I Can't Remember When....

Most people lament, "I remember when..." with the delusion that those words spoken may turn back the clock to a different time.  Frequently, this is spoken regarding a job--a bad, boring job.  For many, many years I worked in a job from which I felt that my full potential was not being employed.
As many years as vehemence flowed constantly, I cannot remember that feeling.  I do not want to be taken back to that time.
In 2009, I had to stop working.  I have been known to say, "My get up and go got up and went."  Essential tremors and osteoarthritis allied with the well-entrenched cerebral palsy, and her silent partner, epilepsy to execute a "successful" coup d'etat over life as I knew it.  In 2009, I could not fathom the notion that I might live without working in the paid workforce.
Every 18 months or so, I must submit myself to an external reexamination of my incapacity to return to the workforce--a reverse performance review, if you will.  I am not a submissive person.  For now I must be.
Every 18 months or so, I must return to four humbling questions:
1. Has there been a change in your condition in the last 18 months?
2. If  "Yes" please describe the specific change or changes?
3. Please list all of the types of activities that you do during the course of a typical day.  What do you do from the time you arise in the morning until you retire at night?  Do you require assistance?
4. Please place the number shown next to the statement that most accurately reflects your ability/inability to perform each of them:
(1) I can perform this activity independently
(2) I can perform this activity with the use of equipment or adaptive devices
(3) I cannot perform this activity
      a.  Dressing
      b.  Toilet
      c.  Feed yourself with food that has been prepared and made available to you

            d.  Voluntary bladder and bowel control or ability to maintain a reasonable level of personal hygiene

e.         e.  Bathe (tub, shower, or bath)

            f.  Transfer from bed to chair

     On the one hand, there are many reasons why it seems that I should not make the confession I do now, I must submit to this confession.  As easy as it may seem to some to be hereto submissive, let me set the record straight.  It is not.  I understand the need.  Yet it is not easy.  

    I seek no dramatic persona.  Purely and simply I am brought to my knees whenever these questions are set before me.  The first time I faced these questions, they were excruciating.  These are not questions that elicit dignity.  These questions redefine what honesty must be--what the honesty of daily life is.  Try as I will to soften the blow, each time these questions bring me to my knees.

     My concept of someone who is no longer able to be in the paid workforce is that they are bedridden.  Yet, I am not.  

     I live within my limits working with what remains--an important part of those limits is that I cannot employ my body in the paid workforce.  

     I cannot remember when I worked by the time and revenue demands of a large corporation.  

     I pray I may work my way through this reexamination with honesty, integrity, and my dignity intact.  When can I nap?  Where is the Breyer's?

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.

Antibullying and Religious Freedom

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

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?

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."

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.

