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?
Showing posts with label voice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label voice. Show all posts
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Gun Abolition. Pacifism. Civility.
Pistol. Shotgun. Rifle. AK 47. Militia. The Second Amendment. Right to bear arms. National Rifle Association. The NRA.
I confess. My visceral reaction to the words preceding this paragraph are rooted in illiteracy. Rightly or wrongly, I choose to root my life in more fertile ground--ground that nurtures the loving of the human spirit. I understand nothing more. I expect nothing less.
Conflict. War.
Korea. Vietnam....Iran. Iraq. Afghanistan.
Etched in my memory. My father--a Korean War veteran. My brother--Selective Service Draft Number 30, save Conscientious Objector status.
Iran. Iraq. Afghanistan.
Blurred to my attentiveness. Avoided that I might be not submissive--not submissive to War's Clutches.
Pacifism. Pacifist.
I am grounded in "Pacifism." Yes, my name is "Patricia--Patty." Yet, I call myself a "Pacifist."
Most call "pacifism" a common noun. Proper to me, "Pacifism--Pacifist" are proper nouns.
I resist temptations to respond to Rage's White Noise. Yet, piano, and violin notes, CNN's words dissolve my resistance--call me to form my thoughts--call me to express my words.
Gun Control. Not enough. I want more--much more. No one speaks of Gun Abolition. Is such too extreme?
Gun Control. Some advocate. Others can legislate. Some can enact. Yet others may judge. I shall reflect. Gun Abolition.
Let us restore civility. Not just for today. Not just for this week. Not just for this Presidential campaign. Let us restore civility beyond measure of time.
I confess. My visceral reaction to the words preceding this paragraph are rooted in illiteracy. Rightly or wrongly, I choose to root my life in more fertile ground--ground that nurtures the loving of the human spirit. I understand nothing more. I expect nothing less.
Conflict. War.
Korea. Vietnam....Iran. Iraq. Afghanistan.
Etched in my memory. My father--a Korean War veteran. My brother--Selective Service Draft Number 30, save Conscientious Objector status.
Iran. Iraq. Afghanistan.
Blurred to my attentiveness. Avoided that I might be not submissive--not submissive to War's Clutches.
Pacifism. Pacifist.
I am grounded in "Pacifism." Yes, my name is "Patricia--Patty." Yet, I call myself a "Pacifist."
Most call "pacifism" a common noun. Proper to me, "Pacifism--Pacifist" are proper nouns.
I resist temptations to respond to Rage's White Noise. Yet, piano, and violin notes, CNN's words dissolve my resistance--call me to form my thoughts--call me to express my words.
Gun Control. Not enough. I want more--much more. No one speaks of Gun Abolition. Is such too extreme?
Gun Control. Some advocate. Others can legislate. Some can enact. Yet others may judge. I shall reflect. Gun Abolition.
Let us restore civility. Not just for today. Not just for this week. Not just for this Presidential campaign. Let us restore civility beyond measure of time.
Friday, September 30, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Zoomer Chronicle: She Rides Again
Zoomer rides again. With television cameras in tow, Zoomer and I rode again today.
We had better success, if you can call it that. I am a masochist, so I do:) Evidence of such is the driver who cut in front of me, who I gave the evil eye as I was crossing. Once I was safely on the sidewalk, I mouthed, "Thank you!"
The producer and photographer positioned themselves across the street from me. Together we documented four drivers, who cut in front of me. The producer indicated that one driver had Illinois license plates.
An unexpected twist left me feeling a tad embarrassed. I crossed Seventh Street on Sibley Street. The intersection is close to the YMCA I frequent. I proceeded across the intersection with little fanfare. Then....unbeknownst to me, a woman in a wheelchair was behind me. As I arrived safely on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, she was there. The woman's presence surprised me. I surprised her. I turned to my right quickly. My intent? To turn around and recross the street. Neither of us was hurt. She was surprised. In an instant, any smugness I might have felt that I was bringing attention to an important issue changed to personal enlightenment. I need to be deliberate in my travel, when I have deliberate intent.
I do feel good about the way today's downtown intersections expedition went.
Just now, the producer contacted me. He said that the story will be aired sometime late next week. I will keep you posted. For local readers--Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota--the story will appear on KSTP TV. I don't know whether or not this will appear on the KSTP website. Zoomer is hoping so. [p.s. It did appear. http://kstp.com/news/stories/s2317400.shtml] After, not only did she appear on camera, but, she was a part of a brief interview. She had fun. So did I:)
We had better success, if you can call it that. I am a masochist, so I do:) Evidence of such is the driver who cut in front of me, who I gave the evil eye as I was crossing. Once I was safely on the sidewalk, I mouthed, "Thank you!"
