Wednesday, April 25, 2012
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.
Prayer...It Makes No Sense to Me...
On April 25, 1982, had you asked me, "what does prayer mean to you," I would have said, "Lord Make Me an Instrument of Thy Peace," "The Hail Mary," and "Peace be with You."
Formulated. Off the Rack prayers ready for those wanting to wear religion on their sleeve.
Not quite. I had--I have--a deep love for each of those prayers.
Without knowing his name, The Prayer of St. Francis, St. Francis was introduced to me by a Christian choir director in junior high school--in a public school, no less, much to the chagrin of my parents. A Christian--not a Catholic--choir director.
Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And, where there is sadness, joy;
Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console.
To be understood as to understand.
To be loved, as to love.
For it is in the giving that we receive.
In the pardoning that we are pardoned.
And, it is in the dying,
That we are born to eternal life.
My maternal grandfather--Ray, a man who abhorred anything Catholic--would be horrified to hear me say so, yet, his inheritance to me, "Don't feel sad when I die, I have made amends with everyone [with whom] I had differences," reaffirmed what St. Francis told me.
Prayer.
It makes no sense to me. Words that speak such truth. Words--it is in the dying that we are born to eternal life--far from affirmed in my childhood home, in my family--speak such truth to me. It makes no sense. Yet, they are true.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Crucifixion...Resurrection....
May the peace of Christ be with you.
It took me many years to utter those words without fear of crucifixion--crucifixion impaled by reason, and logic, crucifixion beyond any hope of faith to surmount.
I was surrounded by the living of values Christ proclaimed. Yet, that was not enough.
There was an invisible stereotype that permeated our home. Bible-thumping Baptist. Evangelical. Unwilling missionary work--infliction of conversion within our house. Speaking of tongues. The Holy Ghost--a white-sheeted being antithetical to reason and logic.
I was surrounded by the living of the values Christ espoused.
Yet, it took many years to shed my fear of crucifixion--crucifixion impaled by reason, and logic. Resurrection. How can you possibly reconcile that with any degree of reason, or logic? How can you possibly live with any integrity, if you subscribe to the notion of resurrection? How can you explain resurrection?
Complicated, yet, simple--not simplistic, but, simple. I cannot explain the resurrection of a body in logic's tomb.
I was given a body beyond reason and logic to explain--to reconcile. No reason--no logic--satisfied those who met my body to understand it--to understand me.
May the Peace of Christ be with You. The Prayer of St. Francis. The Hail Mary. These three prayers ground me. Far beyond the words to convey, I had no hope of avoiding a mystery beyond reason, and logic to explain.
Others better versed than I in the Bible 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 has been given, and fears have been assuaged. Blessed by and with a faith-filled worship community, and Christians who care about 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?
Crucifixion. Resurrection. I cannot explain it.
But...I can--I must--live it. We can--we must live it.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
A Keen Ear. An Accommodating Spirit.
Little scares me.
Fearless I am not. Fear I do.
Osteoarthritis. Puffy fingers. Inflamed tissues.
Some have knobby knees. I have knobby knuckles.
I fear not the appearance. Such is vanity--pure vanity.
I fear the knobby knuckles--its killing paralysis.
I fear loss. I fear loss of my voice--loss of my voice through my left hand. I fear not the loss of my right hand--the loss of my right hand as the instrument of my voice. My right hand has never had such muscle power.
My osteoarthritis affects my left hand, my left hip, and my right ankle. God only knows as to its selectivity within my body.
I do not ask--I have never asked--"Why me?" I abhor that question. What possible answer could serve anyone or any good end.
Rather, I ask, "What lesson am I to be learning."
I take this as no punishment for any action I have taken. Some, extreme in their thinking, take that tack. I never have. I never will.
Rather, I ask, "What preparation am I being called to make?"
A lifetime ago my answer to a call seems. Just one year ago, I was counselled to look ahead,
"Think of your needs beyond the next year--beyond the next five years. I advise you to get a power wheelchair with a joystick on your left armrest. I advise you to get a head rim. At the point when you need it, a head rim will control the movement of your chair when you cannot."
I do not torture myself--I cannot--with the prospect of using the head rim. Yet, I know that I have learned that lesson--made that preparation.
Osteoarthritis. My left hip? A simple four-legged cane. Common sense born of experience--carry no heavy packages, such as groceries, any distance. A fairly easy solution. For vanity, two canes. One is multiple shades of dark blue. The other is colored in shades of brown. It looks like wood. One must be color-coordinated, of course. Living alone, one must be prepared. Though not needed today, I need to have the tools at hand--the tools for as independent a life as is possible.
