The story of Noor Inayat Khan is that of a heroine who claimed an enigmatic role to serve The Allies and her faith family during WWII. Her’s was a dramatic self sacrigicial life. She was a children’s author who gave herself for the ideas she espoused.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noor_Inayat_Khan
I have been challenged most of my life with a reading impediment. My left eye tacks erratically from left to right causing every movement to require refocus. To understand the chaos this creates in public, one can consciously count the number of movements their eyes make while reading a simple brief selection. Most of these are automatic in the experience of a normal reader, but not for the challenged reader. Reading is work and fraught with problems with every turn of the page.
Reading in public regularly sent tremors up my spine, as a young man, causing me to emotionally shrink in poetry, theatre and literature classes and later cower prior to reading scripture in congregational worship during my eventual career as a United Methodist Minister. Playing instruments like organ, piano, violin and guitar, developing my chosen career as a Choral Clinician eventually came face to face with sight limitations. It was no small accomplishment to complete graduate school surviving classes demanding enormous loads of reading, debate and essay. Later, congregational leadership required much impromtu reading and instant comprehension of plans, budgets, and much more. Somehow, I completed a forty-five year ministry not achieving the reading ability I so cherished.
Recently, I picked up a copy of When Women were Birds, by Terry Tempest Williams. Herein, Terry describes her confrontation with an early lisp which gave her petrifying problems in childhood. At seventy-five years of age I found great solace and encouragement in chapter nine.
Chapter IX
A speech impediment is an excellent way to lose your voice, especially in fourth grade. When most children were out playing at recess, I was sitting with Mrs. Parkinson in speech therapy. “Tongue-swallowing lessons,” she said. “It has been recommended by your teacher to help you get over your lisp.”
My teacher had told her I had a lisp. My face turned red, and I was flushed with embarrassment. I wasn’t aware that I spoke with a lisp until I was told. We usually don’t have an ear toward our own voice. Friends would make fun of me, the way kids do. Sometimes I laughed with them. Sometimes I did not. But the sure remedy to criticism and ridicule was a simple one: keep quiet.
My great fear in school was that I would be asked to read out loud. And if I was, I prayed I would be given paragraphs without the letter s. The old tongue twister “Sally sat by the seashore…” was my agony. I would try to steer the conversation toward “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.” I knew that diversion by heart.
Three times a week Mrs. Parkinson and I would meet in her special classroom full of plants and posters with illustrations of various consonant and vowel sounds. She would help me redirect my tongue when I spoke and swallowed. The point was to stop the practice of tongue thrusting.
The exercises went something like this: She would give me a saltine cracker to chew, with the instructions that I was to form a little ball in the center of my tongue. Once that feat was accomplished, I would open my mouth to show her.
Then, after much encouragement, she would place a tiny elastic band around the tip of my tongue (at least this is how I remember it) and show me with her own tongue where to place it on “the spot” (behind the ridge on the roof of my mouth).
I would position my tongue perfectly, just as she demonstrated, and then she would say, “Now swallow.”
I swallowed.
She watched.
“Very good.”
I would go through a column of crackers each session, or so it seemed. That was the swallowing lesson. The lesson to get rid of my lisp was something different.
If I placed the tip of my tongue where I normally did when I spoke—behind my front tooth and “its neighbor” to the right—and said “Sally,” I created a leaky sound like “Thally.” But if I placed the tip of my tongue on the opposite side of my mouth, behind and between my left front tooth and the one next to it, I created a crisp, clean sound that was correct. “Sally.” No lisp.
What was required of me was practice. Mrs. Parkinson and I read poetry together, my voice overlaying hers. She taught me how to hear the sounds of words and find delight in the rhythm and musicality of certain combinations, like the Emily Dickinson poem that begins:
Some keep the Sabbath going to church;
I keep it staying at home,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome.
There were plenty of s words in the poem, but I didn’t mind, because I so loved what the poem was saying. I forgot myself and concentrated on what was being said instead of how I said it.
One of my favorite poems we shared was called “Questioning Faces” by Robert Frost:
The winter owl banked just in time to pass
And save herself from breaking window glass.
And her wings straining suddenly aspread
Caught color from the last of evening red
In a display of underdown and quill
To glassed-in children at the window sill.
She knew I loved birds; had I told her I loved owls? It only solidified how much I admired my speech therapist, looked forward to our time together.
