Relax...A Time for Joy. A Time for Sorrow.

    The premise of  Patty's Ponderings is to reflect on the fast-paced, deadline-driven world in which we live.  My disclaimer?  I am no longer in the work world.  Sometimes, I feel guilty that I am not offering my nephews an example of a good work ethic.  Yet, as my mom says, going swimming--strengthening my right arm, and preserving my right ankle as much as is possible--is my job.  I do not mean that my swimming is drudgery, as the work world often seemed to me to be.  My swimming is challenging.  Yet, it is rewarding--very rewarding.
    But, I digress.
    This morning, I went to work.  Zoomer and I left to swim at the YMCA.  Fifteen minutes after leaving home, she and I arrived at the pool,.  During those 15 minutes, I encountered two people engaged in my pet peeve--engrossment in their electronic devices.  First, a man in his twenties stood at the end of a switchback--an accessible ramp--engrossed in a conversation with someone.  Later in our travels, Zoomer and I met up with an attractive, blond woman dressed in a gray business suit, and a fuchsia blouse.  The blond businesswoman's head was buried in some electronic device.  Zoomer is my silent business partner.  Thus, while the electric wheelchairs of some people make noise that alerts people to their presence, such is not the case for me.  The businesswoman was so engrossed in her electronic encumbrances that she did not see me coming.  I spoke up.  We parted ways.
     Such encounters lead me to wonder--to ponder.  What is so important that we miss in our surroundings--people, beauty, and all that life offers?  What do we miss because of the magnetism of electronic devices?  Complaints are made that no one has time to relax anymore.  I challenge the premise.
     No one has time to relax anymore?  No.  That is wrong.  They do--we all do.  It is a choice.
     I confess that I am addicted to my computer.  I communicate with individuals living on other continents.  But, as much time as I spend sitting at my computer, I am not its slave.  Though my contact with people is radically different from my working days, such is not all bad.  I make choices.  Essential to engaged living is circulating with people every day.  Circulating without tether of wires, ear plugs, or other such appendages.  Be it the grocery store. the Y, the Children's Museum, or wherever I find myself, full attentiveness to the people I encounter, meet, and know is vital.  May  I help them?  May they help me?  May we share our joy?  Or are we called to share our sorrow.  Joy is not happy.  Sorrow is not sad.  Happy and sad are nothing more than superficial ways of gasping for air.  Joy and sorrow call us to inhale...to exhale--to live fully.
    Take time.  Take the time.  Read Ecclesiastes 3:1-15.

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.

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.

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.

Zoomer Chronicles: Safety's Anger

     This morning, Zoomer met fraternal twins--Safety's Anger, and Anger's Safety.  Mirror images of one another, they are born of the same root.  Danger.  Fear.
     A return to swimming was my dear ankle's hope.  Pool maintenance.  Facility remodeling.
     A return to swimming was not to be.  Not this day.  Ankle's hope was dashed--dashed far short of 50 yards.
     An elevator.  Button pushed.  A short wait.  Doors opened. Zoomer wheeled in--turned around.  Facing forward.  Third floor's button pushed.  Ankle's Hope salivating.  Slow and crotchety though she was known to be, today, this elevator went nowhere fast.
     Door Open's button pushed.  As an accordion opens, so too the doors.  Yet, just as with a fast, bad polka, an accordion closes, so too did the doors.  Though Zoomer is learning to dance, the polka is not her step.
     Though armed with her cell phone--a Jitterbug, I kid you not--my ankle's hope kicked back at me.  Angry. With the weight of a bowling ball on her, my ankle's hope was to kick off her burden.  One more time, she implored me.  Third floor button, one more time.  Once again, Zoomer, my ankle's hope, and I went nowhere fast.
    Though Jitterbug tried to call to Ankle's Hope, she would hear none of it.  Take me home, Zoomer.  Take me home.
    Safety's anger. She prevailed.  Safety's Anger drove Zoomer and I out of Harm's Way.
    Though Ankle's Hope kicked high, she fell flat into Zoomer's lap.  No harm.  Just anger.  Frustration.  Door Open's button hit.  Zoomer and I sped forward.  To Safety, we arrived.
    No sign.  Out of Order.  No sign.
    Anger's safety.  Though Safety's Anger had spoken--rescued--now it was for Anger's Safety to speak.
To quiet solitude, find your way.  Let Anger rest, let Safety's Advocate cry forth in due time.
    Impatience overruled quiet solitude.   A simple report. "Your elevator is out of order."  
    "The elevator repairman has been called.  They should be out sometime today."
    Safety's Anger yet satisfied, though Logic told her she should be.
      "You are new to this world, there were many signs not posted before you.  Many signs will not be posted in years yet to come."
     Yet,"Where is the Out of Order sign--Safety's Warning?" was all this impatient soul could ask.

