What makes for a vital life?

Well...
Rain.  Wind.  Satellite intact still so I'll write here something of what I've learned from April.
Physical pain lasting too long...such a wimp (I have found out).  Not that pain is intolerable, but my actions to keep it from entering my every moment are.  Yikes.  Horrible way to live, not turning one way for fear of bringing about the jolt and then the spasms.  Makes it hell on this farmer to plant these days.  But still, I find I am happy.  Of course I had to first learn to be that way again or rather- choose it.
I think that's how it works.  Choices we have we don't often choose...to choose.  We simply accept this is the way it's gonna be for a LONG time.  Oh my, how depressing.  Thankfully, I found a wonderful masseuse and pretty wise human being in Lubec Maine.  She really worked me over.  And told me her story.  She chose and chose and chose all her life, never once settling from what I could concur...hers is a vital life.  I feel sometimes I get stuck in whatever the opposite of vital is- perhaps unnecessary would be the best opposition (or worst) to being vital.  So- leaving just a little bit of room now for the pain, I choose instead to notice that it is getting better.  Diminishing, dissipating and not so near darned depressing.
I'm such a physical gal, always have been.  It's been a difficult bumpy ride, trying not to hurt more than necessary.   But I hung with it after visiting that hopeful therapist, because she in fact did give me that more than a rub- hope.  Didn't even realized how much I needed it.  Thank goodness for those sweet champions out there who dole it out thick when we forget just how it's done.

And speaking of champions...perhaps visiting the Veterans Hospital yesterday with the Big Fish really made the choosing hope, vitality over despair and depression much easier.  First there was the fellow who hopped and slid , hopped and slid down the hallway into our waiting room.  On crutches, wearing plaid, suspenders and a gigantic smile.  See...that's the thing that gets me, inspires me- how the heck does he smile?  We thought he just refused to use a wheelchair.  Nope.  "Still got one good leg, the other's fake.  If I sit down, I always wonder if I'm going to get up...and I always do."  Smile.  I just sat there but everything in me wanted to bolt from my chair and hug him, thank him...for being so sunny when clearly, it rained often for him.

And then sitting again (one does alot of sitting in those clinics- but only because so many are being served, so it is an honor to just sit and wait with the best of them....) in the pharmacy waiting for the Big Fishes RX.  Wheels, I heard them before I saw them- they whisked like push, slide- push ,slide as his hands did the work his legs used to.  On the wheels was a man, gray headed and bearded, thin yet lovely in a graceful way.  I know...odd description, but I was taken with his beauty.  He shined.  On me.  Looked right at me for what seemed too long, I looked down- then up again and the smile just grew gentler.
Pleased to make your acquaintance.
Yours too.
Off he rolled, lovely as ever though never would he walk again.  It only seemed to make him more beautiful and almost, I swear- almost out of doors, he talked so much with those hands and arms I wondered- could he fly?  He saw me looking through the large plate glass window at him, almost as if he knew I was taking him and his every move into consideration.  Again, that lovely smile towards me and then finally out, into the world.
What makes for a vital life?  Do you know?  Can you add anything to your own or others that might bring that vitality about?
I aim to get right on it after this post.  My own life needs shined up a bit.  So that others might see in me that same kind of beauty, vitality- like the man on the wheels who made me believe he just might fly some day.
Take care-

The Gift Given Freely

In thanks I write today. For a life of freedom, for a cost paid by our veterans. Many in the military today wonder if the folks back home support them. They wonder if they'll ever see that home again, and if they do- will they feel welcome, will they be honored as they should be or will they be shunned for being a soldier. Many have loved and lost our military men and women to a higher purpose. How can we ever repay that sacrifice, what can we do as individuals to show our utmost thanks and respect? By not only remembering to say thanks today...but every day. By acknowledging their life and efforts were not in vain. To always remember when encountering a vet, past and present...by humbling ourselves and offering a hug or handshake and a very firm, "THANK YOU!"
I have encountered such men and women before, at a gas station, in a restaurant-their hats tell a story, their license plates sometimes state their occupation or past military service. I always try to reach out to them...and always, every time- am met with tears of appreciation. It does not seem like an obligation, to open up this way-it is a tremendous opportunity to acknowledge the gift given freely so that I may freely live.

What is a vet?

Some veterans bear visible signs of their service: a missing limb, a jagged scar, a certain look in the eye. Others may carry the evidence inside them: a pin holding a bone together, a piece of shrapnel in the leg or perhaps another sort of inner steel: the soul's ally forged in the refinery of adversity. Except in parades, however, the men and women who have kept America safe wear no badge or emblem. You can't tell a vet just by looking.
What is a vet?
He is the cop on the beat who spent six months in Saudi Arabia sweating two gallons a day making sure the armored personnel carriers didn't run out of fuel.
He is the barroom loudmouth, dumber than five wooden planks, whose overgrown frat-boy behavior is outweighed a hundred times in the cosmic scales by four hours of exquisite bravery near the38th parallel.
She or he is the nurse who fought against futility and went to sleep sobbing every night for two solid years in Da Nang.
He is the POW who went away one person and came back another or didn't come back AT ALL.
He is the Quantico drill instructor who has never seen combat, but has saved countless lives by turning slouchy, no account rednecks and gang members into Marines, and teaching them to watch each other's backs.
He is the parade riding Legionnaire who pins on his ribbons and medals with a prosthetic hand.
He is the career quartermaster who watches the ribbons and medals pass him by.
He is the three anonymous heroes in The Tomb of the Unknowns, whose presence at the Arlington National Cemetery must forever preserve the memory of all the anonymous heroes whose valor dies unrecognized with them on the battlefield or in the ocean's sunless deep.
He is the old guy bagging groceries at the supermarket-palsied now and aggravatingly slows who helped liberate a Nazi death camp and who wishes all day long that his wife were still alive to hold him when the nightmares come.

He is an ordinary and yet an extraordinary human being, a person who offered some of his life's most vital years in the service of his country, and who sacrificed his ambitions so others would not have to sacrifice theirs.
He is a soldier and a savior and a sword against the darkness, and he is nothing more than the finest, greatest testimony on behalf of the finest, greatest nation ever known.

By Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USMC