Betrayal of My Body...Stolen Dignity

    Selective amnesia.  I just noticed two posts in a row addressed a connection I see between health insurance, and auto insurance.  Though I feel a tad guilty for abusing the privilege of the precious time we are given each day, the two successive posts do speak to a larger truth about my daily life.  Most of my life, I have tried to stay abreast of world affairs, and the nuances of current affairs on the national, and local levels of government.
    Since I stopped working due to my cerebral palsy, and osteoarthritis, I have become keenly aware of inner calm--the priority, above all else, that my pursuit of inner calm must take.  My neurologist diagnosed that I have what is known as "intentional tremors."   Throughout my life, my left hand has been the powerhouse that has muscled me through college, a master's program, a 24-year career at a legal publishing company, and through living independently.  I have never had full use of my right hand, so, not until three years ago did I even question the role that my left hand plays in my life.  A friend, who has cerebral palsy affecting use of her right hand, and I have often said that we were frightened of something ever happening to our left hands.
    Then, July 8, 2009, the life as I had known it, changed radically.  Optimist that I always have been, I can say that the ending of my career in the paid workforce made possible the diagnosis of an unknown, frightening tremor in my left hand and arm.  The only possibility to explain my tremors seemed to be Parkinson's Disease.  It was not.  It may sound strange, but, being told that I had--that I have--intentional tremors enabled me to determine how to  live with it.
    Intentional Tremors.
   At its core, intentional tremors are shaking that becomes more intense the more a person with them tries to do a given task.  Three tasks come to mind.  Eating.  Drinking.  Handwriting.  To some, reasonable accommodation is a term that describes a central concept within the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990.  To me, reasonable accommodation is my intimate.  I try not to succumb to stolen dignity--the betrayal of my body.
    Drinking.  Reasonable accommodations took time.  Straws.  But, not just any straws.  With any reasonable accommodation, there must be a reasonable amount of fun, without the bendable, store-bought disposable straws, or boring straws found in catalogs for individuals far older than I.  To that end, I found colorfully-ribboned straws.  I do not want to be consumed by a body that confines me to a world outside the vibrancy life offers.
    Eating.  Strange though it may sound, eating in public is truly humbling.  While drinking may be reasonably accommodated, eating in public is much trickier.  I have never been much of a soup aficionado.  Thank God.
Forks are my friends.  With them, I have a half a chance with food.  With the exception of Breyer's vanilla ice cream, spoons are a slippery slope to use.  Knives are fairly useless, not obstacles, not my enemies, just benign tools.
    Handwriting.
    For a lifetime, my handwriting--its readability--has been a bone of contention.
    My high school teacher said of my homework, "I know it is from you, but, I have no idea what it says."  Ouch! That hurt.  I loved--I love--to write.  That hurt.
    So, in some ways, handwriting has been less traumatic, or less of a new trauma with which to cope, and adjust.  I learned to type one-handed in high school.  Technology has made available technology that I may use one day should my left hand give up.  I am  in no rush.  Typing--or the worlds it opens--brings enormous joy.  If need be I will learn to use a program called Dragon Naturally Speaking.
    Dragon Naturally Speaking does not ameliorate a very fundamental loss.  At Christmastime, receiving cards and letters is enveloped in something as special as the letter.  The handwriting of a friend, or a family member engenders emotions far beyond that which is ever conveyed.  I may be presumptuous to believe that others feel the same of me or my written communication.
     Yet, the pain of the significant loss of my handwriting due to my intentional tremors runs deep.  No one can take from me my  signature.  I do not fear identity theft:)  No one can duplicate my handwritten signature.
    I could torment myself by focusing on any of these realities.  I cannot run from them, literally, or figuratively.  Call me a Pollyanna, if you must.  Yet, I can concentrate my energies on my signature abilities,  gifts, passions, and people in my life.  Optimism.  Humor.  Purpose.  My survival skills.  My pathway to inner calm--inner peace.  I am no saint.  One look  at my bedroom can tell you that.
   Essential to pursuing passions is filtering out all of the excess noise that surrounds hot button issues.  Essential to pursuing my passions is in concentrating on what is truly life-giving.  I cannot engage myself in--embrace a world that offers no receptiveness to the nuances of living vibrantly.

