If My Life Was Perfect...

     I have struggled to advise a family member as to how to fulfill their unique human potential.  Knowing the position of respect bestowed on me has given me a sense of responsibility.  Only following the Boston Marathon Bombings have I been given an inkling as to how to fulfill my responsibility.
    My family member lacks the sense of how to fulfill his adult responsibilities--fulfill his human potential.  Ascribing responsibilities on other intimates how they have failed their responsibiltiies to my family member has clouded his willingness to look at his own human potential--the gift he has been given by God--by his belief in God.  I know that belief exists in him.  I do not know the form of belief.
    My belief--the form of my belief--calls me to offer something.
    From an unlikely source--the Boston Marathon Bombings suspect--I understand one way--one something--I may offer.
    Optimist--idealist--that I am, recent years have taught me, "life is not perfect."  Self-pity is not the sum of that equation in my life.  So where does that leave me--how does that affect my offering to my family member.
     A List.  An Itemized--A Humbling List.
     If My Life Was Perfect...    
     I Would Not:
          Need to wear my ankle foot orthotic--my brace on my right leg
          Need to walk long distances with a cane
          Need to use a wheelchair
          Need to take medication to control my intentional tremors
          Need to take anticonvulsants to control my seizures
          Need to grab the right handrail with my left hand when walking up or down a flight of stairs
     I Would Not Fear:
          Outstretching my left hand--lose the use of my left and right hand by:
               Opening doorknobs
               Carrying heavy bags of groceries
               Carrying heavy loads of laundry
            My capacity to stand up from the ground
     People Would:
         Think my handwriting was beautiful

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 Subconscious View. Me. LTD. SSDI.

    Me.  Work Ethic.  LTD.  SSDI.  Me.
    Work ethic was instilled in me from childhood.  By example.  By parental instruction.  By familial heritage.  From 1960 til 2009, Work Ethic was held in high esteem--faithfully unquestioned.
     SSDI.  Before 2009, initials.  Social Security Disability Income.  A paragraph in a yearly Social Security Administration statement of credits earned.  SSDI.
     LTD.   Before 2009, initials.  Long-Term Disability.  A sensible work benefit offering.  An insurance policy.  A minuscule deduction--$2.72? per paycheck I presume.  A remote need that echoed it the possibility of my imagination--a need vague to my view, yet, haunting to my anxiety.  An anxiety inexpensive to appease, however remote it seemed.  LTD.
    SSDI.  LTD.  I knew no one within the limits of LTD--of SSDI.  LTD.  SSDI.
    LTD.  My knowledge of anyone on long-term disability was LTD to no one.  LTD.
    2009.
    A defining moment in my view of the world--in a view of myself.
    2009.
    SSDI.  I knew no one on SSDI.  Enlightened though I thought myself to be, I had far different images of who were receiving SSDI.  Some of those images haunt me yet today.  They do not describe who I am, yet, they define my sense of what I believe I must be in order to receive SSDI.
    SSDI.  Bedridden.  Paralyzed.  Confined to a wheelchair.  Totally dependent.  Unable to meet my activities of daily living independently.  Feeding.  Bathing.  Dressing.  SSDI.
    Bedridden.  Paralyzed.  Confined.  Incapable.  Unable.  Incontinent.  Dependent.
    2013.
    Four years have passed since 2009.
    2013.
    I am redefining what my life within the limits of my body is.  Volunteer.  Researcher.  Swimmer.  Friend.  Sister.  Cousin.  Aunt.  Daughter.  Writer.  Catholic activist.
    2013.
    Yet, four years later, the haunting drumbeat of my Subconscious View tower over me--the haunting drumbeat is deafening.  LTD.  SSDI.
    2009.
    Periodically--necessarily--surveyed, the haunting drumbeat is pounded into my spirit.  LTD.  SSDI.
    Surveyed--periodically--necessarily.  My personal questionnaire.
    2013.
    Do I fulfill my misconception--the haunting drumbeat?
    OR
    Am I moving forward to Redefine My Life within my Body's Limits.
    Me.  SSDI.  LTD.  The haunting drumbeat is deafening to my spirit.  LTD.  SSDI.  Me.

Victims. Entitlement.

