Category: Faith

Disability Pride Month 2026

Group of diverse people celebrating Disability Pride with flags and signs
~ Linda Wright ~ Leave a comment

By the age of three, I had already figured out that many well-meaning adults reacted to me with fear, if not disgust. I am not proud of how long it took me to acknowledge that I was a person with a disability. My internalized ableism compelled me to explain my limitations to strangers in the hope of convincing them that I was fine.

We—and by we I mean all of us, whether we consider ourselves disabled or not—have benefited from the ADA. The Americans with Disabilities Act was signed into law thirty-six years ago. I am proud of my predecessors who rolled their wheelchairs in front of buses, crawled up concrete steps, and waved banners in protest. I am proud of the people who made time to visit their elected representatives to support the National Library Service for the Blind and Print Disabled. I am also grateful to the allies who helped change the laws, making all of our lives more humane.

In the ways that matter most, I am fine. I’ve been fine for seventy-seven years. I am also human, which means there are times when I am not okay. There are some things I need help with, just as someone with a broken bone may need a crutch or someone with depression may need medication to keep functioning. There are also many things I have learned to do differently or work around. I’m particularly proud of my ability to adapt.

Better yet, now that I am an older adult, more and more of my peers have disabilities—although many still have a lot of catching up to do. For example, a friend who was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease five years ago looks and acts like a person with a disability, yet she refuses to identify as a disabled person. I recognize that accepting a disability is a deeply personal process. Understandably, living in a culture where disability is often stigmatized can erode a person’s self-worth and dignity. Acknowledging that you have a disability takes courage. It is also the first step toward creating change, both within yourself and in the world around you. And there is a lot more change that must happen before disabled people have equal rights.

As Lachi said in a recent podcast, the disability umbrella is vast and wide. Disabilities can be as visible as using a guide dog or sign language, or a wheelchair. It can also be as invisible as tinnitus, social anxiety, or chronic back pain. Whether our disability is temporary, sporadic, or intractable, we all have some aspect of our body/mind that needs accommodation. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all see that as normal and something we could be proud of?

Is the Life I Am Living the Same as the Life Within Me?

A praying mantis resting calmly on a human hand in natural light.
~ Linda Wright

After reading “Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation,” by Parker J. Palmer

Now that my bathroom mirror reflects the face of an old, gray-haired woman and my arthritic bones are stiff and painful, I am pleasantly surprised at the longevity I never expected to have. As a child, I was already amazed by life and endlessly curious about the world around me. I lived each day eagerly exploring and relishing my relationships with the creatures I encountered.

Once, I found a praying mantis that had fallen from a tree and offered it my hand. It dipped its head down to drink water from a spoon I held before returning to its home in the leaves. Even now, the world still holds such wonders for me.

Despite aches and pains, much still fascinates me and astounds me. And yet, I know acutely that, as a human being, I will not escape the decline that comes with age. I will die. A Buddhist teaching reminds me, “My deeds are my only companion; they are the ground on which I stand.”

From time to time, I pause to examine how I spend these remaining years. I ask myself: What occupies my mind, and does it align with the priorities I claim to hold?

One area that caught my attention is social media. Recently, I chose to check Facebook only occasionally. As an administrator for two private groups, I can’t log out entirely, but I’ve stepped back. Too many of my Facebook friends have passed away, and others now post little beyond recycled content.

There was a time when Facebook felt meaningful. I used it to stay in touch with people who mattered to me — like a young woman born in New Delhi who now lives in Japan. At her request, we gave each other nicknames: she calls me “Granny.” That always makes me smile. It confuses my friends — since I’ve never had children, why would anyone call me Granny?

We met online when she was a young teen. She was struggling to live with a rare bleeding disorder, with trauma, and with parental pressure to marry. It frightened her, especially when her disability narrowed her options. We exchanged emails for years.

Eventually, she married a man in Japan. Now divorced, she’s working and building a new life. She sends me birthday cards and photos over  Messenger.

Some relationships endure even as the platforms shift.

I also reflect on how I use my money and time. When I first started writing, I didn’t expect to earn anything — and I was right. What mattered to me was hearing from people who had read my book. Whether they posted a review or sent a private note didn’t matter. My heart leapt when I found a handwritten thank-you letter in my mailbox from someone I’d never met.

