With the digital age in full swing and gifs becoming the preferred method of communication, one might be tempted to claim that two-dimensional, static art is dead. In fact, ten years ago, a major city’s art institute (museum and school) held public lectures bemoaning the impending demise of visual arts as we have defined them for thousands of years. They looked into the future and fretted over the loss of public interest in and appreciation of paintings, drawings, etchings, etc. Their conclusion was computers made traditional methods obsolete and archaic.
With the passing of time, I think their claim of doom was right and wrong. Yes, there is a dramatic shift from the static to the dynamic when personal communication is the purpose. Nevertheless, from my personal experience, art classes and workshops are as busy as ever. Moreover, I just read an article where a medical school is incorporating art classes in their training of doctors. What? Yep. (Harvard School of Medicine Joins Growing Trend of Arts Education) Why? “(T)o improve (the medical students) skills at observation and empathy.” On the flip side, rehabilitation hospitals are expanding or adding art therapy to aid patients to “further promote successful rehabilitation.” (http://mageerehab.org/about-us/care-team/art-therapy/)
In the preliterate eras, art was the means by which information was shared within the community. Interestingly, not only did icons, motifs, paintings, and drawings serve functional purposes but some were for aesthetic reasons only. Until the culture developed writing or other forms of record-keeping, preliterate art was the only method of nonverbal communication. “(T)here is evidence of artistic activity dating as far back as 500,000 years ago.” ( Shell Art Made Before Humans Evolved)
When I picked up a paintbrush for the first time, I thought it was only for the hobby. There was no way for me to anticipate the life-affirming experiences in store. Living with a chronic illness is a complex existence. Words cannot convey the myriad of my emotions that are an intimate part each day. We’ve heard the adage, a painting tells a thousand words – well, it’s true. When I paint, I am telling a story, an emotion. You, as the viewer, hear the story or emotion, but it is your story, your emotion.
Recently, someone posted the following observation regarding my painting, Requiem: The artistic imagery is so perfect that it “caused a physical reaction in me – my heart to ache. They are the truth, for me, and I feel that I know them personally. Rose has reached into my soul and exposed me. I am amazed, and horrified, that Requiem and I have intimate knowledge of this truth.”
Thus, I claim that art is not dead; it is more alive than ever. Art is seeping into new areas, finding its way into the heart of individuals. Never before has it been more obvious that art has a voice. In fact, often the visual arts — with its silent but powerful language — have the capacity to transfer thoughts, feelings, emotions without a word being uttered. This communication from one person to another continues long after the artist is gone. The silent voice will never be stilled; it forever speaks to the viewer whether it be in a museum, on a wall, or on a refrigerator.
Sometimes we need to help a friend. This time, its hands across the water for our friends in the UK.
Before, during and after Christmas, I’ll be working hard for up and coming events and, moving forward, aim to continue to make as much money as I can all for Cancer Research UK/Breast Cancer Research to help create a future for more people.
I am calling on friends here and the writing community at WordPress for your support and ask that you either simply text BGON64 to 70070(for those here in the UK) and donate a small amount or use my donation button below (any country) to give whatever you can (even your next cuppa) to help us at Cancer Research and Breast Cancer Research. As a breast cancer survivor, I can guarantee that your help is more than appreciated.
The Just Giving page will tell you all about my reasons and action plan.
Thank you very much!
Finally! The neurotypical world made more than reasonable accommodations. They made a special effort to include the mobility-challenged into their arena, and I had a blast. Yep. I sat out in a field and painted. No sidewalk for me next to an outbuilding and parking lot — ostracized from other artists.
“How did you get out there with the dragonflies and frogs? With the trees and grasses?” I hear you asking me. I know, I know. Right?
When I first read of the joint venture between the Southwest Michigan Land Conservancy (SMLC) and the Plein Air Artists of West Michigan (PAAWM) to host an Art Walk/Paint Out event at the Wau-Ke-Na Preserve, I thought I wish I could participate. With unusual boldness, I dashed off an email to the president of the PAAWM asking if it would be a barrier-free event all the while expecting the usual reply that the paths would be difficult terrain for a wheelchair. Instead, he said, “Yes, please come.”
“Yes, please come?” Were these words right there on my screen? I couldn’t believe it. I was being included. No, more than that, I was invited – please, come. These words swam before my eyes and a smile spread from cheek to cheek. I was going to participate in an outdoor painting event – really participate – in the fields – with other artists.
