Pope Leo XIV: "To be called 'woke' is no insult"

 

Cross-post from Democrats, Republicans & Independents United Against Trumpism.

Maybe that was a paw holding my hand

After reading my previous post about celestial hand-holding, my college roommate Bob sent this photo of my dog Bart in front of our modest house in Gainesville, Fla. He said that maybe it wasn't any hand that was holding mine as I drifted in La La Land for four days after a series of seizures and heart attacks. He suggested it may have been a paw of my dear-departed dog Bart who was our fourth roomie at the time. Bart was an Irish Setter-Lab mix that I got for a Christmas present when I lived in Boston. He was everybody's pal, but not every dog's. Our landlady's dog Joe, a one-eyed misshapen cur, would start a fight every time he saw Bart. Or maybe Bart started it, who knows? Bart disappeared while staying at my parents' house in Daytona while I looked for a pet-friendly dwelling in my new home in Denver. He disappeared one night and never returned. I got the phone call on a frigid fall night and I was distraught for a very long time. Bob's comments cheered me because he may be right, my dog Bart was telling me that it was OK to stay on Planet Earth for a while longer as we would be playing ball or frisbee in the Great Beyond for eternity. That comforted me. Here's the photo Bob sent. Bart in repose. Hella dog, Bart. Be seeing you.

Don't get around much anymore, but plan to change that

My daughter Annie invited me to go on the Friday ArtWalk. I used to go every month when I worked at the Wyoming Arts Council. Then I retired and went less often. Then I hurt my spine and needed a walker to get around. Then came Covid and there was no ArtWalk. Then Covid was over and my wife Chris was diagnosed with breast cancer.

ArtWalk was taken over by Arts Cheyenne in 2022 after a ten-year run in the hands of local artist Georgia Rowswell. It's gone from the second Thursday of the month to a First Friday arts event. It includes visits to local galleries, such as Clay Paper Scissors and new arts venues such as the Cheyenne Creativity Center downtown. There's new art to see, lots to eat and drink, and music by local musicians.

I hadn’t been to a First Friday before Annie invited me. She’s an artist too, you see, and just getting involved in the local art scene. Since most of my professional life was spent as an arts administrator where I did a lot of arts stuff, Annie depends on me for insight into that world. I laugh inwardly, not wanting to think about all of the things I don’t know about the art world. I know just enough.

Last night I realized that my social skills are not as fine-tuned as when I regularly had to schmooze with artists, writers, gallery owners, politicians, just plain folks. I was quite adept at small talk and most of the time I was on hand as a professional from the state arts agency and people expected me to say something enlightening. I tried. More than once I had to say I didn’t have an answer and I would get back to them on it. And I did. That’s how I learned. OJT. There are people born as arts administrators, there are those who go to college for it, and there are those who learn through trial and error. I am in this latter category. While in grad school at Colorado State, I helped arrange readings by writers. I had attended quite a few as a fan and someone busily writing fiction while I tried to make a living in other ways. I had no real sense of what it took to put on a reading. I found out at CSU.

I also did my first try at administering the arts. One of my faculty mentors, Mary Crow, asked if I wanted to serve on the Fine Arts Series. I was trying to get to class, teach a couple sections of composition, workshop my own writing, and find way to spend time with my wife and young son. Naturally, I volunteered. The Fine Arts Series meetings were busy and congenial. Its members included undergraduates and graduate students. Also CSU staff including the director, Mims Harris. I stepped into a semester that featured music and dance performances, an annual poster art show, and literary events. I volunteered for the latter. Thus began my journey.

Last night, I felt detached from that world. Early in retirement, I made a choice to spend time with my own writing and not volunteer for arts events. And then all of those other things happened and I found myself out of the loop. There was a lot I really liked about the loop. Educating myself and meeting new people. I liked that. Paperwork? Not so much. Annie has had a few arts-related jobs and is learning. My son volunteers for the local theatre and he also is discovering the joys and sorrows of THE LIFE.

I plan on attending more ArtWalks, readings, book signings, and the annual Governor’s Arts Awards gala. I miss it. I continue writing – that’s a priority. But all work and no play make Mike a dull boy. My advice: stay in touch with your schmoozing self. It keeps you engaged and the mind working, a concern for anyone over 70 which is where I find myself. I could play Wordle or assemble 1,000-piece puzzles. That would sharpen my synapses. I could do any number of things in retirement. An Atlantic Magazine Online piece this week asked "Why so many people are unhappy in retirement." The subhead: "Too often, we imagine life to be like the hero's journey and leave out the crucial last step: letting go." I could only read the first graf before the paywell clicked in. But I got the gist. Nobody wants to let go. Our entire life is based on beingness. We are not equipped to grasp nothingness. So we rage, rage, against the dying of the light. Or we sulk. Or lurk on social media. Or watch Fox News all day and experience the sweet rush of having our brains sucked from our heads.

