Don't Walk TOO Fast

Don't walk too fast.
I don't run.
I can't run.
Don't walk too fast.
The light is green.
The sign says, "Walk."
Don't walk too fast.
The light is with me.
You are not.
Don't walk too fast.
I amble from strain--from pain.
I tiptoe toward not hurting.
Don't walk too fast.
Don't zoom past me on your motorcycle.
Don't rush to judgment.
Don't walk too fast.
                              Real life cannot be scripted.
                              All I may do is to reflect upon it.
                             Based on an intersection with a motorcyclist
                             crossing University Avenue in St. Paul.

Choices

Each morning, and each night, I may take my anticonvulsants,
OR
I may awaken and fall asleep, fearful that I will seize.

Each morning and each night, I may take my anticonvulsants,
OR
I may deny a part of my self--a well of perspective on and insight into the world in which I live.

Each morning and each night, I may take my anticonvulsants,
OR
I may not learn the full meaning of faithfulness, and vigilance.

Each morning and each night, I may take my anticonvulsants
OR
I may not learn how to pray--how to live prayerfully.

Each morning and each night, I may take my anticonvulsants
OR
I may rebel against the logical admonition, "Did you take your medication?"

Each morning and each night, I may take my anticonvulsants,
AND
I may redefine a positive rebellion--freedom--from my seizures.

Brazen Honesty

     "Well, that wasn't very graceful!"
Her brazen honesty was breathtaking.
Eyewitness to a twirling around 180 from a seated position,
Eyewitness to my need for an outstretched hand to stand,
From where I was sitting, she was not lying.
     Yet...yet...
Her brazen honesty left me a speechless moment.
     "Well, Grace never was my middle name."
Speechless, I wanted to say so much more.
Her stinging blow to my heart expelled my word.
     "Well, that wasn't very graceful."
I am charged to be the sower of understanding.
I cannot leave seeds of understanding go unplanted.
This barren field may not go fallow.
     I must plant Seeds of Understanding.

Invalid...Birth Defect...

     For a lifetime, words have fascinated me. Specifically, words used to describe individuals with disabilities, in common parlance.
     I was handicapped as a child.  Today, I am disabled.  Both are loving names.
     Cruel kids crippled me.  Punks proclaimed, "Palsy Patty."
     I was stunned by an adult appellation of Gimp.  I am Patty, I am not a Gimp.
     Yet, I am having the last laugh.  I was blessed with a lifelong sensitivity, and passion for words of all forms.  The sting of those words is replaced by dedication.  Words used to describe individuals, be the words adjectives, or nicknames, may in no way dictate derogation.
     Two words akin to handicapped, and crippled, were not spoken in reference to me.  Yet, they still sting.
     Invalid.  In-val-id.  In-va-lid.
     These two words speak volumes.  Do we hear the emphatic value judgment that we make?  Do we care?
     I don't believe these words are used as frequently as they were at one time.  Yet, they are worthy of our notice.
     Birth defect.
     Manufactured goods have defects.  Children are not manufactured.  They are not mistakes on an assembly line.  They are children of God.
     I may be said to have two birth defects.  But, they have names.  Call them by name.  Let them be known.  Let them be understood.  My birth defects are cerebral palsy and epilepsy.  The next time you meet them, in me, or in someone else, address them by name.

Strength...Weakness...A Strong Will

     We must learn to pray out of our weaknesses so that God can become our strength." - Joan Chitister     

     I found this passage tonight.  It was posted in Sojourners' Verse and Voice.  Joan Chitister calls us to do much more than dig ourselves--individually, and collectively--out of a hole--a hole of bravado.  We shudder at--we deny--the very presence of weakness in our lives.

      Weakness.  "Not in my backyard."

      Weakness.  We don't know how to live with it--in our lives, much less in our selves.  

      Strength.  We cannot live without it in our lives--in our world.

      Weakness.  What does it mean?  Strength. What does that mean?

      We are at a defining moment in our lives--in our world.  Why?  What is so special about this moment? Is it just because Joan Chittister's passage was selected by Sojourners today?  I think not. 

     In my personal life, surgery prompted me to confront bodily strength and weakness.  Realizing that now I may walk without pain raises the question, "How long has it been?"  Last spring, perhaps?  If not, when?  I do not know.  I denied my weakness.  

     My surgery was designed to treat my "weak" ankle---my weak foot.  In four to six weeks, I thought should be at full strength. 

     A cure is resignation's salvation--pain's hope.  Yet, a cure is more elusive than salvation's promise to us.  A cure is a dangerous temptation.  His return on investment is shallow, at best.  Pain's hope must be deeper than a cure.  Pain's hope is far from easy.  Yet, openly willed each day, it is far more fulfilling than any cure could ever be.

     May we meet this day with a strong will--

     A conscious choice to embrace what is life-giving.

     May our strong will be a declarative act of living,

     Rather than a defiant part of speech.

Tables Turned

     Today, I finished another chapter in setting the wheels in motion toward a different life--getting beyond my home on my own power with the use of an electric wheelchair.  Hopefully, with doctor appointments, the requisite paperwork documenting my need, the wheelchair will be forthcoming soon.  I am not sure how to define "soon."  Days?  I doubt.  Several weeks? More likely.
     Tables turned?  Why?
     I am coming to terms with the tables turned.  For a lifetime, without much thought that there was an option, I strove to achieve Mom's mantra, "You will learn to live independently."  Anyone who dared to challenge that mantra was subject to my fierce defensiveness--a side to me whose strength I underestimated.
     Fast forward to July 2009.  A new lifetime--a new life orientation--began by necessity.  Rather than pounding on my chest with pride, "Look Mom, I am living independently," I was called to testify to my need for dependency.  It was an odd, uncomfortable--humbling--position in which to find myself.  Yet, that was where I was called to live--to be.

I've Got to Hand It to You

    Until relatively recently, I have given my left hand little due attention--little credit--for her service to me.  Some were amazed at what I could do with the use of just my left hand--with little to no help from my right hand.  I felt no amazement--I was born this way--never have I had full use of both hands.  So amazement was not worthy of my energy's expense.  My occupational therapists were frustrated, if not angry.  I kept finding ways to do tasks they conceived to be two-handed tasks without calling on my right hand.
     My views toward my left hand have changed since July, 2009.  No longer working--living on long-term disability--I was called to a different view of my left hand.  She was shaky.  No longer was indomitable strength in hand.  Nor was it at arm's reach.
     My left hand still has some strength.  Yet, she has put me on notice.  She will not stand for any further abuse for my ego's sake.  Boxers may fear a right jab.  I fear my left's fist in my face.
     So, do I duck?  No. What do I do?  Wake up.  Look.  Listen.  Feel.  Accommodate.
     Habits are hard to break.  Yet, too much is at stake not to act.  Now.
     I am not alone.  We do not want to admit it, yet, we are aging.  Each of us is called to different accommodations.
     Outstretched hands.  Figuratively, I pray I have outstretched hands that welcome others into my life.  Yet, literally, I need to give care not to try to stretch my fingers so wide that they are strained by going beyond their natural limits.  I recognize when I try to grab too much weight, and in such a way that I compromise the palm of my hand--where my hand and thumb meet.
     I am further along in recognizing that I need to care for my right ankle.  She needs my loving care, so that she does not give out completely.  The temptation to be angry with her is present.  She has failed me.  Yet, will anger bring her strength back to me?  Will resignation to her disintegration make her strong?
     There must be a middle point between anger, and resignation.  The ballerina tries not to fall off her balance beam.  Am I alone on the beam?  Where are you?