the soul's worth

My favorite Christmas carol is O, Holy Night. I decided this when I noted the lyrics, "Long lay the world/in sin and error, pining/Till He appeared/and the soul felt its worth...

Christmas time capsule

It surprises me that suffering causes people to question the existence of God. Since I was small, it's been the other way around. It's always when I am most acutely hurting that I am most convinced of a greater source of compassion. 

I don't remember the particular ailment, but I do remember sitting crumpled over on the toilet, my toes barely reaching the floor. I felt agony that my parents were powerless to alleviate. And I knew in that moment that I had need beyond human means to meet. I groaned for God because there was nowhere else to groan.

I got sick frequently as a kid; bedridden sick, as my mom would say, from earaches to tonsillitis. I was hospitalized at five for diarrhea-induced dehydration. They attached me to an IV. We called him Harry. Harry went everywhere with me, even to the toilet. 

I was seven when I watched a man with cerebral palsy talk about how God called him to be a preacher. He spoke his story with awkward gestures in halting, varied pitch. It was one of the most painful and beautiful things I have ever seen. I wanted God to use me like that.

"Whatever you want me to do, wherever you want me to go," I promised through tears.

It wasn't till many years later that I began to understand what I was asking for. I'd become so competent at succeeding, I figured that's what God wanted, and I was handling it. Then, just when I was really getting started, it all fell apart. For more on this lovely time of my life, see previous posts. Suffice it to say, it was way beyond diarrhea. 

I was pissed, and I'm not talking drunk, though that might have helped. Unfortunately alcohol was strictly forbidden for my recovery diet. One night, in a fit of frustration, I looked out the kitchen window into the dark.

"What are you doing to me?! I can't take it anymore. Say something, dammit!"

I waited. And then I heard it. Not audibly, thankfully, because as much as I wanted a sign, that would have scared the shit out of me. 

"I love you." That was it. Well, thanks a hell of a lot, I thought.

Not long after that, a friend gave me a book called the Ragamuffin Gospel by Brennan Manning. It was early July and I was about to move back east, a complete failure as far as I was concerned. Also, I'd never been to the Grand Canyon. One of these wrongs was more easily righted. I jumped in the car with my mom and we set out to see, in my opinion, a huge hole in Arizona. I threw the Ragamuffin Gospel in the glove box. 

"Never confuse your perception of yourself with the mystery that you really are accepted," says Manning. That was exactly it; I'd confused Divine love with a mirror reflecting my shortcomings. Manning further quotes the Apostle Paul, "the Lord said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.'"

Sitting on the rim of the Grand Canyon, the sun setting on a red horizon, I felt minute, my decisions of small consequence next to such fathomless beauty. It was a lot like watching the preacher with cerebral palsy.

"How deep the Father's love for us/How vast beyond all measure..." cries the hymn. It didn't matter how far I fell, I would never reach the bottom of Grace.

Sometimes people come to the knowledge of God in a euphoric experience of enlightenment. I generally find God on the toilet. But really, when else are we more exposed, more vulnerable, more open to divine intervention?

But we'll never fully understand, not in this life, what happened on that Holy Night. The Son of God born into an animal feeding trough is about as crazy as power perfected in weakness, or a girl who found her calling in a missing appendage.

What I do know, is that my soul feels its worth.

OneArmGirl 

joy of giving re-gifted

I was all prepared for another uneventful Christmas season here in the (currently) rainy Southwest. But so far, it's been anything but.

It's just Little Gen and I at the homestead, and I already gave LG her Christmas present: the previously mentioned three hundred and fifty thread count goose down 'boyfriend'. She wanted to get for me a decorative bull skull, horns included, as one ofttimes finds hanging on western decored walls. I've wanted one for some time and no, I have no good explanation for it.

So, on a recent snowy day we set out in search of said fleshless carcass head, but after two stops and much snow crunching underfoot, we came up empty-handed. We did however manage to stuff our faces with chili cheese fries from Sonic. All in all, not a wasted trip.

Wrapping treasure

But after scouring the virtual shelves at Amazon.com, gifts virtually purchased and electronically mailed east to the rest of the family, I thought all my shopping finished. But I was mistaken.

[I would like to interrupt this exposition to draw your attention to my particular aversion to gifts. It's not that I don't enjoy giving things to loved ones, but under the current pressure of holiday buying, I find it particularly disagreeable to run about in a crunch, simply because I need to cross another name off the list.