Claiming Dreams and Ambitions

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

The Mermaid Chronicles: The Right Way

Upward this mermaid's arm rises,
Right wrist bent, fingers tight-fisted.
In the pool, this mermaid moves.
With bent right wrist, her left-bent elbow lowers,
They break the water's calm.
Through the waterway,
Her forearm rows forward.
Upward her right arm ascends airborne.
Rightly, she aims upward.
Straight to the sky she stretches.
Seeking no splashing,
She strives a straight, uplifted stroke.
Yet, with right wrist bent, and elbow left bent,
All she may do is sway.
Downward her left leaning elbow lowers,
Below the water's top, she skims.
She stirs, and showers surrounding swimmers.
Yet, no mind the gulped water--the blinding showers.
Her firming forearms, beefing biceps, and circling shoulders,
Will triumph.

This Mermaid

An hour's time, this mermaid swims,

No laps counted, 

Just an hour's time.

On her back she turns,

With eyes gaze upward to the white-lit beams.

Arms are raised--airborne--with a student's hands.

Shoulders rotate,

Biceps are built, not with bulk,
But with the sinews of this swimmer's strokes.

Forearms forge,

As oars they row,  

Feet flutter--ankles in unison cycle--

Through the pristine pool's waters.

From one end to the other,

This mermaid endeavors.

No laps counted,

Just one hour's time,

This mermaid swims.

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

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

Boredom. Deny. Fear. Befriend. Boredom

     Boredom.  Boredom? Yes, boredom.  Well, that doesn't sound very interesting.  Humor me.  Tell me whether hours of sleeplessness regarding a family member was the breeding ground for worthwhile insight.
     I know three people who are at different stages of their careers, who are facing boredom's reality.
     Two years ago--a lifetime ago now--my health ended a 24-year career, which was boredom's intimate. Not a constant intimate, but, an intimate, nonetheless. 
     When my career ended, my family doctor gave me excellent advice.  Get up at the same time every day.  Find something that you are interested in, and go to it as though it was your full-time job.  Though my doctor had not known me long, he did know that I was reasonably intelligent--he knew that I thrived on  intellectual stimulation.
     Of the three individuals, my influence over them varies.  I am not a confrontational person.  My default behaviors are compassion, and empathy.  I am uncomfortable being over in relation to anyone in my life, so, by that standard, I do not have influence over anyone.  I might strive to be the compassionate, yet, straightforward friend a mentor of mine is.  He does not volunteer his opinions--his judgments--readily, or with any fanfare.  Yet, if I seek out his counsel, he is honest with me, not polite and proper, but, straightforward and caring.
     The young man needs the most guidance.  He yearns for excitement.  He goes one step beyond fearing boredom in potential jobs he might secure.  He denies that boredom is a possibility.  If he denies boredom's possibility, then it will not be.  I would make a lousy mother.  I am too wishy-washy.  I want to offer the example of my life, rather than risking the rejection that a more confrontational approach might render.
     The second individual--a woman--is in the middle of her working career.  She understands the realities of the work world.  She has worked in jobs that were boring--jobs that did a grave injustice to her gifts.  Yet, she understood the basic need to be self-supporting.  Or, so I thought.  Extended unemployment has nurtured an idealism that, at other times might be healthy.  Yet, there is a time in one's career--when seeking employment--when serving as an outraged citizen advocate usurps the energy necessary to find employment.  This woman fears boredom.  She remembers its omnipresence in her work life.  She has discovered social justice--advocacy--as a realm within her reach.  Yet, her fear of boredom has the opposite effect that she wants.  She wants to pursue advocacy.  Yet, her resistance to the necessary boredom in aspects of gainful employment will distance her from the social justice she yearns to pursue.  Her eroding self-confidence is the price she is paying for her fear.
     The third individual--a woman--is in the late stages of her working career.  She is boredom's intimate.  Not a constant intimate, but, an intimate nonetheless.  She does not fear boredom.  She does not deny boredom out of fear.  She befriends boredom.  She has a tremendous threshold for boredom that many overlook--she is not a woman of fanfare.  She has flair.  She has creativity.  But, she is not someone who draws attention to herself as being some poor soul.  She lives life fully.  She pursues her passions.  She treasures people.  She is a loyal friend, and is marvelous to her family. 
     Were I more courageous, I would shake the young man, and the first woman, so that I might rid them of their fear, and denial.  Of the second woman, I need little courage to offer my support.  Yet, I fall short.  I know that I am not faced with the work world.  No longer do I need to worry about finding a job, or changing a job.  During the many years I was in the work world, I denied boredom.  I feared boredom.  I befriended boredom.  Never did I surmount boredom as I want to chastise the young man, and two women for not surmounting.  So, I find it difficult to chastise the three individuals for a standard I could not uphold.
     No longer am I in the work world.  I am working in a different world--creating a post-work world life.  Funny.  You might think that being freed of imposed boredom would be replaced by days of constant excitement.  I don't know what that is.
   Gradually, I am trying to put together elements of what I enjoy, what is necessary, and what I may do to serve other people.
    What do I enjoy?  
    Writing.  Online research.  American history--New England, specifically.  Genealogy.  Letter writing.
    What is necessary?  
    Physical exercise.  Swimming.  Being outside.  People--being in circulation with other people.  Being in community with a worshipping community that celebrates life, death, and all that is possible with the same exuberance.
    What may I do to serve?
    Identify organizations needing the skills, abilities, talents, and gifts I have been given to share with those in need.  Challenge people I know to live up to their potential.  Offer my life--my discoveries--with friends, family, neighbors, and worshipping community--fellow believers.  Be open to the lives of my friends, family, neighbors, and worshipping community--fellow believers.
     This is the structure of a new life.  Much remains to be identified.  I don't think I am alone in striving to create this new life--to recognize boredom, acknowledge denial, confess to fear, and befriend boredom, all in the hope of surmounting boredom.  I confess I have a long way to go.  I have forgotten what it is I want to do.  I am not sure if that it is denial, fear, or both.
     Boredom.  Deny.  Fear.  Befriend.  Boredom.