For homework I read these poems aloud with my mother. “E-nun-ci-ate,” I remember her saying slowly. The practice of speaking words clearly. Elocution. Suddenly I began to enjoy the art of speaking because it followed the art of listening. These poems were puzzles and secrets, each with its own hidden meaning. It mattered how they were spoken. My task was to honor the power of each word by delivering it as beautifully as I could.
In fourth grade I was not aware of alliteration or iambic pentameter or the symbolism of the owl as wisdom and the innocence of children in danger of colliding with fate. Nor could I have known how these themes of nature and culture would grow inside me and possess me later as a writer. I only knew the pleasure the poems were bringing to my mouth and ears. I could never explain to my friends how much I enjoyed my speech class, even if it meant missing recess. Poetry became play, a verbal athleticism more fun and challenging than playing four square or jumping hurdles on the soccer field.
Mrs. Parkinson believed in the beauty of the human voice and called my voice “an instrument.” She taught me to speak with the confidence and joy I had not known before. She helped me correct the source of my embarrassment by being conscious of sounds. She insisted on listening. I no longer feared being called on to read in class, because Mrs. Parkinson introduced me to the potential of my own voice supported by skill and substance over insecurity and doubt. I emerged as a lover of words.
I did not find my voice—my voice found me through the compassion of a teacher who understood how poetry transforms us through the elegance and lyricism of language. By sharing her own love of poetry, Mrs. Parkinson inspired me to speak beyond my fearful self.
I don’t believe our fears ever leave us completely. I still tremble each time I stand up to speak. I feel faint, nerves ricocheting between the confines of my own skin as memories of a childhood lisp awaken in every muscle of my body. And in those first few minutes before a group of people, my instincts shout, Bolt Now, there is still time to escape. But then I pause, look around the room, find whose eyes are present, and orient myself like a compass, remembering that words are much stronger than I am. I take a deep breath and sidestep my fear and begin speaking from the place where beauty and bravery meet—within the chambers of a quivering heart.
I am standing in front of the original Wetherill Trading Post at Oljato 10 miles east of current Goldings Resort in Monument Valley. John Wetherill and his brother-in-law John Wade encountered a group of navajos on horseback carrying rifles and were told to leave. The two men were in search of a location to establish a new trading post which would be the farthest location west for their trading business with the Navajo people. The following web address is the story of the result of their encouter.
John’s wife Louisa is a major interest in the story. She became so fluent in the difficult Navajo language that she was adopted by Chief Hoskininni who believed that she was actually Navajo at birth. The Wetherills were Quaker and delt so peaceably with the Deneh that they developed a major impact on the Navajo people and came to discover the many ancient residences of the ancient ones (Anastazi) in the Four Corners area. After five years at Oljato they moved their post to Kayenta, Arizona all the time growing in impact.
Gary’s article on The Slim Woman opens the life of Louisa Wetherill. Louise expressed her Quaker Faith through her love of the Navajo people with who she and her husband, John, lived and served. They developed trading posts in Four Corners area in the late 1800s eventually permanently settling in Kayenta, AZ.
John Wetherill is credited with having dicovered Mesa Verde and many of the Anasazi dwellings in area. Louisa, on the other hand, became fluent in the difficult Navajo language, and recorded many of their stories and legends. She was so genuinely interested in and loved the people that she was accepted as a family member of the Dine.
Insight into the lives of these incredible adventurers can be discovered in Traders to the Navajos, by Frances Gillmore and Louisa Wetherill.
http://reverend1.tripod.com/idle/pros.html
Concepts to live by.
He seizes the cool iron rod from its usual nest aboard the 40 foot lowfloor transit bus resting for noontime shiftchange. Preparing to return to afternoon service the driver ticks through his usual pretrip check list. Tamping each wheel and dually patiently performing inspection around the simmering vehicle he works methodically, ignoring all else as he checks its road readiness for eight more rounds, eighty more miles of starts and stops before night fall. Rounding the nose of the bus, he greets passengers who have been patiently awaiting his signal to the close of this daily ritual. The late comedian Johnny Carson’s joke about the Robin simmering his worm on the Pamona Freeway is not far from the current waiting conditions.
“Hundred and four degrees on the digital sign at the bank when I passed, ” offers a waiting cyclist as he completes loading a yellow Trek on the front rack. “When will this end? Have you seen the report this week?”
