Antibullying and Religious Freedom

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

But...If My Life Was Perfect...

     But...if my life was perfect....
     I would not:
          Be sensitive
          Be compassionate
          Be understanding of other people--of the world around me
          Be flexible in how I approach and accomplish physical tasks
          Be flexible in how I view the diversity of people, beliefs, and cultures
          Be awe-struck by beauty around me
          Be wonder-filled about life within and around me--life distant from me
          Be appreciative of basic human capacities--thinking, and walking, to name a few
          Be attentive to how words are used--how I use words
          Be attentive to how my words and actions affect other people I know and do not know
          Be blessed with a sense of humor
          Be determined to live my life fully
          Be passionate about pursuing my interests
          Be interested in learning every day--each moment--of my life
          Be willing to apologize when I had offended someone else, or stolen someone's dignity
          Be dedicated to fulfilling my human potential, and encouraging others to do so
          Be open to the notion that this list is not complete
          Be baptized...be willing to seek an ongoing living of baptism        
     If My Life Were Perfect, I Would Not Be Human.

My Handwriting...My Spirit...

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

Corpus Christi. Mystery. Corpus Christi.

     Corpus Christi Sunday is celebrated in the Catholic Church today--the body and blood of Christ.
     I feel truly blessed by the faith community I celebrate Mass with each Sunday.  We are more than a physical structure....more than a scheduled time each week.....more than rote recitation of words....more than obedient people...more than repeated rituals shared each week....
     We are faith-filled.  We do celebrate.  We do celebrate.  We do celebrate Mass.  We do gather each Sunday. We do have a physical structure where we meet each week.  We do recite words we have heard many times.  We strive to obey--our prayerful, communal conscience, if not always that which other deem worthy of obedience.
     I confess.  I am drawn most to the Word when I enter the experience of Mass.  Throughout all aspects of my life, since I was a child, I felt most drawn to words.  Today's celebration of Corpus Christi drew me beyond the words into the experience of the celebration.  Words were the invitation to which I responded today.
    "Lent is a time when we empty our guilt, so as to enter into the fullness of the celebration of Easter."  Those were the homilist's words that spoke to my ears.  Quickly, I grabbed my pen to capture that essence.  All too familiar with the tipping of my mental wheelbarrow of short-term memory, my pen was the savior I sought.  My pen is the tool I grasp hold of to nail moments of grace to my long-term memory.
     Yet, in that moment, I was struck by the sin of squashing grace, or being so arrogant as to think I could preserve that moment for posterity.  Putting my pen away, trusting that what I need to remember I will remember, freed me to be graced by so much more.
    The four music ministers led us in singing liturgical music of celebration.  Guitar.  Piano.  Drums.  Four-part harmony.  Many times, I have seen the faces, heard the words, and the music.  Yet, this morning, I was graced with mystery.  Hearing--truly hearing--the four different parts--soprano, alto, tenor, and bass--of the musicians led me to mystery of wonderment.
     How is it that four individuals open their mouths and produce four different notes that produce such harmony?  Science may explain it, yet, it does not explain the wonder of the moment--the mystery of the experience.
    Spontaneous signing of Mass music by a woman, who lives with Asperger's Syndrome, was shown to my eyes.  No hearing impairment.  No rote recitation of words.  A simple expression of the words coming to her ears.  A personal response in tune with the singing voices of others.
    I have served as a minister of Word--as a lector.  I have served as a music minister,  though both were many years ago.  I have never served as a Eucharistic minister.
    This morning, the choreography of the Eucharist--the celebration of our human tapestry of gifts--was given to me.  I emptied myself of the words, and my eyes were opened to the diverse gifts of our faith community.  Our individual gifts stream to the front of the sanctuary to the hands of our priest, and his ministers of bread and wine.
    Corpus Christi.  Mystery.  Faith.  Body.  Blood.  Grace.  Word.  Music.  Corpus Christi.

Prayer...A Nascent Transformation...

