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.

Do I Wish I was Younger?

     Some people wish they were younger--that they could relive their lives differently.  I do not.  Don't be mistaken, I have not lived unblemished by ill-advised words, and actions.  Yet, to relive my youth differently would be to negate the lessons I've learned--the insights I've been given.
     I would return to people, to places, and to events.  Not to change them.  To celebrate them.  To honor them.  But, not to change them.  To friends, to family, you know who you are.  Words escape me.  We know what we have lived--before us is our future.
     To unlikely people my mind is drawn.  To Katie, you taught me the meaning of grace--of disgrace, her antonym, as well.  You gave me poetry--"Brazen Honesty"http://patty-pattysponderings.blogspot.com/2011/03/brazen-honesty.html--a gift I shall treasure forever.  An unlikely gift, I dare say.  A gift nonetheless.  To Janet, never before had I met, and never again will I know, a piece of work such as you are.  Into my core, "there goes another gimp," you did gore.  Yet, your words broadened my vocabulary--sharpened my ear.
     My alter egos.  Pre-school giraffe.  A ballerina.  Patrushka.  Patty Tricia.  Pat.  Ms. P.T.  Thorsen.  Zoomer.  Aunt Patty.  Roboaunt.
     To places.  Michael Dowling School for Crippled Children.  Bassetts Creek.  2625 Vale Crest Road.  Washington, D.C.  Oslo.  The College of St. Catherine.  Grand Marais.  West Publishing.  Developmental Disabilities Council.
     To events.  Teasing.  Junior high school choir class.  My first class at St. Catherine's.  Baptism.  Graduation.  Master's degree graduation.  Master's degree graduation celebration.
     Do I wish I was younger?  Do I wish my youth I could reclaim?  No.  I treasure the joys.  I honor the sorrows.  Neither joy, nor sorrow could enrich me now, if I was younger.
     Once I was asked, "If you had not been born left handed, do you think you would have been right handed?"  I was tempted to say, "If you had not been born a woman, would you have been born a man?"

Don't Walk Too Fast...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crossed Wires...Jangled Nerves...

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

When you were born,

your umbilical cord was wrapped around your neck five times.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The corded gifts that keep on giving—epilepsy…cerebral palsy.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

You have excess electrical activity in your brain--epilepsy.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

Epilepsy is like a thunderstorm in the brain.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves.

I can do it myself, Mom, don’t you know, I can do it myself….

Can’t you see, Mom, I can’t do it myself, I need your help.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The faster I walk, the more I trip.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves.

Your cerebral palsy accelerates your aging process.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves.

The harder you intend to use your left hand, the more it will shake—intentional tremors.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The more hostile I am, the more intense my tremors.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves...

The more data you throw at me, the slower I compute.

Crossed wires...jangled nerves...

The more instructions I hear, the more I must write them--

the more Velcro from my ear to my brain I need.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The more instructions I hear, the more I must write--

the more Velcro from my ear to my brain I need.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The less I write, the less I remember.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The more I write, the deeper I think.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The more challenges I am given, the more I want to surmount them.

Crossed wires….jangled nerves….

The Mermaid Chronicles: The Right Way

Upward this mermaid's arm rises,
Right wrist bent, fingers tight-fisted.
In the pool, this mermaid moves.
With bent right wrist, her left-bent elbow lowers,
They break the water's calm.
Through the waterway,
Her forearm rows forward.
Upward her right arm ascends airborne.
Rightly, she aims upward.
Straight to the sky she stretches.
Seeking no splashing,
She strives a straight, uplifted stroke.
Yet, with right wrist bent, and elbow left bent,
All she may do is sway.
Downward her left leaning elbow lowers,
Below the water's top, she skims.
She stirs, and showers surrounding swimmers.
Yet, no mind the gulped water--the blinding showers.
Her firming forearms, beefing biceps, and circling shoulders,
Will triumph.

Zoomer Chronicles: Much Too Close

To all drivers, stop and think.  Before cutting off wheelchairs in crosswalks, please think of the consequences--the potential consequences.  The people. The injuries. The lives.  All that might be affected--yours, mine, and others.  I am a careful wheelchair user.  I live in downtown St. Paul.  This morning, while crossing an intersection, I was cut off by a van.  The driver decided that my fastest pace was too slow.  The driver took my life in his/her hands.  I stopped.  Though stunned, I stopped.  My wheelchair stopped.  Thankfully, my wheelchair stopped.  I shudder to think what might have happened.  Did the driver ever shudder?  I will never know.  Long gone before any license number was in my view. With no hostile intent I ask, "How much time do you save by cutting in?  What consequences might befall you--befall others--if you do not honor the lights, and override the crosswalks."  I, for one, want to share the road with you for many intersections to come.

This Mermaid

An hour's time, this mermaid swims,

No laps counted, 

Just an hour's time.

On her back she turns,

With eyes gaze upward to the white-lit beams.

Arms are raised--airborne--with a student's hands.

Shoulders rotate,

Biceps are built, not with bulk,
But with the sinews of this swimmer's strokes.

Forearms forge,

As oars they row,  

Feet flutter--ankles in unison cycle--

Through the pristine pool's waters.

From one end to the other,

This mermaid endeavors.

No laps counted,

Just one hour's time,

This mermaid swims.