I will choose engagement. I feel alive then and can delay thoughts of letting go for just one more day.

Saying goodbye to a friend, Dick Lechman

A eulogy for a friend from a friend: 

Books, books, books.

Dick Lechman had thousands of books at one time at his Old Grandfather Books in downtown Arvada. He had books in the store, books in a garage, and a few in his apartment and his car. I loved going into the Arvada store because I could always find something I didn’t know I was looking for. A history of World War I, a coffee table book of Colorado maps, an unread early novel by one of my favorite writers. If I couldn’t find anything, Dick would always suggest something. His interests centered on spirituality and religion as befits a one-time practicing priest. But his imagination wandered far and wide. My daughter Annie, Dick’s goddaughter, liked the bookstore too. She was little and liked to get lost in the stacks to discover intriguing books about dinosaurs and unicorns, sometimes in the same book. I never met with Dick that he didn’t have a book for me. I might be interested in it or maybe not. But someone who will gift you a book is someone to spend time with.

After Dick and his wife Mary bought a house in Arvada, I sometimes journeyed down from Cheyenne to play ping pong in his garage/office. Books lined the shelves there too. Dick usually won the games and then we retired to the garage’s book section. Dick also built and installed a Little Free Library in his front yard. I like those and usually stop to peruse the library when I see one. It’s like hidden treasure – there could be anything in there. And often was.

Dick was a writer too, a poet with philosophy in mind. He always emailed or mailed me his poetry. I usually commented on it because I know, as a writer and writing teacher, that every written thing deserves attention. In his poetry, Jesus played baseball and so did his disciples. Amazing flights of imagination. I liked the way he always worked friends and family into his poems – that made it very personal. I didn’t understand all of it but appreciated that he spent time and energy writing it down.

Dick was a conscientious godfather. He always brought Annie books and wrote her poems. He went out of his way to help her when she was in a variety of mental health treatment centers, in Colorado, Wyoming and a few neighboring states. It’s sometimes hard to know what to say to a loved one with mental health challenges. Just being there in a big deal. Yourself, listening. Chris and I always appreciated Dick’s attention to our little bird trying to fly.

Dick was one of the first people Chris and I met when we decided to abandon traditional Catholic churches for something different at 10:30 Catholic Community. Some of us gathered together in a men’s group and it turned out we had a lot to share with one another. We went on jaunts to the mountains. I moved away from Denver, first to Fort Collins and then to Cheyenne, and some of the guys went down to Arizona for Rockies’ spring training. Dick liked his Rockies and so did Mary. We all were committed fans and one of my great memories was attending a Rockies-Dodgers game with Dick and Mary and Dick’s brother and sister-in-law. Summer night at Coors Field. Sure, you might get heartburn from the hot dogs and the Rockies relief pitching. But always the best place to be in summer.

It's sad to say goodbye to Dick. The memories remain. He was a good guy with a big heart. And a fine friend.

Dick was always learning. This is some of his commentary on an Easter poem he sent me in April 2022: Remember that is just Dick's two cents/And each of you have your two cents/So it seems this Easter is better than last Easter./Cuz I didn't understand the resurrection of the spirit till/I was 83 years old.

He was 85 when he passed from this life last week. 

2022 was Dick’s final Easter on this planet. He also commented on the afterlife, saying that he hoped there was no paperwork there. By that, I'm guessing he meant PAPERWORK, you know, the kind we all hate to fill out. He didn't mean the paper of books because that meant so much to him. I do believe there is poetry and books, lots of books, in the afterlife. What would heaven be without them?

Dick loved sports and especially the Colorado Rockies. If there's room for books in heaven, there must be be a snowball's chance in Hades that the Rockies can find consistent pitching and go on to win a World Series. We can all keep praying for that. 

A poem a day keeps the nighttime devils at bay

Every night before sleep, I call up the Poetry Foundation page and read the poem of the day. It's an eclectic mix, featuring classical bards and contemporary voices. In the last week, I've read work by Grace Paley, Naomi Shihab Nye, and Amy Lowell. Lowell's "Lilacs" was featured the other night. I read it twice, not to make me tired but to fix the look and scent of lilacs in my mind so my dreams are more lilacs and less horror story. 

