I’ve mostly adjusted to life using wheelchairs. I love them — my power chair and manual chair. I can go many places but not everywhere I want to. The power chair can handle a lot of different surfaces, but does best on flat paved ground. Of course, it does well on floors and indoor surfaces.

If it hasn’t rained too much, I can get around on grass, so I can get out and see my garden.

It’s been raining often lately, but it’s still quite warm. I’m seeing mushrooms pop up and they delight me. I want to take photos of them, but often they are in places I can’t get to.

A neighbor’s garden got an extra bit of zen from mushrooms (I was able to get close because this is close to the driveway)

A few days ago, I saw huge yellow fungus that had grown up overnight under the oak trees across the street. The trees are surrounded by an island of mulch. I went to see if I could get close enough to get pictures. There were about six big yellow blobby mushrooms. I tested my wheelchair on the edge of the mulched area, and it seemed to be able to move okay.

I flew across the mulch and got a few photos of two, then turned to get another.

I don’t know what kind of mushroom this is — a brain mushroom?
Here’s a baby one

Then I wanted to go photograph the others and tried to move the chair. And it didn’t move. The wheels dug into the mulch, which was damp from the rains. I tried different speeds and pushed my weight around at different angles, but the wheels just spun.

I was stuck.

I felt like such an idiot. I also felt an acute sadness at not being able to follow my whim and capture pictures of these wonderous bits of nature.

I phoned my son and he was home. (I have a list of helpers I can call and he’s first on the list.) He came in about 10 minutes. It seemed a long time to me because my sense of stupidity and loss seeped into my entire being. I started to cry a little bit.

When my son arrived, he disengaged the motor of the chair, and pushed and pulled it out of the hole I’d dug myself into. He took time to marvel at the mushrooms. A young woman jogged by, but stopped to see if we needed help. She asked if the garden across the street was mine. It is. She’d seen me sitting on the porch.

“I always love walking by it. It makes me happy.”

It makes me happy, too.

Garden sweet garden

My son walked with me across the street and made sure I was safely in the house. He didn’t chastise me for my foolish pursuit of images.

I sat out on my porch for awhile, surrounded by plants I have full access to. I’ve photographed them hundreds of times. Every year I still get a garden. The whole world isn’t accessible to me, but I have a good space.

This is disability pride month. I’ve seen people with disabilities online showing their amazing lives and ways of getting around. I’ve see people with disabilities let nothing get in their way. But I know they struggle, like me, with limits and barriers that no amount of pride or strength will break down. It’s not bad. It just is.

Within my limits, I know I have a lot of riches. I doubt if I were able bodied, I would have developed the eye for detail that made me notice the mushrooms. I couldn’t take the time to nurture my porch garden. The reason I love and respect plants so much is that they are rooted, immobile, but they grow, bloom, fight and flourish from their one small place in the world.

I thought about my list of people who will come help me when I get in trouble, need rides, get stuck. When I feel the limits of my life are unbearable, this circle of friends (I include my kids in the circle) come to put wheels on my troubles and we move forward together.

Friends are the best assistive devices. Friends are accessible. There is always an accessible bridge between our hearts.

I bought this celosia the day after I got stuck — something more to see up close while the mushrooms continue their lives at a distance


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This Mysterious World


I had to pick up a few groceries yesterday at Kroger.  I wanted to find a wedge of a kind of cheese that  my son introduced me to that I couldn’t remember the name of.  A woman who looked younger than me, maybe in her late 30s, tall and pretty, was happily looking through all the cheeses on offer.  “Look at my cart, it’s nothing but plants and cheese.”   She had about 8 coleus and a few other plants I didn’t recognize.

We both had on our masks.  The store was crowded and noisy.  The woman asked me if my wheelchair belonged to me.  It did.  Medicare? Yes.  She was trying to get on disability and wondered if she should get a lawyer.  I said I got on it without a lawyer, but I was first rejected, and it took 11 months for me to get my appeal approved.

She started talking about her disability.  I couldn’t hear her well, but the word cancer pierced through the mask and the noise.  It is in her spine, lymph nodes, breast and other parts of her body.  She had a lot of neuropathy and her legs hurt all the time.  She said she usually ordered her groceries online but her mother took her out today.  I noticed an iodine stain peaking out from the cap sleeve of her dress and smeared on her upper arm.

She asked me a few more questions about getting on disability.  She said she gets confused by all the processes because it’s in her brain, too.  Then she said she heard that there was an expedited process for people with stage 4 cancer.


She was dying.  This healthy (looking) woman was dying and worried about getting benefits to help her through the remainder of her life.  I asked if her doctor could help, she said he was cold.  “You know, how some doctors just intimidate you.  I wish I could get another doctor.”  She shook her head, quickly back and forth, as if she was trying to dislodge a thought from her head.  Then I saw her eyes crinkle from a smile behind the mask.

I told her I had a thinning spinal cord and she said she’d just read about that, since her spine is weakening.  We talked about pain and the cocktail of drugs we are on.  Even at Stage 4, she worried about the amount of drugs she is taking.  I told her I don’t worry, if they work, I’m happy.