And it must be mentioned that I've been known, on frequent occasion, to give awkward and/or inappropriate gifts by accident--the awkward part by accident, not the gift, just to clarify. Just ask Dave, who received a rainbow-colored wind sock during a hospital stay when I thought his room could use some color. Fine print: Dave is not gay. Or take the paper lamp shade with the pretty leaves drawn on the side that I brought home from London for my sister. No, at the age of 21, I did not recognize cannabis.

I don't even like receiving gifts, for any occasion. It makes me uncomfortable. And complicating the situation, I have very particular taste (some call it finickiness) and as irritating as it can be, it's incurable. So a gift given without consideration of this particularity can be awkward at best, disastrous at worst.

With an approaching holiday, I start to panic if I've made new friends recently or find myself in any way romantically associated.

"Things were going so well until he gave me those peach bath salts; if only he'd gone with lavender!"

It can ruin relationships, I tell you.]

Judge if you will, but suffice it to say, presents make me nervous. So I'm not sure if it was self-inflicted therapy or sheer lunacy that made me offer to take three girls between the ages of nine and thirteen shopping for Christmas presents this week...on a Sunday...at the mall!

Yes, folks, the mall. A place where, at this time of year, one is just as likely to get lost or trampled as sit on Santa's lap. On our three mile walk to the entrance from the parking lot, I advised the girls to hold me down and force-feed me lemonade if I started to panic. They promised they would. Then I remembered how lemonade gives me a sugar high, and they said they'd make me breathe into a paper bag instead.

Be-chile-dazzled

But as with most things, the anticipation was far worse than the experience. And though I spent more time in Wet Seal than I'd like to admit to anyone over the age of 25, I was quite impressed with the girls' efficient decision-making ability, buying one gift every fifteen minutes on average.

Does it matter that most gifts were opened as soon as we got home, including some meant for other friends, that were opened and played with until they broke? Not in the least. We had a blast.

I got so excited, I went shopping again two days later with my Dragon Boy. We shopped for his mommy. We shopped for his dog. And then, of course, we shopped for him with the allowance money he had left. We even managed a ride on the carrousel at the mall. Then we went home and unpacked and wrapped our treasure.

So maybe it's just that I need to lighten up; not put so much expectation on one ribbon-laced box. And don't give seasons one and two of Glee to anyone for any reason.

OneArmGirl    

ode to cold

It's that time of year again, when I'd sooner lose another arm than go to the mall. Actually, that's how I feel about the mall all year round.

We've had a cold snap lately which we caught from California when she sneezed in our direction. But I'm actually enjoying the cold. I like to imagine I live in a place where it's this cold all the time, and I wear boots and scarfs every day, and go to work on a dog sled. I'm certain a lot of people in cold places go to work on dog sleds. 

The only hiccup is I haven't much work to go to these days. Things have slowed at the farm significantly. The horses have been put away in the barn with blankets and heated water. And Carson the cat is most likely curled on the highest hay bale in the feed room.

What to do? There are only so many days Little Gen and I can go to Java Joe's and pretend that we are just taking a break from much more important things...like napping. We've stopped in for three consecutive mornings so far this week and neither of us have that kind of money. They do make a mean raspberry scone...

Somewhere a little hand is cold.

I tried to drive to Santa Fe on Monday for an aerial fabrics class, but fifteen minutes down the highway, snow was packed on the road and the exit ramp was covered in ice. No need to risk my life driving so that I can risk my life climbing huge ribbons hanging from the ceiling, I decided. 

So, what did I do instead? Went to Java Joe's, of course.

At risk of stating the obvious, I should be working on the book. And I am. I actually opened up the first chapter for some polishing yesterday. I waded through, re-worded, cut and pasted. It was an arduous ten minutes, I tell you.

Then I went back to internet searching for the perfect red shoes to compliment a wool dress I recently spent too much money for. No luck so far, but when I find my shoes, it's all gonna be worth it. I'm gonna look amazing...for that one evening per year when I have reason to dress up.

I'm drinking more beer. Don't worry, it's just to keep warm.

At night, Little Gen and I sleep with our "boyfriends" to keep cozy. Three hundred and fifty thread count goose down comforters that don't mind warming our cold feet--best boyfriend a girl could ask for; a little light on conversation, though. 

"Hmphh," our mother says, "I don't know why you are sleeping with your boyfriends anyway. Why not your husbands?"

Little Gen and I look at each other. I mean, I want to get married, but he's got commitment issues...

I believe winter is for reading and drinking hot cider...only hot cider gives me a sugar high that makes me think someone is waiting behind doors to grab me. I'm trying to read, but the lack of instant gratification required by my generation makes sitting down with a book seem like too much work.