Dream experts say that we can do this, fashion our dreams before sleep. I'm only partially successful at this. Maybe it's a holdover from the bedtime prayer that my parents taught me. Here it is:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I should die before I wake

I pray the Lord my soul to take

The key element is "if I should die." This is not a comforting thought for a six-year-old. I say my prayer and settle in for a quiet night of hellfire and brimstone. It lingers there among the more positive terms such as sleep and soul and Lord. My late brother Dan often complained about his insomnia. I never thought to bring up the horrible prayer that we recited every night. The current version of the same prayer goes like this:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

May angels watch me through the night

And wake me with the morning light

Much more comforting to have angels watch me in the night. Most angels then were beautiful winged creatures bathed in heavenly light. So preferable to horned devils rising from the fiery pit. Our choice was clear: angel or devil. If we chose devilish behavior, we could confess the transgression in confession, say a bunch of prayers, and start over again. That was the wonderful thing about the American Catholicism of my youth -- a promise of better days ahead. If I disobeyed my parents or conjured unclean thoughts, I could spill it to the priest, a shadowy figure behind an obscuring curtain, the kind CNN reporters use when interviewing whistle-blowers or mobsters. Once released, I could say my penance and flee to play baseball with my friends or to sin again -- my choice. 

Lowell's "Lilacs" is a beautiful poem, one that the nuns may have made me read, although Sister Theresa was more likely to assign us rhyming couplets. A description of "Lilacs" called it a patriotic poem. Lowell was a Boston Brahmin, a New Englander to the core and related to Harvard presidents and famous scientists. She may have had to say the same bedtime prayer as I did. That prayer comes from The New England Primer, the first reading text in the American colonies. It was published by printer Benjamin Harris who so hated and feared Catholics that he fled to the Americas during the brief reign of James II. Quoted on Wikipedia, New Hampshire senator and former college English prof  David H. Watters says that the primer was "built on rote memorization, the Puritans' distrust of uncontrolled speech, and their preoccupation with childhood depravity." No wonder it's still sold online as a text for Evangelical homeschoolers. The primer was based on The Protestant Tutor and taught Puritan children their ABCs: 

In Adam's fall/We sinned all (with drawing of Eve being tempted by big snake and then, presumably, tempting Adam)

My Book and Heart/Shall never part (with drawing of Bible with heart on cover)

Job feels the rod/And blesses God (with drawing of Job plagued by boils and pustules)

My parents were diehard Catholics born in the 1920s teaching their 20th-century children a 17th-century Puritan prayer. This 21st century lapsed Catholic enjoys the irony. Meanwhile, I'll skip the praying and keep reading Heid E. Erdrich, Abigail Chabitnoy, Marilyn Chin, W.B. Yeats, Yusef Komunyakaa and many others. 

Now I lay me down to sleep...

When your hope shrinks, do a small thing to let the sunshine in

I tried to write a piece about the massacre of 10 innocents at the King Soopers in Boulder. Few subjects make me speechless but mass shootings are one of them. Archivists in 2121 may come across articles about massacres of civilians in the U.S. and thank their lucky stars that sensible gun laws finally were enacted in 20__ and that we would never see headlines like this again. That's as hopeful as I can be, that someday the U.S. will lose its cruel streak and the NRA will be bankrupt and all of our gun nuts will die from natural causes. There's hope in that. I liked these lines from a Naomi Shihab Nye poem I came across on the Poetry Foundation web site: 

When your hope shrinks 

you might feel the hope of 

someone far away lifting you up.

I'll write about the hope of small things. 

I bought a small grow-kit from Amazon. Nothing fancy. Just a metal tray, soil, and three seed packets. The chives and Florence fennel sprouted and are on their way to summer salads and desserts. I stuck some basil seeds in with my pot of Thai basil and still waiting for those. I planted chive seeds from hometownseeds.com but got nothing. I’m going to plant again today in a new pot and see if they do better. I like chives and you can put it in all sorts of dishes. But I can’t get it to grow. Best thing to do is buy some chives that already are far along and try not to kill them.

My herbs have taken over the end of the dining room table up against a south-facing kitchen window. The table is Formica laminate and is a remnant of 1950s kitchens. It’s in the mid-century modern (Mid-Mod) school of furniture. We had tables just like it when I was growing up. A perfect match for mac and cheese and meatloaf. I look at the table and see my mother and all of the many Susie Homemaker mothers of the era. My mom also was Anna the Nurse and knew when and when not to patch up our many wounds. When I was 7, our exchanges went something like this:

Me: Mom, I’m hurt! 

Mom: Are you bleeding?

Me: No but… 

Mom (kisses my head): Go outside and play – you’ll be all right.

