Twenty-twenty-three has been a hard year. My long-time neighbor died much too young. My favorite aunt was gone only days after I last spoke to her. And just when I wondered if my elderly mother’s dementia-fueled demands were going to kill me, she too made her exit.
The gut-punches didn’t stop there. Before I’d even started to grieve, a friend’s thirty-something son ODed on fentanyl. Mom’s old roommate—about my age—died two weeks ago. And last night I learned of another neighbor’s as well as a former editorial client’s demise. That brings the list to seven. On top of everything, I can’t stop missing a cat that had to be put down last January.
This year, with all its endings, makes me long to become more like the person I want to be. Inspired. Inspiring. Inspirational.
The hard bit is that to be inspiring to anybody, what I become must be backed up by an authenticity that can’t be faked. I can’t reflect your humanity without uncovering more of my own.
Radical honesty must be strong as bleach and tough as steel wool, yet soft and loving. Kinda like Jesus. But getting there isn’t pain-free.
First, everyone needs to think they’re normal. To those with disabilities, normal means acceptance, part of the group, a member of the club. We want to be normal, not merely inspiring.
So, OK 2024, here I stand—with not a normal bone in my body. Let me inspire you.
The polio that paralyzed my left arm also weakened my diaphragm, caused spinal curvature and left me in chronic pain. My ribcage is collapsing, making me list to one side like a sad leaky boat. Part of me screams, “So what? Everyone has something wrong—remember, normal is just setting on your dryer!”
Another, quieter but no less insistent piece says, “You act as if your middle name is Ordinary. But you’re fooling yourself.”
And all those deaths remind me that I’d better get busy living.
Airing the details from my bout with a disease that killed and disabled thousands in the twentieth century has never been my cuppa. Strangers have to meet and know me before I spill the disability tea. Sometimes it backfires: the man at Target who, when I parked in a handicapped spot, shook his head and proclaimed me not one bit disabled-looking. I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or an insult. Still those crip details urge me to keep secrets.
If you’ve ever stolen gum from a candy counter or lied to the teacher about your homework, you know this feeling. Anxiety and fear of being caught gets your heart drumming and you get a terrible dry taste in your mouth. What if they find out? What if I get caught?
Keeping a disability secret is a lot like that—you compare: so-and-so has it much worse than you do. You remind yourself of all the great stuff you do in spite of your disability. Why, I raised four kids including twins, sewed their clothes and can even drive a car. How inspiring.
This satisfies until you admit that sure, you can drive a car, but you also go crazy trying to peel a friggin’ potato. That’s when comparisons crash and burn on the altar of inspiration. I don’t mind inspiring others unless it’s all so others can be thankful that they’re not like me.
Even the Pharisees were that inspired.
So, I’m willing to run naked through my life in the pursuit of an inspirational love. Some days I’m absolutely furious that God hasn’t yet healed my poor old body. Other times I ache for anyone who needs a little help to get that damned potato peeled.
More often, I’m awestruck at the miracle of opposable thumbs (I still have one!), at the genius of muscle and nerve and bone, at the sacred dance of all these parts together. True inspiration is all around us, sprouting and maturing and dying and being born again. Whether you’re a star in a galaxy far, far away or just a run-of-the-mill human trying to get through the day, love is what makes everything revolve, resolve, evolve and inspire.
I’ll shiver in the January cold, without a stitch of excuses on, to say that love is its own best song. In whatever way you’re broken or not enough or lonely or too homely or not normal enough for our beauty-obsessed culture, fill your compromised lungs with God’s sweet breath and belt out love. Sing loud. Don’t hold back.
If I can sing about my nakedness and tell you that you’re beautiful and loved—despite my ridiculous inability to raise both hands in praise—maybe you too can find the courage. Next time you meet someone who can’t peel potatoes, grab a spud and start helping. And to be really inspirational, don’t forget to smile.
When I knew you in HS, I recognized that you had .a physical challenge (not knowing the reasons) yet I always looked up to you as a really " together" person. You never seemed flustered. Teaching elementary school was my way to play an important role in society (It certainly wasn't for the meager money). As my years left get shorter, I plan to pitch-in with helping others "peel their potatoes". Thanks, Linda.....