The producer and photographer positioned themselves across the street from me. Together we documented four drivers, who cut in front of me. The producer indicated that one driver had Illinois license plates.
An unexpected twist left me feeling a tad embarrassed. I crossed Seventh Street on Sibley Street. The intersection is close to the YMCA I frequent. I proceeded across the intersection with little fanfare. Then....unbeknownst to me, a woman in a wheelchair was behind me. As I arrived safely on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, she was there. The woman's presence surprised me. I surprised her. I turned to my right quickly. My intent? To turn around and recross the street. Neither of us was hurt. She was surprised. In an instant, any smugness I might have felt that I was bringing attention to an important issue changed to personal enlightenment. I need to be deliberate in my travel, when I have deliberate intent.
I do feel good about the way today's downtown intersections expedition went.
Just now, the producer contacted me. He said that the story will be aired sometime late next week. I will keep you posted. For local readers--Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota--the story will appear on KSTP TV. I don't know whether or not this will appear on the KSTP website. Zoomer is hoping so. [p.s. It did appear. http://kstp.com/news/stories/s2317400.shtml] After, not only did she appear on camera, but, she was a part of a brief interview. She had fun. So did I:)
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Stop Bullying: Speak Up Pledge
We all have the power to stop bullying by getting involved and performing simple actions that can make a difference in others' lives. Together we can create a community that is committed to ending bullying. So join me in taking the pledge to Stop Bullying: Speak Up today.
Stop Bullying: Speak Up pledge
http://www.facebook.com/stopbullyingspeakup
I urge you to take the Stop Bullying: Speak Up pledge today.
Whether it be with children, teens, adults--whatever the age--our words matter. It does NOT matter whether or not we know the individuals. EVERYONE deserves basic, human respect. Suicides have resulted, and self-respect damaged over feelings regarding sexual orientation, disabilities, and appearance, to name a few, that have been used as justifications for bullying. Please take this pledge.
Expedite necessary action. First, press http://www.facebook.com/stopbullyingspeakup. Second, press the Take the Pledge icon. Third, add your name. Fourth, press the Like button. Identify yourself as a teen or an adult. Share the Stop Bullying: Speak Up pledge with your friends.
Further action may be taken, if you so choose. First, you may add a Comment to your Pledge Signature. You may join groups of others concerned. Other options are offered on the Stop Bullying: Speak Up Facebook page.
Most powerful are the words you speak--the words you tolerate. Actions you take--actions you tolerate matter as well.
Stop Bullying: Speak Up pledge
http://www.facebook.com/stopbullyingspeakup
I urge you to take the Stop Bullying: Speak Up pledge today.
Whether it be with children, teens, adults--whatever the age--our words matter. It does NOT matter whether or not we know the individuals. EVERYONE deserves basic, human respect. Suicides have resulted, and self-respect damaged over feelings regarding sexual orientation, disabilities, and appearance, to name a few, that have been used as justifications for bullying. Please take this pledge.
Expedite necessary action. First, press http://www.facebook.com/stopbullyingspeakup. Second, press the Take the Pledge icon. Third, add your name. Fourth, press the Like button. Identify yourself as a teen or an adult. Share the Stop Bullying: Speak Up pledge with your friends.
Further action may be taken, if you so choose. First, you may add a Comment to your Pledge Signature. You may join groups of others concerned. Other options are offered on the Stop Bullying: Speak Up Facebook page.
Most powerful are the words you speak--the words you tolerate. Actions you take--actions you tolerate matter as well.
Friday, September 16, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Zoomer Chronicles: Zoomer Goes to Yankton
Yankton? Yes, Yankton, South Dakota. Tonight, I received an email that took me back to Yankton, South Dakota--a speech I gave during college on the topic of handicap awareness. Zoomer reminded me of Yankton. In 1982, the speech I gave was the result of my audacity. I made contact with someone I met at a conference addressing handicap awareness.
A month ago, Zoomer and I were cut in front of by three different drivers during a two-week period. The incidents led me to contact friends on Facebook to determine whether I was correct to think that I had the right to expect patient, yielding drivers.
I was inspired to write letters to the editors of the StarTribune, and the Pioneer Press--the two local newspapers. Then, I decided to send emails to local media outlets.
Tonight, I was taken back to Yankton--to the audacity that led to my invitation to speak there. Tonight, I received an email from a local news producer.
It is odd. I don't know yet how this will turn out, if anything is aired. However, I never imagined myself speaking out regarding wheelchair use. I resisted getting one, much less using one.
We shall see what happens. The preliminary talk is mounting a camera on Zoomer to get a perspective of travelling in a wheelchair--encountering the outside world.