Sometimes I was bleeding. She applied Mercurochrome to the wound and sent me outside to play. Writing about “Mercurochrome Memories” in ScienceBlogs, dblum writes that the bright-red antiseptic is a mercury derivative of a red dye discovered in 1889. The antiseptic version was developed 20 years later by researchers at Johns Hopkins, source of many of our magic potions and miracle meds. The FDA declared mercury a neurotoxin and it’s no longer made in the U.S. But never fear:

Science tells us that if once you were painted with Mercurochrome, your body has probably stored at least a trace for you. Nothing apparently too dangerous, just a reminder of your chemical past.

My chemical past. As a Downwinder from Colorado and Washington state, I already have some bomb-blast radiation in my body. And traces of lead paint – can’t forget that. I also have mercury in my dental fillings. And then there’s DDT. Damn, if I had known all this, I wouldn’t have lived to be 70 and (I hope) much longer.

I gave up ground gardening a few years ago when a spinal injury prevented bending and stooping. I grow my veggies in containers now. I’ve been successful although gardening at 6,200 feet in a semi-arid region continues to be a work in progress. My seedlings don’t go outside until mid-May. Most insects aren’t a problem but hail and wind and drought are. I keep growing things because it brings joy and I like the challenge of the cherry tomato harvest in August. You can get good ones at the store or farmer’s market. But I like to pick and eat them when they are still warm from the sun. It’s like eating sunshine. We all could use more of the simple act of nurturing a small thing to "let the sunshine in..."

"Sing, Maria" gets to the heart of the story

Fast-forward to the 32-minute mark for True Troupe's staged reading for Annie Shay's script "Sing, Maria" based one one of my short stories.

Prayers in the dairy section

Praying in the dairy section

I have nothing against prayer in the grocery store.

Yesterday, as I headed to the dairy case, my legs tired from piloting the cart through the aisles, a woman asked if she could pray for me. My face had revealed the pain, a crease in the eyes, a grim set to my mouth. She picked it up, this gray-haired woman with a kind face. She asked about the cause of the pain. Spinal surgery, I replied, my exercise regime included pushing this cart from produce to bakery to dairy.

She -- her name was Diane -- pressed one hand into my cervical spine, at C-4 and C-5 where metal meets bone. She raised her other hand is supplication and prayed. Short and to the point, a plea to God to heal. I looked at her raised hand, small and slim, so as not to look at other customers who might wonder what was going on among the coffee creamer and almond milk. Diane wrapped the prayer. I expected a Bible tract from her, an invitation to her Jumpin' Jesus church. She just asked how I felt. I said we should give it time, don't you think?

We parted. No change in my pain or stuttering walk.

But there were a few moments when my soul left body and sailed around the store.

It's not always a beautiful day in the neighborhood

Chris, Annie and I saw "A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood" on Thanksgiving Day. Walking down the corridor to the theatre, I was almost trampled by a rampaging mob of tykes on their way to see "Frozen 2." We have neither tykes nor grandtykes as excuses to see animated films. You could call them movies for children's but I like the term family films. Disney and Pixar know that the under-10 crowd needs parental accompaniment. The filmmakers throw in enough inside adult jokes and jibes to keep us interested. A good thing because these films will be watched dozens of times at home. Our daughter Annie saw "Charlotte's Web" at least a hundred times.

I knew that "Neighborhood" was a feel-good movie because Mr. Rogers was a feel-good guy. So is Tom Hanks. My younger self might not have gone to this movie. If I did, I would crack wise about it on the way home. I could never resist. When visiting from college, I gave my sisters grief for watching "Little House on the Prairie" or "Mr. Rogers." I thought I was funny. I always thought I was funny. In my youth, I teased family members and friends. I outgrew it, thankfully. Being a wise-ass has its uses. But it's not conducive to forming relationships, That takes vulnerability and humility. You know, Mr. Rogers' traits.

That's what hit me as I watched Tom Hanks as Fred Rogers. He was a humble soul, a friendly man who sought out people like Lloyd, the acerbic Esquire journalist assigned to do a short profile on the children's TV star. Lloyd was a broken man, hobbled by his hatred of the father who abandoned his family. He is struggling to be a partner to his wife and father to his baby. When his father reappears, he is so pissed that he punches Dad at his sister's wedding. When his father is hospitalized with a heart attack, he refuses to see him, opting instead to go to work. Mr. Rogers helps him to heal by being himself and asking the right questions. I  won't say what happens next as I don't want to spoil it.