"There are 47 percent of the people who will vote for the president no matter what. All right, there are 47 percent who are with him, who are dependent upon government, who believe that they are victims, who believe the government has a responsibility to care for them, who believe that they are entitled to health care, to food, to housing, to you-name-it -- that that's an entitlement. And the government should give it to them. And they will vote for this president no matter what. ... These are people who pay no income tax. ... [M]y job is not to worry about those people. I'll never convince them they should take personal responsibility and care for their lives."
                                                                        Mitt Romney
     I do my best to steer clear of political commentary.  Excessive ranting, raving does grave injustice to the issues that demand our attention.
     But...
     I must speak out against Mitt Romney's broad strokes.  You see, some may say I am within the group of which he speaks--not completely, but, sufficient to respond.  I no longer work.  Although I do pay taxes.  I receive SSDI.  I am covered by Medicare.
     Some may say, "Don't take Mitt Romney's words personally."  I must.  The only way I know to live is personally.  If I do not live from my personal experience,  then, I have nothing to offer this world.
     Oxford Dictionaries defines "victim" as, "[noun] a person harmed, injured, or killed as a result of a crime, accident, or other event or action."
      If you define "cerebral palsy," as a result of the event of my birth, then, yes, I am a victim.  However, "victim", when spoken in common parlance, has a heavy burden of pity that exceeds its dictionary definition.  I do not include myself in that group.
    "Personal" is defined as, "adjective.  of, affecting, or belonging to a particular person rather than to anyone else."
    "Responsibility" is defined as, "the state or fact of having a duty to deal with something or of having control over someone."
     I do what is within my power to take responsibility to care for myself--for the impact of "cerebral palsy," "osteoarthritis," "epilepsy," and "intentional tremors."  I take medications twice daily.  I swim three to four hours a week.  I use a straw to drink--to counteract a tremor-laden hand.  I adjust the arrangement of my home to accommodate my physical capabilities.
    Dependent?  Yes, I am dependent.
    I don an ankle-foot-orthotic--a leg brace--daily.  I use an electric wheelchair when traveling long distances.  I submit to lab tests to evaluate the amounts of medications in my bloodstream.
    Dependent?  Yes, I am dependent.  Everyone is.
    But...that is not the whole story of who I am.
    I do give back.  To my family.  To my friends.  To my church.  To my community.  As I am able, I do give back.
    Research.  Writing.  Listening.  Advising.  Advocating.  Volunteering.
    Entitlement is defined as, "the fact of having a right to something."
    Entitlement.  Respect?  Yes.  Respect--basic, human respect.  That is the Entitlement that I offer each individual I meet and know.  That is the Entitlement I expect from others.

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?

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.

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.

Don't Walk Too Fast...

Don't walk too fast.
I don't run.
I can't run.
The light is green.
The light says, "Walk."
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
The light is with me.
You are not.
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
I amble from strain--from pain.
I tiptoe toward not hurting.
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
Don't zoom past me on your motorcycle.
Don't rush to judgment.

Don't walk too fast.
Toughen my skin???
Understand that they do not???
I do.  Yet...
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
Yet...Understand???
Know???  They can.
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
Yet, understand???  At another time--in another world.
They will--they must.
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
Toughen my skin???
No.
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
Numb my heart???
No.
Don't walk too fast.

Don't walk too fast.
Toughen my skin?  Numb my heart?
No.  That is the price of my words--the price of my quest.
Don't walk too fast.

Take Advantage of....Life...