Getting It Right

     For a lifetime, balance has been an issue for me.  I am not so different from everyone else.  Each of us struggles with finding balance.  Be it work, money, chemicals, emotions--whatever it may be, each of us has struggles with balance.  For me, physical imbalance is my struggle--what I strive to surmount.
    I am drawn to the picture of me in 1966 dressed as a ballerina.  The little girl dressed in a pink tutu and tights, and carrying a pink, purple, and fuschia parasol is concentrating to keep her balance.  Although the beam is unusually wide, she is maintaining her balance.  A proud grandmother looking on probably didn't hurt.  That little girl wanted to be--believed that she could be--a ballerina.
     At some point in the last ten years, I had to have her in front of me at work each day to remind me that balance was possible.  Work seemed hopelessly out of balance with no hope of reconciling the imbalance.  The ballerina tiptoed past my forlorn eyes to remind me that if I concentrated, and stayed on course, I would find my way to balance.
    Much has changed since 1966.  Much has changed since she sat on my desk as a sign of hope.  Not that her meaning to me has changed.  It has grown.  She twirls in front of my imagination, to remind me how far I have come.
    Today, my struggles regarding balance are quite different.  More basic than in much of my adult life.  Physical balance.  Two years ago, chemical imbalances co-opted with emotional balances to leave me physically unbalanced.  I doubted whether I would regain any of the strength, and balance I had had previously.
     Fast forward two years.  I knew what needed to be done to work back to physical balance, if it was meant for me to have in my life.  Four mornings a week, I return to an activity I did once a week, as a child.  As many went to church on Sunday morning, I went swimming.
    This morning, something very special happened.  To the casual observer, the woman with short, brown hair, who was wearing the blue striped swimsuit, turned to her right side from her left side while doing the side stroke.  BUT....far more happened in that moment.  For the first time in her life, the woman had the strength in her right arm and leg to propel her forward.  Never before had she been able to turn to her right side.  There was not enough physical strength present--not enough confidence in any physical strength present in her right arm and leg to try to turn to her right side.
     My turn to the right side was not turned on as a light switch.  Weeks of concentration....focusing on the strengthening my right arm, and leg.....These preceded this morning's special moment.  Yet, as faith-filled, and hope-filled as I am, I did not know whether I would be able to strengthen my arm and leg by sheer exercise, and persistence.
     I do not know what is next.  Only my body...and my hairdresser....know for sure.
     I do know that this morning, I was getting it right.