I left the theatre with a warm feeling. Chris liked the film but Annie did not. She grew up with Mr. Rogers and liked him. But the movie didn't have enough oomph for her. She is a Millennial who avoids network TV and spends her Roku-fueled spare time with life looking for horror films, oddball YouTube videos, and funky indie films. She is kind and creative but impatient. We enjoy a lively banter and has picked up wiseassery from me. My son Kevin has a quick wit, too. He has always had a sensitive soul and I hope that remains. We don't see him much as he lives 900 miles away. I want my kids to be good people. Bad people seem to be on the ascendancy, at least in the public sphere.

I would love to be Christ-like in my behavior toward others. My writing style sometimes allows that, as does my daily behavior. I crave Mr. Rogers' understanding nature. I've long admired Elwood P. Doud, the rabbit-conjuring soul in "Harvey." I would wander the town introducing my pooka Harvey to strangers. I would hand them my card and ask them if I could buy them a drink. I would hope that people tolerated my quirky nature and and invisible companion. Unfortunately, those who wander from acceptable social behavior tend to be discounted even vilified. Americans, bless their hearts, like to believe they tolerate the eccentric among us.

I know a man who's a fixture in our downtown. He has a mental illness and works full time. He tells jokes when he shows up at events. He writes poetry as he hangs out at a local coffee house. On one chilly fall evening. he spotted me pushing my walker along a downtown sidewalk. I saw him scribbling on a sheet of paper as he made his way to me across the street. Before I could even greet him, he handed me the paper. On it were "get well soon" wishes. It was nice and I thanked him. I wish I would have told him it was the best card I had ever received. It was the best because it was the nicest gesture. I could see Mr. Rogers doing this. I could also imagine good wishes from Mr. Doud. He, of course, would have invited me into the Paramount Ballroom for a warm drink on a cold night.
And I would have accepted.

During a bad weekend for equality, I ponder the Catholic Church's social justice traditions

By now, everyone has viewed the video of the Catholic school boys mocking tribal elder Nathan Phillips on the National Mall.

To review, students from the all-boys Covington (Ky.) Catholic High  School are shown mocking Phillips as he beats the drum and chants the American Indian Movement song. Phillips is a member of the Omaha tribe, a Vietnam veteran, and one of the organizers of the Standing Rock oil pipeline protests of 2017. Videos show white school boys wearing MAGA hats. They also chant Trumpisms such as "build the wall." Obnoxious brats, sons of privilege. One wonders where their clueless hatred came from. One need look no further than our clueless hate-filled president, who mocks Native Americans with terms such as "Pocahontas" and references to the Wounded Knee massacre. They heard these things on talk radio or watched them on Fox News. Maybe they heard mockery of ethnic minorities around their house, from parents who shouted similar things at Trump rallies. Some teachers may be to blame, not so much for spouting racism but by failing to nip it in the bud. Certainly social media spreads the hate, although to blame the Internet for these boys' behavior is too convenient. It takes them -- and the rest of us -- off the hook. That's part of the problem.

Some Facebook commenters have urged the school to expel these students. Too easy. This is a teaching moment. Boot the kids from school and they will head off to the local suburban public school where they will remain smug in their ignorance. The Catholic Church has many teaching tools at its disposal. The New Testament, especially the Sermon on the Mount, is a good place to start. WWJD when confronted with a situation where empathy and understanding were called for? Phillips said in an interview that he was trying to insert himself into a brawl. He then tried to escape the melee but the smug-faced teen in the MAGA hat stood in his way. Here was a test to show what true Christianity looks like. Big fail, boys from Covington Catholic High.

The MAGA crowd loves to poke fun of "social justice warriors." Some of us, me included, proudly claim the term. Where did I learn the precepts of social justice? First, at home, then through the Catholic Church during mass and at Father Lopez Catholic High School. The nuns and priests and lay people taught us well. It's fashionable to criticize the church for its many transgressions throughout its 2,000 years. In recent history, we have the scandal of priest sexual abuse. Over he years, Catholic orphanages turned "unwed" mothers into pariahs and treated their young charges like cattle. The church loved its crusades and its bloody Inquisition. Spain and Portugal sent its men to the New World to convert the heathen and kill any who resisted. Nathan Phillips may be a product of one of many Catholic boarding schools, where youngsters were ripped away from their families and bullied into becoming good Catholics. The Catholic Church was a major player in the horror show of history.