I own the rights to my book and believe in the freedom to read. I’ve donated copies to my county library, the Library of Congress’s National Library for the Blind and Print Disabled, and Bookshare. I’ve also withdrawn my ebook from Amazon and stopped buying from them.

I often ask myself:

• Are my values expressed in my actions?

• Am I doing things that bring joy or comfort to others?

• Am I helping in ways that are actually helpful?

Not always, I admit. But I’m doing the best I can with what I have. I believe that what I do — how I spend my time and what I write — matters. I’m grateful for the rare moments when someone tells me I’ve made a difference. It’s a quiet, enduring gift.

Living With What the Holidays Bring

A snow sculpture of a Buddha sits in meditation outside a clear church window, framed by falling snow and winter trees, while warm candlelight glows inside the sanctuary.
~ Linda Wright

My father defined himself as an agnostic, which I found frustrating, because as a child, I preferred simple yes and no answers. It had to be one way or the other. 

Dad had memorized large sections of the bible and when the door bell would ring he would invite in the Jehovah Witness, or the Seventh Day Adventist, or the Mormon missionaries. He was eager to discuss what they believed and how they interpreted the scripture, especially certain sections that perplexed him. 

My six-year-old brain longed for simple answers, while my father seemed to enjoy holding more than one idea at a time. 

“Dad!” I insisted, “Do you believe in God?” 

He looked at me for a long moment and gently replied, “I don’t know.” 

Nevertheless, we celebrated Christmas. It was a tradition. 

Father made our greeting cards. He started in the summer each year, learning a different method of print making. Then he prepared the fabric, metal, or wood he used to print the cards. Lastly, he drew the design. In November he began printing the cards. 

Mother steamed figgy pudding for gifts. While the scent of cinnamon and cloves filled the kitchen, I made snowmen out of hard sauce to place on top when the pudding was reheated and served. The snowman would melt into a sweet puddle.

My parents explained that Santa Claus was not a person, but “the spirit of giving.” It amused me that I could tell my eight-year-old friends I still believed in Santa when they felt their faith had been betrayed.

Outside the sanctuary of the church of my childhood, the minister built an enormous Buddha out of snow. He positioned it just outside the window looking into the sanctuary. The Buddha’s eyes were closed, and I wondered what he thought of us singing Christmas carols.

Now, I see Winter Solstice, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and “  for the rest of us” as a mix of secular and sacred holidays. This season carries both joy and weight. It is a time of celebration, but also of unrealistic expectations, stress, anxiety, and sorrow.

The first time I experienced grief was on December 24, 1964 when we learned my great-uncle Eustace had died. I still remember how sad I felt that Christmas Eve. Just the previous summer, he had shown me how to extend my fishing pole, holding the little fish dangling on the line close to the camera.

“Everyone will think you caught a big fish when they see this photo,” he winked.

During this time of year, sights, songs, or even quiet moments often bring me to tears. Each year, my arthritis and fatigue constrain me to do less and less to decorate the house with winter cheer. When I realize that I once had abilities that are now gone, I can slip into remorse. 

Even my friend’s challenges weigh on me. My neighbor died last June and while alive, he insisted that his family hold a Christmas party every year, although his widow strained to make all the preparations. This year she is hosting the party alone and I wonder how her heart is feeling as she does. 

A few weeks ago, the granddaughter of another neighbor died. She told me she is too distraught to celebrate this year. When she admits she isn’t even sure how her granddaughter died, because her son does not want to talk about it, I listen.

Grief cannot be denied. And when you live in a retirement community, it is a regular visitor. However loss enters our lives, it deserves to be acknowledged and affirmed.

Even though I once demanded my father take a stand, these days I believe life does not fit neatly into little boxes. It is not one way or another. Faith and doubt, joy and sorrow, hope and fear are fluid, shifting as we age.

So although I wish people well this time of year, I am mindful of the complicated emotions the season carries. For me, caring for one another matters more than our differences.

Sometimes it’s better to be kind than to be right. We do not need an intelligent mind that speaks, but a patient heart that listens.