     The Hail Mary.
     Shall we pray? Sister Immaculata proffered.
     Hail Mary, full of grace.
     The Lord is with thee.
     Blessed art thou among women,
     And, blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
     Holy Mary, Mother of God.
     Pray for us,
     Now, and at the hour of our death.
     Amen.


     Seat of wisdom, pray for us.
     The prayer was a reverential invitation to understand words new to me.  I was never sure whether the words were, "Seat of wisdom, pray for us," or, "Seed of wisdom, pray for us."  Yet, somehow, that detail did not matter.  Both Seat and Seed confirmed a nascent transformation yet to be lived. 
     Hail Mary, Full of Grace.  
     As inexplicable as the Hail Mary's beauty on my first hearing 30 years ago is its beauty today.  Whenever an ambulance passes by me, the Hail Mary comes to my ears.  I do not recite it at other times.  Yet, at the moments of urgent need--the need of others--the Hail Mary is given to me to utter.
     I have no Rosary beads.  I do not know the Rosary.  I do not pray the Rosary.  Not by my judgment of its value.  Rosary has been in my vocabulary for nary three decades.  Maybe in seven more decades, I will know the Rosary.  Maybe in seven decades I may pray the Rosary.
     Others better versed than I could recite the precise chapter and verse.  Yet, I have heard it said that we need not fear, when  needs arise we shall be given the appropriate words to utter.  Whether spoken aloud, or held in my heart, confidence is given, and fears assuaged.  Blessed by and with a faith-filled worship community, and Christians who care deeply about the heart and soul--far more than structures they enter, no longer is prayer a formula I grab from off the rack.  I cannot explain its shape--its form.  Thirty years ago, a formula.  Today, a precious mystery.  Thirty years from now?  A precious mystery to be lived, not feared.

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

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

A Fulfilling Living

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

Epilepsy Chronicles: Precursory Shakiness

     Honestly, I don't know if what I am about to describe is germane to the Epilepsy Chronicles.  I think it is.      My thoughts, words, and descriptions deal with brain damage most directly, moreso than epilepsy per se.
     I work very hard to stay as calm as is possible--humor, empathy, patience, among other attributes that elude me.  These attributes may be seen as laudable, and, in one sense, they may be.  Yet, there is a neurological basis that makes these attributes essential.  I am not a doctor.   I have not studied neurology, or any scientific discipline that might offer me insight.
     I can quantify the dosages of anticonvulsants I am prescribed to tame the extra electrical activity in my brain--milligrams.  I can quantify the level of anticonvulsants in my bloodstream, which are determined by a blood test--a therapeutic blood level range.  Based on my weight, at least, there is a numeric scale established. If the therapeutic blood level is too low, my experience has been that more medication is prescribed.  The opposite is true, too.  In my experience, blood levels that are too high on that scale lead doctors to prescribe a higher dosage of medications.  Sometimes, an altogether different anticonvulsant is prescribed.
    Yet, I cannot quantify the threshold I have for anger, and frustration, which leads to shakiness of my whole body--I cannot quantify it for myself or for others.  I recognize it myself.  All I know to do is to cry, and then, isolate myself until my jangled nerves are tamed, and my body is steadied physically.  The crying is the cleansing agent essential to taming the extra electrical activity in my brain.
    Compounding my own response, I know that the apologies of other people, well-intended though I know they are, only exacerbate my initial response.  Trying to be rational long enough to isolate myself for my necessary cry, and quiet time is extremely difficult.  I know that a part of that quiet means removing any activities that I know will involve further neurological agitation.  I try to be rational, so as to explain that I can withstand some tension, frustration, and anger.  Yet, my rational efforts are useless.  My nervous system has been hijacked such that being physically steady is next to impossible.
     What I have just described is not a seizure, as I understand it, after having lived with epilepsy for more than 40 years.  My description today is fresh to my life--fresh to this moment.  After anticipating a personal training session for several weeks--a session to identify further efforts I may take to strengthen my arms, hands, and legs--I met with tremendous disappointment, frustration, and anger that a perfectly understandable mixup in appointment times occurred.  Not knowing precisely what to ask for to reschedule--what specific terms to use (a neurosis of mine)--my neurological response is intensified.
     I need peace--inner peace, calm, perspective, and determination to reclaim goals I know have been strengthening me, irrespective of reliable help I expected, and hoped I would be given today.  I need insight. Am I merely making an excuse for unnecessary, irrational behavior, or is there some credibility to my thoughts--my descriptions?