I told her about my porch garden and how we should try to enjoy the beautiful things in life.  She agreed.  The conversation bounced around, and I thought she probably doesn’t get to talk to many people.  At one point she pulled open her dress collar a bit and showed me the swollen skin on her breast bone.  It wasn’t like a bruise, the skin was mottled, the veins a pale blue mapping an area about the size of the palm of her hand.

I saw a woman waiting patiently a few feet away and asked her if she needed to get to the cheese counter and she said, no.  The woman I was talking to said the other woman was her mother.  We all introduced ourselves.  Her mother was small and thin and looked tired.

The woman excitedly told her  mother about the cheeses she had picked out.  Then they looked over a list of things they needed while I rolled away to finish my shopping.

I took a long way home, strolling through neighborhoods I like for their gardens.  I thought of all the noise of the world, all the troubles.  And all the unnecessary ways we hurt each other, when life is so precious and fragile, so hard to hang on to.

People fight small and deadly battles, live lives of pain and financial worry.  How hard would it be to just give dying people the things they need?  Why do we have to fight so hard to get a wheelchair?

We’ve watched people die over racial injustice; we’ve watched them die from corona virus.  We make and take sides over things that we could all be working together on.  Then maybe we could find the energy and funding to make both living and dying a richer experience in this mysterious and often beautiful world.



This blog is brought to you by the generosity of people who support me on Patreon , buy my art, and who support me in so many different ways

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If you find a typo, let me know, and I’ll send you a postcard.

Talkin bout my degeneration….

Over the course of last year, I’ve had to stop cooking — handling pots and pans had become dangerous because my hands are weaker.  I can stand some and move things carefully, but once while moving a pot of gumbo, my legs went out from under me.  Fortunately the gumbo spilled away from me and not on me.  But that was it.   Even if I sit in my wheelchair, my hands are weaker now and I’m likely to drop things.  I use a microwave and a toaster oven, so I can still heat stuff up and there’s lots of healthy options for that.  I just never saw myself as a convenience food person — I was a good cook and liked to make things from scratch, but life has intervened in that.

Over the holidays, I had to tell friends and family that I couldn’t come to their houses any more.  I need wheelchair access and most of them can’t provide that.  Their houses aren’t built in a way that can be modified for wheelchair use.  I bought a portable ramp to use for a low step or two, but many people have more steps.  Doorways aren’t wide enough.  There’s not enough turn-around room in the house.  So people come to me now.  Or we meet at a place that is accessible.

040 (2)
Visual Journal Entry, by Joy Murray

I’ve had my degenerative illness since I was sixteen, but it wasn’t properly diagnosed until a few years ago.  Hereditary Spastic Paraparalysis causes a thinning of the spinal cord.  It’s been most aggressive in my lower body, but now my hands are slowly weakening.  This past year seemed like the whole degeneration process sped up.  I’ve had hypersensitivity most of my life, now I’m experiencing loss of sensation.  

I’ve struggled with ways of talking to myself about it.  How to still love myself and see a good future, to relate to others, to do the things that make me happy.  If I lose use of my hands then what?  It’s scary.

But I’ve got a few good role models — in addition to a wonderful circle of supportive friends.  I’m quite impressed with artist Lydia Emily,an artist with Multiple Sclerosis.  She has fiercely held on to her creative self while dealing with the symptoms she develops.  I love this picture of her, and that paintbrush holder.  It’s brilliant:

Lydia Emily

Language is important to me when I speak about or to myself.  I was raised in a very negative environment, and have spent my life changing the mean and messy self dialogue that goes on in my head.

I’ve heard many people speak of the death of a loved one by saying they graduated.  “My grandmother graduated and her funeral/wake is next week.”

When I was at my sister’s house over the holidays, I used a walker, and had three people helping me up the few steps into her house.  I told her we should have future holiday celebrations at my house.  It would have to be potluck, prepared by everyone except me.  My son said, “She’s pretty much wheelchair bound now.”

I thought about that wording.  I am a wheelchair user, and the wheelchair liberates me.  I’m not bound by it and I am bound by it.  If the wheelchair can’t get into a building, I can’t get in.  I am bound and limited by my body, by the way I have to walk — or roll — in the world.  For most of my life I’ve had the option of the walker, or a cane.  Life was more painful, more precarious — I fell a lot.  Before I started using the chair, I fell about once a month.  I’m very good at falling and rarely hurt myself too badly, but, it was just too dangerous to continue.

Watercolor and collage Visual Journal entry, by Joy Murray

Some people said if I started using a chair, then I’d get weaker.  But I was getting weaker no matter what.  I was tired, so tired, of pushing myself.  My wheels open up a lot of the world, but they keep me out of a lot places, too.

Part of living a healthy life, even with a long term disability, is acceptance.  So, as I was searching for ways to accept my weakening hands, I thought about artists like Emily Lydia, who have adapted.  If I lose use of my hands, then I’ll graduate to a new level of adaptation.

