A great loss, to music and journalism and all the friends of Greg Quill

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Australia, Canada, friends, gratitude, Greg Quill, journalism, loss, music

We spoke months ago, and I recall his sighing, “There’s so much to tell you.”

In memory, Greg Quill. (Hadi Dadashian photo)

We had planned to meet on my next trip to Toronto, and now Greg Quill is gone.

I don’t know what he wanted to share, but I can tell you this: Greg Quill was one of the best.

He was a journalist’s journalist, the one who practised his craft with honesty and integrity and curiousity.

Greg’s deep voice was unforgettable.

I didn’t know him as a musician, but Greg’s early success in his native Australia lives on, through Gypsy Queen on YouTube.  He was performing in Toronto, and recording, and preparing for concerts to celebrate re-release of early work — all while he was an arts writer for Canada’s largest paper, The Star.

Farewell to a kind and loving friend, who was so good to me during a time of great sorrow.

On skipping and channeling Eleanor Roosevelt

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Blogging our Blessings©, disability, gratitude, health, inspiration, women

living in gratitude©

Eleanor Roosevelt challenged us to do something every day that scares us.

How to do that, now?

I’m thinking of that First Lady when I’m skipping.  I haven’t had a skipping rope since I was a young girl, so bought one for fitness and improving balance.

I bought it when I didn’t have health insurance, as part of my stay fit/stay healthy goals.

My inspiration came from a friend who began skipping rope in her garage.  She was so emboldened by her progress in the dark, my friend was soon skipping outdoors by her oceanside home.

Here are two things I learned, in gratitude, from skipping:

1.  Adults look silly jumping rope.

2.  As a woman with disabilities, I look ridiculous even trying.  But once in motion, my heart skips with joy every single turn of that rope.

I’ve learned to laugh out loud instead of being frustrated and embarrassed when my limbs end in a tangle, and the skipping seems more stop than start.

I’m saying my gratitudes while skipping, with every clumsy hop.  I’m grateful for being in motion, and the sensation of building strength with girl-like glee.

(Read more about Eleanor Roosevelt at the National First Ladies Library.)

With gratitude to early mentors: It takes a village

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Blogging our Blessings©, California, disability, education, encouragement, gratitude, life, veterans, women, work

I know people in the corporate world who brag that they’ve done everything on their own to achieve success.

living in gratitude©

In my world, it takes a village.

In public service, and in the helping professions, it often takes many to reach one.

I am reminded of this every day in my new career, far from business.

As a rehabilitation counselor working with wounded warriors, I carry a toolbox of strategies to help soldiers recover from their physical and psychological injuries.

And every time I sift through a theory of approach or practice, I think of who led me there — a professor, a mentor at one of my internships, a long-time professional.

I learned from them at school and internships and post-graduate positions in government and at non-profits.  To my joy and surprise, I continue to learn from them every day in this new career.

I puzzle over a way of reaching someone, and hear the voice of my earliest mentor, Dr. Patricia Becker.

I recall her quiet guidance: Surrounded by boisterous, confident interns, she would patiently ask the most simple questions to draw complex responses. She challenged us in Socratic huddles.  She challenged us with difficult, psychological cases.  She challenged our assumptions, our oh-so-confident positions, and our privileged class  values and beliefs.

Dr. Becker’s reading list was the most difficult I have encountered in any pursuit. Not one text could be understood at one reading. Often, it would take all the interns — almost all psychologists today — to puzzle over a single reading, just to grasp a concept.

Dr. Becker supported interns in ways that weren’t always evident at the time.  I would never have attempted couples counseling without her encouragement.  Always a professional, she insisted on extra supervision with another psychologist, to guide us in starting group counseling.

I learned more from the people I worked with alongside Dr. Becker, perhaps, than anything I have done through years of graduate study and early practice.

This Berkeley, CA professional introduced us to a new way of thinking about disability, of adjustment and acceptance and, toughest of all, public stigma.  She showed, through graceful example, how wisdom and compassion can reach and hold those who are struggling.  She introduced me to a culture that I would never have encountered in the corporate world.

It took a village to teach me to walk from that world to this, and I am grateful every day for all those who have been with me on this journey.

Thank you, especially, to Dr. Becker.

Kathleen Kenna is a vocational rehabilitation counselor with Veterans Affairs.  

‘I am alive, please save me’: Thank God for Reshma Begum

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Blogging our Blessings©, gratitude, hope, life, women, work

Miracles still happen:  Witness Reshma Begum.

living in gratitude©

The tiny seamstress was rescued from the rubble of that garment factory in Bangladesh, 17 days after it collapsed, killing more than 1,000.