The SMLC (who are dedicated to land conservation, duh) had come up with a solution to the barrier problem: drive your vehicle to a site, dump your stuff, drive your vehicle to a designated parking lot. Now, before you start thinking it is incongruous for the preserve to allow a vehicle onto their pristine lands, it was all very carefully planned to keep a minimum impact on the earth.
In the past, I have encountered other land conservation groups who were almost hostile to letting people use the land. Not this group, not this past summer. While being dedicated to protecting nature (a/k/a fields, birds, wildflowers), at the same time, they designed the Preserve to include human nature as part of the natural environment. (After all, what is the point of land conservancy if no one can enjoy it?)
Their balanced approach revealed a respect for God’s creation (which does include us human beings after all). Rather than promulgating a negative attitude about mankind’s relationship with nature and her beauty, the Preserve developed designated lanes, mostly narrow pathways of mown grass, for walkers — which they let me use in a most unique way. These passages are walkable for the able-bodied but dangerous and impassable for a wheelchair.
There I was, smiling all the while as my husband drove me, my wheelchair, and all the paraphernalia associated with plein air painting to a location of my choice. After unloading, my husband moved my mobility van to the parking lot. (Thank you, Dear.)
What a joy! I was just another artist painting in a field. 😀
Once again, I have been invited to participate in the annual Art in Motion Art Show, which raises funds for the Art Therapy and Therapeutic Recreation programs at the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago.
It is a rare opportunity not only to display my paintings for sale but also to discuss the inspiration behind each piece.
This year’s event will be hosted in the beautiful, newly constructed Shirley Ryan AbilityLab, located at 355 East Erie, from 5:30 p.m.-9:00 p.m.
If you would like to purchase tickets, please visit: Art in Motion Tickets
It was one of those glorious Sunday afternoons. The sun taking no time to make known its ability to enforce the dress code of the day, and I was right there along with the rest of the crowd with my hat, sun screen, and umbrella.
I was at a family gathering. Didn’t matter that it was a baseball game. Yes, I am one of those people who doesn’t really care for baseball. I know, I know, it’s America’s favorite pastime. Or, so I’ve heard all of my life. Nevertheless, even though I am a born and bred American, it is not my favorite. Honestly, it would never even appear on any things-to-do list of mine.
Yet, there I was with the gang watching baseball. And, I wasn’t only sitting there passing time until it was over. Nope. I was yelling and whooping. Yes, I had become a fan in a few short moments. Mimicking the guy behind me, I called out such terms as, “Good eye.” (Huh? Good eye?) What happened? My grandson was playing.
Funny how one’s perspective can change with the slightest alteration in circumstances. It happens all the time. We just don’t notice until something unique comes along – such as my grandson being part of a baseball team. Surely changed my perspective on baseball. (I am even planning on traveling three hours each way just to watch him play in another game tomorrow.)
There is another area where my perspective has changed, also. It is the number of invisible fences that the mobility-challenged face every day, every where.
For example, the playoff park where my grandson was playing, on that beautiful, summer day, was designed with thoughtful consideration of handicapped people. The bleachers had sections carved out for wheelchairs; there was an additional restroom large enough for a wheelchair; plenty of handicap parking spaces; and expansive, concrete sidewalks. All this fabulous planning and accommodation helped make my day more enjoyable.
However, challenges still needed to be faced. Even though the bleacher stands sat on a concrete pad, the sidewalk ended 25 feet short of the stands. In between? A sea of rough, uneven gravel. To make matters worse, on one side were the bleacher stands and on the other side were the restrooms, food stand, and parking lot. Having the wheels of an electric wheelchair (550 pounds unoccupied) spin in gravel is akin to a car stuck in the snow. I can’t even imagine how difficult it would be for someone using a walker.
The clincher (it’s a baseball term, right?) came at the end of the game when the team met for the coach’s pep talk (or whatever it is they say at the end of a game). It is that time when praises are given and awards are handed out. Only, the dugout was another sea of gravel away.
So, there we sat, my grandson’s paternal grandfather and I (his maternal grandmother), watching everyone else gather together as we were left behind another invisible fence.
Recently, I was forced into the noisy and congested world typical of American life. Yep. I had to go shopping.
It all started the moment I tried to squirt a little bit more of the most basic of all oil paints, Titanium White, onto my palette. With a PFFTHHPPPPP the remaining paint plopped out. Reaching for my backup tube, I found. . . nothing. Yep. That tube of Titanium White stuck in the back of the rack? It wasn’t white. It was Ultramarine Blue.
What? Impossible! Agghh! Okay, don’t panic. Just get some delivered.