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.

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?

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.

A New Beginning...

     This week, I joined in welcoming a priest new to our faith community--Cabrini.  This celebration was a first.
     In 1982, I accepted an inviting admonition, "Don't leave your mind outside the door of the church."  Contrary to the admonition, and to my desire to abide by it, I did not know what I was doing intellectually.  I was petrified of being discovered a fraud--a fraud for not being able to articulate what I was seeking.
    I have been blessed by involvement in four communities in 29 years.  An interloper.  A parishioner.  A member.  An engaged witness.
    A college campus faith community.  Deemed too liberal--radical--by some.  Captivating to me.
     Raised to value pacifism, I found a community--a weekly celebration--in which, "Peace be with you" was the ever faithful invitation extended to all who entered.  I sat.  I questioned.  I wondered.  I graduated.
    The only "parish" church--a very traditional, old French church.  At home in spiritual geography.
    The priest memorable to me--an Irishman with a welcoming spirit--Father Philip McArdle.  Though at home in geography, never did the spirit of that church community reside in my heart and soul.  I single and 20ish.  They married and 70ish.  Yet, what I treasure of that time was Father McArdle's endearing words, "Children of God." No tones of condescension tempered his words.  "Children of God" were filled with a spirit of wonder--loving wonder--unjaded by adult cynicism.  Long since forgotten details of my differences with Father Philip.  The gift.  The differences.  They were present--they were real.
     Moved by differences, I joined the thoughtful tradition of John Henry Cardinal Newman.  For 11 years, a member--the Newman Center.
     Students came and went.  I listened.  The Gospels--all spiritual readings and reflections I was fed.  Established traditions cradled others, were still new to me.  Priests came.  Priests went.  Yet, no sense of welcoming any priest new to our community pierces my memory.  I was an attendant member, not a faithful worshipper.
     I entered the Catholic Church long after Vatican II closed.  The Church I entered was far different than the Church others close to me left, or so I sense it was.  I never walked in their shoes--never donned their Ojibwe moccasins.  I was churched a Universalist--a parental evolution from pre-Vatican II, less engaging worship to a more intellectually-challenging fellowship.  They left, I entered.  They seeking intellectual challenge.  I answers to long-held, inarticulable questions.
     Friends faithful to the Church--the hierarchy, the dysfunctions--left.  Yet, leave?  A spiritual cavern beyond my surmounting.
    The hierarchy closed my thoughtful haven.  Some balked.  I searched.  I found.  Welcomed, I found a new home.
    Cabrini.  Celebration.  Faith.  Engagement.  Passion.  Cabrini.

    Eleven years hence, hierarchy visits our home--my new home.  No closing.  A transfer of priests.  A priest new to my home of faith.  Others knew of him.  Yet, none of us knew him.  For the first time in 29 years, I welcome a priest new to me.  Together, I join others in welcome. 

    An interloper.  A parishioner.  A member.  An engaged witness.  A new beginning....What next???  An advocate. ... Whatever it may be, a new beginning...  

Oslo...My Beloved Oslo...