 Gautama Buddha

Who Are Your People

A group of young children stand close together outdoor with serious expressions. The children have different racial characteristics a school building with air raid siren on a pole is in the background.
~ Linda Wright

After a song by Lea Morris

Recently a friend asked me, “Who are your people?” She wanted to know who I could trust for help when I needed it. It is a question that has seemed loaded to me since I was a child. I remember two of my young friends demanding to know, “If you aren’t Irish and you aren’t Italian, then what are you?” I was only six years old. I didn’t know the answer and I didn’t understand why it was so important to them. I had not yet learned how ethnicity, race, and identity could be used as weapons.

In the mid-1950’s people said we were in a Cold War. We couldn’t trust the Soviet Union. They were not like us. An air raid siren that was routinely tested stood in one corner of the school yard. When it went off our teacher had us practice by lining up single file and marching quickly down the stairs to the basement where we sheltered in place. We were told we would be safe from nuclear fallout there. We crouched against a wall until the all-clear sounded. Then we marched back to our classroom and pretended that we didn’t think the exercise was both terrifying and foolish.

My childhood home was near an Air Force base. When a jet took off, loaded with supplies, it looked as if it would barely miss scraping the roof of our two bedroom house. The china cups in the kitchen cabinet rattled. Pictures on the living room walls tilted a bit more to one side each time the house shook. All conversation came to a halt as we waited until we could hear one another again. We learned to live with the frequent disruptions, ignoring the roar of the engines. I didn’t wonder what cargo the planes held in their bulging belly or who was being killed.

The war was no longer cold. First the planes were on their way to Korea and then they took off for Vietnam. At first, I was too naive to know that our people were killing people.

My father was six years old when World War I ended. He had believed that was the “war to end all wars.” When the United States entered World War II, Dad enlisted in the Navy. The ship he served on transported both equipment and personnel. Years later he was still troubled by how the black soldiers who came on board were mistreated. He did not understand why some people could be treated so differently.

If asked today, “Who are your people?” I would respond,”all people are my people.”

Lenten Sacrifice

Cluster of small green buds surrounded by pointed, serrated leaves on a stem, against a blurred natural background.
~ Linda Wright

Although it has not been a part of my religious practice in the past, this year I have things I want to give up during Lent. It will not be the cookies I have with my afternoon tea or the occasional meal I have that is not strictly plant based. But there are things that are both unhealthy and distracting that I am giving up during this season of sacrifice, in order to attain clarity. 

Lately my thoughts have been scattered. Like the tree branches blown over the ground with the recent wind and rain, I feel tossed betwixt and between. I spend more time  than I want reading and responding to email and social media. The books I want to read pile up and up. My relationships with friends and family go untended. 

This season is one of acknowledging death, and rebirth. As I am about to complete my 76th year of life I understand that time is precious. It is impossible to escape my mortality. I have fewer years of life before me than behind me. Dust will return to dust. My generation will be replaced by others.

Recently social media has capitalized on the human tendency to flutter from one thing to another. It keeps me scrolling way past the time I had planned to find some bit of information. Worse yet is that in order to hold my attention, much of what I stumble upon is designed to make me angry.

Years ago when I was leading workshops, I learned that distractions take precedence. It’s instinctual, probably a survival technique ingrained from our ancestors. If it is a single distraction, as when a comedian is interrupted by a heckler, the best advice is not to ignore it. 

That doesn’t work when the distractions come at an alarming number and frequency. Lately the distractions feel like the devil at work. Even though I don’t believe in Satan, I recognize that there are evil forces purposefully stirring things up, making me doubt my faith. I feel the need to return to a sacred practice.

Today the “news” seems to be less about what happened and more about what the consequences could be. I am feeling powerless, trying to figure out where to begin. It is hard to avoid the comparison with being lost in a wilderness and needing a time of solitude and reflection, in order to muster the spiritual energy to resist the evil forces.

During Lent, I am giving up the temptations of mindless busyness that have become addictive for me. Only then will I be able to pay attention to the things that mattered the most, rather than the myriad details that have been cluttering my thoughts. Perhaps it will reinvigorate me, giving me renewed energy to start where I am, use what I have, and do what I can.

Start where you are, use what you have, do what you can.
― Arthur Ashe