In fact, everything seems like too much work when it's cold. Removing my person from my bed in the morning is a challenge akin to climbing Everest, I'm sure.

Speaking of mountain climbing, this dude is training to scale Mt. Kilimanjaro with no arms or legs...

Photo courtesy of http://www.kyle-maynard.com

Really? Putting your own pants on in the morning isn't challenge enough?

These days, I'm lucky if I get mine on by lunch time. I think I'll put off Everest for spring.

OneArmGirl 

left out

The world was not made for one-handed girls. Or boys, for that matter. Case in point: mittens are not sold by singles. As you may be aware, most mittens, gloves, or other hand fashions are sold by the pair.

Thus, as a one-armed girl, I have a constant collection of unused lefties that live in a box or a basket somewhere in the house, while their counterparts get regular use. I am reminded of this now that it's starting to get cold again, and I decided to bring out the never-used lefties for some fresh air. I think they appreciated it.

You may notice that all of the pictured gloves are fingerless. There is no deeper meaning for this, I just find them utilitarian; I like to have my fingers handy.

I don't mind paying for a pair of gloves, only to use one; it just doesn't seem right that one of the pair should get no use at all, packed away with no purpose. But what's a one-handed gal to do?

And what becomes of the left out mitts? I honestly couldn't say; out of sight, out of mind, I suppose. Eventually the right mitt is worn out or lost, and one day digging through boxes, I may come across the other, brand new and clean as the day it was bought. But most likely, it is just forgotten forever, never given a use, never needed.

Like my right mittens, I've been living life singly for some time. I am without pair, you might say. I've been single for so long, actually most all my life, that it seems very normal to be just one. There was a time when I imagined I'd pair up in college as my parents had. Then I planned to marry at twenty-eight because I would be old enough to be situated in a career, but still young. Now in my thirty-second year, I'm telling myself that people who marry in their forties are certainly more self-actualized; it keeps me from developing a nervous twitch.

In fact, I've never much thought of myself in the context of a pair. And when I find myself in a paired situation, though excited by the prospect, I always feel a bit uncomfortable because it doesn't seem to quite fit. I often feel like a character in a book or movie: "the girlfriend." I'm taken home and introduced to friends, but I can never shake the sense that it's all make believe, that we'll soon be taking our bows and the curtain will drop.

A couple years ago, I bought a pair of leopard print fingerless gloves at Target. This was because they were the only pair of fingerless gloves they had, and not because I am particularly fond of animal prints. But I've been persistently complemented ever since because of it. One day, a middle aged clerk at Staples remarked how much she liked my glove. Suddenly inspired, I ran out to my car, fetched the left leopard glove, ran back inside, and gave it to her.

"Here you go," I said, much to the woman's surprise, and I'm sure amusement of the other patrons. I wonder where that glove is today. I hope it had a better life than it would have in my glove box.

Several years ago, I felt, for the first time in my life, a lack of partner. I'd reached, by complete accident, a contented state which can usually only be attained when some dreams die and you find in yourself what can never be lost; and the only thing left to do is share it.

It occurs to me that we are made for pairing. Maybe not because we need to have a mate. Not because we cannot be alone, but because, in coming together, we allow each other to be of use. In allowing yourself to be loved, you allow another to love. To me, this makes beautiful sense.

So where's my other single? I suppose I'm waiting for the right fit. I'm sure my scene is coming up, even if it is in the second or third act. In the mean time, if you know someone with one left hand, have I got a box full of gloves and a proposal for him...

OneArmGirl

what happened to my arm

I'd just started two loads of laundry at the local mat, sat down to mind my own business of reading Tom Robbins' Another Roadside Attraction, when the woman sitting two seats down said:

"What happened to your arm?"

Let's just stop there for a moment. This question, this basic, yet strangely puzzling question has been posed to me so many times in my life, it's afforded great opportunity for analysis. I will here unload a lifetime of said question-inspired pondering.

"What happened to your arm?" The question itself actually presupposes that something happened, that my arm was acted upon in some way or, as I've concluded is more likely the case, is presumed missing altogether. In fact, there is no logical way for me to answer that question as stated. As far as I know, nothing "happened" to my left arm, it just developed as it is along with the rest of my body, and here we are. And if the questioner is suggesting a post-natal occurrence, I wonder if they suspect I was the victim of a magic trick gone awry.