     "Oslo, my beloved Oslo."
     Those were the four words that came to me the instant my cousin informed me that Oslo had been hit by an explosion.
     Twice in my life, I have had the joy of becoming acquainted with Oslo.  The summer I graduated from high school, I met Oslo for the first time.  I met her as a young tourist.  Karl Johan's Gatte was the main street of the town--the mecca for shoppers.  Then, there was the majesty of the Oslo City Hall.  Majesty is beyond the comprehension of any American, when they hear "city hall."  Yet, the murals, the marble floors, and the high ceilings may be defined no less than majestic.  Then,  Frogner Park.  Ah, Frogner Park.  Norwegian sculptor, Gustav Vigeland crafted a magnificent study of human form--human beings of all ages, in a multitude of positions.  It is a pilgrimage--an artistic pilgrimage of humanity--that any visitor to Oslo must make.  Knowing the trip might be beyond you, let Google do the walking http://images.google.com/search and enter Vigeland Park.  God was the sculptor for Oslo's other source of awe--the Sogne Fjord.  Words do not do it justice.
     In 1978, I visited Oslo as a tourist.  Little could I imagine that I would have the opportunity to return to Oslo in 2005.  I returned as a student--as a resident for a nine-day stay.  Frogner Park, and Karl Johan's Gatte were not mine to revisit.  I lived the life of a resident--the life of a student--housed in a youth hostel.  But, ah...the view.  The hostel set atop a hill overlooking the Sogne Fjord.  We ate outside and soaked up the sunshine, and the pristine air.
     Oslo is a city of hearty, gentle, peace-loving people.  Oslo is the home of the Nobel Prize.
     At the end of my nine-day visit to Oslo, I had absolutely no desire to return home.  In fact, even when I got home, I longed to return immediately.
      Oslo...my beloved Oslo...

Boredom. Deny. Fear. Befriend. Boredom

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

Indoor/Outdoor Living

     Contrary to years gone by, I have no desire--absolutely none--to be inside.  Mind you, I seek no suntan.  I am too fair of face to have that aspiration.  I am born of Norwegian stalk.  Need I say more?  No.  I have lived from the inside looking out.  Now, I yearn to live beyond the window's shade--beyond the door's lock.  I have the wheels.   I have the time.
    Am I nothing more than a fair weather friend of nature?  I am a Minnesotan.  Need I say more?
    No, seriously.  Were I told, "You may have but one view of the world around you, the rest will be blinded to you," what would I choose.  Oh, that is easy.  I have no doubt.  A sugar maple in her full autumn glory--in fiery red.  A sugar maple in fiery red beneath a clear blue sky.  A sugar maple in her full autumn glory standing her ground on a brisk September day.  That would be my single landscape were I limited to one.
     Am I nothing more than a fair weather friend of nature?  I am a Minnesotan.  Need I say more?
     No, seriously.  Wintertime.  My heart melts at the sight of big snowflakes lacing tree branches.
     Am I nothing more than a fair weather friend of nature?  I am a Minnesotan.  Need I say more?
     No, seriously. Springtime.  Born an April's Fool,  the smell of fresh lilac.  Ah, the smell of fresh lilac.  A child born in Golden Valley nary a mile from Lilac Drive.  Hedges of lilacs breeze through my lifetime's senses.
     Wintertime ice. I slip. Wintertime snow drifts.  I fall.  Cold I may dress for.  Yet, ice and snow drifts steal my balance--inner and outer.  Ice and snow drifts steal my balance. From ice and snow--from Cabin Fever I ail.
     Am I nothing more than a fair weather friend of nature?  I am a Minnesotan.  Need I say more?
     Minnesota.  Wait five minutes, the weather will change.  A sugar maple in her full autumn glory--fiery red.  Giant snowflakes lacing tree branches.  Green pine trees laden with a fresh white coat.  Fresh lilac breezing through my lifetime's senses. 68 degrees.  No humidity.  No mosquitoes. Humidity.  Rain showers.  The 90s.  Green skies.  Thunder.  Lightning.  Tornadoes.
     Am I nothing more than a fair weather's friend?  I am a Minnesotan.  Need I say more?