Normally I can accomplish this task with a few clicks and, violá, the deed is done. Not this time.
Having pulled out my handy, lightweight laptop computer, I searched for a site that would deliver some paint within a few days. (Another experience of the typical American life.) However, with a click-click here and a click-click there, I discovered that it would take, drum roll – please, two weeks for the paint to arrive.
Oh, phooey, ptooey. I have to go to the store.
So, off I went to one of those big box stores that sell home goods, craft items, and art supplies. I live at least an hour away from any major city. Yet, I only had to travel 15 miles to buy my oil paint. (Another one of those pretty awesome miracles of the ordinary American life.)
As I rolled into the store, my eye noticed a sign for sale, “Be Original, Not Ordinary.” Huh? What’s wrong with ordinary?
Image this: A child who has never had the opportunity to be completely immersed in what would be considered a typical summer activity. Why? Because s/he is confined to a wheelchair or has autism or a brain injury.
I guess you don’t have to imagine it, do it? With all the ADA-compliance modifications that have already been made – and they are wonderful, the world is still largely out of reach for anyone with special needs.
There have been times when I have cried because I was sidelined because of a physical barrier. And, if I cried, I can only imagine how often a child has wept because s/he was relegated to an observer-only status.
Now, image this: A child or adult with special needs has the opportunity to be completely immersed in a typical summer activity. What a fantastic idea!
Well, we don’t have to use our imaginations anymore; someone has finally taken the barriers away: Gordon Hartman, the creator of the world’s first ultra-accessible water park. It is a fantastic idea, and it is a reality!
“Children and adults who have special needs are sometimes left out, not because they want to be but because sometimes things are not always adequate for them to use,” Hartman said.
Today is the opening day for Morgan’s Inspiration Island. A $17 million tropical-themed water park located in San Antonio, Texas. This astonishing park (check out the above link) merges those with and without disabilities into one experience. The greatest part of all is that it includes all special needs people.
There are waterproof wheelchairs that use compressed air instead of batteries (which the University of Pittsburgh helped develop); waterproof wristbands for those who tend to wander, quiet areas for those who get overwhelmed, and a way to quickly change water temperature for those who are sensitive to cold water. There’s more: fast passes for those who have trouble waiting in line, private wheelchair transfer areas, and the riverboat adventure attraction boats rise to meet passengers (instead of wheelchair ramps).
Admission? FREE FOR THOSE WITH DISABILITIES.
Anyone up for a road trip to Texas?
It was one of those mornings, Spring shining through the windows. The promise of warm breezes and light jackets. My favorite way to wake up. Smiling, I lifted myself up. Wait, no. Rather than sitting up, I had remained prone. Okay, I’ll try to push a little harder. Nope. That didn’t work. Time and time again, I tried – and I failed. You’ve heard of frogs turning into princes. Well, I guess I had turned into a turtle on its back.
I happen to be married to one of those sweetheart kind of guys. Knowing that if I quietly called to him, he would wake up and eagerly help me. I guess I could say he loves his turtle. Yet, there was no morning urgency to rise. So, instead of waking him up as I had in similar situations in the past, I decided to let him sleep. This old turtle could wait out the time with prayer. Eventually, he stirred and my prince charming turned me into his princess.
The before Rose – the one who existed before a degenerative neuromuscular disease claimed her body – she would not have been given to wait out any situation. She was always having to do, to go, and to act. There are many disadvantages to living trapped in a body that doesn’t work very well, but there are some advantages, too. This morning’s advantage was to let myself be helpless. Rather than thrashing out against an unmovable force, I chose contentment.
It has not been an easy metamorphosis, and I am not changing from an earthbound, crawling bug into something that can fly in the light. My conversion is taking away freedom of movement, incremental, almost indiscernable pieces of my life – my physical life. In its place, I am finding an upside down turtle. My choices are obvious. Do I pull myself into my shell and hide away? Or, do I lie there vulnerable and patient?
Patience and contentment are choices even when my life is not upside down.
In this post, Cal gives us a glimpse into the nitty-gritty of living with a degenerative neuromuscular disease (DMD). However, he doesn’t stop there. Embedded in his post, he also gives us a glimpse into the mindset needed to persevere through the struggle. The end result? You decide.
Who is your angel?