My heart ached when I heard of the disaster, because that country is the home of one of my long-time foster daughters.

My heart ached when I read that volunteer Miraj Hossain crawled through the rubble after hearing Reshma beg, “I’m alive. Please save me.”

The seamstress had dashed to the basement when her workplace began to crumble, and had found haven near a Muslim prayer room.

She stayed in that pocket of air, with a little, dried food — making it last 15 days — and some water, banging on metal to alert rescue crews. It took 40 minutes to cut through metal and lift concrete to save her. Recovering in hospital, the small seamstress told journalists, “I never dreamed I’d see the daylight again.”

Miracles still happen.

Reshma Begum is alive to tell us that.

She’s alive to remind us in the West that when we complain about government regulations — the health and safety rules that protect us — yet willingly buy cheap goods from countries without such protection, there is a horrible price.

Thousands of workers were in that illegally modified building, where American retailers paid greedy people to abuse poor workers with few choices in an impoverished country.

I’m thinking today of miracles, and thanking God for saving Reshma Begum. I’m thinking of her family, and my foster daughter, so very far away. I’m thinking of the choices Bangladeshi women must make to support their families.

I am thinking of the choices we make, living in affluence, far from Bangladesh.

I am wondering what we will do the next time we hear a faint voice cry, “I’m alive. Please save me.”

Kathleen Kenna is a rehabilitation counselor and writer who lives in Washington.  She has been a foster mother through Foster Parents Plan, now known as Plan, for 30 years.

Why I’m not writing about my sweet Mom on Mother’s Day

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family, giving, gratitude, journal, love, Mother's Day, women

I’m not writing about my Mom on Mother’s Day, because I’ve been forbidden.

(Kathleen Kenna photo)

She doesn’t want public attention nor praise, so protests when I’ve written that she was named “Person of the Year” by her community.

You only get those kind of awards because of selflessness, but I’m not supposed to write about that.

So I won’t.

(The trophies, with gilt, winged angels were so big, they drew enough attention.)

Today is the day her family reclaims the woman who does so much for others.  It’s the day we show our appreciation for all that she has done for us.

Except.

Except our appreciation is long-distance, because my Mom is busy working this weekend.  When others are traveling or golfing or enjoying life in other ways, my mother is serving her church (days-long Presbytery meetings) and her community. She’s helping elders.

(Her children always smile when our elder refers to others as “my seniors.”)

Five children spread coast to coast to coast, across two countries, send cards and letters and flowers and little gifts (you can’t spend much on her, without protests, trust me).   We visit in advance of Mother’s Day, knowing that we share this woman’s big heart and caring with so many others.

I won’t write about all that my Mom has sacrificed for her five children.  I won’t write about how proud I am of her lifelong example of truly giving to others, especially the most vulnerable.  (She has worked with children with diverse disabilities, young offenders, families in crisis, survivors of abuse, abandoned children …)

I can only express my gratitude for the woman who sacrificed everything so that we could go to school and achieve our dreams.

I can never stop expressing gratitude for the love of a woman who shared her delight in language and the imagination, by reading books aloud every night to me and my siblings throughout childhood.

I can’t stop expressing gratitude for her quiet example of living faith by action, of sharing all that she is and all that she has.

There aren’t enough words in my humble vocabulary to express the depth of my gratitude and love.

Happy Mother’s Day to my Mom and to all mothers.

Life in 5 lines or less: Words from a grateful rehabilitation counselor

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Blogging our Blessings©, encouragement, gratitude, hope, inspiration, joy, work, writing

living in gratitude©

It took me three years, five months, and more than 300 applications to land a full-time job in my new career.

Never underestimate the power of work to transform lives.

Life in 5 lines or less© is a regular Saturday feature.

 

Kathleen Kenna is a full-time rehabilitation counselor who writes in her spare time.

Life in 5 lines or less: A godmother’s exaltation

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Blogging our Blessings©, family, gratitude, joy, life, women, writing

Exaltation seems like such an old-fashioned word, one that we reserve for dusty hymnals and quiet prayers.

living in gratitude©

Yet it’s the only word my soul sings, since learning we are to have a baby in our family — the first great-grandchild, and my first, as a godmother.

Is there any better gift of love than life?

I am filled with gratitude, and exaltation.

Life in 5 lines or less© usually appears here every Saturday. Today, my joy is boundless.

Donations to Boston Marathon bombing survivors show best of America

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Blogging our Blessings©, disability, encouragement, giving, gratitude, health, hope, pain

living in gratitude©

Whenever you hear a disparaging word about this country, think of its generosity.

Think of all those who rushed to aid the wounded in the Boston Marathon bombing, who opened their homes to the cold and suffering runners, and who even gave the clothes off their backs to aid the injured.