Zoomer Chronicles: Global Maps and Positions

     Cartographic scale is deceptive.  Small scale maps minimize potential explorations, yet to be undertaken.  Large scale maps provide perspective necessary to orientation--spatial orientation.
     Zoomer empowers my exploration.  Yet, her power is conditional.  She is not compatible with other powers--any other systems.  Any desire to position myself systematically--globally--beyond the view of Zoomer's position--must be disengaged.
     The medium of old--paper--must guide my explorations.  Yet, all the paper does not determine my explorations.  With faith I begin, while logic and reason I suspend.  Were logic and reason to reign me in, I might never have discovered the Vento Regional Trail...the Ramsey County Medical Examiner...the Alexander Ramsey House...the Science Museum exterior exhibits...the Robert Street Bridge...the Wabasha Street Bridge...Lowertown....
     Logic and reason have not been trashed.  Come snowfall, they will reign me in.  Yet, between now and then, I must take leaps of faith crossing curb cuts, will strong strides crossing streets, and jinx not my adventures with confining precision.
     Zoomer, teach me your ways that we may weather the storms, be steady in snow.  Zoomer, I pray, may we learn how to travel from November to May in fresh air, confined to no inner sanctum.

Zoomer Chronicles: Adventure's Name

     Zoomer v. Invacare, FDX-MCG, Front-Wheel Drive, Center of Gravity.
     Many individuals with scooters, electric wheelchairs, and the like adorn their vehicles with American flags, safety flags, and the like.  I have not motorized the American flag, although I seek the power of protection a bright orange safety flag is promoted as affording me.
     Some people are branded as Jazzy.  I have not been so bestowed.  Were I branded, I would be known as FDX-MCG, or front-wheel drive, center of gravity.  While the balance center of gravity promises, and the power front-wheel drive promises, FDX-MCG or center of gravity is hardly intuitive, much less catchy.
    Wheelchair-bound, or wheelchair-confined is hardly the way I pray that I will proceed through my life.
     If it be so, that is how I will go.  Yet, for now, I vow to take a different road--the less traveled road--toward adventure.
     Adventure--lived fully--must flow from A to Z.  If I am so to travel the road of Adventure, my companion must be Zoomer.
     I hate to be a woman of delusion.  Saying I use an electric wheelchair still stings a bit.  Say it if I must, I will do.  Yet, somehow, Zoomer removes the stinger, and allows me adventure and does bind or confine me to a wheelchair, even if it be mine.  Zoomer is a power-filled princess, while Front-wheel Drive, Center of Gravity is a frightening dictator.
     For now, Zoomer and I shall travel down the road less traveled toward whatever unknown adventure awaits.  We shall travel together, yet, still not alone.  In the spirit of three--Robert Frost, John Hockenberry, and John Steinbeck we shall travel.  Travels with Charley:  In Search of America I must read.