“Didn’t catch it,” the driver tosses over his left shoulder continuing to focus on changeover protocol. “When WILL it end?” he wonders silently checking each gage, then entering his driver identification number to start the bus’ GPS and communication system. “Short driver this morning,” he grumbles as he raises the seat, and adjusts the level of the steering wheel and rearview mirrors. Entering his last numbers, he hears the familiar bells and radio responses. “All aboard, he calls as the passengers begin loading toward cool air-conditioned comfort. [relative comfort]
“Is this the bus that goes to the mall?” a waiting passenger inquires.
“Which mall?” querries the driver. “There is Rimrock, Grand Mesa Center, Mesa Mall, Eastgate, Teller Arms. Where do you want to go?”
“Walmart.” came the frustrated reply.
“Sorry to have to ask you another question.” rebounded the driver, “Which Walmart, downtown or North Avenue?
“Next to Lowes.” came the irritated reply.
“You’re boarding the wrong bus, sorry! You need Eleven.” he picks up the microphone. “Route nine to route eleven, hold please, I have a passenger for you.”
“Copy,” comes the reply.
“There,” the driver pointed. “Your bus is diagonal across the concourse mam.” She turns with increasing frustration and pushes back through the boarding passengers.
“Next,” calls the driver.
“I need a day pass,” barks the next in line, wearing earbuds that were competing for the moment.
“Three dollars and seventy-five cents, sir.” responds the driver patiently awaiting fumbling fingers seeking exact change.
“How much?” the impaired border asks as he pulls the impediment from one ear.
“Three, seventy-five,” repeated the driver.
“Have two, ninety,” barks the fumbling passenger.
“Sorry, the fair for a day pass is $3.75.” reiterated the driver. “What would you like to do?” the seconds ticking away.
“I need a day pass. I have several appointments.” There is silence as the driver waits, having had experience with previous underfinanced confrontations. He then continues, “I can give you a one-way pass for $1.50 and you can get another later when you get more money.” he awaits a decision.
“Here, I’ll pay the difference, we’ve got to get going,” called a passenger waiting in line.
“Ok, that’s thoughtful, mam” affirms the driver.
“Be certain to thank the nice woman.”
“Thanks,” rises the frustrated response as he hoists a heavy backpack to his shoulders and heads for an empty seat in the rear.
Boarding continues with most passes registering.
“Sir, is this your pass?” the driver stops a man obviously in his 30s.
“Yeah, why?” comes the reply.
“It’s a youth/senior pass, sir. You appear to be neither. May I see the pass?” Passenger hands over the pass.
“What is our name, sir?”
“Mark,” he replies.
“This pass was sold to Ruth Alvarez. See, the name is written on the side of the pass. I have to confiscate it. How do you want to pay?”
“You can’t do that,” combats the passenger.
“Sorry, sir this is not your pass.”
“Ok, it’s my girlfriend’s pass, can I board anyway?”
“Can’t do that for you, sir, you must have a valid pass to board. Tell your girlfriend to pick up her pass at the main office downtown.”
“I’ve got to get to an appointment and I can’t walk in this heat.”
“Sorry, sir. Next in line.” There is no offer from others on board as the man turns into the hot afternoon.
A woman with a cart of groceries runs her card and makes her way slowly back prompting a younger man to rise from his seat to allow her a place.
A young woman with two children in tow boards, barking orders and directions to the youngsters as she fumbles for the appropriate fare.
Several final passengers run their fares and the bus is boarded.
Closing the doors, the driver prepares methodically to depart. Just as he begins to press the accelerator the radio blares, “We have a runner, running toward route nine.” The driver stops his forward progress, opens the door, and awaits the straggler.
“Thanks, driver,” huffs the bedraggled passenger, “Thought I had missed you. Are we going to make our connections in Clifton?” The driver smiles, considering the irony of the moment, she enters and pushes her way by several empty seats to an open place in the back corner.
Seconds still ticking, the driver closes the forward door and pulls into line with circling buses leaving the terminal.
And so it begins. Eleven routes and eleven drivers (four Para-Transit), similarly beginning their afternoon vigil, serving exhausted passengers for some 150 square miles this sultry summer afternoon.
Found at an Grand Junction animal shelter on a serendipitous visit my wife Gail took with a friend. Once seen Gail texted me at work and I said “GET HIM!” She did and now at 13 years old he still frolics the park. We came to find out that Paddy is a pure Puffball Chinese Crested.
