Posted on

Excerpt: Soulship

The other two left and went off into the woods, dancing and howling, and who knows where they would end up. The track skipped to Famous Blue Rain Coat and they both stared ahead into the warm, moonlit night. There was silence, a deep silence. Rose drew her knees up to her chest and rested her head back against the wood panels of the house. She became mesmerized by the fireflies, trying to guess where they’d pop up next after they flashed their light and then went dark. One of the cats jumped off the porch and wandered into the garden. After some amount of time she heard:
“I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life.”
“What?” she asked, still gazing forward to the show being played out in the dark in front of her.
Silence.
She rolled her head to the right where he sat beside her. He didn’t turn his head, but as he noticed her do so, whispered, “You.”
“Oh.” She said and let out a long exhale. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
They both looked forward again for another lapse of time, the tracks flipped on and on. The music rose into the night air, the fauna moved about unseen, petals folded in for the night, and the moon just hung there, witnessing it all.
She slowly took her gaze to the right again and this time saw the tear rolling slowly down the contours of his cheek. He was looking far out into the night as if in another place entirely. Her chest cracked wide open, heart hovering inside, motionless, paralyzed in its decision about whether to leap or run to the woods. Instinctively, she went to place her hand gently on his leg. Before it even landed, without taking his eyes off the void of night ahead, he took it in his and stood up. He grabbed his sweatshirt off the table and tucked it under the arm that held her hand. He then took the blankets off the porch chair, turned the music off and grabbed his keys. Unable to speak, legs no longer under her control, she followed.
They got into his car and drove half way down his driveway then made a sharp left onto a narrow dirt road. Nothing was said. The tires crunched on the gravel and the dust rose into the air beside them as they drove. Rabbits darted to and fro on the side of the road and various insects danced in the beams of the headlights. Somewhere between ten minutes and ten years later, the road and woods abruptly opened up into a clearing and a lake stretched before them. Its full expanse couldn’t be seen as it disappeared into the dark horizon of the night in front of them. The moon was still there observing and perfectly reflected a lit path from the front of the car into the water’s depths.
Will got out, put the blankets and sweatshirt on the sand, threw off his shoes and shirt and waded into the water silently. As he entered, the water he disrupted turned the moon’s path awry but as he dove under, over and over again, it eased back to where it started, pointing back towards the car.
Yesterday, hell two hours ago, Rose was certain that all was as it should be in her life. She had a beautiful family, she was utterly satisfied and content, and she had stumbled onto a friendship that filled her soul to its depth. She felt in complete peace. She did not see this coming. She didn’t even know what this was. Her mind was alight, her thoughts ran forwards and back, she had no control, and no time to gain it. The discomfort exquisite. She stood there in the dark, looking into the dark, and was furious. So, she walked to the water’s edge, pulled her dress over her head and got in.
It was freezing but she ducked her head underneath right away. And then she did so again and again. Her heart rate started to settle. It was so quiet and dark under the surface, she opened her eyes and saw absolutely nothing. Eventually she regained her ability to think and returned to feeling her body move under her own power.
She saw Will out about 100 meters away standing on something, must have been a rock under the surface. She made her way there with her head above the water now. The water bugs skipped across the surface ahead of her. Every crater on the moon seemed visible. As she approached the rock, Will held out his hand and helped her up. The air wasn’t as cold as it should have been. The beauty of the night was breathtaking. Stars dotted the entire sky. There wasn’t a sound in the air. The cold of the water had calmed Rose. She understood that that was the intention all along. They were face to face on a small rock in the middle of a lake surrounded by darkness. If she wasn’t so petrified, Rose would have laughed wickedly at the ridiculously too obvious metaphor.
Will took her hands in his and met her eyes for the first time in a few hours.
“Look, I don’t know many things at all but I do know this: I cannot hurt you. If I have a handful of things to be proud of when I meet my maker, one of them has to be that I never ever caused you pain. I’ll call you out on shit and tell you you’re being an ass, but your heart and soul will always be protected. You need to know that. You can do with that information whatever you want, but you need to know it.”
It all welled to the surface, all of it. Most of if he had no knowledge of, no involvement in, and, some would say, absolutely no right to, but it came anyway. Rose fell into his chest and wrapped her arms around him and the tears flowed heavy. She was so thankful to be in the dark, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by water. It all made perfect sense in a way that was beautifully unexpected. She was in awe of his strength and knowledge and surrendered into all of her beauty and softness without risk. Her fear and anger were replaced by the deepest of gratitude and love. In time, her breath slowed once again and she lifted her head.
“Thank you Will.”
“We got this.”
“Yeah, we do.”
And with that he made a half howl, half scream and jumped into the water and made his way back to shore. Rose laughed, turned around to take one last look at the moon from this place, and then jumped in herself.
By the time she got to shore a fire was lit and she raced to the pile of blankets as the awareness of the cold finally came flooding into every part of her. They spent the next couple of hours talking about their friends who they’d left back at the house, their lovers who were at their homes and firmly tethered to their hearts, and what they wanted out of the life they had left. The moon watched the whole time and water surrounding them absorbed it all.