Verbal Abuse

     Recently, I heard myself to say that verbal abuse, and sexual abuse are not the same.  I abhor little.  Yet, abuse of any form, I abhor--tremble away from.  I cannot speak to sexual abuse from first-hand experience.  I know one, maybe two individuals whose lives have been touched--violently touched--by sexual abuse.  Hostility, and submissiveness, respectively, make it difficult for me to address with compassion my friends' experiences.
   Hostility, and submissiveness are common responses to sexual abuse.  Yet, I do not feel I may address the issue with the respect it deserves.
   For those reasons, I direct my ponderings to what I do understand from life experience.  Bullying.  Verbal abuse.
   I do not feel the piercing sting--the deep pain--inflicted by Palsy Patty, and the mimicking of my bent right arm in my face during my childhood.  It was not everyone--each of my peers, or every day of my life.  Yet, I never knew the moment, when the bullying would attack.
    My only response was to identify the words I could speak--the explanations I could give--that would make other kids understand why I looked different.
    I do not understand.  Contrary to each and every belief of everyone I knew, I knew that all I needed to be given were the words--the explanations--that would make people understand.  I knew that I could create the understanding that did not exist--in which kids and parents were not willing to engage.
    Compounding the verbal abuse---the lack of understanding--of my peers was the attitude--the belief--of adults that bullying--verbal abuse--was nothing more than a phase kids go through.  No credence was given to the notion that the self-esteem of the kid being teased was not a phase that would be outgrown.  No credence was given to the notion that the nurturing of positive self-esteem was essential--the positive self-esteem of kids who were being teased.  I understood.  Yet, far deeper than the physical disability I had, I was disabled from enlisting the support of my parents, the parents in my neighborhood, the authority figures--principals, most teachers, and counselors--people who I thought were supposed to know better.
     I do not understand quite where my conviction came from--my belief that I could nurture understanding, if only some one of these adults would give me simple, logical, reasonable, understandable words, and explanations.  Nascent faith, perhaps?  I do not know. All I do know, is that in eight grade, I made a commitment to myself--I did not have a sense of God, or that might be what I might call it--to dedicate myself to work toward nurturing the understanding that I did not experience.  It took me years to understand--to identify--what  form my missionary work might take.  Writing?  That seemed the most likely to me, yet, I had no notion of what my outlet would be.  My self-confidence--my introversion--did not lend itself to speaking, or assuming any leadership positions.
    1978.  College.  A staff member asked if I was interested in serving on a campus-wide "Handicap Awareness Committee."  Bingo.  While people close to me did not understand my involvement, my dedication that precluded the studying I should have been doing, I knew better.  I knew that if there was any hope of my making any meaningful contribution to society, I needed to work through the issues
    Pervasive though my paralyzing fear was--fear that others would criticize me, and my actions--I assumed leadership of the Handicap Awareness Committee.  I was driven by the knowledge that I was pursuing my missionary work.  No trips to  Central America for me.  My missionary work was right at home.
     My missionary work was being carried  out.  I spoke to education students at a college in South Dakota.  I nurtured understanding in future teachers of the necessity of nurturing understanding, and building self-esteem.  I shared the transcript of the speech I gave with parents in my neighborhood.  I took the necessary risk of building understanding--of communicating to them what I had not been able to do twenty years earlier.
    Palsy Patty died.  No longer would she have negative, hurtful power over me.  I do call upon her when communicating understanding, and compassion are my call to do.
     "There goes another gimp," spoken by a coworker, who must have seen someone behind me with a walking disability, called the spirit of Palsy Patty to me in an instant.  Gimp is not a word I use to describe myself.  Gimp is not a word worthy of my speaking--reflective of the respect of other individuals I am called to express--to or in regard to any other human being.
     Verbal abuse is not the same as sexual abuse.  Yet, they do share an untenable violation of the human spirit.
     Verbal abuse.  Hostility.  Anger.  Submissiveness.  Others may choose to respond in such spirit.  I cannot respond in such a spirit. [In the heat of political debate, and hyperbole, name-calling of the individuals with opposite convictions is unthinkable.  Yet, far too often, that seems the norm.] It is not a matter of whether I will not respond so.  My will is not in question.
     Verbal abuse.  For a lifetime, I have been called to nurture understanding, build self-esteem, and most importantly separate actions from the individuals responsible for their commission.  Verbal abuse--name calling.  Physical proximity has no part in the commission of verbal abuse.  I abhor the infliction of any derogatory word on the basis of different beliefs, or actions.
    When I asked my father why the kids were teasing me, he said, with deep love, "There is nothing you did wrong, it is something wrong with them."    Emotionally, I did not question his love.  Yet, I could not reconcile how something could be wrong with the kids teasing me.  Young as I was, that seemed an untenable response.  An eye for an eye?
     Verbal abuse.  Bullying.
     Thank God, bullying is finally getting its due in the United States.  It has taken us until suicides rooted in sexual orientation-based situations for society to take bullying seriously.  Suicides are the sad impetus to take seriously a grievous violation of the gifts of being human.
     Verbal abuse.  Bullying.
     Whatever the subject may be, whoever the object may be, I cannot so engage.  Such is my missionary work.  I do so act.  With Compassion.  With Joy.  With Resolution.
     Verbal abuse.  Bullying.
     How do you respond?  Do you erect physical boundaries?  Or, is defamation limited to those human beings within your earshot?

Advocating or Proselytizing

     Advocate.  Proselytize.  Convert.
     This week, proselytizing, and advocacy came to the fore.  When is proseltyzing appropriate?  When do we advocate?  How do we do so effectively?
     Proselyte.  Greek word, proselytus means "convert to (Judaism), stranger, one who has come over."  

     First, a proselyte appeared.  In the YMCA's (Young Men's Christian Association's) poolroom.  The intended audience?  My personal trainer.  I was not privy to their conversation.  My clues?  A Bible--a hand pointing to biblical passages.  The personal trainer, held captive to the
     What was I called to do?  What am I called to know before deciding to act?  From what past life experiences may I discern today's experience?  Several.