He used to call me names
Throw paper balls at me
Would drop a toad on my desk
And on some days even three
I would help him in his homework
He never would thank me back
Only thing I got in return
Were the silly jokes that he’d crack
He used to dress so shabbily
To school, he was always late
I even told my mother once
“That’s the boy I hate”
That’s how our story went
Until I broke my foot one day
It was somewhere in February
I had to stay in bed till May
He would come and visit me
Dressed appropriate and fine
And joke that he was first to school
While others reached by nine
He would bring all the notes from school
And occasionally flowers and chocolates
My mother even asked me once
“Isn’t that the boy you hate?”
That’s how our…
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Two weeks ago, I wrote the following: ” Failure is always inevitable for a successful life.”
When I first penned this conviction, I wondered if it would ring true for you. Have you ever felt the same way?
Failure Example #1: When I was about 8 years old, my sisters and I spent the summer at my grandparent’s modest home in Wisconsin. One day, playing at the end of a shallow canal, I noticed crayfish crawling along the muddy bottom. Many times I had watched my older sisters catch these beautiful, rust-colored creatures with their bulging eyes and claws held wide open. On this particular bright, sunny day, I thrust my hand into the cool, still water and made a grab for the largest one. Brave one moment and cowardly the next, I yanked my hand out of the water with a crawfish dangling firmly from the index finger of my left hand. With adrenaline pumping and heart pounding, I shook my hand violently, and the tiny lobster landed on the sandy shore. As it sat there stunned, I seized the empty coffee can next to me and threw it at the terrifying monster. Suddenly, its shell split open and blue blood mixed with yellow slime oozed out. Just as quickly as it had coursed through my veins, my fear transformed into remorse. My pumping heart stopped: I had killed a living creature.
The lesson: Fear is often the catalyst to violence.
Failure Example #2: As a Sophmore in high school, I wrote a science fiction piece for my Creative Writing class. Looking forward to my teacher’s feedback, my jaw dropped open as I read the notation at the top of my paper: “Grade: F. See me after class.”
Waiting for my classmates to slowly filter out of the room, I approached him – paper quivering in my outstretched hand. My brain scrambled to make sense of the words that tumbled out of his mouth. Finally, I heard “plagiarized.” I protested and asked him to tell me what story I had copied.
“I don’t know, but you could have not come up with this story on your own,” he replied with unfounded certainty.
He went on to tell me in great detail his perception of me. I was quiet and did not participate in class. My previous assignments were uninspired. As a result, he decided that I could not have created the story on my own because the paper I submitted was imaginative and beyond anything I could have written. Thus, he concluded because I had plagiarized, I deserved the failing grade.
Hot tears welling up, I left the room and called my mother. She had been in the kitchen when I had written the piece at the table, and she offered to come to school to give witness. Not wanting to bring any further attention to myself, I refused her help. Failing to pursue the matter with the school office left me with no recourse at the end of the school term: that one undeserved, unfair, prejudicial, failing grade impacted my final grade in the class.
The lesson: Perception is often incorrect. People are capable of more than you think.
Failure Example #3: As I grew older, I became concerned about performance – doing a good job, being a good parent, or having a good appearance. Sadly, my focus on performance was not confined to me, but I applied the same strict benchmark of achievement to others. Even though I cared about people and what they were facing, I secretly sat in judgment of the decisions they made. My previous lesson caused me to swing too far in the other direction. I believed that anyone could do anything if they tried hard enough.
During my clinical rotation as a nursing student, I encountered patients that compromised their health with continuing questionable behaviors. One experience was the time I spent caring for a middle-aged man who had a permanent trachea as the result of throat cancer. The first time I met him, we sat in the Family Room at the end of the corridor. As I reviewed his medical history with him, he enjoyed smoking a cigarette via the trachea opening.
When I went home that night and reviewed my day, I found an unsuppressible anger welling up inside me. My young husband had died just six short months earlier from cancer. How could Mr. Patient X continue to smoke? He had throat cancer, and he continues to smoke! Why doesn’t he just quit?
Because it was easy for me to live a disciplined life, I expected everyone to be able to do the same. I lacked compassion for those who had a difficult time making changes when it came to life-choice decisions. When I decided to quit smoking, I quit. No struggle; no backsliding. As I encountered people who tried but failed to quit smoking, I failed to empathize. I even failed to realize that I failed to empathize.
The lesson: Compassion is more important than perfection.
“I have failed over and over again in my life and that is why I succeed.”
I know that I will continue to fail for it is the way of life. Often, failures are the main theme of our stories. They are the interlocking threads that make up the fabric of our life. In many ways, our failures serve us better than our successes.
Failures are destabilizing, and the resulting disequilibrium demands attention. Maybe that’s the point: We learn from our failures. They teach us valuable lessons. To fear failure is to fear life.