Osteoarthritis. My right ankle. Zoomer, my power wheelchair, is my antidote. Should she not be enough, I have been told that it is a matter of time--ten years perhaps--that I might need ankle surgery, an ankle replacement, perhaps.
Osteoarthritis. I do my best not to torture myself with eventualities. Osteoarthritis is not a condition of steadiness or control. Osteoarthritis is an amoeba, a chameleon. Some days, people may wonder, "I don't understand. I saw her in her wheelchair yesterday, now today she is walking just fine." I wonder too.
Osteoarthritis. A snake, who lurks in the bushes, waiting to catch me unawares.
Osteoarthritis. Exercise. Not a physical cure. But a wellspring of mental, and emotional energy. Exercise. A keeping at bay of inflammation's paralysis.
Osteoarthritis. My right ankle. My left hand. My left hip. My color-coordinated canes. Exercise. Osteoarthritis.
Osteoarthritis. A keen ear. An accommodating spirit. Osteoarthritis.
Fearless I am not. Fear I do.
Osteoarthritis. Puffy fingers. Inflamed tissues.
Some have knobby knees. I have knobby knuckles.
I fear not the appearance. Such is vanity--pure vanity.
I fear the knobby knuckles--its killing paralysis.
I fear loss. I fear loss of my voice--loss of my voice through my left hand. I fear not the loss of my right hand--the loss of my right hand as the instrument of my voice. My right hand has never had such muscle power.
My osteoarthritis affects my left hand, my left hip, and my right ankle. God only knows as to its selectivity within my body.
I do not ask--I have never asked--"Why me?" I abhor that question. What possible answer could serve anyone or any good end.
Rather, I ask, "What lesson am I to be learning."
I take this as no punishment for any action I have taken. Some, extreme in their thinking, take that tack. I never have. I never will.
Rather, I ask, "What preparation am I being called to make?"
A lifetime ago my answer to a call seems. Just one year ago, I was counselled to look ahead,
"Think of your needs beyond the next year--beyond the next five years. I advise you to get a power wheelchair with a joystick on your left armrest. I advise you to get a head rim. At the point when you need it, a head rim will control the movement of your chair when you cannot."
I do not torture myself--I cannot--with the prospect of using the head rim. Yet, I know that I have learned that lesson--made that preparation.
Osteoarthritis. My left hip? A simple four-legged cane. Common sense born of experience--carry no heavy packages, such as groceries, any distance. A fairly easy solution. For vanity, two canes. One is multiple shades of dark blue. The other is colored in shades of brown. It looks like wood. One must be color-coordinated, of course. Living alone, one must be prepared. Though not needed today, I need to have the tools at hand--the tools for as independent a life as is possible.
Osteoarthritis. My right ankle. Zoomer, my power wheelchair, is my antidote. Should she not be enough, I have been told that it is a matter of time--ten years perhaps--that I might need ankle surgery, an ankle replacement, perhaps.
Osteoarthritis. I do my best not to torture myself with eventualities. Osteoarthritis is not a condition of steadiness or control. Osteoarthritis is an amoeba, a chameleon. Some days, people may wonder, "I don't understand. I saw her in her wheelchair yesterday, now today she is walking just fine." I wonder too.
Osteoarthritis. A snake, who lurks in the bushes, waiting to catch me unawares.
Osteoarthritis. Exercise. Not a physical cure. But a wellspring of mental, and emotional energy. Exercise. A keeping at bay of inflammation's paralysis.
Osteoarthritis. My right ankle. My left hand. My left hip. My color-coordinated canes. Exercise. Osteoarthritis.
Osteoarthritis. A keen ear. An accommodating spirit. Osteoarthritis.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Calculation of an Ankle...Solving for X...
Algebra was never my forte. Yet, now I understand applied algebra, or I think I do. Applied algebra, or is it Christian algebra. You tell me.
Walking from the bus to church--or at least to an intersection at which someone from church welcomes me into their car--is a very prayerful time. Today came "the Calculation of an Ankle and a Hip--my Ankle, and My Hip."
My memory has faded. I do believe that algebra is adding several factors to solve for X. The young Patty did not understand. Humor this nearly 52-year-old woman, as she solves for X.
Factors.
Oxford Dictionaries defines factors as "expression by which another is exactly divisible."
Variables.
Oxford Dictionaries defines variable as "a quantity that during calculation is assumed to vary or be capable of varying." I am not satisfied with any definition that uses another form of itself to define itself. Vary is a verb, whereas variable is a noun. Therefore, let us define the verb. Vary is defined as, "differ in size, amount, degree, or nature from something else of the same general class."