Just like I graduated to full-time wheelchair use.

If I use the word graduate, I feel that I’ve grown out of one way of living into another.  The word graduate carries with it a sense of accomplishment and elevation.  I have learned something, I am on higher ground.

When I was drowning in a swamp of fear and sorrow over a future that involved limited use of my hands, or maybe no use, I eventually remembered a woman I met 30 years ago.  She had quadriplegia, but she had a fully automated wheelchair, powered by slight movements in her hand and movement in her mouth.  She was an art student and drew and painted with her mouth.

She Carried On, by Joy Murray, 8×10″ Acrylic on Canvas

And there are many mouth painters, people who work within their limits and escape them at the same time.  They’ve learned a new skill, and graduated to a higher level.

So that’s the story I’m telling myself now.  I’ve graduated to full time wheelchair use.  I don’t cook anymore, I’ve graduated out of that.  I’m learning new lessons now, going for that doctorate of life, specializing in all the aspects of a thinning spinal cord.  There is no easy A and no way to change the course of it.

I know I will continue to find mentors who will show me ways to expand my worldview, and I will continue to have ways to create, no matter what.  And to love, and to feel wonder at the way life has of surprising me  — of opening my heart to what life is offering me, instead of only seeing what it is taking away.

Here’s a short film about painter Antonio Davis made by the Obama Foundation:




This blog is brought to you by the generosity of people who support me on Patreon , buy my art, and who support me in so many different ways

Cards and prints on some of my art is available on Redbubble.  

If you find a typo, let me know, and I’ll send you a postcard.


Birthdays and other reasons for pause

September is always like the beginning of the year for me.  I guess I got into that feeling when I was in school and it seemed I was older, a younger self left behind, often with disdain.

It’s also the month of my birthday — and most years that’s a cause for celebration.  But I always slightly resented September weather — it’s “supposed” to be cooler, but here in Memphis we usually have summer heat until October.  After living in the cool wet Northwest for about a decade, though, I made my peace with September heat.  The wet weather there was exacerbating arthritis pain, so now I just enjoy an extra month of baking but hurting less.


September is my daughter’s birthday, too.


This year I didn’t get the birthday buoyancy I usually feel for just surviving and outliving an early prediction about my lifespan.

When I first got sick, back when I was 16, with seizures and weakening muscles, I was told I might have any number of degenerative diseases that could end my life by the time I was 30.  It was 1976, before there were MRIs and the kinds of tests that can diagnose disorders better.  I stopped having seizures in my mid-20s.  But my legs continued to weaken.  I had “possible multiple sclerosis,” or more often, the diagnosis was “abnormal.”  Then in my late 40s, they found a lesion on my spinal cord, and gave me the diagnosis of Transverse Myelitis, a rarish disease, but one that should be stable.

Only it wasn’t stable.  I lived for about a decade in denial of increasing weakness and body changes.  I blamed instability on my osteoarthritis.  I sometimes gave myself a hard time about not exercising, or eating poorly.  But when I did those things, I didn’t improve.

This last year, I got a full MRI work up and it was discovered my spinal cord was thinning and I have an even rarer disorder called “Hereditary Spastic Paraparalysis.”

Through it all, I’ve always imagined I’d be a partial user of a wheelchair, but would still be able walk some, around the house, get in and out of bathtubs, have some balance.  I would still get in and out of friends houses and restaurants with just a walker and a helping hand upstairs.  But that’s all fading a bit.  I keep falling.  The reality of my own delicacy has been as hard as the floor on which I contemplate the loss of independence.  I am an advocate of interdependence, we all need each other in many ways we take for granted, but still….


I know I’ve talked about this on my blog before, but the upcoming birthday has made me melancholy.  I have bi-polar and feared a depression was settling in.  Then I feared it wasn’t, that I’d become a melancholy and anxious old woman.


I didn’t plan a party or an art show.  In fact, I’ve been a little blocked about everything.

But I’ve got great friends and family.  I’ve spent the last week being taken out for meals, given presents, and given support.  I allowed myself to talk about my fears, my disappointment, my delusions.  And my friends, they listened and they gave me the best gift — their understanding.  Nobody has tried to undermine my mourning of my strength, they just subtly and emphatically proved that they’d be there for me.  There is a hand on my elbow when I’m in dangerous terrain.

I had felt like an abandoned scarecrow, like the crows had pecked me apart.  But sort of like in the Wizard of Oz, my friends put me back together, and got me back on that yellow brick road — even though we all know the Wizard is just a guy improvising his way through life like the rest of us.

It’s a lesson I learn over and over — that in spite of my fears, I have love in my life, and that kind of assistive device will carry me through anything.  I am rich beyond belief.  Each day there is some jewel out there shining for me, if only I keep my eyes focused outward.  I know that it’s impossible to do on my own, so learning to rely on others has been the biggest gift of it all.  To trust.  To love.

I am thankful for another year of being in this world with my friends and family.  And to all of my internet readers and supporters who listen and provide insight and share their own struggles.

Thank you.

September 9th starts the new year for me 🙂