Welcome failures. They are the stepping stones to your destiny.
We don’t seem them much anymore in this era of digital time, sand clocks. As a young woman, I bought one on a whim. It wasn’t one of those big hour clocks that you see in movies. (Remember the one in The Wizard of Oz?) Mine was a minute timer. A simple, tiny, glass and wood device meting out seconds with a stream of white sand. Fascinated, I turned over the timer and would watch the flow. And, even though I knew that it poured at the same speed, it seemed as if time passed more quickly the closer the top portion was nearing the end. Then, I would turn the timer upside down and start the flow all over again. Time was endless.
I feel as if my life has become one of those sand clocks. Time being measured out – with most of my sand now sitting in the bottom half. Each grain representing days spent carelessly without a thought about the stream, about the passing. Sometimes I even wished time would hurry along. Anxious for the future to arrive. It’s different now.
As I lie in bed – those early mornings that are still dark – I wonder if it really is morning or if I have entered some other time continuum. For in those moments, I can feel time standing before me, not still, but shifting. I can hear it pouring out, and I wonder how it happened so quickly. No longer carefree, I caress my clock in my hands and watch time shifting from space to space, moving faster now.
Pushing against gravity, I struggle to sit up and to take hold of what time is left. Each grain is precious. If only I could scoop up some time and put it back in the top half, or turn it over just like I did with the minute timer. Even to have another minute added to my stream. But, I can’t.
There is no stopping the flow. Days slipped into days, months into months, and years into years. Until, finally, each hour stands alone. Time is no longer measured. It is treasured.
Living in God's Pocket with ABI
Marea del Portillo
This is a thank you blog that marks my second anniversary of living with ABI. I say thank you because the readers who have been reading my blog entries over the past year have been a strong source of support and encouragement.
It has been two years of trying to adjust to living with ABI. It has been two years of learning to compensate for my limitations. At times I will reread comments readers have posted in response to my thoughts. Some of the comments provide words of hope. Some comments are words of thanks for sharing my experiences. Other comments are simply letting me know I have not been forgotten.
In reading the comments I’m being reminded of the help I’ve been able to give others, including caregivers of those with brain injuries. Some readers have found some additional insight into living with brain injury, an…
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Initially, which did you see? How long did it take until you could see both easily and clearly?
Our eyes see more than our brain interprets. Visual cues all around us are being filtered out, and our awareness is limited to our experiences.
When you encounter a set of stairs leading to a building, what do you see? How about a soap dispenser attached to the wall above a sink? What about a store’s double-door entry with no handicap button? The last question gave it away, right?
If you are ambulant, then you probably don’t give much thought when encountering the above situations. Oh, you might have a conscious thought as you grab for the handrail, but you probably don’t even see anything worth noting. For the wheelchair roamer, we see obstacles. In fact, the situation may be so unsolvable (e.g., stairs and no ramp) that we have to change our plans and turn away. And that it how it feels. We are turned away from participating, turned away because we are powerless, turned away because of an oversight.
“(A) public meeting on accessible housing for the disabled in Toronto had to be canceled because the building that was hosting it was not accessible to the disabled. ‘There was an oversight,’ one official conceded.” (The Week, December 23/30, 2016, p 6)
Laying the book down on her lap, she turned her head so that her good ear was aimed toward the sound.
Again, another clunk.
Not knowing what else she could do, she waited with the still patience of a deer in the woods; her heart pounding as if it were the instrument of a mad drummer.
Then, her husband called out, “I’m home. Where are you?”
“Upstairs,” she replied putting her hand to her chest. “In the pink bedroom. You’re home early.”
“Yeah, the meeting ended earlier and traffic was light. I’ll be up in a minute.”
A smile played its own rhythm across her face as she swept her hand through her gray hair. I’m glad he’s home early.
As the minutes passed, the sharp clank of dishes revealed the location of his delay. As she was wondering what could he possibly be doing in the kitchen, he suddenly appeared in the doorway. There he stood looking like a high school suitor with a vase of flowers held out; the wrinkles around his eyes made him all the more charming.
“A gift of lovely flowers for a lovely lady,” he crooned as he placed the vase on her nightstand.
“As I was driving, I found myself getting excited as the miles brought me closer to home. I know you have been having a hard time lately thinking about all the extra work that falls on me because of your disease. The more I thought about it, the more I thought about you. Because of you, I am a better person. Because of you, I wake up every morning with a smile on my face. Because of you, I love being married. I love you, and given the choice, I would marry you again – wheelchair and all. You. . .you are a gift to me.”