My eyes are starting to glaze over now. Let me offer just one more definition to solve for X.
Constants. Oxford defines constants as, "noun. a situation or state of affairs that does not change." The example offered is ironic--truly ironic. "the condition of struggle remained a constant."
Definitions are established. Let us proceed.
A multitude of factors makes solving for X complex. However, it is essential.
X=Living inspired by, and insightful from, the lessons my ankle--my osteoarthritis--my cerebral palsy, and my epilepsy have taught, and continue to teach me.
X=Sharing the inspirations, the insights my disabilities--my life conditions have given me; advocating for the full living of each of our individual life conditions.
Constants.
Brain damage. Cerebral palsy. Osteoarthritis. Intentional tremors. Epilepsy.
Factors.
Inner calm. Humor. Optimism. Keen listening.
Variables.
Humidity. Distance traveled on my ankle. Weight borne on my left hip, and my right ankle. Do I listen to my body--to her instructions regarding my pace, and my activity?
This morning I witnessed the baptisms of three babies. The priest affirmed truth. The babies are entering a world far more difficult than those of us, who are older.
"There are no easy answers."
The priest asked the community, whether we were willing to offer support to the parents in raising their newly baptized children. His request was not hollow. Clear was how much we are called to share the joys and the sorrows with other people we meet--other people with whom we are in communion. I try not to feel discouragement. Yet, our unwillingness to share both our joys and our sorrows, and our strengths, and our vulnerabilities is a sad commentary on our commitment to our lives.
Why is it so hard to solve for X? What are our joys? What are our sorrows? Are we inspired in our lives? By what? By whom? Are we mindful of any insights in our day? What are they? Do we share them?
Why is self-disclosure so difficult? What is our purpose, if we are not to disclose our selves?
Why is it so difficult to solve for X?
Walking from the bus to church--or at least to an intersection at which someone from church welcomes me into their car--is a very prayerful time. Today came "the Calculation of an Ankle and a Hip--my Ankle, and My Hip."
My memory has faded. I do believe that algebra is adding several factors to solve for X. The young Patty did not understand. Humor this nearly 52-year-old woman, as she solves for X.
Factors.
Oxford Dictionaries defines factors as "expression by which another is exactly divisible."
Variables.
Oxford Dictionaries defines variable as "a quantity that during calculation is assumed to vary or be capable of varying." I am not satisfied with any definition that uses another form of itself to define itself. Vary is a verb, whereas variable is a noun. Therefore, let us define the verb. Vary is defined as, "differ in size, amount, degree, or nature from something else of the same general class."
My eyes are starting to glaze over now. Let me offer just one more definition to solve for X.
Constants. Oxford defines constants as, "noun. a situation or state of affairs that does not change." The example offered is ironic--truly ironic. "the condition of struggle remained a constant."
Definitions are established. Let us proceed.
A multitude of factors makes solving for X complex. However, it is essential.
X=Living inspired by, and insightful from, the lessons my ankle--my osteoarthritis--my cerebral palsy, and my epilepsy have taught, and continue to teach me.
X=Sharing the inspirations, the insights my disabilities--my life conditions have given me; advocating for the full living of each of our individual life conditions.
Constants.
Brain damage. Cerebral palsy. Osteoarthritis. Intentional tremors. Epilepsy.
Factors.
Inner calm. Humor. Optimism. Keen listening.
Variables.
Humidity. Distance traveled on my ankle. Weight borne on my left hip, and my right ankle. Do I listen to my body--to her instructions regarding my pace, and my activity?
This morning I witnessed the baptisms of three babies. The priest affirmed truth. The babies are entering a world far more difficult than those of us, who are older.
"There are no easy answers."
The priest asked the community, whether we were willing to offer support to the parents in raising their newly baptized children. His request was not hollow. Clear was how much we are called to share the joys and the sorrows with other people we meet--other people with whom we are in communion. I try not to feel discouragement. Yet, our unwillingness to share both our joys and our sorrows, and our strengths, and our vulnerabilities is a sad commentary on our commitment to our lives.
Why is it so hard to solve for X? What are our joys? What are our sorrows? Are we inspired in our lives? By what? By whom? Are we mindful of any insights in our day? What are they? Do we share them?
Why is self-disclosure so difficult? What is our purpose, if we are not to disclose our selves?
Why is it so difficult to solve for X?
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Betrayal of My Body...Stolen Dignity
Selective amnesia. I just noticed two posts in a row addressed a connection I see between health insurance, and auto insurance. Though I feel a tad guilty for abusing the privilege of the precious time we are given each day, the two successive posts do speak to a larger truth about my daily life. Most of my life, I have tried to stay abreast of world affairs, and the nuances of current affairs on the national, and local levels of government.