I don't know what Zoomer will show. The image of where the camera will be mounted intrigues me. The notion that Zoomer could open some eyes is exciting. We shall see what happens.
A month ago, Zoomer and I were cut in front of by three different drivers during a two-week period. The incidents led me to contact friends on Facebook to determine whether I was correct to think that I had the right to expect patient, yielding drivers.
I was inspired to write letters to the editors of the StarTribune, and the Pioneer Press--the two local newspapers. Then, I decided to send emails to local media outlets.
Tonight, I was taken back to Yankton--to the audacity that led to my invitation to speak there. Tonight, I received an email from a local news producer.
It is odd. I don't know yet how this will turn out, if anything is aired. However, I never imagined myself speaking out regarding wheelchair use. I resisted getting one, much less using one.
We shall see what happens. The preliminary talk is mounting a camera on Zoomer to get a perspective of travelling in a wheelchair--encountering the outside world.
I don't know what Zoomer will show. The image of where the camera will be mounted intrigues me. The notion that Zoomer could open some eyes is exciting. We shall see what happens.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
You Inspire Me
"You inspire me."
I have heard that statement made in regard to me, and to other individuals. I seek understanding. No longer am I the fierce person I was once.
I am a lover of words--a lover of language. I covet proper usage, or so some may say. I live undeterred.
I wonder. I ask the lover of words within me, "What are the roots of inspire?
Cassell's Dictionary of Word Histories offers definitions vital to our contemplation.
Inspire--a transitive verb meaning to stimulate a person to action, especially creative action.
Transitive. What does transitive mean?
Action passing from a subject to an object; having a direct object.
Verb. What does verb mean?
A word used to describe an action, state, or occurrence, and forming the main part of a sentence, such as ashear, become, happen.
These definitions are basic, yet essential to our reflection.
Definitions are the introduction to full understanding. Definitions frame the questions requisite to full understanding. Full use of inspire demands attention to four questions.
1. Do I live with integrity?
2. Do I commit myself to be worthy of action inspired by the action of another human being?
3. Am I willing to act upon the stimulation another individual offers me?
4. Am I willing to be the direct object of another person's action?
The definition of terms are basic, yet vital.
Inspired action is not action for action's sake--obligatory action. Given the choice between obligatory action and no action, no action is preferred.
Inspired action is possible.
I have heard that statement made in regard to me, and to other individuals. I seek understanding. No longer am I the fierce person I was once.
I am a lover of words--a lover of language. I covet proper usage, or so some may say. I live undeterred.
I wonder. I ask the lover of words within me, "What are the roots of inspire?
Cassell's Dictionary of Word Histories offers definitions vital to our contemplation.
Inspire--a transitive verb meaning to stimulate a person to action, especially creative action.
Transitive. What does transitive mean?
Action passing from a subject to an object; having a direct object.
Verb. What does verb mean?
A word used to describe an action, state, or occurrence, and forming the main part of a sentence, such as ashear, become, happen.
These definitions are basic, yet essential to our reflection.
Definitions are the introduction to full understanding. Definitions frame the questions requisite to full understanding. Full use of inspire demands attention to four questions.
1. Do I live with integrity?
2. Do I commit myself to be worthy of action inspired by the action of another human being?
3. Am I willing to act upon the stimulation another individual offers me?
4. Am I willing to be the direct object of another person's action?
The definition of terms are basic, yet vital.
Inspired action is not action for action's sake--obligatory action. Given the choice between obligatory action and no action, no action is preferred.
Inspired action is possible.
You are an Inspiration
Many times, I have heard news features that say, "She is an inspiration."
I do not mean to denigrate good intentions. I offer alternative intentions.
Inspiration is a noun, which is derived from inspire.
-ation is a suffix used to form abstract nouns from verbs. It is sad. To abstract the potency of inspire is sad.
To say, "You are an inspiration to me," does not offer the hope that action will be taken.
I accept the compliment. I celebrate when I--when anyone--may stimulate anyone to leaven the gifts they have been invited to offer.
I wonder. What would the world be if each of us--if all of us--accepted the invitation to fully engage our gifts?
I do not mean to denigrate good intentions. I offer alternative intentions.
Inspiration is a noun, which is derived from inspire.
-ation is a suffix used to form abstract nouns from verbs. It is sad. To abstract the potency of inspire is sad.
To say, "You are an inspiration to me," does not offer the hope that action will be taken.
I accept the compliment. I celebrate when I--when anyone--may stimulate anyone to leaven the gifts they have been invited to offer.
I wonder. What would the world be if each of us--if all of us--accepted the invitation to fully engage our gifts?