I have the unique ability to be invisible. For a while, I thought it was because I am shorter than most adults.
If that is true, I thought, how is it that children are not bulldozed down into the ground? Maybe, I reasoned, that is why kids have such high voices; it is a survival mechanism to alert adults around them that they are “down here.” Eventually, I came suspect that something else is going on – a societal preference. Our mores define children as needing protection and consideration. So, we notice them; we see them. The same is not true for the disAbled; our societal position is muddied and conflicting. As a society, we nod our heads with smug smiles agreeing that the disabled should be treated with respect.
As a wheelchair occupant, I can tell you that society does not often practice what it preaches. I will admit that a small segment of people will notice me and make accommodations. However, navigating the streets, stores, and social situations is a burdensome task. All my plans and movements must – and I do mean must – include me being responsible for everyone in my vicinity because I do not exist. Sounding alarms as I wheel with the foot traffic, I need to watch for cigarettes, purses, bags, and people who swerve in front of me. Without as much as a blush to the cheek, they admit, “Oh, I didn’t see you.”
You might think this is as humiliating as it can get, but no. Worse yet are the times that I am scorned for being invisible.
Recently, my husband and I spent the day in Chicago at Navy Pier. I was sitting out of the major pedestrian traffic path, but still blocking a small walkway. (I have to sit somewhere.) With a quick step and an urgency of importance swirling about her, a woman came straight towards me. She came to a screeching halt (I heard her brakes squeal) as my invisibility faded away. With furrowed brow and lips, she waved her hand as if swatting an annoying insect (speaking is difficult with a frowning mouth) for me to move. Realizing that I had become visible, I turned on my wheelchair. (Let me give you some inside information, electric wheelchairs take about five seconds to charge up before they are operational.) Well, the necessary five seconds was too long for her. Miss I Can’t Wait Because I Have Important Things to Do, huffed and puffed (was she about to blow me away?), told me to move (without wanting to hear that I needed to wait for my wheelchair), stomped about (was she ready to stampede me?), and then turned sharply to her left, took three steps, and walked (or should I say charged?) past me.
With her went my moment of visibility, and I retreated once again to wait for the next moment.
It all started simply enough. Jasper wrote a post (An Amazing Choice) about a young man, Marshall, with cerebral palsy. As typical for him, Jasper piece was insightful and thought-provoking. At the end of the piece, Jasper offered his readers the opportunity to contribute to his post.
As someone who has made certain discoveries and choices with how to live with a chronic illness, much of what Marshall had to say vibrated within me. So, I made the following comment:
“Jasper, thank you for sharing this post. Just recently, I have been formulating a concept that there is the Gift of Suffering. In its most basic form, the idea is that our suffering adds to our spiritual maturity. As we continue to add to our faith, we grow in our relationship with Christ. Once we trust God with our lives (and, we, who are disabled, know the meaning of this), we can move forward in our appreciation of God’s plan for us. One gift: tribulation develops patience; and patience, character (maturity). Another gift of suffering: we can then comfort others with the comfort that we received from Christ.”
Having the opinion that there can exist such a thing as a Gift of Suffering does not dimish the hardship that suffering brings with it. Do not misunderstand me, please. suffering is not a preferred way of life, but it can change us into more compassionate, patient, thoughtful, kind, loving, enthusiast, insightful, creative, and respectful people. There are other ways that these attributes can be added to our lives, but disabilities have a way of hurrying along the process.
Again, do not misunderstand me, please. I am not saying that if you have a chronic illness, you will automatically join the club of those who have found the secret of being content with their situation. It is a choice – always and daily. Jasper made that choice.
In a more recent post, he wrote:
“I was in awe when I realized how my experience and gradual understanding of the suffering surrounding my ABI reflected the comment you made a few months ago. I would reflect on your comment at times and anticipate a blog post in which you had developed your thoughts further. Talk about mutual inspiration and support. . .”
To read more of what Jasper shared, please click on The Gift of Suffering
Even if you don’t read part one and two of Jerry’s latest story, I highly recommend reading part three. You are in for a treat!
Thomm continued to tell of his dream…
His head and neck then disappeared and a translucent uncle Thommy floated above the Hubble family table. He hovered over grandpa’s comb over, Lauren’s pigtails, Kelsey’s cornrows, and grandma’s poofy grey arrangement. He saw the horn of plenty and the expanded double leaf table full of plenty, and there in the middle his body. The center piece wasn’t the candied yams or the mashed potatoes. It wasn’t the salad, cranberry sauce, or the green bean casserole. It wasn’t the cherry, mintz or pumpkin pie. It was the body of a bird raised free.