     Thinking about taking advantage of the many features on my new wheelchair leads me to understand take advantage of from an entirely new perspective.
     I am still ambulatory.  In coming days, I will be learning about the features of my new wheelchair.  I forget.  I am still ambulatory.  In coming days, I will need to flesh out what features I do need now, and can use with practice.  I am still ambulatory.  I need to preserve what capacities I do have--my mind, my spirit, and my muscle tone.  I am still ambulatory.
     I do have physical needs that led me to face the prospect of getting a wheelchair.  I am aging. My right ankle is on her last leg.  I am aging.  My left hip is making known the weight she has carried for a lifetime--accommodating to a shorter right leg.  I am aging.  My left hip deserves due respect for her service.
    I am ambulatory, yet I do have physical needs.  I need to take advantage of what features are helpful to me now--the chair itself, which relieves my right ankle of stress she cannot bear.
  Wheelchairs were for old people.  I am still ambulatory.  Wheelchairs are for people whose speech is impaired.
    My right ankle is on her last leg.  I am still ambulatory.  My left hip is weaker because of the undue burden she has shouldered for a lifetime.  She did it without complaint for many years.  Yet, she met her limit.  She needed help.  Take advantage of.  How? An ankle foot orthotic.  Is that enough?  No.  Take advantage of.  What?  What is available?  Take advantage of. A wheelchair.
    Take advantage of.  I am still ambulatory.
    The future?  I may become immobile.  Take advantage of.  What?  The wheelchair's headrim.  I may become immobile.  Take advantage of.  I may become immobile.  The seat elevation feature.
    I am ambulatory.  I am aging.  I have physical needs.
    There is far more of a difference in tense between taken advantage of, and take advantage of.  One thrives on the vulnerability of an individual.  While the other--take advantage of--thrives on making the fullest of the life--the precious gift--one is given.

The Right Questions...Proper Fines...Rehabilitation...

     I confess that I am not a huge sports fan.  I listen for human profiles--human insights--within sports.
     This week, National Basketball Association [NBA] player, Kobe Bryant was fined $100,000 for uttering a racial slur at a referee.  NBA President David Stern imposed the fine to convey that the NBA was a family-friendly form of entertainment that would not endorse such behavior--such attitudes.  Criticism has been made regarding the amount of  the fine in proportion to the player's annual salary.
     I pose a different question regarding the offense, and its corresponding fine.  What impact would the imposition of fines have if they required community service relevant to the offense?  Adjustments to the ratio of the fine to the offender's income should be implicit in sentencing standards, or fines assignments standards.
     Community service seems like an easy way out--a soft sentence to impose.  Yet, it does not need to be, if properly imposed--properly administered.
     In the justice system, sentencing is supposed to be commensurate with the proven crime.  Unanimous agreement does not exist regarding the definition of commensurate.  However, that is no excuse for pursuing a definition.
     What might commensurate community service be?  First, it must be based on positive actions to lessen the occurrence of relevant offenses, in this case, hate speech.  Second, three groups must be identified.
     First, to what group, or organization is the offender accountable.  Is it a sports team?  Is it a professional association?  Is it some other institution?
     Second, who were the people incriminated?  Children?  Colleagues?  Adults?  Others?
    Third, to whom is the offender a role model?  Children? Parents?  Pet owners?  Teachers?  Religious leaders?  Others?
     Fourth, what might some commensurate community service be for an athlete?
     Speaking to fans at games at a pre-determined time within the game, and for a specified time period--once in each city played during the season?  Speaking to recruits during the training season for the sport involved?
     These are just two ideas.  I am not beholden to them.  My intent is to spur thought.
     In the U.S. judicial system, there are federal sentencing guidelines, which have been established to ensure consistency, and definitions of commensurate.  It seems that other organizations might take a cue from the U.S. judicial system.
     Kobe Bryant is not the first, nor the last athlete to engage in hate speech.  His offense can be a teaching moment for everyone--the news spotlight is on, and it is up to us to use it.