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Epilepsy Chronicles: The Other Face
Some coworkers feared I might have a seizure on command. Others feared it happening in their presence. I understand. Being out of control of my body in my mind's eye. I understand. Yet, not moreso than when I happened upon a seizure of a man awaiting a bus.
"Focus on the positive, and ignore negative behavior," Mom chants in the deep reaches of my memory. From my earliest memory, "Focus on the positive, and ignore negative behavior."
I understood what he needed. Not medically. Yet, I knew what help he needed from the many helpless people who surrounded him. I knew the helpless individuals, who surrounded him, were far from helpless. While others surrounding me were viewing their first seizure, I was on the other end of the seizure. I understood what he needed.
I had never met the seizing man before witnessing his seizure. I have not seen him since that day.
Yet, I was given a voice--words to speak---for a reason. I am not committed to vengeance against other individuals. Yet, I can and must commit myself to positive vengeance against the excessive electrical energy in my brain, the root of my disabilities. I can and must be the human irritant--the nacre--that contributes to pearls of understanding.
"Focus on the positive, and ignore negative behavior," Mom chants in the deep reaches of my memory. From my earliest memory, "Focus on the positive, and ignore negative behavior."
I understood what he needed. Not medically. Yet, I knew what help he needed from the many helpless people who surrounded him. I knew the helpless individuals, who surrounded him, were far from helpless. While others surrounding me were viewing their first seizure, I was on the other end of the seizure. I understood what he needed.
I had never met the seizing man before witnessing his seizure. I have not seen him since that day.
Yet, I was given a voice--words to speak---for a reason. I am not committed to vengeance against other individuals. Yet, I can and must commit myself to positive vengeance against the excessive electrical energy in my brain, the root of my disabilities. I can and must be the human irritant--the nacre--that contributes to pearls of understanding.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Listen. Pray. Speak. Act. Pray. Listen
My tears—my sadness—are God’s nudging me to arise.
Listen. Pray. Speak.
Act. Pray. Listen.
Long after your name—your face--is eclipsed by wonder-filled
days,
Your words echo—reverberate—in the depths of my being.
The rhythm of your words inspires in me a constant drumbeat.
Listen. Pray. Speak.
Act. Pray. Listen.
What do I say?
When do I speak?
How do I voice my sadness to you?
Will you listen?
Will you hear me?
Listen. Pray. Speak.
Act. Pray. Listen.
Lend me your ear.
Give me a voice.
Give me a plan.
Grace me with faith.
Listen. Pray. Speak.
Act. Pray. Listen.
You will listen.
You will hear.
You will change.
Listen. Pray. Speak.
Act. Pray. Listen.
September 4, 2007
One day, a former coworker and I were working alone in the library. With my back turned to him, my coworker must have seen someone who used a wheelchair.
Without thinking anything of it, she said, "Oh, there goes another gimp."
Without thinking anything of it, she said, "Oh, there goes another gimp."
What?
I was stunned--absolutely stunned. I was rendered uncharacteristically speechless. Never had anyone called me a gimp--never had I called myself "gimp."
Writing has been the vehicle I have used to process my feelings--the deeper the hurt, the clearer the writing. This piece was my attempt to process what happened, and what my feelings were.
I do remember Janet. She was not malicious per se--she was genuinely naive, and totally clueless. Janet was a piece of work. She is retired now. I know nothing more of her life now.
Writing has been the vehicle I have used to process my feelings--the deeper the hurt, the clearer the writing. This piece was my attempt to process what happened, and what my feelings were.
I do remember Janet. She was not malicious per se--she was genuinely naive, and totally clueless. Janet was a piece of work. She is retired now. I know nothing more of her life now.
Ever since I was a little kid, I have believed that if I found the right words I could foster understanding. I don't know if Janet ever understood--truly understood--the impact of her words. The relationship that followed was based in nervous fear. Janet was put on notice that if she ever so misspoke again, there would be consequences.
It is ironic. At the time that I wrote Listen. Pray. Speak. Act. Pray. Listen, my energies were focused on the word "gimp" and my inclusion in the word's definition. I was walking with an ankle-foot-orthotic--a brace-- at the time, but, I was not in any way shape, or form, using a wheelchair. Nor was I about to do so.
Five years later, my circumstances are quite different. No, I do not call myself a "gimp." That has not changed. What has changed is that I use an electric wheelchair to live--to move long distances. I don't know how I might have responded. I guess the word "gimp" still would have been the main issue. Yet, I wonder how would Janet and I have interacted. I cannot mourn a lost friendship. Close friendship far exceeded any physical differences.
