called to live--beyond the reach of the gifts I have been given.  

     I am an odd futurist.  Some say odd.  Others say futuristic.

     I do not know what my future will be.  None of us does.  Odd though it may seem, my new refrigerator opens a new view to the cold, hard facts by which I will be called to live.

     Covered with a texture new to me--it is fun to touch.  A new height to test.  A new depth to reach. 

     "Think of your needs.  Not now.  Not a year from now.  Think of your needs five years from now."

     I am an odd futurist.  I do not live by a clock's ticking.  My body breathes to her own rhythm--a mystery to me.  I try to live with her, not in fear of her.  Most days I abide by her.  Fewer days I succumb to them.

     I engage Zoomer to my new refrigerator.  With her, may I reach to the depths of the cold, hard facts by which I must live?  With her, may I reach beyond the gifts I have been to live? 

     I do not know what they will be.  I do not know their color.  Their height. 

     What will the texture of my spirit be to live by those cold, hard facts? 

     I pray I will abide by them, not succumb to them.

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.

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.

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.

A Keen Ear. An Accommodating Spirit.

     Little scares me.
     Fearless I am not.  Fear I do.
     Osteoarthritis.  Puffy fingers. Inflamed tissues.
     Some have knobby knees.  I have knobby knuckles.
     I fear not the appearance.  Such is vanity--pure vanity.
     I fear the knobby knuckles--its killing paralysis.
     I fear loss.  I fear loss of my voice--loss of my voice through my left hand.  I fear not the loss of my right hand--the loss of my right hand as the instrument of my voice.  My right hand has never had such muscle power.
     My osteoarthritis affects my left hand, my left hip, and my right ankle.  God only knows as to its selectivity within my body.
     I do not ask--I have never asked--"Why me?"  I abhor that question.  What possible answer could serve anyone or any good end.
     Rather, I ask, "What lesson am I to be learning." 
     I take this as no punishment for any action I have taken.  Some, extreme in their thinking, take that tack.  I never have.  I never will.
     Rather, I ask, "What preparation am I being called to make?"
     A lifetime ago my answer to a call seems.  Just one year ago, I was counselled to look ahead,
     "Think of your needs beyond the next year--beyond the next five years.  I advise you to get a power wheelchair with a joystick on your left armrest.  I advise you to get a head rim.  At the point when you need it, a head rim will control the movement of your chair when  you cannot."
     I do not torture myself--I cannot--with the prospect of using the head rim.  Yet, I know that I have learned that lesson--made that preparation.
     Osteoarthritis.  My left hip?  A simple four-legged cane.  Common sense born of experience--carry no heavy packages, such as groceries, any distance.  A fairly easy solution.  For vanity, two canes.  One is multiple shades of dark blue.  The other is colored in shades of brown.  It looks like wood.  One must be color-coordinated, of course.  Living alone, one must be prepared.  Though not needed today, I need to have the tools at hand--the tools for as independent a life as is possible.
     Osteoarthritis.  My right ankle.  Zoomer, my power wheelchair, is my antidote.  Should she not be enough, I have been told that it is a matter of time--ten years perhaps--that I might need ankle surgery, an ankle replacement, perhaps.
     Osteoarthritis.  I do my best not to torture myself with eventualities.  Osteoarthritis is not a condition of steadiness or control.  Osteoarthritis is an amoeba, a chameleon.  Some days, people may wonder, "I don't understand.  I saw her in her wheelchair yesterday, now today she is walking just fine."  I wonder too.
     Osteoarthritis.  A snake, who lurks in the bushes, waiting to catch me unawares.
     Osteoarthritis.  Exercise.  Not a physical cure.  But a wellspring of mental, and emotional energy.  Exercise.  A keeping at bay of inflammation's paralysis.
     Osteoarthritis.  My right ankle.  My left hand.  My left hip.  My color-coordinated canes.  Exercise.  Osteoarthritis.
     Osteoarthritis.  A keen ear.  An accommodating spirit.  Osteoarthritis.

A Fulfilling Living

     An amazing day.  An amazing week.
     January's ice box has moved into St. Paul today.  Yet, the sun shines.  Nary a cloud in the sky.  Cold hard facts.  I am warming to perfection.
     Monday's moments?
     Personal training.  New swimming equipment identified.  Noodles.  Paddles.  New exercises.  A stronger right hand perhaps?  Volunteering.  Research.  Pay dirt.  Struck gold.  Hit the jackpot.
     Tuesday's treasures?
     Catholic Church reform.  A new council.  The first of its kind.  Supporting researcher.  A witness to history that has yet to be made.  An invitation--a special invitation.  Do you want to share your story as part of a retreat on transition?  Amazing.
     Wednesday's wonders?
     Twenty-one Council members.  Twenty-one life stories.  Twenty-one crafters of a more democratic Catholic Church.  Wonder-filled.  Awe-inspiring.
     Thursday's triumph?  The noodle--the white noodle.  A hand clenched for a lifetime.  Through no fault of her own, my hand clenched tightly nonetheless.  Past efforts to open my clenched hand met with unwilling resistance from a stubborn soul.  There was just no possibility of an Open Hand--Outstretched Fingers, a Strong Wrist with a Firm Grip.
    An Open Hand.  Outstretching Fingers.  A Strengthening Wrist.  A Firming Grip.
    Amazing.  Wonder-filled.  Awe-inspiring.  Simple to some.  Amazing to me.