I’m proud to live in this America, the one not always acknowledged by the naysayers.

I’m grateful for the generosity of Americans, who have donated more than $20 million already to survivors of the bombings.

I’m grateful that in this country, where millions of people are without health insurance — and therefore, for many, without any health care — that a well-funded organization has promised to help the survivors too.

I’m so grateful that the American Orthotic & Prosthetic Association (AOPA) has pledged to give prostheses for those who lost limbs or hands or feet in the attacks, if they can’t afford them on their own.

One prosthetic limb can cost up to $60,000. Remarkably, some insurance companies cap claims for prostheses at $2,500-$5,000, according to this trade group. Other companies might fund only one limb for a lifetime. Yet prostheses must be replaced every 5 to 7 years, according to the AOPA.

A prosthetic or orthotic allows independence and mobility. It allows a physical life, yet even more, restores confidence of self.

I’m hoping, through this tragedy, that we all learn more about the needs of people with disabilities. The AOPA advises that 500 Americans undergo amputation surgery every day. Yet insurance companies deny many the aid they need for an independent life. That costs all of us.

I’m grateful for all those donations to the Boston Marathon bombing survivors. I’m grateful for the prayers and healing, positive thoughts of so many strangers for victims of terror.

It proves, yet again, that hope thrives in the United States of America.

 

I wish you could see what I see: Oregon’s covered bridges

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gratitude, history, Oregon, Pacific Northwest, travel, women

One of the things I love about Oregon is that it’s still relatively undiscovered.

Take an unexpected turn in the road, and you’ll stumble on something wondrous here, like this covered bridge.

Grave Creek covered bridge, Southern Oregon. (Hadi Dadashian photo)

We always associate covered bridges with the east coast — lovely Vermont, mostly — so it’s always a pleasure to discover another here.

This 1920 bridge was only reopened to traffic in 2001, after years of neglect. Yet its bold, white paint and Gothic windows along each side are startling in the spring green of the suitably named Sunny Valley.

It speaks to us of history, because Grave Creek is named for 16-year-Martha Leland Crowley, who was buried nearby in 1846. She died of typhoid, and was buried at her family’s emigrant camp, after making the long trek across the mountain passes from Idaho.

The West was truly wild then, and Martha would have seen only wagon ruts, if anything, on her journey.

This corner of America is still unspoiled, and I’m grateful for that.

I’m especially grateful for a quiet spring morning, listening to the rush of a creek named for the loss of a teenaged pioneer.

“I wish you could see what I see” is an occasional feature of living in gratitude, because there’s so much to share along the Pacific coast.

Easter Seals has helped our family from the start

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disability, family, giving, gratitude, health, home, hope, veterans

When a Canadian farm family needed help to ease a baby’s lagging development, Easter Seals was there.

Hadi Dadashian photo

It wasn’t called AT (assistive technology) then.

But the resources, professional staff and compassionate help from a big city organization made all the difference between disability and ability for a rural child.

The Easter Seals approach then, as now, was focused on independence and improving mobility/ability. Even as a small child, I appreciated how our family was treated with dignity and respect, at a time when disabling conditions carried a greater stigma.

A generation later, our family needed Easter Seals again.

The almost century-old organization opened its residence in Vancouver, B.C. — Easter Seals House — to my mom, so she could visit me in hospital every day for almost two months.

We didn’t even know about the place, but after a friend advised that it was a “home away from home” for families in distress, my mom found that it offered comfort and accessibility, in addition to a much lower cost than a city hotel room.

Such kindness makes all the difference in a whole family’s recovery. And, speaking personally and as a professional, recovery for the injured is speeded with the support of the whole family.

Since Easter Seals was founded by a grieving father in 1919, it has helped millions of children and their families in the United States, Canada and, later, Australia. That could include a wheelchair or other mobility aid, family education or links to much-needed resources, or a social opportunity — dances and other outings for teens with developmental disabilities, for instance. Easter Seals-funded transportation, for many, has allowed independence and aided families with strained budgets.

Easter Seals has evolved over the past century to help elders with disabilities, children and adults with brain injuries, and their caregivers. It has expanded to become one of the continent’s largest groups helping those with autism. Notably, the non-profit has stepped up to help veterans with combat-related disabilities, and their families.

Always, families too.

I’m giving $20 today to Easter Seals, in gratitude to the staff and volunteers who helped my family at different stages of our lives. It’s a small gesture, but it pays for one night at Easter Seals House in Vancouver, for example, when a child with disabilities is in hospital or needs medical care.

Giving on Sundays helps spread living in gratitude here, every Sunday.