Although much has changed in five years, in all aspects of my life today, I continue to be committed to listen...pray....speak...act...pray...listen.
Although much has changed in five years, in all aspects of my life today, I continue to be committed to listen...pray....speak...act...pray...listen.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Spirituality of the Human Body
Respect. Body Parts.
What on earth do these two phrases have in common? Contrary to what you may think, a great deal.
But, before I go further, let me establish what I will not be addressing. First, respect--respect for life--in its common parlance is beyond my call--abortion. I have my views. I respect those of other individuals with differing views than mine. I am open to expressing, and exchanging those perspectives. Yet, my call is to convey my thoughts in a different direction.
Respect for life--respect for the life I have been given to live. That is my call. That is what I pray I will voice today. Yet, that is a broad, unwieldy scope to address.
Body parts. Body parts? Yes, body parts. How is that remotely connected to respect for the life I have been given to live?
Once again, let me establish what I will not address--what I do not mean. I do not drive. I have no knowledge of auto mechanics--I have no knowledge of automobile body parts. That is not my call. I am called to a different direction. I am called to convey my thoughts regarding human body parts.
Private parts. Betrayal. Disability.
I am not writing about private parts, per se. The term is understood--there is an established definition of the term. I do want to include the term in the context of our human body parts. I have never heard reference to, much less definition of what might be called public parts--public human body parts.
We have no understanding of how our bodies serve the rest of us--our mind, and spirit. We do not attend ourselves to how we honor our body parts. How do we serve our body parts?
In recent years, I have been called to respond to these questions. Until recent years, my right hand did little to serve me. Never have I had, or will I have fine motor skills in my right hand. Never have I known any other way to live, so that has required little adjustment of me.
My right ankle, and my left hand are another matter entirely. Osteoarthritis in my right ankle caused me to ask--how does my ankle serve me? It took many months for me to reconcile the fact that my right ankle could not serve me.
My left hand has been my lifelong workhorse. She has been called to make up for the many times when my right hand could be of no service to me. I am scared by little. Yet, the onset of what I now know to be intentional tremors in my left hand rendered me speechless--a feat for anyone who knows me. Intentional tremors. The more I intend to do a given task when I am nervous, the shakier my left hand becomes.
Intentional tremors made essential the honoring of my body parts, and their service to me. I took for granted that my left hand would be at my service, at full strength, throughout my life to meet whatever need I had. Intentional tremors called my right arm and hand to service, as a steadying force.
Intentional tremors were the sign of the first part of spirituality of the body--spirituality of my body. I had to identify--I had to come to terms with--what my body parts could do. How could my body parts serve me? That was the first step.
Honoring my body parts. What does that mean? What does it call me to do?
When I honor my body parts, I must humble myself. I must confess, "What is it that my body part can no longer do? Honoring my body parts, committing myself to confession is not the end. It is the second of a three-step process that continues throughout our lives as we age.
We argue about terms regarding people whose bodies do not function as most people's bodies do. Yet, we have not elevated our understanding to a betrayal of our human body parts to our minds, and spirituality of the human body--the spirituality of our human body. The closest example of spirituality of the human body may be found in the writing of theologian Jean Vanier. If you have never read his writings, I commend him to you.
But, the writing of Jean Vanier does not go far enough. Or, how we read Jean Vanier does not challenge us to examine our own bodies as worthy of having spirituality appended to it. We can separate his comments and compartmentalize them as applying to the residents of L'Arche, and no one else. Whenever we receive communion, we speak of the Body of Christ. Yet, we do not bring our human body to communion with us.
Clinical inventory of our body parts. Physicals, medical tests, and other medical examinations require of us little more than to go skin deep. That is, in and of themselves. Yet, if we are wholly attuned to our human body parts, we are called to go much deeper--far deeper than skin deep.
Glorification of the body. Glorification of the body may be found in two different places--in the media, and in fine art. Glorification of the body may have positive or negative impacts in the media or in fine art. Both need our attention--our open-mindedness.
Spirituality of the human body...spirituality of the human being.
How can we ascend to--advance to--a spirituality of our body parts--a spirituality of our human body-- if we separate our human body as we enter the door of the church, or if we separate the whole notion of spirituality when we open the door to leave the church?
Can we read Julian of Norwich and choose to engage in some form of spirituality regarding our human body? If we accept the invitation Julian of Norwich offers us, can we develop a spirituality of our human being? I am not saying that it is necessary to go as extreme as Julian did. That is not the point. .Yet, are we willing to go further than we have gone up until now? I continue to press the issue, because I believe it is possible--it is essential.