I left professional ministry several years ago. Leaving behind the daily responsibilities and rituals of ministry, began a personal journey involving an opportunity to review the question, “Who am I really?” Its not that, while formally engaged in the profession, I consciously awoke each morning and told myself “You are a minister today.” I didn’t. In fact I remember just the opposite. I remember feeling more uncomfortable with the title than that the shoe fit. When introduced in social situations I often felt compelled to offer some disclaimer to the introduction. I would say something that I hoped would separate me from what I imagined to be the other’s unflattering association with one bearing the title. “I’m still a fun guy” or “I can party down as well as anyone else,”I would think, even if I didn’t actually utter the words. Its not that I consciously sought validation from the job to define my spot in the universe, or how I could actually draw a salary for doing something that I so thoroughly loved.
The French called it raison d’étra or one’s reason for being. It seems to be a common human experience to asks, “Why am I here? Why do I take up space on this planet?” It is also common for persons to associate purpose and meaning with roles that they assume even for a short time, and when those roles vanish, to wonder “why am I here … now?” Such quandary grows more prominent as we grow older and seem to be passed by for everything meaningful. Unless we morph our, career long, reason for being into something more appropriate to our current station in life, we find a creeping since of doubt and depression eating away at the fabric of life
This is so for a number of my friends who have chosen mass transit as a retirement career. There is a definite satisfaction in helping others get to work or appointments or simply get from one point to another in their daily bustle. It does seem that bus drivers have a helpful role in our suburban society, even in the canyon country of Colorado’s Western Slope. When one lives in Fruita, the gateway to Utah on I-70 west of Grand Junction and works in Palisade, nestled at the foot of Mount Garfield and the Grand Mesa, east of the small city, and has no car, the bus is the common denominator. Even youth live on the opposite end of the Grand Valley from their school of choice and must take the bus. As fuel rises and populations grow, mass transportation will be even more of a necessity for communities like ours to function.
Ever since I first explained my background to passengers on route three the title has followed me like a hashtag. “Have a good day, Reverend,” might be occasionally offered as a passenger I didn’t even know left the bus, or “Big Al was a preacher before he became a driver,” was offered by a familiar passenger who was showing a newbie the ropes of transit service.
One day, however, a regular rider asked in earnest, as we jostled down the uneven street, “Big Al, are you still a preacher?”
“What was that?” I replied, not hearing as well as I used to. “What did you ask?”
“Are you still a preacher?” they repeated.
“Well not anymore,” I replied. “I retired.”
There was a moment of silence signally the assembly of an added question in the inquirers mind. “Can a preacher really retire?” I popped a glance in the rearview mirror noticing the expression on the questioners face. It was if I had suggested that Mother Nature herself, on some particular day, were to stop attending to the natural order that keeps the universe in balance.
“Well, I guess what I mean is that I no longer have a congregation.” I attempted to correct myself.
He was, again, silent for a spell and then from the rear of the bus came the words, “We’re your congregation! Isn’t that right?”
The river and the sea can be kings of a hundred valleys,
Because they lie below them.
That is why they can be the kings of a hundred valleys.
Therefore:
If the sage wants to stand above people,
He must speak to them from below.
If he wants to lead people,
He must follow them from behind.
Therefore:
When the sage stands above people,
They are not oppressed.
When he leads people,
They are not obstructed.
The world will exalt him
And not grow tired of him.
Because he does not resist, None in the world resists him.
Te-Tao Ching #66
Lao-Tzu
Drivers on city buses must sign an agreement that they will not text or talk on the cellphone or listen to cell music while in the drivers seat. Failure to comply with this regulation is grounds for immediate termination.
Transit and Paratransit drivers also learn from the getgo to honor the Triple LC principle (LLLC). Safety behind the wheel requires a driver to LOOK AHEAD, looking at least 15 second ahead of the vehicle for immediate developments in the encroaching roadway. A driver must LOOK AROUND, being aware of all that is in front, on both sides and is likely approaching from the rear of the vehicle for emergencies waiting to happen. A driver must ideally change his or her view by looking in a different mirror every 3-5 seconds, moving forward and backward in the drivers seat to remove obstructive views at intersections then looking left, right, and left again before proceeding. Finally, a driver must COMMUNICATE by using the horn, blinkers and signals to impart their intentions other drivers and pedestrians. Drivers are trained, retrained, reminded, and reported to keep these safety conserns fresh in mind.