It also offers me solace. Not lately, as I quit going to church. I used to find peace in the ritual of the mass. In adulthood, when sinking in the swamp pf depression, I found as much relief in prayer as I did from therapy and meds. I still pray. The main thing that turned me away from the church is what I sometimes refer to as its deal with the devil. The devil is represented by the evangelicals and their handmaidens, the Republican Party. The church decided decades ago that the war against abortion was more important than the spiritual health of its millions of members in the U.S. They allied themselves with the fundamentalists to impose a litmus test on its members. There are only a few questions on the test, I guess you can call it a quiz if you want. You are in the in-crowd if you oppose abortion, birth control, sex outside of marriage, women in leadership roles (including priests), and LGBT rights. This makes you a fellow traveler with the Evangelical Right Wing, a group whose roots are in anti-Catholic bigotry. Of course, Catholics did their own Protestant-bashing. When I was a kid, I was told it was a sin to go to a Protestant church service. I've sinned repeatedly in my adulthood.

So I'm a Cultural Catholic. My roots are in Catholicism but my present is not. I can't ignore memory. My final thoughts may be of a snippet of Latin from the old mass. My Irish grandfather and his rosary beads. Sister Norbert winding up to whack one of us misbehaving boys. Thankfully, I won't be thinking of how I hated Native Americans, Hispanic immigrants, Jews, Liberals, Obama, the transgender kid who just wants to use the bathroom, and all those other people who might look or think differently from me. I won't make others feel small so I can look big. That's a blessing right there.

LATER: Just returned from the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Black Tie Banquet at the Red Lion Inn. Full house. Sat at the Laramie County Democrats' table with Chris and Dem friends. Saw so many people I've met over the years, people I've met through the NAACP, Juneteenth and the arts. All of us were celebrating Dr. King. Guest Speaker was Dr. Olenda E. Johnson, Ph.D., a Cheyenne native who was the first African-American full professor at the U.S. Naval War College. Uplifting speech from an uplifting person. She talked about the late Wyoming State Senator Liz Byrd of Cheyenne who brought up the King holiday in the legislature nine times before it was finally adopted by that body's white majority. Talk about persistence and dedication. Now I'm home and realizing how wonderful it is to get out to meet people who make a difference day by day by day. Another blessing...

A return trip to the Mind Eraser may help me with mobility issues

I can't walk. OK, I can walk but with difficulty. I fell three months ago and the docs finally figured out I sustained some spinal damage that took its time showing up. My fall was a wimpy fall. I lost my balance and fell into s snow-packed gutter. It was the last snow of the season in Fort Collins and I was helping my daughter move. Nobody saw my fall. If they had, I am sure they would have rushed over to help the old guy out of the gutter. So no witnesses. I brushed the snow from my keister and realized I was going to walk around the rest of  the day with a cold, wet butt. Five days later, my back began to ache. The ache stretched across the entire lower back. It hurt like hell. I started having trouble walking. I retrieved my cane from the closet and used that to get around until I couldn't and then made the transition to a walker. My fingers began to tingle and I lost coordination in my left arm.

It took three months to get to the "bottom" of the problem. My spine sustained some damage from the wimpy fall. A minor whiplash exacerbated my arthritic spine, and maybe a blow that I had sustained in an earlier fall or a traffic accident from three years ago. Whatever, I needed surgery. That's today. I was bummed to hear I needed spinal surgery but I hunted down a great surgeon for the task. So nervous about it. Excited, too, as this might be the beginning of the end of my decrepitude. The doc says I will probably need therapy to get back the use of my legs and arms. I can deal with that. But not walking? I am an active guy and this frustrates me. Even when I write, I get up and pace. I work out in the gym three days a week and swim two days a week. I love to hike but the  mountains have missed me this summer and I have missed them. 

I have a friend Tom with MS. We've known each other for 25 years. He was jut diagnosed when we met at our Denver church. I've seen his struggle. I've been part of the group getting him from his van to the wheelchair. I've helped Tom negotiate non-accessible spots, of which there are too many. He no longer walks and has difficulty with his hands and arms and innards. Still, he keeps on. When our boys were teens, we took them to Six Flags Elitch's in Denver. My son Kevin went off to swim with a girl he met and the rest of us decided to ride the Mind Eraser. Tom's son Brian insisted. Riders with a handicapped tag get to go to the front of the line along with their family members. The Elitch's staff members were good about helping Tom into the contraption that looked like a medieval torture device. The ride picked up speed and five minutes later, my mind was totally erased. I screamed the entire time, or at least I think I did. We were shaking when we disembarked but also laughing like fools. Tom needed help getting back in the wheelchair and we enjoyed some of the more sedate rides the rest of the day.