     Common to teenagers, I sought out a willing proselyte in junior high school.  Questions addressed, if not answered.  Bible study sessions.  Context.  My response?  A conversation with the pastor--Mark.  My creekside chidhood home would suggest a conversion blessed by water.  Such was my family's fear.  Have no fear.  Clear to me, this was not the time, this was not for me.  At the creek, with respect, I made clear, this was not my conversion's time--this was not my conversion's place.
     Open to beliefs diverse from my own,  I do call for a foundation.  Respect.  Patty's Prerequisite.  Respect.  Mutual respect.   
     Several years later, a similar seeking.  A far different result.  I was more mature.  My search was on solid ground.  A foundation was laid.  Respect.  My prerequisite met.  Mutual respect.
     The YMCA's poolside proseltyzing was unprovoked.  Yet, I was called to advocate for my own beliefs--my own needs. 
     Advocate.  Latin.  Ad- to, + vocaere, to call, related to  "vocem" (...voice.)

     How was I called to advocate--to advocate effectively?
     I was not privy to the words exchanged between the proseltye, and the personal trainer.  My only clue--a Bible--a hand pointing to biblical passages.
     My choices?  Two.  Proselytize?  No.  I had no reason to address the proselytizer.  She was not talking to me.  She was gone.   Advocacy?  Yes.  The trainer.
     Advocacy.  To call for what?  How?
     My feelings?  Anger.  Frustration.  Disappointment.  Determination.
     Convert.  Latin word, convertere, 'turn around, transform,' from com- 'together' and 'vertere "to turn."

    Open to beliefs diverse from my own,  I do call for a foundation.  Respect.  Patty's prerequisite.  Mutual respect.  Some may call my optimism--my positive nature--to be syrupy.  Yet, I prefer to think of it as an invitation to me, and to others to seek the best opportunity to transform something disappointing, bad, or whatever, into a positive situation.
    In terms of the proselytizer and my personal trainer, I have a positive outcome to share.  In the pool, I kicked my anger, and formed a constructive e-mail message stating my feelings, my intention to cancel our next session, and go back to my swimming routine.  Surprisingly, my direct approach caught the trainer's attention.  In a positive manner.  She understood how she could have handled the proselytizer differently.  She understood that I deserved her attention.  Barb expressed a desire to be more attentive.  We will meet again.

Neat Handwriting

     "Based on the handwriting, I know it is yours.  But, I have no idea what the paper says," my high school teacher said offhandedly.
     I laugh.  What else can I do?  What can I say?  I love school. I want to do well.  How hard did she try to read my handwriting? Is it just an excuse?
     I don't mean to be--I don't want to be--defensive.  But, tell me, "What constitutes neat handwriting?"
     ...
     I have had a wonderful weekend at Lake Superior.  How can I express my thanks for our time at Bluefin Bay?  A poem!  Yes, a poem.  Ode to Bluefin.
     The words flow from my mind.  While on the bus home, I craft the poem in my handwritten words.  Carefully shaped letters.  Carefully drawn between my ode's stanzas?  Hand-sketched bluefins.
     The words are written.  The bluefins sketched.  The ode complete.  My gift is ready to present to Mom.
     "Thank you for the poem.  I want you to know, I typed the poem, 'Ode to Bluefin,' and I framed it."
      I don't mean to be--I don't want to be--defensive.  But, can you tell me, "What constitutes neat handwriting?"
     ...
     Diagnosed.  Intentional tremors.  Cerebral palsy.  Diagnosed.  Long-term disability.  Certification questionnaire.
     "Itemize what you do from the time you wake up, until you go to bed at night."  "Address the envelope, and return it to our office."
     "I will type the form, so that my handwriting does not interfere in the message of my need."
     "No, complete the form in your handwriting, so that they may see your need."  Such was the essence of my family's advice.
     I don't mean to be--I don't want to be--defensive.  But, can you tell me, "What constitutes neat handwriting?"