It is amazing, though, as one with almost seven years attempting to replicate the safety principles expected by quality transit companies, how I have become increasingly aware of all that goes on around me. Awareness opens our eyes.
To attain a glimpse of what the transit experience is like, try the following experiment. Leave your cell phone at home, turn off your MP3 and car radio. Cancel all other distractions. Then drive the same fixed route nine times on a single day and record all that happens along the way. You will, I guarantee, have an eye opening experience. You will be amazed at the occurances of which you have not previously been aware. REMEMBER, you must cut out all distractions and stay as alert as possible during the entire experiment. If you want to simulate a fixed route drivers experience even closer, you can also lay out a twenty-five minute course across town (one way) and at the other end turn around and drive back to where you started. Repeat this round trip nine times, you got it, going over the identical course 18 times in the same morning or afternoon uninterrupted. Additionally you must drive it as though you were expected to make it within the time allotted, driving the speed limit safely or disappoint your imaginary passengers on either end. If you would like to carry the simulation further, you can choose 6 stops (eventhough a real route for GVT will have 20) each way. At each Stop wait 10 seconds and take off again. You must do it safely and quickly as possible.
Being more alert behind the wheel, I have experienced many helpful and supportive passengers but I have also noticed behaviors that concern me. Many of these are related to new technology. Cell phones, tablets, Ipods, Mp3s, even laptops, are in many ways our friends when it comes to connecting with others that are not present, but they can also be serious distractions and can even threaten our welfare and that of others.
You may have noticed that EDs (electronic devices) don’t remain in our scabbard, purse or pocket until we are ready to use them. They actually seem to intrude into our lives. They ring at awkward moments distracting all within earshot. There are signs in public places that ask that cell phones be turned down or off. My church has a slide on the screen that reminds worshippers to quell their devices before the Sunday service. EDs seem to demand immediate attention, and offer the opportunity for immediate contact. I have passengers that board with a device inserted in their ears, never hear instructions, never make contact with other passengers. They are seemingly in their own little world, water walking inside a plastic bubble. I have seen parents order their children on board while fixed on a cell conversation while oblivious to the welfare and behavior of their crew. I have seen passengers deboard only to immediately pick up their ED and walk directly in front of the bus on departure. Debording passengers are always to walk behind a bus so that they can be visible to oncoming traffic.
Passengers have deboarded, deracked their bikes only to pickup their EDs and ride away engaged in a saddle conversation. EDs, used while in transit, are definitely liabilities, they are not our friends in that particular setting. Now I will admit that there are times when EDs are helpful if used appropriately while seated. Passengers, make appointments, check on arrangements, field emergencies and do research all on their EDs. They carry on important conversations with family, friends and work associates. Youth connect with other youth diverging from another direction at a single point. All use phones to check on bus schedules and times. Of course our focus here is personal safety, and we are lifting up practices and behavior that aide in getting to your destination safely.
Waiting behind another car at a traffic light, I notice that it does not move when the light changes. I tap my horn gently, only to discover the familiar hand motion in the driver seat informing me that the driver was texting at the intersection. (How many different ways can texting at the intersection put you and others at risk?) Not being optimally allert at the intersection (remember the LLLC) can place you at risk when you touch the accelerator to start again, or when something goes wrong. I have seen tragedies unfold right in front of me that I avoided only by being allert. Be allert. Use EDs at a time and in a manner that does not put yourself or someone else at risk. Texting while … driving, parenting, walking, boarding a bus, biking, skate boarding, running or engaging in activities that require you to be allert is truly not a risk worth taking.
Shortly after I began driving for GVT, one night, I had a mini emotional breakdown. I came home and jumped on my bed and wepted. I was overcome with the reponsibility of carrying passengers and driving half million dollar carrages on public streets. It was and is a weighty responsibility that each driver willingly assume when they sighn a contract, even though, like me, the full weight may not dawn until sometime later. The company has training and supervisoral support to help you sholder the load. An umbrella of insurance covers you as long as you are not at fault. To protect yourself you must Look Ahead, Look Around, Leave Room and Communicate. This is the best path to success as a transit driver and passenger, O yes, and leave the cell phone turned off in our pocket.
Pilgrim Cafe 