Posted on

And then there were two: Words from Her

I started writing one morning in 2016. I was thirty nine. My kids were four and seven, both girls. I was a year into running our small business. I was a full time family physician and stayed up all night one to two times a week to deliver babies. I was married to the best of men. I had a beautiful life. But a part of me, I have since discovered, was a little asleep; nestled deep inside, enduring a long winter’s rest, and starting to stir and stretch and think about getting up and walking around, scratch that, prowling around a bit.

The morning I started, I read an article that I just could not let exist in the world without a response. I wrote quickly and with certainty and shared things that most wouldn’t, that I was told not to, and then instantly shared it as widely as I could. Over the days that followed the responses I received were exquisite and heartfelt. I felt both a collective grief and parallel uplifting connection that was surprising and oh so welcome. I will never forget that morning or the days that followed.

I don’t remember making a conscious effort to try to repeat the experience, but of course like most things that bring deep pleasure, I did chase it. I eventually started a blog and tried to clumsily find my voice, my focus, and, I guess, my purpose. This remains a work in progress. I expect it will be until my last breath.

As I went forward with trying to write and share and fumbling around with discovering exactly what it was I wanted to say, what I wanted to evoke, I knew only three certainties: I would accept nothing but full authenticity from myself in the moment at which I found myself writing, I was writing to my daughters and those that I loved, and what I wanted for them, with all my heart, was for them to truly find themselves, be themselves, and have the very rare courage to dare to share every last bit of it.

What follows is a collection of my attempts at all of this. Mostly pieces of me to leave for those who were both patient and fearless in their love of me; I will always feel that I couldn’t return what it was that you gave, but through my words I will forever try.

Posted on

Know you, and thus me

I want to discover you
Not what can be and was
Touched by others
But everything else
Your soul’s partner, just her

Oh, I want to know you
I think more than you
Dare entertain
I want inside, far
Holds hands with joy, fear, pain

Hand over the key to you
Let me turn the lock
And then set free
My promise is it’s safe
My knowing you, and thus me

Posted on

Pages, Secrets

She paces, back, forth
She crawls, searching, searching
Sometimes finds a piece
Sometimes a shard
Her heart not relenting
Her soul wants to growl

On her knees
In foreign seas
Twisting with chaste
Not on land
But then she sees
With eyes still wet
“In the pages of life,
The secrets are kept.”

She comes home.

She sits, listens, cradles
She opens wide, swallows
With grace comes light
With trust comes courage
Her heart now leads
Her soul, a morning stretch

Now slowly standing
With wise understanding
That one can soar
Adorned and adored
In sky now
Seeing more surely
More confident in the bet
In the pages of life
Secrets are kept

It never left.