Understanding's--Compassion's---Scope

     The wait for a wheelchair continues.  Work with the vendor of the wheelchair, and the insurance company advocate continues.  The need is unrelenting.  The work seems without end--without a tangible result.
     I am a reasonable, logical, peaceful woman.  I am not comfortable being aggressive in stating my proven needs--my proven need.
     Friends, family, and acquaintances recognize my need, and offer the compassion ever so helpful as I strive toward my goal--a wheelchair.  I never imagined--I resisted--my need for a wheelchair.  Time, and my ankle convince me otherwise.
     I try to draw on my natural tendencies to achieve my goal--a wheelchair.  Logical.  I identified the steps necessary to secure a wheelchair.  An accounting of my physical symptoms, and capacities, a doctor's mobility assessment, an insurance company advocate, a medical vendor acceptable to the insurance company.
     Reasonable.  I listened to the doctor's recommendations.  I spoke with the insurance company advocate.  I visited the medical vendor.  I tried wheelchairs likely to meet my needs.  I maintained constant contact with the advocate, and the medical vendor.
     Aggressiveness expresses itself in cries of desperation from me.  Threats to change vendors.  Yet, aggressiveness, and threats help no one.
      Working to secure a wheelchair in the last three-and-a-half months lead me back to a lifelong question.  First, is it reasonable to expect that another human being may understand basic human needs, and life circumstances that may not be their own?  Second, is it true that no one may understand my/our human needs, because my/our life circumstances are not theirs?
     I am either a foolish optimist, or an optimistic fool.  Maybe both.  I hate to think that none of us may understand the basic human needs of another person, or persons, because our life circumstances are different--are not identical.
    Is it possible to surmount seeming indifference to those basic human needs?  If so, how?
    My default has been that indifference is surmountable.  I begin with logical appeals.  I resort to emotional appeals.  I seek support, and reinforcement to identify, and pursue other courses of action.
    Then, I wonder.  If my need is not enough--if the need/needs of the individuals for whom I am advocating are not enough--then, how can I appeal to the self-interests of the indifferent party?
    I am far beyond angry.   I am exasperated.  I am exhausted.  I am depressed.  Yet, none of these strategies, insights, or feelings has rendered a wheelchair.  Anger, exasperation, exhaustion, depression serve no one.  They are not effective conveyors of my emotions to the people who seem to have the resources to meet my needs.
    I wonder about the appearance of my need.  I am extremely grateful to be able to navigate my condominium.  So, to anyone who observes me navigate just short distances, they would surmise that my need does not rise to their requisite threshold.  Yet, anyone who has known me for any length of time--before I stopped working in 2009--they would know that I do not whine.  I do not pull the pity card--the victim's vengeance--in my daily dealings.
    How do I communicate the need that exceeds my immediate home environment?  How do I communicate that my need in a dignified manner?  Does pity need to be the weapon I must use to get my needs met?  I am no victim--by nature, I am no victim.  Yet, indifference is victimizing me unnecessarily.

On the Front Line...In Harm's Way...

     American troops fighting in Afghanistan, Iraq, among other battlefields, were described as being, "people on the front lines," and "people being placed in harm's way."  The context?  An inventory of those who would be affected by a federal government shutdown.
     "People on the front lines," and "Being placed in harm's way" have bothered me long before this morning's newscast.  It has seemed to me to be an unnecessary expression of bravado.
      In no way do I mean to belittle what people in military service endure.  I have listened intently to first-hand accounts, and I have viewed moving photographs of the Korean War.  But, for now, I must dispense with a worthy exploration of the singular military meaning of these phrases.
     "People being placed in harm's way" and "people on the front line" should be considered in the context of women, and children, primarily, who seek out the protection of domestic abuse shelters.
      I live in the State of Minnesota.  Like many other states in the United States, Minnesota faces a huge deficit that needs to be reconciled.  I make no claim of being an expert in budgets, and finances.
      Yet, I cannot reconcile, morally or ethically, the comment of one state legislator, who suggested cutting state funding for domestic abuse shelters.
      Moral outrage is my response to the justification he presented.  He suggested that existing shelters were not at full capacity.
      Full capacity may be a central function of productivity in the business world.  Yet, how can we as a society possibly quantify such life-or-death human need?  What does it say of our society, if our domestic abuse shelters are at full capacity?
     We speak of putting our lives on the line,  people being on the front line, and people put in harm's way.
     Don't individuals who need domestic abuse shelters fit into the definitions of these three phrases?  If not, aren't they victimized twice due to no action of their own?

Compassion's Cavern

     I try to comprehend the impact of the quake--of the tsunami in Japan.  What nuclear problems exist?  Never have I experienced an earthquake, much less a tsunami.  Yet, I did know a college classmate, who grew up near the Three Mile Island nuclear power plant in Pennsylvania.  In 1979, following a nuclear incident at Three Mile Island, if memory serves me, my classmate went home.  Details have faded over 30 years time.  Yet, I remember her fear--her apprehension.
     Though personally untouched by such major natural disasters, I am mesmerized by the pictures--the descriptions of the experience.
     How is it possible to comprehend such an enormous force of nature?  As a human being--as a person of conscience--I care to close the gap that hinders my compassion.
     Some say that in order to show a compassionate response to such devastating events, it is necessary to denigrate the scale of our own problems in relation to the dramatic events--the devastating earthquake, the turbulent tsunami.  With all due respect, I beg to differ.  Rather, I offer to you another response.
     When destruction strikes, we are called to live our own lives with increased dedication equivalent to the intensity of the destruction.  We are called to discernment.  Do we have the requisite resources of money, time--commitment of talent, or spirit--to improve the situation in some way?  If not, do we have the requisite strength of spirit to live with greater intensity--with deeper commitment--to the passions of our own lives?  We are called to discernment.
     God help me--God help us--to resist the temptation to compare our lives with the people and situations in need as a means of escaping our responsibilities to help.  We help no one to speak of others as being less fortunate.  Such talk only deepens the cavern that separates us from one another, when we are in most need.