Since I stopped working due to my cerebral palsy, and osteoarthritis, I have become keenly aware of inner calm--the priority, above all else, that my pursuit of inner calm must take. My neurologist diagnosed that I have what is known as "intentional tremors." Throughout my life, my left hand has been the powerhouse that has muscled me through college, a master's program, a 24-year career at a legal publishing company, and through living independently. I have never had full use of my right hand, so, not until three years ago did I even question the role that my left hand plays in my life. A friend, who has cerebral palsy affecting use of her right hand, and I have often said that we were frightened of something ever happening to our left hands.
Then, July 8, 2009, the life as I had known it, changed radically. Optimist that I always have been, I can say that the ending of my career in the paid workforce made possible the diagnosis of an unknown, frightening tremor in my left hand and arm. The only possibility to explain my tremors seemed to be Parkinson's Disease. It was not. It may sound strange, but, being told that I had--that I have--intentional tremors enabled me to determine how to live with it.
Intentional Tremors.
At its core, intentional tremors are shaking that becomes more intense the more a person with them tries to do a given task. Three tasks come to mind. Eating. Drinking. Handwriting. To some, reasonable accommodation is a term that describes a central concept within the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990. To me, reasonable accommodation is my intimate. I try not to succumb to stolen dignity--the betrayal of my body.
Drinking. Reasonable accommodations took time. Straws. But, not just any straws. With any reasonable accommodation, there must be a reasonable amount of fun, without the bendable, store-bought disposable straws, or boring straws found in catalogs for individuals far older than I. To that end, I found colorfully-ribboned straws. I do not want to be consumed by a body that confines me to a world outside the vibrancy life offers.
Eating. Strange though it may sound, eating in public is truly humbling. While drinking may be reasonably accommodated, eating in public is much trickier. I have never been much of a soup aficionado. Thank God.
Forks are my friends. With them, I have a half a chance with food. With the exception of Breyer's vanilla ice cream, spoons are a slippery slope to use. Knives are fairly useless, not obstacles, not my enemies, just benign tools.
Handwriting.
For a lifetime, my handwriting--its readability--has been a bone of contention.
My high school teacher said of my homework, "I know it is from you, but, I have no idea what it says." Ouch! That hurt. I loved--I love--to write. That hurt.
So, in some ways, handwriting has been less traumatic, or less of a new trauma with which to cope, and adjust. I learned to type one-handed in high school. Technology has made available technology that I may use one day should my left hand give up. I am in no rush. Typing--or the worlds it opens--brings enormous joy. If need be I will learn to use a program called Dragon Naturally Speaking.
Dragon Naturally Speaking does not ameliorate a very fundamental loss. At Christmastime, receiving cards and letters is enveloped in something as special as the letter. The handwriting of a friend, or a family member engenders emotions far beyond that which is ever conveyed. I may be presumptuous to believe that others feel the same of me or my written communication.
Yet, the pain of the significant loss of my handwriting due to my intentional tremors runs deep. No one can take from me my signature. I do not fear identity theft:) No one can duplicate my handwritten signature.
I could torment myself by focusing on any of these realities. I cannot run from them, literally, or figuratively. Call me a Pollyanna, if you must. Yet, I can concentrate my energies on my signature abilities, gifts, passions, and people in my life. Optimism. Humor. Purpose. My survival skills. My pathway to inner calm--inner peace. I am no saint. One look at my bedroom can tell you that.
Essential to pursuing passions is filtering out all of the excess noise that surrounds hot button issues. Essential to pursuing my passions is in concentrating on what is truly life-giving. I cannot engage myself in--embrace a world that offers no receptiveness to the nuances of living vibrantly.
Since I stopped working due to my cerebral palsy, and osteoarthritis, I have become keenly aware of inner calm--the priority, above all else, that my pursuit of inner calm must take. My neurologist diagnosed that I have what is known as "intentional tremors." Throughout my life, my left hand has been the powerhouse that has muscled me through college, a master's program, a 24-year career at a legal publishing company, and through living independently. I have never had full use of my right hand, so, not until three years ago did I even question the role that my left hand plays in my life. A friend, who has cerebral palsy affecting use of her right hand, and I have often said that we were frightened of something ever happening to our left hands.