“Oh Thomm Thomm“, he began, “Take a good look. This family is bowing and thanking God for the gifts they are about to receive and I was one of them. I was the one in the middle to be carved and given to each. This is why I was raised…
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Keep reading and enjoying.
Thomm the talking turkey continues…
“About a year ago my uncle Thommy went missing. Here one moment, gone the next. I was so fouled up and sadness accompanied my search for him. I wanted to pull my feathers out as I hopped and flapped over every square yard of the range. I walked the entire perimeter of the property for compromises in security. If there was a sag or a hole in the chicken wire fence he might have fallen victim to the coyotes. I never found him but I did find I had grown up through the loss. I wasn’t some little punk of a poult any more and things were going to be alright, even without my uncle Thommy to wing his wisdom and legendary stories my way. It was me and my buddies now, at least until about a month ago.”
I noticed his face starting to…
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Jerry’s latest post had me laughing out loud. A new Thanksgiving tale worthy of sharing. Read and enjoy!
Highway hypnosis took over the minute I finished the on ramp to I-94 west. Destination: home. The back-end of the van sagged with holiday food which included not one, but two frozen turkeys. I scored a couple of fifteen pound weaklings. I felt like kicking sand in their faces, of which they had none. I set the cruise at seventy-three, pulled the arm rest down, and turned off the Christmas music.
I saw something short, white, and moving along the rumble strip on the right near exit sixty-eight. I cancelled the cruise and coasted. It was a bird! It was a rotund bird trotting with the traffic. A left-wing was stretched in the air. I tapped the brake and as I got closer its tail feathers reached for the sky and spread like a Geisha’s fan. “It’s a turkey!” I said, “A suicidal turkey!” Come to think of it, a…
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How many of us are done? Done with the demonstrations, the riots, the “Build the Wall” chants, the Islamaphobia, the cry to dismantle elements of our constitution, and done with hatred in general. I am. Somehow, everything has been turned upside down. It seems as if everyone is getting into the fray. Rather than working towards peace and tolerance, we are witnessing aggression and bigotry. What happened America?
Somehow, everything has been turned upside down. It seems as if everyone is getting into the fray. Rather than working towards peace and tolerance, we are witnessing aggression and bigotry. What happened America?
What happened to: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Somewhere along the way, a seething, acrid rage began to smolder in our country’s belly. Hidden behind the smiles and proclamations of acceptance, we ate the poisoned fruit of jealousy and hatred. Until, finally, with glad relief, we spewed the foul bile from our hearts. And, what happened then? Did we look upon our vomit and hastened to sweep it into the trash? No, instead we declared it good.
“Look!” we cried. “Finally, my passions of greed, jealousy, lust, pride are unbridled, and I am ecstatic.”
Honestly, how many of us can follow our roots to the indigenous people of this land? We are an immigrant-founded country. Yet, we want to close our borders to the “alien,” the “illegal,” and the “refugees.”
We blame others for our failures. Our appetites are insatiable. Just like children, we dream of the good life – which has yet to be achieved because it is unachievable. Our bellies grow as we lust after more.
It is time to grow up, America. Look in the mirror, and ask yourself In what ways am I responsible for my life? Am I willing to change? What can I do be positive? In what ways do I take offense? How often does bigotry play a part in my actions and thoughts?
There seems to be a prevailing consensus that life should be good. Period. No ups and downs. No struggles and successes. No failures. We want things the way they were – as if our memories are accurate storytellers.
Life doesn’t always have to be good. In fact, life is pretty darn hard most of the time. Many of us face financial troubles, relationship dilemmas, or health issues. Yet, we find ways to cope. When I look around me, I see potential. Everyone I encounter has the ability to do good. No matter what you are experiencing, you have the option to think well of people or to complain and find fault.
Life doesn’t always have to be good for you to be good, to do good, and to think good.
Another blog post by Jasper worth reading. He does an amazing job of relating his experiences during a recent trip.
Living in God's Pocket with ABI
Dry stack wall – Ennismore
I decided to attend an educators’ convention as an honourary member. After 36 years as a paying member I smile at being given the title ‘honourary’. Deciding to attend was easy, attending was a different story.