Zoomer Chronicles: An Anniversary

     On April 14, 2011, my life changed dramatically.  One year of denial and resistance to my needs.  One year  of fear, "People are going to be condescending toward me."  Finally, my resistance gave way in the face of debilitating ankle weakness--complete lack of stamina.
     Two months ago, that changed.  Invacare FDX-MCG is hardly captivating, or intuitive.  Yes, FDX means "front-wheel drive," and "MCG" means "center of gravity."   Front-wheel drive gives me the traction I need to navigate in wet conditions, although we should not be out in heavy rain.
     Zoomer has transformed my electric wheelchair fears into personal liberation.  
     Never have I been an outdoors person.  I am not athletic.  Childhood neighbors' GREAT DANES instilled in me paralyzing fears of animals.  They were far taller than I was.  I wanted no part of being trampled by these GIANTS.  So, little has tantalized any outdoor desires I might have had.
     Then....then, an interminably long Minnesota winter, the magnitude of snow not seen since the late 1960s, germinated in me not just a desire, but a yearning to be outside--to stay outside--to live beyond health's necessary confines dictated by a weak ankle.  Opportunity presented itself from an unlikely place to open the doors--exceed the confines of my necessary confines--an insurance company advocate knowledgeable of available vehicles of freedom.  She guided me through the winding roads of the adoption process.  Truly amazing.
     Fast forward to April 14, 2011.  Four months of labor gave birth to Invacare FDX-MCG--Zoomer.
     Never a mother, never a driver, this large infant--an elephant in my room--was frightening.  Unbelievable to many, my long confinement extinguished knowledge of where do I want to go?  Fundamental survival instincts were beyond my comprehension.
     Door jambs, narrow hallways, doors, handicap-accessible doors, and elevators were among the infant steps to be taken at a snail's pace on level 2 of the four levels of the wheelchair available to me.  Interminable--painful--sounds of Zoomer's dancing wheels did not help my confidence.  Yet, that yearning for freedom overrode my fears.  Slowly, the knowledge that the nicks never dented my body--never injured anyone else--or Zoomer's seemingly indestructible body accelerated my confidence.
     I have never been a risk taker, or so I think.  I have been fiesty--one who tried to push the envelope of others' expectations--yet, never a risk taker.  I have never been a risk taker--never a gambler.  Yet, now placed on the table before me is a necessary risk--a gamble I must take.  I am not a person of stupid risks.  Though poor in math, I am a calculating person.  Before I knew to count, I was naturally calculating in my breaths.
     I cannot live within the confines of my home's safe cocoon.  I must open the door.  I must lap up the pool's buoyant waters.  I must strengthen my legs.  I must kick the arthritis from my ankle's innards.  Zoomer is the vehicle to drive me toward my goals--to fulfill my needs, to satisfy my desires.
     Yet, Zoomer, "What are your capabilities--your capacities?  What are your limits?  Rain?  How much?  How heavy?  Snow?  What depth?  How far may I travel by the power of Baron's battery?  Watt must I do?  Am I speaking the language native to your understanding?  TELL me.  Do tell me.  I  MUST know.
      These are the this anniversary's answers I seek.  Yet, I know you may not choose to wrap up these answers and present them to me today.  This is my wish list.  Should you wish to present me with answers in a future anniversary's gift,  I would not complain.
     For now, engage me--present me with engagement in today's life.

Zoomer Chronicles: Hometown Tourist

     Today, Zoomer and I have been exploring my home of 28 years--downtown St. Paul.  Zoomer took me to places here at home that I have heard about--seen on a map--but, never explored as I did today.
     When was the last time you explored the town where you live as a visitor?  Are there any plaques on buildings?  Have you read them?
      Some years ago, I did just that.  Although from then til now, what sites I visited--what the inscriptions said--have long escaped my memory.
     Life has given me time-- Zoomer has given me the energy--to acquaint myself anew with Downtown St. Paul.  It seems counter-intuitive to set out on an expedition without a destination--without an ETA.  Yet, that is precisely how my expeditions have proceeded.  I thought I had to have a destination in order to have an interesting adventure.  Quite to the contrary.  Am I aimless?  No. Quite to the contrary.
     Temperate weather for pedestrian pursuits in Minnesota is a rare commodity.  It is to be treasured--life, however imperfect it may be, is to be treasured.  So, I shall not squander the snow-free days shining on me.
     Goals??? Yes.  Identify safe curb cuts.  Gain confidence crossing intersections.  Find as many new routes for Zoomer and me to travel.  Zoomer bores easily.  She needs stimulation.  She needs challenge.  
     Today, Zoomer and I passed a new threshold--the Robert Street Bridge over the Mississippi River.  A plaque passes my eyes.  Joy the Joystick jolted us to a halt.  She called our eyes, and ears to the words etched in stone.
     Robert Street Bridge.  When did it open?  It opened on August 6, 1926, after a two-year construction period.  Nearby Shepard Road.  Was it named after anyone?  Yes.  George M. Shepard, who was the St. Paul Department of Public Works director from the 1920s to the 1950s.
     This is hardly vital information.  This is hardly worth losing sleep over not knowing.  Yet, it is an invitation to keep our eyes, and ears open for all life that crosses our pathway.
     Thank you Zoomer, thank you Joy the Joystick, for awakening me to what I overlook that is right beneath my nose.

What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up???