Then, July 8, 2009, the life as I had known it, changed radically. Optimist that I always have been, I can say that the ending of my career in the paid workforce made possible the diagnosis of an unknown, frightening tremor in my left hand and arm. The only possibility to explain my tremors seemed to be Parkinson's Disease. It was not. It may sound strange, but, being told that I had--that I have--intentional tremors enabled me to determine how to live with it.
Intentional Tremors.
At its core, intentional tremors are shaking that becomes more intense the more a person with them tries to do a given task. Three tasks come to mind. Eating. Drinking. Handwriting. To some, reasonable accommodation is a term that describes a central concept within the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990. To me, reasonable accommodation is my intimate. I try not to succumb to stolen dignity--the betrayal of my body.
Drinking. Reasonable accommodations took time. Straws. But, not just any straws. With any reasonable accommodation, there must be a reasonable amount of fun, without the bendable, store-bought disposable straws, or boring straws found in catalogs for individuals far older than I. To that end, I found colorfully-ribboned straws. I do not want to be consumed by a body that confines me to a world outside the vibrancy life offers.
Eating. Strange though it may sound, eating in public is truly humbling. While drinking may be reasonably accommodated, eating in public is much trickier. I have never been much of a soup aficionado. Thank God.
Forks are my friends. With them, I have a half a chance with food. With the exception of Breyer's vanilla ice cream, spoons are a slippery slope to use. Knives are fairly useless, not obstacles, not my enemies, just benign tools.
Handwriting.
For a lifetime, my handwriting--its readability--has been a bone of contention.
My high school teacher said of my homework, "I know it is from you, but, I have no idea what it says." Ouch! That hurt. I loved--I love--to write. That hurt.
So, in some ways, handwriting has been less traumatic, or less of a new trauma with which to cope, and adjust. I learned to type one-handed in high school. Technology has made available technology that I may use one day should my left hand give up. I am in no rush. Typing--or the worlds it opens--brings enormous joy. If need be I will learn to use a program called Dragon Naturally Speaking.
Dragon Naturally Speaking does not ameliorate a very fundamental loss. At Christmastime, receiving cards and letters is enveloped in something as special as the letter. The handwriting of a friend, or a family member engenders emotions far beyond that which is ever conveyed. I may be presumptuous to believe that others feel the same of me or my written communication.
Yet, the pain of the significant loss of my handwriting due to my intentional tremors runs deep. No one can take from me my signature. I do not fear identity theft:) No one can duplicate my handwritten signature.
I could torment myself by focusing on any of these realities. I cannot run from them, literally, or figuratively. Call me a Pollyanna, if you must. Yet, I can concentrate my energies on my signature abilities, gifts, passions, and people in my life. Optimism. Humor. Purpose. My survival skills. My pathway to inner calm--inner peace. I am no saint. One look at my bedroom can tell you that.
Essential to pursuing passions is filtering out all of the excess noise that surrounds hot button issues. Essential to pursuing my passions is in concentrating on what is truly life-giving. I cannot engage myself in--embrace a world that offers no receptiveness to the nuances of living vibrantly.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Bringing Reason to the Shrill
I strive to bring reason to the shrill. Health care mandate. Health care reform. Health insurance. Auto insurance.
First, the health care mandate.
Why is mandating the purchase of health insurance different from vehicle insurance?
No one is addressing this seeming parallel. I am not a driver. Am I missing something? Tell me. I want to understand.
Health care reform.
To decision makers, I ask a simple question:
Do you believe that each of us is guaranteed that we will wake up tomorrow with the same capacities we had when we go to sleep tonight? On what basis? Do you believe in a God that shelters us from life's unavoidable realities? How does that influence your decision making?
Can you tell me what your medical needs will be tomorrow? What will the cost of those needs be? I do not know the precise sum of my needs. Yet, life has given me a good idea.
I pray we may celebrate the joys of our daily living. I pray we may embrace the sorrows of our soul's breathing. Simplistic though that may sound, that is how I define sanctity of life.
First, the health care mandate.
Why is mandating the purchase of health insurance different from vehicle insurance?
No one is addressing this seeming parallel. I am not a driver. Am I missing something? Tell me. I want to understand.
Health care reform.
To decision makers, I ask a simple question:
Do you believe that each of us is guaranteed that we will wake up tomorrow with the same capacities we had when we go to sleep tonight? On what basis? Do you believe in a God that shelters us from life's unavoidable realities? How does that influence your decision making?
Can you tell me what your medical needs will be tomorrow? What will the cost of those needs be? I do not know the precise sum of my needs. Yet, life has given me a good idea.
I pray we may celebrate the joys of our daily living. I pray we may embrace the sorrows of our soul's breathing. Simplistic though that may sound, that is how I define sanctity of life.
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