A New Career? A Work in Progress...

     A new career seems to be starting.  It is more than a new job, yet, career seems to be too grandiose of a description.  Retirement--early retirement--has never suited my prejudices of the word.  Retirement and early retirement are choices made after a full career--at a prescribed time, at an opportune time thanks to a sufficient source of living.
     Am I the only person with these experiences, thoughts, or feelings?  What are yours?
     In July 2009, my paid work life ended.  I went from a full-time-employee--an FTE--to long-term disability--LTD.  Long-term disability seemed a bit too transient a term for my tastes.  A magical cure worthy of a personal interest news feature story will not be forthcoming.  I will not be returning to the paid workforce within my lifetime.  Let's face it, that will not happen.  But, do not despair.  I am doing my part to make possible that another individual may enter the workforce:) OK, maybe not, but it was a nice try:)
     My doctor gave me the best advice I have received during the past two years.  Get up and dressed at the same time, and invest yourself in something you enjoy.  Go to it, as if it was your job.  That is what the last few years have been.
     "The next chapter will be to strengthen myself physically as much as is possible."  That is what I told my colleagues, when I left my job--that was my life's priority.  Restoring my physical strength took months.  Precious chemical balance of anticonvulsants, and holding.osteoarthritis at bay by ankle surgery.
     Concurrent with restoring my physical strength I undertook an exploration.
     As I told my colleagues, "I must discover opportunities that call upon my mind, rather than tax my physical abilities." 
    Now, I am diving into that longer range pool of opportunities--swimming at the YMCA...volunteering.  OK, so I am just getting my feet wet right now.  Yet, that is a far cry from where I have been during the past several years.
   During more than 25 years in the work world, I stayed with the employer who hired me in 1985.  Within the company, I did the jobs that I was given.  Early on, I begged for a position more befitting my abilities--my potential.  Yet, it took years to get to any such position--longer than it should have--longer than it did for my colleagues.  However, I never dared step out and risk securing more fulfilling work, for fear that my disabilities--the cover of my book, in a publishing company--would work against me in demonstrating my capacities to fulfill the assigned responsibilities.  Was I right or wrong to act as I did?  I wonder.  Yet, I cannot torture myself with that wondering.
     Somehow, always I sensed that I would not retire from my job at the prescribed time.  I knew it was extremely unlikely that I would take the risk necessary to find more fulfilling work.  My sense about my retirement was accurate.  Yet, I did not see how it would come to be.
     I am feeling very blessed presently.   No longer do I work in the fast-paced, tension-filled corporate world.  I have had surgery to ameliorate bone spurs--osteoarthritis, and now, I can get out into the real world without fearing harm is being done to my right ankle, thanks to Zoomer.  I love surprises.

Hope...Fragile Hope...

What's wrong? she writes in a note.
The running leg's a pipe dream.
She slips the note back.
So was walking....
Don't look so far ahead....
Looking ahead is what's been giving me hope.  I've wanted to believe we'll be able to gather twenty thousand dollars.  I've wanted to believe that I'll run again.
But hope now feels so fragile.  Too fragile to touch.
                 The Running Dream by Wendelin Van Draanen, p. 203.

     My aspiration is not running.  It never was.  I am not a 50-year-old trying to run back to a past job.  A younger body perhaps--a body that propelled me out of my cocoon.  I have been told that expecting to have my wheelchair in my home within a week is realistic.  Odd.  Three months ago, I wanted no part of such a future.
     Yet, I listen to my body.  My ankle is inflamed with deafening screams, "Do something NOW.  I can't carry you.  You are breaking me." 
     I look at my body--my stomach is bigger than it should be.  I know why.  I know what I need--laps in a pool, a buoyed spirit.  Yet, my body cries out.  She demands my attention.
     "Listen.  Rest.  Do not break me."
      Looking ahead.  Hoping.  Yet, what is it that I am running to do.  Swimming.  Yes.  What else?
     But hope now feels so fragile.  Too fragile to touch.