Resignation...Acceptance...

     Resignation and acceptance are not synonymous.
     Resignation to one's life circumstances is a victim's excuse--a coward's temptation.  Resignation is made for ever and in all ways.
     Acceptance is not passive.  Acceptance is an act--a lifelong commitment to act each day.  Acceptance is not without anger....frustration...hopelessness.  Acceptance is not a singular act.  The only singular facet of acceptance is its lifelong nature.
     Resignation to one's life circumstances is wrought with a commitment to despair--to the perfection of despair's artform.  Resignation is an absolute.
     Seeking absolution--being released from one's life circumstances--is a mortal sin.  This Absolution is equivalent to seeking separation from God.  This Absolution is a Capital Offense.  
     Resignation is tempting.  Yet, resignation must be resisted.  With our will, we must seek deliverance from resignation's temptation.
     Acceptance may not be willed.  Dispatch is not her speed.  Acceptance of one's life circumstances is not an achievement.  Acceptance demands partnership--faithful engagement with accommodation.
    One's life circumstances sculpt the form of one's accommodations.  Similarly, one's accommodations are one's life engravings marking one's journey.
     Resignation is a victim's trophy.  Resignation is trumpeted for all to mourn.  No resignation should be accepted by friends...Such acceptance is tantamount to abetting the victim's crime.
    Acceptance is a sculpting--not a sculpture, but a lifelong sculpting.   Acceptance is to be a celebration--not heraldry to be borne.

An Owner's Manual

     Many parents say that the hospital did not send their babies home with an owner's manual.  I am not a parent.  Yet, when my body led me from work to long-term disability, I understood those parents' words.
     During the next year, I made up rules as I went along.  I thought that was my new way of living.
     Then, as the financial analysts say, another correction took place.  My body needed more than ankle surgery, two four-footed canes, and one hemi-walker afforded me.
     "I am not one of THOSE people, who needs to depend on a scooter. Certainly, I am not one of those people, who needs an ELECTRIC WHEELCHAIR to get around!"   So was my retort.
     I paid my body's ransom.  I cushioned my pride--my paralyzing fear--with time and patience.  I gave my pride time to quiet her bravado.  I gave my pride her time and quiet--to listen.  I gave my body patience to cry her pain.  I lent my body my ear to be heard.  I surrendered my paralyzing fear.  My surrender came ever so slowly, and only with great patience.  Surrender may not be rushed.  Surrender calls for faith-filled integrity.  Any less is to be a victim. I sat in pain with my fear--literally.
    Only with time, patience, and surrender have I arrived at action's door.  My body does not serve me, but, my mind awaits her full service to offer.
     So, with the vehicles to that service rolled out before me, I took the keys and went for a test drive.  Convinced a scooter was the lesser of two evils, I took my test drive.  With Minnesota Nice firmly implanted in me, I felt compelled--though begrudgingly--to accept the offer to test drive an electric wheelchair--an ELECTRIC WHEELCHAIR.  I fought her stick of joy.  Yet, Joystick turned inward to meet my need.  I well may yield toward Joystick, and shake her hand.
      I thought I had no owner's manual for this new life I am being called to live.  Then....the question, "How do I pay my body's ransom," was given to me.  The decision to make put an owner's manual in my lap--literally.
      Now I am poring over owner's manuals, praying, "Cushion my pride.  Tame my fears.  Guide me toward this new way of living."