Tom showed courage and grace getting on that ride. I was skeptical he insisted, as did Brian. Tom's mind has remained sharp even while his body did not. He played baseball but now is just a dedicated follower of the MLB, notable his hometown Red Sox and our regional favorite, the Colorado Rockies. I look upon him as an example of what you can do when threatened with one of life's toughest physical and mental challenges. When I had to use the walker, I stopped going out. I didn't want people to see me in such sad shape. After six weeks of that, I was a mess. My wife challenged me to go to our annual Fourth of July party and bocce ball tournament. I sat and kept score while she refereed. A few of the grown men had stopped at the Fireworks Superstore on the way to the party. They set off smoke bombs and twirly, flashy things. No big rockets as fireworks are illegal in this Wyoming town that everyone in Colorado equates with Fourth of July celebrations. I had fun. We all did. At that point, I began to get out of my shell and get back in the world. That's it, isn't it? You have to get out in the world. No excuses.

Following today's surgery, I will be challenged to see what my body can now do. Sure, that's a challenge. But it's the mind that's the real issue. I get to test the strengths and weaknesses of my physical self. But it's my spiritual and mental state that makes the difference.

Maybe I need a return trip to the Mind Eraser. 

Ted Talk on faith Nov. 20 at UU Church

Kathleen Petersen sends this invitation:

Bring your lunch, bring a friend and join in the viewing of a Ted Talk on our theme this month of "Faith" with a discussion to follow. On Wednesday, Nov. 20, noon. Free and open to the public. At the Unitarian Universalist Church of Cheyenne, 3005 Thomes Avenue. 

I love Ted talks. And this is a great way to spend a lunch hour. I can walk over from work.

I watched a Tedx talk today from Jackson, which is, as far as I know, the only Wyoming community with one of these Ted franchises. Dancer and educator Amelia Terrapin spoke about dance, arts education and science. Actually, she demonstrated it with her helpers, a group of fourth graders. Through movement, they demonstrated how sound waves move through a solid, liquid and gas. Very cool.

Healing salves of meds and stories

From Elephant Journal:

In many shamanic societies, if you came to a shaman or medicine person complaining of being disheartened, dispirited, or depressed, they would ask one of four questions: 

When did you stop dancing?
When did you stop singing?
When did you stop being enchanted by stories?
When did you stop finding comfort in the sweet territory of silence? 

Where we have stopped dancing, singing, being enchanted by stories, or finding comfort in silence is where we have experience the loss of soul. 

Dancing, singing, storytelling, and silence are the four universal healing salves.

I have always depended on the kindness of Prozac, Remeron and its related SSRIs. I also believe in the healing salves of art and stories and solitude. Exercise, too, especially swimming. Walking too -- I write as I walk.

Why We Write

Why I write, and why I continue to blog. Flannery O'Connor wrote scores of letters during her short life. She might have been a blogger, especially as she stayed close to home during the illness that killed her at 39 in 1964. Thanks to The Bloomsbury Review for posting this on Facebook.

"Who do they say I am? Interfaith perspectives on Jesus" begins May 23

"In the Shadow of the Buddha" author to be keynote speaker at WY Dems' Nellie Tayloe Ross banquet

Matteo Pistono will be the keynote speaker at the Wyoming Democratic Party's Nellie Tayloe Ross banquet on Saturday, Feb. 16, at the Plains Hotel in Cheyenne. A cocktail reception starts at 6 p.m., followed by dinner, awards ceremony and keynote at 7. Get more info at http://wyodems.org

For more than a decade, Matteo Pistono has lived in Nepal and Tibet, and worked in the fields of human rights and religious freedom. Matteo Pistono has been heralded as "The James Bond of Tibetan Buddhism" and has worked with some of the world's greatest teachers, including His Holiness the Dalai Lama, Sogyal Rinpoche, and the late Khenpo Jikmé Phuntsok.

Newtown, Conn., may be the next location for "Angel Actions"

As funerals begin for those murdered in Newtown, Conn., words comes that Fred Phelps and his Band of Weirdos from Westboro "Church" are planning to spew their venom against first-graders and their families. On Facebook, people were posting about ways to protect mourners should this occur. Military veterans have already figured this out, with a motorcycle honor guard that provides a buffer between the WBC and funeral-goers. Before that, it was the LGBT community who had a fine answer with "Angel Actions."

The first Angel Action against Fred Phelps and the WBC took place in Laramie, Wyoming, at memorial services (and subsequent trials) for murdered gay UW student Matthew Shepard in 1998. WBC had also protested at Shepard's funeral in Casper nine days after the murder. In Laramie, LGBT activist Romaine Patterson, a Wyoming native and friend of Matthew's, came up with the idea of dressing as angels to protect mourners from WBC's hatred. Similar actions have taken place whenever Fred and his crew show up to protest showings of "The Laramie Project," a play (and later a movie) by Moises Kaufman and the Tectonic Theater Project. There was an Angel Action in Tucson in January 2011 when the WBC threatened to show up (but didn't) at the funerals of those killed in the shooting that wounded Gabrielle Giffords. It appears that an Angel Action may next be required in Connecticut.