Epilepsy Chronicles: Misinformed

     Deeply disturbing information was disseminated, and stereotypes were reinforced last night during a television interview.  On September 10,2011, University of Minnesota football coach--Brad Kill--had a seizure during a football game.  His players, and colleagues knew of his seizures.  I have not met Coach Kill.  I report regarding what I understand of him.  Media coverage.
     I do understand what it is to have a seizure.  I have had seizures since childhood.  I am 51.  Each individual's seizures are different.  Yet, I am compelled to respond to the misinformation given, and stereotypes reinforced by a neurologist last night.
     Most disturbing of what the neurologist said?  Something to  the effect of, "People with epilepsy foam at the mouth."
     This is not true.  Case closed. 
     "Seizures are frightening."
      Yes.  Both for the observer, and for the person having the seizure.
      However, fright is not an excuse to stand by--panic.  You can help. 
      First, it is possible that an individual having a seizure may be able to hear what is being said during a seizure.    Often, I am.  Yet, the excessive electrical activity in the brain--the anatomical thunderstorm--drains me of the energy that otherwise I would use to respond.
     Second, not holding an individual during a seizure may be too extreme of a directive.  Beyond getting the medical attention I need, the most helpful--reassuring--action ever taken was from a colleague.  While my right leg was convulsing--shaking violently--she caressed my leg.  She told me I had done nothing wrong, I had no reason to feel embarrassed, and I would be OK.
     She caressed my leg.
     My colleague trusted what I had said--valued what preferences I had expressed to her regarding my seizures--such that she resisted the nurse who said not to hold my leg.  She was not restraining me from movement.  She was touching me firmly--reassuringly.  There is a huge difference.  Never have I heard a medical professional make that distinction.  There is a difference--a huge difference.
     As to embarrassment--being embarrassed by having a seizure--I understand.
     Yet, far more embarrassing than any seizure could be ever is not telling someone how you prefer to have your seizures handled, if you have seizures.
    Early in my career, my loved ones were concerned about I would say during an interview that I had seizures.  I understand.  I appreciate their advice.  Fear existed, and exists yet today.  I assure you, I did not walk into job interviews and say, "Hi, I am Patty Thorsen.  I have seizures.  Can I have a job?"
    I did inform my supervisors, and colleagues that I had seizures.  I gave them the basic emergency contact information.  I took one more important action.  I informed my supervisors, and friends how I preferred to have my seizures handled.  Embarrassment, or fear I felt in doing so was mitigated by the knowledge that they would know how to handle my seizures.
    Embarrassed by having a seizure?  Yes and no.  Yes, the times I have had a seizure in public are not my proudest moments.  Yet, once I have a seizure, I need to channel every ounce of energy I have, and every ounce that I don't have toward staying as calm as possible during the seizure--praying that the words I spoke about my seizures were heard.  During a seizure, I pray that people around me--people who have the energy to take constructive action--are courageous enough to do so.
    Whatever embarrassment we well may feel, we--any of us who have seizures--need to channel that embarrassment into helping other people to help us.  We need to make an investment in creating calm understanding--not fearful chaos.
    Friends and family may offer their loving questions as to how someone with seizures how they wish to have them handled.  Whether it be a reassuring word or touch, humor or whatever.  Honesty is the only way to dispel awkwardness, fear, and chaos.
    I have serious doubts about some medical professionals I have known, and with whom I have had interactions.  I have had, and continue to have the benefit of extremely helpful, competent medical professionals.
     Yet, the comments made by the neurologist this week made necessary my response.

Medicare

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

Stolen Dignity

     WHY ARE THE KIDS TEASING ME?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do I Wish I was Younger?