     Last night, a friend reminded me of the ever-present quest for a perfect job--a perfect life--abundant in fulfillment, and accomplishment, and free of frustration.  Oh, and could you give me meaningful days free of boredom, and monotony.
     To some degree, I live a life of luxury. Well...I could eat bon bons, if I wanted.  I have the time.  But, truth be told, that is not the life I want to live.  I do not have the responsibilities of a full-time, or a part-time employee, for that matter.  So, it is easy for me to make pronouncements about a perfect job---a perfect life.
     My struggle with finding the perfect job were put to an end with the failure of my body.  My mind-filled wish for the perfect job was no matter for my consideration.
     A perfect life???
     Hmmmm....I am still working on that one.
     Any delusion of keen listening--of being able to offer constructive suggestions solely by virtue of listening with a keen ear--were dispelled, when my conversation with my friend ended.
     What are my job responsibilities today?
I have tended to apologize for my current life, as compared to when I was employed by a large corporation.  I am not providing any quantifiable product or service to my "customers," in the lingo of corporate America.  So, what contribution am I offering?
     What are my job responsibilities today?  Who are my customers? What contributions am I offering. 
     Tending to the needs of my body.  Exercising it to make sure that I take the actions within my power to preserve this vessel I was given 51 years ago in the best condition possible.  I cannot take on responsibilities beyond my real or intended capacities.
     For many years, I have had a mutual understanding--offering--with a different friend.  Both of us serve one another as ceiling therapists.  This service is not daily, per se.  As a ceiling therapist, I have agreed to lend an ear, when the need arises.  My friend and I have committed a willingness to be available to do nothing more than listen, while my friend gets off her chest whatever problems, or situations are out of control.  As a ceiling therapist, I agree to pull my friend off of the ceiling after such overwhelming problems, or situations occur.
    At other times, I have served as a control panel specialist, when the need arises.  What? A control panel specialist.  I provide my friend with basic understanding of how to make the computer, most oftentimes the basic software applications sing as they are designed to sing.  Once again, my service as a control panel specialist is provided on an on-call, as needed, basis.
     I feel I am falling short of another job I have undertaken--a prison correspondent.
     I set high expectations.  I fail to give myself credit for what I am doing.  The same is true for volunteering that I am doing.  Yet, with my volunteering, I know that the sheer contact with people is tremendous.  That is the part of my job commitment to myself.
     So, does any of that contain a pearl of wisdom that I could have offered my friend last night?  I do not intend to present myself as some sage--some sole source of wisdom to my friend.  I knew most of what I expressed here last night.
     Yet, as much as I value words, I could not find the words to convey an oftentimes unattractive truth:  Life isn't perfect.  I couldn't bring myself to say, "The party's what you make it," as a travel acquaintance once said.  Both truths seemed to trivialize the desire of my friend to create for herself a life of service--grand service.
     For many years, I resisted sage advice my mother offered over and over and over.  "Focus on the positive, and ignore the negative."  I resisted her advice.  Though the first part, "Focus on the positive," made complete sense to me, I could not reconcile, "ignore the negative."  The "negative" that I was fighting was hurtful reality hurled at me repeatedly.
     It took me many years to understand a difficult, yet extremely valuable truth that I try to live by today.    
     Each problem--each situation--whatever it may be, has some lesson that it offers me to learn from.
     I have a choice.  Do I want to attend to the lesson--seek answers--or do I want to wallow in life's imperfections?
    My choice may be warped by the many years I have been in formal classrooms, be they pre-school, special education, the regular classroom, college, or graduate school.  Yet, again and again, I come back to my choice--I must attend to the lessons.  I must seek answers.
     Yet, who among us live lives of grand service--or grandiose service?
      Do we lose track of the gifts we have been given to offer, when we try to pursue grandiose service?
      Do we lose track of what good there may be in grandiose service, when we try to create it for ourselves?
      I don't know the answers.  Yet, I commit to seek the answers as a friend, as a daughter, as an aunt, as a sister, as a neighbhor, and as a seeker of truth, who has been blessed with an amazing worship community.