Respect. Respect for life. Respect for the life I have been given to live. How does my body serve me? How may I honor my body? How may I serve my body, so as to preserve and honor her gift--her gifts? Am I willing to commit myself to pursuing a spirituality of my human body--a spirituality of my human being?
What on earth do these two phrases have in common? Contrary to what you may think, a great deal.
But, before I go further, let me establish what I will not be addressing. First, respect--respect for life--in its common parlance is beyond my call--abortion. I have my views. I respect those of other individuals with differing views than mine. I am open to expressing, and exchanging those perspectives. Yet, my call is to convey my thoughts in a different direction.
Respect for life--respect for the life I have been given to live. That is my call. That is what I pray I will voice today. Yet, that is a broad, unwieldy scope to address.
Body parts. Body parts? Yes, body parts. How is that remotely connected to respect for the life I have been given to live?
Once again, let me establish what I will not address--what I do not mean. I do not drive. I have no knowledge of auto mechanics--I have no knowledge of automobile body parts. That is not my call. I am called to a different direction. I am called to convey my thoughts regarding human body parts.
Private parts. Betrayal. Disability.
I am not writing about private parts, per se. The term is understood--there is an established definition of the term. I do want to include the term in the context of our human body parts. I have never heard reference to, much less definition of what might be called public parts--public human body parts.
We have no understanding of how our bodies serve the rest of us--our mind, and spirit. We do not attend ourselves to how we honor our body parts. How do we serve our body parts?
In recent years, I have been called to respond to these questions. Until recent years, my right hand did little to serve me. Never have I had, or will I have fine motor skills in my right hand. Never have I known any other way to live, so that has required little adjustment of me.
My right ankle, and my left hand are another matter entirely. Osteoarthritis in my right ankle caused me to ask--how does my ankle serve me? It took many months for me to reconcile the fact that my right ankle could not serve me.
My left hand has been my lifelong workhorse. She has been called to make up for the many times when my right hand could be of no service to me. I am scared by little. Yet, the onset of what I now know to be intentional tremors in my left hand rendered me speechless--a feat for anyone who knows me. Intentional tremors. The more I intend to do a given task when I am nervous, the shakier my left hand becomes.
Intentional tremors made essential the honoring of my body parts, and their service to me. I took for granted that my left hand would be at my service, at full strength, throughout my life to meet whatever need I had. Intentional tremors called my right arm and hand to service, as a steadying force.
Intentional tremors were the sign of the first part of spirituality of the body--spirituality of my body. I had to identify--I had to come to terms with--what my body parts could do. How could my body parts serve me? That was the first step.
Honoring my body parts. What does that mean? What does it call me to do?
When I honor my body parts, I must humble myself. I must confess, "What is it that my body part can no longer do? Honoring my body parts, committing myself to confession is not the end. It is the second of a three-step process that continues throughout our lives as we age.
We argue about terms regarding people whose bodies do not function as most people's bodies do. Yet, we have not elevated our understanding to a betrayal of our human body parts to our minds, and spirituality of the human body--the spirituality of our human body. The closest example of spirituality of the human body may be found in the writing of theologian Jean Vanier. If you have never read his writings, I commend him to you.
But, the writing of Jean Vanier does not go far enough. Or, how we read Jean Vanier does not challenge us to examine our own bodies as worthy of having spirituality appended to it. We can separate his comments and compartmentalize them as applying to the residents of L'Arche, and no one else. Whenever we receive communion, we speak of the Body of Christ. Yet, we do not bring our human body to communion with us.
Clinical inventory of our body parts. Physicals, medical tests, and other medical examinations require of us little more than to go skin deep. That is, in and of themselves. Yet, if we are wholly attuned to our human body parts, we are called to go much deeper--far deeper than skin deep.
Glorification of the body. Glorification of the body may be found in two different places--in the media, and in fine art. Glorification of the body may have positive or negative impacts in the media or in fine art. Both need our attention--our open-mindedness.
Spirituality of the human body...spirituality of the human being.
How can we ascend to--advance to--a spirituality of our body parts--a spirituality of our human body-- if we separate our human body as we enter the door of the church, or if we separate the whole notion of spirituality when we open the door to leave the church?
Can we read Julian of Norwich and choose to engage in some form of spirituality regarding our human body? If we accept the invitation Julian of Norwich offers us, can we develop a spirituality of our human being? I am not saying that it is necessary to go as extreme as Julian did. That is not the point. .Yet, are we willing to go further than we have gone up until now? I continue to press the issue, because I believe it is possible--it is essential.
Respect. Respect for life. Respect for the life I have been given to live. How does my body serve me? How may I honor my body? How may I serve my body, so as to preserve and honor her gift--her gifts? Am I willing to commit myself to pursuing a spirituality of my human body--a spirituality of my human being?