     Some people wish they were younger--that they could relive their lives differently.  I do not.  Don't be mistaken, I have not lived unblemished by ill-advised words, and actions.  Yet, to relive my youth differently would be to negate the lessons I've learned--the insights I've been given.
     I would return to people, to places, and to events.  Not to change them.  To celebrate them.  To honor them.  But, not to change them.  To friends, to family, you know who you are.  Words escape me.  We know what we have lived--before us is our future.
     To unlikely people my mind is drawn.  To Katie, you taught me the meaning of grace--of disgrace, her antonym, as well.  You gave me poetry--"Brazen Honesty"http://patty-pattysponderings.blogspot.com/2011/03/brazen-honesty.html--a gift I shall treasure forever.  An unlikely gift, I dare say.  A gift nonetheless.  To Janet, never before had I met, and never again will I know, a piece of work such as you are.  Into my core, "there goes another gimp," you did gore.  Yet, your words broadened my vocabulary--sharpened my ear.
     My alter egos.  Pre-school giraffe.  A ballerina.  Patrushka.  Patty Tricia.  Pat.  Ms. P.T.  Thorsen.  Zoomer.  Aunt Patty.  Roboaunt.
     To places.  Michael Dowling School for Crippled Children.  Bassetts Creek.  2625 Vale Crest Road.  Washington, D.C.  Oslo.  The College of St. Catherine.  Grand Marais.  West Publishing.  Developmental Disabilities Council.
     To events.  Teasing.  Junior high school choir class.  My first class at St. Catherine's.  Baptism.  Graduation.  Master's degree graduation.  Master's degree graduation celebration.
     Do I wish I was younger?  Do I wish my youth I could reclaim?  No.  I treasure the joys.  I honor the sorrows.  Neither joy, nor sorrow could enrich me now, if I was younger.
     Once I was asked, "If you had not been born left handed, do you think you would have been right handed?"  I was tempted to say, "If you had not been born a woman, would you have been born a man?"

Mirrored Outward Image. Egami Drawtuo DerorriM

I cry pains of rejection...

Yet...

When my outward image egami drawtuo

Is mirrored derorrim to me

In the body of another person,

I fear....

I am not the model of acceptance

I so desperately seek in others.

When my outward image egami drawtuo

Is mirrored derorrim to me,

What questions do I need answered

To quell my fear?

When my outward image egami drawtuo

Is mirrored derorrim to me,

How much reassurance must I be given

That I am beyond the pain of that teenager,

Whose Strengthe were hidden from others

By her outer packaging?

The Glass Doll

As the reed of the oboe cries out with music,

My heart yearns

To break the glass doll

Others have chosen to encase me in.

I am a strong being.

My strength is welled up deep within my soul.

I do not trumpet my strength

For the ears of others to hear me.

Such brassy notes are wasted,

When life demands of me an attentive ear.

My attention is focused on this day,

On the task before me at this moment.

My memory

Fortifies my resolve

To ensure my reputation

As a glass doll

Is shattered,

Now and forever.
                           Patty Thorsen, July 1993
                           First piece written reflecting on my disabilities

Zoomer Chronicles: Open Doors....Open Spaces...

     Open doors.  Open spaces.  I am new to navigating narrow halls, small elevators, doorways, and other such barricades.
     Yesterday, literally by accident, I was called to return to a well-established business that I have supported for nearly 30 years--an optical store.  Although it is true that they were a bit snobbish, they were convenient physically.  Just down the block from my first downtown home, they were the obvious choice.
     A fall while volunteering branded my left temple with a touch of red, and positioned my purple glasses askew.  As quickly as my temple will heal, I needed my purple glasses to be properly placed on my face.
     Aware that the doors were not open to Zoomer, I justified my continued business patronage by telling myself that I did not need to visit the store often.  Yet, "did not need to visit the store often" is too often to meet my needs.  Asking for help is one thing.  I am more comfortable in doing so now than before Zoomer.  Yet, I found myself isolated from help longer than I was comfortable, and more than any pride I feel about having to ask for help.  Although there was no physical threshold to surmount, the personal threshold--is too great.
    Dignity and stolen dignity are two distinct creatures.  Dignity is the willingness to go out with Zoomer, knowing that there will be mishaps with door openers, nicked walls, and the like.  Dignity is recognizing that going out with Zoomer is more important than pride's perfection.
     Stolen dignity is cavalier business practices--practices that dismiss the reasons behind making design adaptations, or accommodations as outlined in the Americans with Disabilities Act.  [I confess  I need to return to the precise call of the Act.]  Stolen dignity is dismissal of business patronage, and her demographic.  Stolen dignity is the affirmation that only individuals who do not use wheelchairs are the potential customers of a given business.
    I am not fierce in my advocacy.  I am new to navigating terrain in a wheelchair.  The hijacker of my nervous system lurks in the weeds waiting for me to lose my cool demeanor--my inner calm.  So, I negotiate with the hijacker.   My business loyalty will not open the doors--open the eyes--to the obstacles they place between their cash registers, and the potential of a broader customer base.
     Dignity.
     I shall preserve my dignity.  I shall meet her needs.  I shall knock on the door on another downtown optical business to see if they have seen the light.

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.     

