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."

Gun Control. May Peace Be with You.

     The Second Amendment of the Constitution of the United States
     A well regulated militia, being necessary to  the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.
     Guns.  Personally, I do not use them.  My resource of self-defense is a quick wit.  Of concern for my safety, some ask, "Aren't you afraid of being alone out in the streets of downtown.  To those who express concern, my sister says, "I don't worry about Patty.  I worry about the people who encounter Patty on the streets."
     Guns.  I do not use them.  Yet....many people do.
     Foraging for food.  Hunting for animals.  Protecting oneself.  Protecting one's home.
     How do we aim--how do we control--guns to hit their target.  Food.  Animals.  Oneself.  One's home.
     Training--target practice.  Daily hunting limits.  Gun locks.
How do we control the numbers--the amount of ammunition purchased, the rounds of ammunition used?  Can we engage law enforcement personnel?  Can we capture enforcement/conservation officers?  Can we embrace the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives?  Can we open our ears to hear the Director of Homeland Security?
     Decibels.  How many?  Ammunition.  How many rounds?
     What do we need?  When will we act?
     Peace.  May the peace of Christ be with you.  Peace.  Love.  Faith. Hope, and Love, and the greatest of these is Love.

Criminals' Acts...Wasted Lives...

     Theater 9.  Aurora, Colorado.  James Eagan Holmes.  Alleged Criminal.  Criminal Acts.  Wasted lives.
     Engrossed in news coverage of the Aurora Shootings, some say they do not want to focus on Holmes.  They want to put the spotlight on the lives of the 12 individuals who died.
     Yes.  By all means.
     As of July 21, 2012 at 3:58:  The Denver Post reports the names of  Veronica Moser, Jessica Ghawi, Alex Sullivan, Matt McQuinn, Micayla Medek, John Thomas Larimer, Rebecca Wingo, and, on air, CNN reported A.J. Boik, and Jesse Childress.  In coming hours--in coming days, more names will emerge--more profiles shall emerge.  Read and listen to those coming names and stories, in coming days.
     For now, I offer to you a question--a response--that haunts me.
    What is the motivation--what possibly may explain such horrendous acts?  What a wasted life.
    What an excruciating extinguishment of human potential. Extinguishment of the crimes' commissioned subjects--extinguishment of the human potential of the crimes' commissioners.
     The commissioner.  A wasted life.  Extinguished hopes of what might have been.  Condemnation to a barred life--a mental hospital, a prison, an lethal injection, or an electric chair.  What a wasted life.
     Some spew anger.  Damn him to the acts he committed.  Inflict upon him an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.  Some forgive, the person, if not the act.
     Some pray.  We are called to pray.  Some for the commissioned.  Others for the commissioner.  All are called to pray for both--the commissioned, and for the commissioner.
     How may we speak--how may we act.  How may we dedicate ourselves to learn from--commit ourselves to a positive response to such horrendous acts?
     How?  We must.

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.

Enablement. Pity. Transformation.

     Tonight I acted such as I do rarely.  I disentangled myself from my enablement--enablement of an acquaintance.  Her lifetime.  Horrible abuse.  Justifiable anger.  Deep pain.
     I minimize no one's abuse--I minimize no one's pain.  Each of us have been given our own challenges.
     Our charge--our human dictate--is to transform our abuse--our pain--whatever its severity, whatever its source may be, into constructive motivation to live toward our future.  Though I may sound so, I am not Pollyanna's advocate--I am not her apologist.
     We may not transform our pain at the cost of another's life.
    "There, but by the grace of God, go I."  "I contribute, or act charitably on behalf of those less fortunate than I."
     Both reek of arrogance, unwillingness to understand the essence of transformation, to name but two.
     Enablement.  Pity.  Transformation.
     Enablement.  A noun.  Give (someone or something) the authority or means to do something.
     Pity.  The feeling of sorrow and compassion caused by the suffering and misfortunes of others.
     Do not get me wrong.  Sorrow and compassion are of tremendous comfort to me at moments of life's challenges.
     What I do not abide by is the rotten smell of eggs--the dripping of molasses--that protects pity's pearl.
     Tonight I was overcome.  A rotten egg.  The molasses.  It oozed out of my earpiece.  No longer could I digest the eggshells thrown in my direction.  I had to speak.
     Transformation.  A thorough or dramatic change in form or appearance.
     As someone who strives to live by the example of Jesus--living a life transforming, wallowing has no place--my wallowing, or other's wallowing.
     Wallow.  (to wallow) (of a person) indulge in an unrestrained way in (something that creates a pleasurable sensation.)  [Boldface in original text.]
     Unfortunately, wallowers do not recognize their own indulgences.  Unfortunately, people living transforming lives mistake their own transient enablement, and pity for their lives imbued with sorrow, compassion, and joy.  Such transience is normal--such transience is necessary to us mortal beings..
     I pray I may--we may all--call out those people who wallow in their abuse and pain.  I pray I may--we may all--affirm the transforming lives of the People of God who surround us.

Living With the Cold, Hard Facts

     Zoomer.  A refrigerator--new, black, textured, cold.

     By passion, a researcher.  A children's museum my workplace--my playground.

     By birth, not a cradle Catholic.  By pursuit, reform's seeker.

     Since birth, cerebral palsy, epilepsy.  Since middle age, osteoarthritis.

     Lifelong, disability's advocate.

     In common?  This is my life.  Cold, hard facts.  Not always difficult, just cold, hard facts to be lived--to be lived fully.

     One year ago, a wheelchair was offered to my consideration.  I wanted nothing of it.

     "Think of your needs.  Not now.  Not a year from now.  Think of your needs five years from now."

     Still, I wanted nothing of it.  Yet, I slept on the offering.  I considered my life's cold, hard facts.

     I chose--I choose--to live with them, not die from them.

     Yesterday, a refrigerator was delivered.  New.  Black.  Textured.  To my liking.  To Zoomer's liking. 

     64 inches high.  My height?  64 inches.  28 inches wide.  My width?  Irrelevant.  32 inches deep.  My depth--my physical depth?  To the refrigerator's depth.

     Zoomer's reach?  The refrigerator's depth.  The freezer's height.

     Zoomer's range--range of motion?  Atop the freezer's height?  No.

     These are the dimensions of my life--the cold, hard facts.  But...these are the dimensions by which I am called to live--beyond the reach of the gifts I have been given.  

     I am an odd futurist.  Some say odd.  Others say futuristic.

     I do not know what my future will be.  None of us does.  Odd though it may seem, my new refrigerator opens a new view to the cold, hard facts by which I will be called to live.

     Covered with a texture new to me--it is fun to touch.  A new height to test.  A new depth to reach. 

     "Think of your needs.  Not now.  Not a year from now.  Think of your needs five years from now."

     I am an odd futurist.  I do not live by a clock's ticking.  My body breathes to her own rhythm--a mystery to me.  I try to live with her, not in fear of her.  Most days I abide by her.  Fewer days I succumb to them.

     I engage Zoomer to my new refrigerator.  With her, may I reach to the depths of the cold, hard facts by which I must live?  With her, may I reach beyond the gifts I have been to live? 

     I do not know what they will be.  I do not know their color.  Their height. 

     What will the texture of my spirit be to live by those cold, hard facts? 

     I pray I will abide by them, not succumb to them.

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.