Friday, July 8, 2011
Betty Ford
Oh, gosh. Betty Ford died today.
My heart skipped a beat--sank--upon reading that former First Lady Betty Ford died today at the age of 93. She served in office--as the First Lady--when I was a teenager. Several years after my grandmother died of breast cancer--at a time when breast cancer ravaged the spirits of women, whose tissues it invaded--Betty Ford gave voice to the disease.
Betty Ford was not an abrasive woman. She abided by the expectations of her generation. She lived the realities of a demanding political life--the wife of a long-time U.S. Representative. She raised four children. She did not do so begrudgingly. She was not seeking a career beyond her young family. Her public career--her sphere of influence--would be broadened beyond what could have been imagined by anyone, thanks to the Ford family entry into the nation's history.
Yet, at the same time, Betty Ford was hardly a spineless wallflower. In the best sense of the word, Betty Ford was an opportunist--a graceful opportunist. She took her life experiences--her personal challenges--and transformed them into sources of help from which others so challenged could find practical help, and personal strength. Just as Betty Ford was the face of a country learning how to articulate what Gloria Steinem, and others advocated--women's rights. Betty Ford was comfortable giving voice to uncomfortable social realities of our time together--marijuana, addiction, premarital sex, and abortion, among others. Betty Ford gave a face--literally--to putt
Obituaries, and memorials offered for individuals, who have died recently--Betty Ford, can seem maudlin. Yet, maudlinness survives only when we fail to ignite in our spirits the essence of Betty Ford in our own lives. How did we know her? When did we meet her? Did Betty Ford give voice to values--issues--of import to us? Did Betty Ford teach us anything about ourselves--about our world?
My heart skipped a beat--sank--upon reading that former First Lady Betty Ford died today at the age of 93. She served in office--as the First Lady--when I was a teenager. Several years after my grandmother died of breast cancer--at a time when breast cancer ravaged the spirits of women, whose tissues it invaded--Betty Ford gave voice to the disease.
Betty Ford was not an abrasive woman. She abided by the expectations of her generation. She lived the realities of a demanding political life--the wife of a long-time U.S. Representative. She raised four children. She did not do so begrudgingly. She was not seeking a career beyond her young family. Her public career--her sphere of influence--would be broadened beyond what could have been imagined by anyone, thanks to the Ford family entry into the nation's history.
Yet, at the same time, Betty Ford was hardly a spineless wallflower. In the best sense of the word, Betty Ford was an opportunist--a graceful opportunist. She took her life experiences--her personal challenges--and transformed them into sources of help from which others so challenged could find practical help, and personal strength. Just as Betty Ford was the face of a country learning how to articulate what Gloria Steinem, and others advocated--women's rights. Betty Ford was comfortable giving voice to uncomfortable social realities of our time together--marijuana, addiction, premarital sex, and abortion, among others. Betty Ford gave a face--literally--to putt
Obituaries, and memorials offered for individuals, who have died recently--Betty Ford, can seem maudlin. Yet, maudlinness survives only when we fail to ignite in our spirits the essence of Betty Ford in our own lives. How did we know her? When did we meet her? Did Betty Ford give voice to values--issues--of import to us? Did Betty Ford teach us anything about ourselves--about our world?
Sunday, June 12, 2011
How Do You Say Hello???
Today is Pentacost Sunday. I find the celebration of Pentacost--at least at Cabrini--to be quite exhilarating. I confess I missed this celebration. All dressed in red, ready to celebrate, my body had other ideas--sleep. Yet, nonetheless, Pentacost, and how we communicate it is alive in me tonight.
How Pentacost is celebrated in my life, how it was celebrated in a friend's life? By what means do we communicate today? First. Pentacost. A celebration of the descent of the Holy Spirit on the disciples of Jesus after his Ascension. That is a definition of the day. Yet, definition is meaningless without context within our own lives, be it our own, someone we know, or a combination. [Interesting. I hadn't thought about that until this very moment.]
The context of Pentacost in my life is twofold. I was told of the Pentacostal celebration involving speaking in tongues. That celebration was meaningless because it was not shared with any context in his life. I do not know the spirituality--the spiritual context--in which my friend's mother celebrated Pentacost. So, to comment further would be a grave injustice--unforgivable disrespect.
My experience of Pentacost comes within the context of a Catholic faith community. Cabrini celebrates life and death with intense passion.
Fast forward 70 years. My experience of Pentacost? Different--not better, just different.