Belittlement. Respect for Life.

     Once again, this afternoon, belittlement reared its ugly head, or so it felt.  I try to live with respect for different religious perspectives than my own--there is good to be found in all world religions.  I try to resist temptation--the temptation to be defensive--to say, "don't you know me well enough to know the serious reflection I bring to living a life of faith?"
     Ironically, a discussion of "respect for life,"--mutual sadness that the breadth of the term does not seem to be a part of its use--led to the derivation of the story of Maundy Thursday, and the actual events of the story.
Our agreement regarding the narrow use of "respect for life" in some discussions was missed.  A precious opportunity was missed.
    Taking biblical stories literally, or symbolically became a "gotcha" moment.  My antenna went up.  "Quick, an attempt of entrapment is forthcoming."
    I succumb to defensiveness.  "Many Catholics take a broader view.  Not every Catholic view 'respect for life' narrowly."  A defensive volley was lobbed back at me--reference to those who do have "a simple faith--a simplistic Catholic view."
    I grieve.  I mourn.  Three people of integrity.  Trapped in different ages of the same Church.  Pushed away...Drawn into...a Universal Church.  Different faces.  The same heart.
    There is good to be found in all faith traditions.  "Affirm, defend and promote the supreme worth and dignity of every human [being].  I mourn.  All three are members of the Universal church.
     "Support the free and disciplined search for truth..."  Though packaged differently, at the core, Universalist, and Catholic search for truth with the same depth of commitment.
     There are differences--important differences.  I mourn.  Yet, in my mourning, I question--do important differences preclude unity?  Do important differences preclude a unified pursuit for truth made the stronger by the diverse perspectives of the same truth?  Do the important differences preclude embracing the truth in Paul's words to the Corinthians?
    "So faith, hope, love remain, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

Prison...Prisoners...Prison Life...