Mermaid Chronicles: Katy Lyons

     In the 1960s, a woman with graying brown hair wrapped in a bun, and horned-rim glasses came into my life.  Each week, Katy Lyons parked in our driveway, and carried a green and black exercise mat to our basement.  For an hour, she stretched my right leg.  Under the pot lights in the basement, she laid the groundwork for a stronger leg on which I could stand.  Katy flexed my right foot, and my right hand.

    With her firm hands, Katy gave me a gift.  A muscular yawn.  To my foot.  To my right hand.  A gift was given--a muscular yawn.  It felt so good.  The muscular yawn came slowly.  Yet, when it came,  oh, it feel so-o-o-o good.

     As any kid, I wanted little part of Mom's directive, "Do your exercises."  Memorable to me was the exercise to sit on the hearth in our living room, and propel myself up to a standing position using my right hand and arm.  Although the exercise felt good when I did it, I bored of it quickly.

     Where is my hearth? 

     This morning, this Mermaid entered the pool at the Y.  Buoyant bar bells, and hand paddles were beyond  temptations I could resist.  The only resistance I felt was from the water.  Amazing.  Absolutely amazing.  With the bar bells, I could push my right arm straight down in the water.  Feeling my right arm extended straight was amazing.  Absolutely amazing.

     Katy Lyons.

     I thought of Katy this morning.  What would she say?  How fun it would be to share it with Katy.  Yet, Katy died in the 1990s.  An occupational therapist I met with several years ago knew Katy.  The therapist and I spoke with warmth about a woman, who dedicated herself to children.  Katy dedicated her life to helping kids stand tall--to stand proud--to stand with appreciation.

     Thank you, Katy.

Where is the Middle???

     I find myself in the middle of a different search for information.  The search is new to me.  I am accustomed to the search for information regarding my epilepsy, and seizures most prominently.  Brain damage and cerebral palsy to  a lesser degree.  Although all four are intertwined.  My search is for how to be of compassionately informed support to someone, who is academically familiar with the medical condition he faces now as he looks in the mirror.
     With some, the temptation is to throw facts, and information--research--at them to help them contain their condition into a manageable form.  With others,, the temptation is to offer pity.  Sometimes, that is manifest in Poster Children to attract justifiable support for individuals with the condition, and for research.  On a personal level, pity well may be uncertainty, and discomfort, as to how to address the situation.  Most tempting, and most frightening to me is the offer to cure or to heal someone by mystical powers.
     Most helpful to me with regard to my seizures, epilepsy, cerebral palsy and brain damage is a balanced approach.
     I don't seek to be cured, or to have never had brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures.  I cannot roll back history.  Such is a waste of precious energy.  I prefer to seek insights--to how to live an insightful life--on the basis of my brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures.  To some degree, I have known that since eighth grade.
     I don't know how to be of help.  Facts, and information are readily available.  Pity is against my religion--pity that is closed to the possibility that more constructive responses are available.  Healing by means of mystical powers frightens me.
     I do make a distinction between healing by means of magical waving-of-a-wand means--full healing--and prayer.  The distinction is difficult to articulate.  Sometimes, the words may be the same, yet the tone is different--completely different.  I know it when I hear it--when I feel it.  I try to respond, so as to increase the likelihood of more compassion in the future.
    So, where does that leave the man facing a medical condition new to him personally?   We have known one another for a lifetime.  We respond similarly to much of what I have described--research, pity, cures, and healing by mystical powers.  I find it difficult to articulate the nuances in prayer that exist.
    I am leery of the support that consumer organizations can, and do provide.  I am not saying that they serve no useful purpose.  My concern is that the support--their expressed mission--is aimed more at publicizing research, and raising funds for the continuation for that research.  Both, essential.
    Where is the spiritual element of support?  Where is the spirituality of the human body in this discussion?  Often, the triangle, body, mind, and spirit," is discussed.  Of the three, most often, body and mind are linked.  Similarly, mind and spirit are linked.
    Yet, body and spirit seem miles apart.  I don't know precisely how to articulate it.  Maybe if I did--if we were willing to--articulate the relationship between the two, we might get beyond some ghost-in-a-white-sheet mentality of the body and the spirit.

Mermaid Chronicles: Weight of the World

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

A Mermaid's Tone

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

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.

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?

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.     

Zoomer Chronicles: John Steinbeck

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