Pentacost. Cabrini--a faith community that celebrates life and death with the same passion. Pentacost, as I have experienced it is a celebration of our communal diversity. In the stead of spontaneous expressions of need and thanksgiving, Pentacost welcomes different intentions. Individuals fluent in various world tongues offer intentions in those foreign languages. But, the offering of intentions does not stop there. Cabrini is a community of passionate context. Following intentional expressions in foreign tongues, the individuals repeat the intentions in English. We are offered context. We celebrate that context.
How do you say hello???
How Pentacost is celebrated in my life, how it was celebrated in a friend's life? By what means do we communicate today? First. Pentacost. A celebration of the descent of the Holy Spirit on the disciples of Jesus after his Ascension. That is a definition of the day. Yet, definition is meaningless without context within our own lives, be it our own, someone we know, or a combination. [Interesting. I hadn't thought about that until this very moment.]
The context of Pentacost in my life is twofold. I was told of the Pentacostal celebration involving speaking in tongues. That celebration was meaningless because it was not shared with any context in his life. I do not know the spirituality--the spiritual context--in which my friend's mother celebrated Pentacost. So, to comment further would be a grave injustice--unforgivable disrespect.
My experience of Pentacost comes within the context of a Catholic faith community. Cabrini celebrates life and death with intense passion.
Fast forward 70 years. My experience of Pentacost? Different--not better, just different.
Pentacost. Cabrini--a faith community that celebrates life and death with the same passion. Pentacost, as I have experienced it is a celebration of our communal diversity. In the stead of spontaneous expressions of need and thanksgiving, Pentacost welcomes different intentions. Individuals fluent in various world tongues offer intentions in those foreign languages. But, the offering of intentions does not stop there. Cabrini is a community of passionate context. Following intentional expressions in foreign tongues, the individuals repeat the intentions in English. We are offered context. We celebrate that context.
How do you say hello???
Monday, February 14, 2011
The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.
"The Journey," Mary Oliver
"The Journey" was given to me by a hospital chaplain, several years ago. She came into a defining moment in my life--a life-changing medication overdosage that called me to decide whether to struggle in the work world, or to enter into a completely foreign world--long-term disability.
The chaplain visited me twice.
On Monday, my mind was in the deepest fog imaginable, thanks to Depakote's hold on me. I was crying out for help--to be listened to--using words I do not know to be able to retell today. Yet, I craved a keenly attuned ear--her listening soul.
On Friday, my brain had been drained of Depakote's excesses. My mind was clear. My perspective was fresh. Two extremes of the same person was the chaplain's view that week. She knew--we both knew--many difficult months lay ahead to be navigated. The chaplain gave me "The Journey."
I have not read this poem in some time. I passed her occasionally in my drafts. But, I needed to reach a rest stop on the very narrow, winding road free of any icy patches.
I still don't know what this foreign land's name is. It is not retirement. I am not old in mind, or so I like to claim. I am not young in body. I am old enough to know that much.
I keep thinking that I will get to a point--a definite point--where I know what that word is. Yet, that is just the point. There is no single point. Mary Oliver talks about finding your voice. Yet, she says much more, though it can be easily lost in its subtlety. It is "The Journey" that Mary Oliver wrote. Mary Oliver did not write, "The Destination."
I will heed Mary Oliver's words. I will continue to seek my voice, and continue in search of retirement's synonym, as I redefine this new life.
"The Journey" was given to me by a hospital chaplain, several years ago. She came into a defining moment in my life--a life-changing medication overdosage that called me to decide whether to struggle in the work world, or to enter into a completely foreign world--long-term disability.
The chaplain visited me twice.
On Monday, my mind was in the deepest fog imaginable, thanks to Depakote's hold on me. I was crying out for help--to be listened to--using words I do not know to be able to retell today. Yet, I craved a keenly attuned ear--her listening soul.
On Friday, my brain had been drained of Depakote's excesses. My mind was clear. My perspective was fresh. Two extremes of the same person was the chaplain's view that week. She knew--we both knew--many difficult months lay ahead to be navigated. The chaplain gave me "The Journey."
I have not read this poem in some time. I passed her occasionally in my drafts. But, I needed to reach a rest stop on the very narrow, winding road free of any icy patches.
I still don't know what this foreign land's name is. It is not retirement. I am not old in mind, or so I like to claim. I am not young in body. I am old enough to know that much.
I keep thinking that I will get to a point--a definite point--where I know what that word is. Yet, that is just the point. There is no single point. Mary Oliver talks about finding your voice. Yet, she says much more, though it can be easily lost in its subtlety. It is "The Journey" that Mary Oliver wrote. Mary Oliver did not write, "The Destination."
I will heed Mary Oliver's words. I will continue to seek my voice, and continue in search of retirement's synonym, as I redefine this new life.
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