     Prisons, prisoners, and prison life has touched my life at arm's length--superficial knowledge, and deep wonder.  Television portrayals, and news coverage have colored my understanding.  A deeper understanding calls for several steps to be taken.
     First, what television coverage, profiles, and portrayals have influenced my current understanding?  Extremes provide the best fodder for news coverage.  Charles Manson, Serbian leader Slobodan Milosevic, Susan Smith, O. J. Simpson, Bernie Madoff, Minnesota noted prisoners Tom Petters, and Denny Hecker are very random names, who come to mind--individuals who have been covered in the news.
     In midnight's dark shadows, I turned channels to find MSNBC's Lockdown series, which profiles individuals imprisoned in various prisons in the United States.  The series provides a bird's eye view of prison life.  Fears of the worst being commonplace have led me to turn away.  Yet, my insatiable curiosity--not morbid, but genuine curiosity--has drawn my eyes and ears back to attention.
    Those examples explain some influences on my current understanding of prisons, prisoners, and prison life.  Yet, that is not the end of my knowledge, understanding, and questions.
     My attention was sparked by a personal connection.  I do not doubt, yet, I cannot judge the crime committed that led to imprisonment.  Beyond a basic aversion to judging other people, what positive goal is achieved by imposing judgment?  The judicial system has imposed its judgment.  Some ask what the objective of imprisonment is--punishment, or rehabilitation.  I lean toward a rehabilitative view of prison.  To affirm my belief, the question becomes, "What may I do to further rehabilitation?"  Letter writing.  Do I need to do better?  Yes.
     What do I know--structurally, what do I know?
     There are divisions of prison types.  The United States has state and federal prisons--correctional institutions.  Those two prison systems have two subdivisions--women's and men's prisons.  Within each prison system there are levels of security--low security, minimum security, medium security, and maximum security.
     Federal correctional institutions [FCI] are managed by the Federal Bureau of Corrections.  There are six regions into which federal prisons are divided:  Mid-Atlantic Region;  North Central Region; Northeast Region; South Central Region; and Western Region.  Minnesota is within the North Central Region.  Federal Correctional Institutions within Minnesota are located in Duluth,  Rochester, Sandstone, and Waseca.  I confess I do not understand how placement decisions are made.  I do know that placements are not based on proximity to a criminal's hometown.
     I was surprised to learn that visits to prisoners were as long as seven or eight hours.  I do not know what factors enter into setting the length of each visit.  Is the visit length determined by standards that apply to every individual, who is imprisoned?  Is visit length determined solely by a level of contact?  I do know that prison lockdowns cancel all scheduled visits during that time, which makes sense.  Are there other factors that enter into the conditions during a visit.  I was surprised to learn that more than one individual could visit a prisoner at the same time.  There is a strict procedure by which an individual must be certified as a visitor before a visit.
     Two other forms of contact include telephone, and e-mail privileges.  I confess that I know nothing regarding the procedures, standards, or requirements that apply to telephone privileges.  I do know that there is a well-regulated e-mail system.  Before any e-mails may be exchanged, permission must be granted by the individual, who is imprisoned.  If I wanted to correspond with a given prisoner, I would have to send a message to the prisoner to secure the permission of that individual.  It is possible for an individual imprisoned to reach out to an individual with whom they want to correspond electronically.  Before e-mails may be exchanged, the individual to whom the prisoner has invited to correspond.  Once invitations are made and accepted, the exchange of e-mail messages is conducted differently than the standard e-mail procedures that I and other readers of this blog use.  There is an intermediary e-mail server known as Corrlinks.  The prisoner, or the individual, who has been certified as a correspondent, signs into the Corrlinks system.  Just as you and I do, the name of the prisoner or correspondent is entered in the To line.  Similarly, there is a Subject line, followed by a message dialog box.  But, there are two differences with Corrlinks.  Once the message is sent to the individual, the recipient receives a message from Corrlinks indicating that they have a message from the other individual.  There is one final very important distinction between standard e-mail practices and Corrlinks e-mail practices.  Messages sent through Corrlinks are monitored for content.  I was a recipient of an invitation to correspond with an individual, who is imprisoned. I am aware that my comments may be monitored.  I do not include any content that might be construed, in any way, to be controversial--content that might get the individual imprisoned in trouble.  That would defeat the purpose of trying to offer a connection to the outside world--an offering of hope for a brighter future.
     Two other forms of communication is available to some individuals, who are incarcerated.  I do not know the extent to which either of these resources are used, but, I do know that they exist.
     First, prisoners may have access to limited databases containing legal information, which may help them to research appeals to their convictions.  Second, prisoners may receive books from Amazon.com, and Barnesandnoble.com.  They may receive subscriptions to the New York Times.  There may be other subscriptions they may receive--at least that is what I understand.  I do not know whether there are restrictions as to types of publications from Amazon.com, and Barnesandnoble.com.  I am not trying to spell out correctional institution regulations.  Rather, my purpose is to give a sense of what information is available to individuals in prison.  The information that is available is an important element in the view of the world prisoners have during their incarceration.
    Second, individuals in prison may receive, and do appreciate personal written correspondence--old-fashioned letters.  I have been led to believe that these individuals may receive a limited amount of pictures within each letter.  The exact number escapes me.  Going back to my recent post Insurance...Prayer for Safekeeping, examining prison life makes me aware of what I do have that offers me hope in dark moments,  when I am most in need.  Although I rarely look at them, I have several shelves of albums--both correspondence, and pictures.  I have correspondence dating back to my childhood.  I find great solace, or comfort in knowing that those treasures are near to me.
    I cannot write a lifetime of letters to a prisoner, yet, I can share the simple, everyday activities of my life with someone whose life circumstances are stark.  I do not want to contribute to glorifying everyday life outside of prison.  I want to offer hope, but, I do not want to be a party to any false glorification.
    I am reminded of Thornton Wilder's play, Our Town.  I was a high school junior, when I saw the play for the first time.  I missed the subtleties of the play.  I thought it was boring.  Since that time, it has become one of my favorite plays.  When Emily tells the stage manager, after she has died, that she wants to go back to one day in her life to relieve it, he gives her sage advice.  Essentially, the stage manager tells Emily to pick an ordinary day, rather than a milestone day.  He said that there would be many details of the day to notice that would be lost in relieving a more momentous day.   In my correspondence, my aim is to take heed of Wilder's message.  I try to share the ordinary events of my life.  I have no desire to preach--it serves no purpose in the prisoner's efforts to build a better future.  I try to provide a connection between the prisoner and the outside world that the two of us know.
     I may not know the exact events, and experiences of individuals in prison.  Yet, I cannot use that as an excuse not to try to understand, not to try to expand my imagining of prisoners' life circumstances, and experiences.