In order to attend I needed to get to the event. Knowing that my driving limit is about 100 km, I knew the 200 km trip would be pushing my limit. For good measure I gave myself a slight advantage by not setting my alarm clock. I would let my body indicate when I was reasonably rested. Had I woken up at 9:00 I might have abandoned the idea of attending.
I was on the road by 7:00. I complimented my body both on being awake and getting organized and out of the house within an hour of waking. The two hour trip took almost double the time…
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Time for something besides politics? How about reading a book?
Reblogged on WordPress.com
Source: Meet the Author – M J Smith
An essential concept in design theory is the use of negative space: the area around and in between the subject matter. Basically, the idea is that what you leave out is as important as what you put in. For example, if I decided to paint a landscape, the spaces of sky and the deep shadows help support the shape of the trees. Even though the object (the positive space) is what people tend to notice, the negative space is what keeps the eye moving through and around the painting. The cooperation between the positive and negative spaces make the painting continually engaging.
The same can be said of the mind.
This past month, I found myself on an unexpected journey of fascinating concepts about the fundamentals of my beliefs. As I struggled to examine my mindset about God, love, humility, relationships and suffering, I become acutely aware that I needed to challenge my every thought. My mind moved through negative space where I struggled to write for I could not articulate the inner quest. What I held as foundational was as important as what I did not hold as foundational. The question What is left out? kept my mind engaged. As I transitioned from being the object to being the space around the object, I found myself on the precipice of reorientation of assumptions and beliefs.
Those negative spaces in my mind helped to form positive thoughts:
Let us begin to experience the world through our neighbor’s eyes; let their sorrows be our sorrows and their joys our joys.
Jasper Hoogendam has been learning to live with an Acquired Brain Injury since early 2015. His latest post describes how even an encounter with a neighbor can leave him exhausted.
Living in God's Pocket with ABI
Wrought Iron Gate
Living with ABI has it’s unexpected challenges. I was in a situation recently that completely blindsided me. It was the physiological changes that took over my body informed me that something was amiss.
I had a neighbour approach me recently for a favour. On the face it I saw no issue with the request. I felt I could reasonably accommodate the request. I gave the request a generic approval.
A week later I picked up the conversation to ask what terms the neighbour wanted to work out. He told me it was up to me to set the terms. I suggested that since he made the request that he offer the terms as he knew what the scope of the request entailed He was rather vague about the extent of the favour. After reiterating my point it became clear that the ball was definitely in my court.
I proceeded to…
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I am. I am guilty. We don’t use the word anymore, do we? The only time that we hear the word guilty is when it’s applied to someone who’s committed a crime. Nevertheless, I will use the word guilty because it applies to me.
I am guilty of having a genetic disease. I carry a debilitating, muscle-wasting criminal in my DNA. The sentence handed down? The rest of my life spent in prison – barred without walls. The worst part? This genetic-code criminal is capable of dwelling in my child’s DNA.
How many people with genetic diseases feel guilty, I wonder? Who do we tell? We know that we can’t apply social justice standards. No crime committed. Still, we feel responsible.
For what you might ask? For the extra load that our partner has to carry, for not being able to participate fully in the lives of our loved ones, or for having to excuse ourselves from functions, for a myriad of reasons. Still, others may feel, as I do, responsible for our genetic makeup. What can we do?
Not everything is worth saying, much less repeating. In fact, we should probably spend a lot more time thinking before we let words tumble from our tongue.
A few days ago, I read another FaceBook rant. Yes, I confess, I try to read everyone’s post. It is a character flaw of mine. Somewhere along the way, I developed the belief that if it is worth putting down on paper, then it must have some value, some weight. After all, it takes initiative to articulate concepts. Big mistake on my part.
At one point, there was an effort to writing. Grammar, sentence structure, word choice, spelling – all the old rules of written communication. While I will acknowledge that there are new ways of communicating and that rules do morph to reflect current trends, I still am stuck on the idea that giving life to words should mean something – something of value.
Instead, we have devolved into a multicultural, international mess of inarticulate, hotheaded, screaming mass. In this tumultuous time of insanity, an eruption of control grabbing is spewing acidic hate around the globe. Chants of peace and love have been married to war and hate. Oh, and yes, we (whomever that might be), we are right.
What does all of this have to do with me, a handicapped woman trying to thrive in her Midwestern town? Everything. There are people struggling each day to “cope” with pain, disease, and despair. All the while, physically healthy people are wasting their time – and mine – finding ways to bash or belittle another person.
So, before, you write another rant about some topic that happened to fall into your mind, take a moment to think.
Wha’d ya say that was worth my time?
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Phil. 4:8