While it's easy to get angry and Phelps and his crew, it's hard to come up with peaceful ways to blunt the hate.

This post has been updated.  

Republican Paul Ryan: Heavy on certitude, light on Catholic social justice

As I watched the Veep candidates trade barbs this evening in Kentucky, I couldn't help but wonder what they were like in high school. Lori said that Paul Ryan was called a brown-noser in his high school yearbook. I don't know this to be true but I also don't doubt it. One only has to see his thin-lipped smirk and his beady eyes to know he was a brown-noser, the kind who has his face so far up the teacher's bum that, well, you know....

Joe Biden, on the other hand, was a wise guy, quick-witted and big-mouthed, who might also have been fun to be around. He may also have been the BMOC -- Big Man on Campus -- the guy who got the girls and wasn't too humble about it.

But there's one other thing. Paul Ryan has the certitude and rectitude that makes him unbearable. He's the kind of parishioner who's driven me from the Catholic Church. This is what the Catholic Church believes! I know it in my lily white soul! If you don't like it, you must be one of those cafeteria Catholics. Get out!

So I did. These type of Catholics are insufferable. Certainty has never been a Catholic trait. Joe Biden was right when he quipped that Ryan didn't learn much about Catholic social doctrine with his catechism.

Give me those feisty social justice street-fighting Catholics any day. Or those heady Unitarians or friendly United Methodists or angst-ridden Existentialists or fallen Catholics or Jack Mormons. People who've been through the fire and learned a few things in the process.

Biden has been kicked around some. Lost his wife and daughter in a car crash. Had his son deployed to Iraq. Experienced losses at home and in the Senate. He knows that there's no certainty in life or in politics.

Biden stuck it to Ryan tonight. He probably would have done the same in high school debate, although charm and a big smile doesn't always win points in competition.   

Cheyenne Vineyard Church's "Cotton Patch Gospel" has roots in Christian social justice

My former work colleague Randy Oestman left state employment to serve as a minister for the Cheyenne Vineyard Church, 1506 Thomes Ave. Vineyard services are very musical, I am told, which is not surprising, considering Randy's theatre background. Randy and his Vineyard colleagues take the New Testament's social justice message seriously. They minister to Cheyenne's homeless and collect leftover foodstuffs from farmers' markets to distribute to needy families. I buy my eggs from Randy, whose chickens lay the darndest-colored eggs. Randy even practices his theatrical skills in the chicken coop.

In October, the Vineyard Church is producing the "Cotton Patch Gospel," based on a book by Tom Key and Russell Treyz, with music by Harry Chapin, written just before he died in a 1981 traffic accident. Anything with music by Harry Chapin has to be good.

Here is a description of the play from Wikipedia:

Cotton Patch Gospel is a musical by Tom Key and Russell Treyz with music and lyrics written by Harry Chapin just before his death in 1981. Based on the book The Cotton Patch Version of Matthew and John by Clarence Jordan, the story retells the life of Jesus as if in modern day, rural Georgia.

Using a southern reinterpretation of the gospel story, the musical is often performed in a one-man show format with an accompanying quartet of bluegrass musicians, although a larger cast can also be used. A video recording of the play was released in 1988 with Tom Key as the leading actor.

Interesting to note that Clarence Jordan was the founder of the Koinonia Farm,  a ground-breaking Christian social justice community that infuriated its white Georgia neighbors by practicing and preaching equality for all, including African-Americans. During the Civil Rights struggles of the 1950s and '60s, Koinonia was the target of a local economic boycott and several bombings. It was able to survive by shipping all of its goods through the U.S. Postal Service because, as we all know, "the mail must go through." Jordan also was instrumental in the founding of Habitat for Humanity, another revolutionary Georgia organization. Koinonia and Habitat had a big influence on one of its neighbors, Jimmy Carter of Plains. Clarence Jordan's nephew, Hamilton, was President Carter's chief of staff.

"Cotton Patch Gospel" will be performed at the Cheyenne Vineyard Church Oct. 5-6. 12-13 and 19-20 at 7 p.m. Admission is free but please bring grocery gift cards or non-perishable food for the needy. Call for tickets: 307-638-8700.

Sister Simone Campbell fires up the DNC crowd