My Body's Betrayal

    My right ankle is my Achilles' heel.
    Ambushed by osteoarthritis, my right ankle refuses to allow an agile living--or so is the feat she tries to accomplish in me.  Today, I am being offered a deeper understanding of betrayal--physical betrayal.
     Physical betrayal?  Yes. Betrayal is not limited to human interaction.  Betrayal is alive and well in physical form.
    Physical betrayal has two layers: acute, and chronic.
    Acute physical betrayal is the sharp deviation of physical health from what is normal for a given individual.  For me, last year, acute physical betrayal was sharp pain caused by bone spurs in my right ankle.                                            
     Chronic physical betrayal is the ongoing deviation from what is considered to be normal physical health.  Once again, this year, my chronic physical betrayal is my Achilles' heel--my arthritic ankle.  It is not sharp, unabated pain.  It is stripped physical stamina, that is the physical betrayal with which I interact.
     Physical betrayal requires negotiation toward a new agreement--a negotiation from which emerges a new way of living.  Physical betrayal requires ongoing negotiation, not a one-time arbitration of grievances.  Such would be wonderful!  Such is not reality.
     For me, that has meant compromise, and accommodation.
     In recognition of my ankle's way of being, I am slower in my immediate speed of movement, and more deliberate in my pace of living.   Most importantly, I listen--with a keen ear, I listen.  I craft probing questions to ask--of my self, and of my ankle.
     Of my self, I ask, "What is most important to me that I do?  What gives me joy?  What am I willing to do to do what is most important?  What am I willing to do to make joy possible--not guaranteed, but, possible?"
     Of my ankle, I ask, "What must I do?  How much may I do? If I dare not to submit to your betrayal of me, how much may I do without compromise--without accommodation to you?"
     My accommodations to you?  First and foremost, I address you by name.  I know you are a part of me on which I stand--on which I live.  Second, I give you support.  For now, I give you a brace--an ankle foot orthotic.
      Beyond my willingness to compromise is my mental and spiritual health.  My mind--my mental well-being-and spiritual being-demands that I strive for more.
     I am not alone in needing to acknowledge physical betrayal.  I sure hope not.  I am the lucky devil for whom physical betrayal is more pronounced--easier to recognize.
    I thought that I understood the terrain of accommodation.  Last year, I learned that my ankle would not support my old way of living.  My ankle placed demands on me.  I engaged doctors in partnership toward diagnosis, and healing.
     Yet, with bone spurs debrided, my mind cries out for equal time.  I partner with orthotists, and insurance companies, and medical vendors to be given wheels to roll outside my ankle's limits on my feet.
     Easy though it may be to do, I cannot surrender to the question of, "What is it--what activity--that I am trying to trip over my ankle to do?"  I have come frighteningly close to doing so.
     I am not my life's guarantor.  I must resist being resistant, fierce, or defiant.  I must not be submissive.  I must not be a victim.  My body's betrayal will continue.  Her speed of acceleration is not mine to know.  I must be willful without being defiant.

Suffering--Accepted Sorrow

One has to accept sorrow for it to be of any healing power
                              The Abbess of Andalusia: Flannery O'Connor's Spiritual Journey                                                                                      by Lorraine V. Murray         p. xiv
     Suffering need not be a static, negative experience.  There is a huge difference between suffering and seeking suffering.  I do not subscribe to Julian of Norwich's appeal to God to be given a bodily illness to draw her closer to Christ--closer to God.
     Yet, I do not run from my own suffering--literally or figuratively.  A younger person might say, "Cure me of this debilitating state of being."  I am old enough to know that the entirety of my cerebral palsy may not be cured by the stroke of a magic wand--by the artful manipulation of surgical implements.  I have and I will submit myself to surgery to mediate the effects of my cerebral palsy.  
     If I do not believe that I may be cured by any means, what then?  Does my conviction give me license to give up?  Does my conviction give me entree to fill the position of victim to make my living?    
     I think not.
     To speak of our lives as God's gift to us is understood often to be arrogant.      
     I disagree.    
     Life experience with my cerebral palsy has led me to view walking as a gift.  Yet, as often as I utter the words, "Walking is a gift," the words sound alien--contrived--to my ear.    
     Yet, to my heart, "Walking is a gift," is an intimate companion.  How does my ear--how does my mind--befriend, "Walking is a gift?"
    Suffering--accepted sorrow--is the vehicle that transforms, "Walking is a given," to "Walking is a gift."