Therefore, when asked what happened to my arm, I am tempted to answer simply, "Nothing." Judge and see if that is not the proper response. I am also tempted to say, "I lost my arm in a climbing accident," as my best friend once told her younger brother, to which he responded with sympathy and solemnity, "Really?" This one incident tells me that logic is not always necessary to assuage curiosity.

Yet, consistently, this is the exact question posed, with exactly that phrasing, over and over again. There is one derivation; I am sometimes asked how I broke my arm, but that is even more of a brain boggle. Has anyone ever known, in the history of the world, of one case in which a broken arm turned into a much smaller fin with three webbed fingers? Sorry to get so graphic there, but it was necessary. I have to say, at least, that I am impressed with the open-mindedness which I sometimes discover. Apparently, some people still believe that indeed anything is possible.

However, in my experienced reality, I find it more practical to answer the essence of the question rather than the literal implication. [No, I did not study philosophy in college because it made my brain hurt; I chose the lesser of two evils and went with English Literature, which makes my brain hurt a little less.] So, to answer "What happened to your arm?," I always say with a smile, "Oh, I was just born that way." 

But I digress. Back to the local laundromat. Here is where the story takes an unexpected turn....

The woman then said, "Can I see it?"

Ok, a little unorthodox, but I don't put up much of a fight. I opened my jacket buttons and pulled Finneas out, holding him out on my palm like a minnow fish platter.

"Can I touch it?," she asked.

Well, we've come this far...

"Oh, it's so cute!," she cooed, stroking Finneas with her index finger.

She was so excited, when her washing partner returned, she asked him, "Hey, did you see her arm? It's so cute." She then coaxed me to show him. I obliged, of course.

Now, believe it or not, comes the bizarre part of the story.

"Do you have any makeup?," she asked.

Ask me about my arm. Ask to touch my person. But a total stranger asking to borrow my makeup? That's where I draw the line. Thankfully, I'm not the sort of girl to carry makeup on my person. Plus, there's really no need for it at the laundromat where there was a guy literally doing his washing in his boxers, presumably because he'd run completely out of clean trousers.

After my admirers went outside for a smoke, I smiled a stifled giggle, shaking my head. Ironically, I suddenly felt very normal. But I have to say, for all the times I've repulsed onlookers and sent babies screaming to their mommies, it's gratifying to know some people see with different eyes; emphasis on the different.

Aren't we all just another roadside attraction?

But the next time someone asks what happened to my arm, I'm gonna say a miniature Chihuahua Terrier chewed it off.

It could happen.

OneArmGirl

supergirl

Every kid has a superhero phase. Well, not every kid. I didn't.

My sisters and I were too busy playing Holocaust concentration camp survivors. There were no spandex, cutout felt letters, or capes involved. When we played, we meant business. And may I remind you, abnormality does not a superhero make.

And so, though I was planning to write a very thought-provoking analysis of the laws of attraction to physical difference and their moral implications....yawn...(but really, I was), I've actually spent the better part of today turning myself into a superhero. And it was a lot more fun.

I proudly introduce to you...

Faster than a speeding bullet (until she needs a nap), more powerful than a locomotive (in her own mind), able to leap tall buildings with a single bound (occasionally in her sleeping dreams)...OneArmGirl to the rescue! Ahem, with her trusty sidekick Finneas by her side of course...literally, never leaves her side...and he was most incensed that he was censored by a cape in the above depiction.

Super OneArmGirl came into existence this week because of OneArmBoy who suggested we join forces to combat evil. At least, that's what I assume he was implying. We are currently recruiting other handicapped superheroes, but they tend to stay well under the radar, as you might imagine. They can be very difficult to detect because most are expert at anonymity. It's one of our greatest powers.

In the mean time, I will just continue to play dress up in my living room and get carried away on my imagination, the most important superhero power.

 

Einstein said, "Imagination is more important than knowledge."

OneArmSuperGirl

digital debut

Not long ago, I had occasion to dig up some baby pictures of myself. Actually, I had occasion to call my mom and ask her to dig them up, scan them, and email them to me. But one of the results of my photo journey to the past was a happy reunion with this:

A photo taken of me at one year. It's a favorite, I think mostly because it makes me laugh. Notice my left leg tucked under the dress, creating the illusion that I am missing both an arm and a leg on that side. I'd like to think this was an early sign of a career in comedy.

I did usually keep one leg pulled back, using the other leg to pull myself along the floor instead of crawling. At least I had some diaper padding to scoot on; well, a cloth diaper...my parents were hippies.

But just look at those eyes and tell me there wasn't some mischief afoot. It's like she knows, one day, Joey will bite her arm.

OneArmGirl