Posted on

My vow. Your help.

Oh hey there.

It’s been a while hasn’t it? One can have all the best intentions and make all the plans but still go missing for awhile. It’s okay.

I have no good excuses except that, this is hard.

What do I mean by “this”? Well, life, being inside my wee little head, writing, creating, mothering, running a business, having a career. You know, I know you know.

I am unlikely to get any better at it, at least accordingly to my own tally, but I have made a pledge towards improved effort in one spot. I’ve told a few people about this, I’ve alluded to it here on these pages too. But, I’m weak when it comes to this. I’m scared mostly. So, I’m going to ask for your help. Likely repeatedly.

I’ve been so restless. I’ve been searching everywhere: meditating, reading, listening, walking, running, stretching, sitting, reaching out, drawing in. But I have just been unable to satisfy what is stirring in me. It’s like a caged animal pacing back and forth. Sometimes it tries to claw itself up my throat when I ignore it. Sometimes it is curled in my belly purring when I get close to setting it free. Mostly it paces. Back and forth, back and forth. And I think it is getting impatient.

Today I finally took the time to sit down at my keyboard and type again. Time passed so beautifully. My desk is a haven. My girls and their friend came in at one point while I was here and their friend remarked: “You have a great life. Well maybe not so much the doctoring, but this is really great.” From the mouths of babes, eh? Of course the doctoring is great, it really is, in fact my entire life is so extraordinary that it is ridiculous to consider. But, as I tell my husband, it is because of this extraordinary that I have the desire and ability to push further. My restlessness is not dissatisfaction at all. It’s a knowing that I have more to give and it would be inconsiderate to all those who have cradled me to this point to not give it a go.

So, I’m going to vow here to spend time every week to write my book. Maybe if I can gather more courage, I can commit to it daily. Because it is only in my book where I can weave and spin and dazzle and delight myself the way that I long to be. My beast needs a good run, it’s time to let her stretch her legs, flex her muscles, and lean into the wind.

Here is how she starts. I have no idea how or when she will end but I need to find out.

xo J

She sits on the edge of the bed. The box in her hands, which rest on her lap. The bed is soft and simple. The pattern of the yellow and white duvet is worn perfectly to a blend of nostalgia and comfort. The two simple pillows rest at the head of the bed. You could almost see the outline of her still there, chest rising and falling, serenity spread across her face. As the sun rises, perfect beams of soft light start to enter the room from the windows at its end and slowly crawl up the bed to where Rose sits.
She’s exhausted. Her body feels weak, near transparent. Her eyes heavy from recent tears, her throat contracted knowing more may come, her heart heavy in her chest as if no longer upright at attention and beating, but soft and resting after too much work. Although she knew that night was coming it didn’t make it any easier. Death is never easy on those who watch and not partake it would seem.
The woman who left them last night shaped them all so much Rose thinks, although she couldn’t explain how or why.
When Grace entered their house they were the typical family; working away, going to school, wanting for little, questioning less. But over the year she was with them so much changed. It all changed.
Was it a coincidence? Rose wondered. Was it just a trick of the mind to attach a start date and an end date to what seemed like a chapter in their lives? Would it all have happened anyway?
She supposes that that is what a skeptic would think. That’s what she would have thought. But does that seem right? Instead, could they have been led, by some force, to where they ended up. A force full of love and knowing and universality. Reflecting on this the tears well up again and a deep longing rises like another wave in her body that causes her to buckle forward in ache and sadness.
“Who will guide us now? Why didn’t I pay better attention? Who will carry my girls like I’ve felt carried?” She whispers aloud, to no one.
As her heads bows forward under the weight of grief again, her tears land with a drop, drop, on the music box in her hands. She smiles thinking of the little ballerina, most likely, inside who will undoubtedly start to turn as she opens the box to reveal a song and possessions. Whoever thought to put a ballerina in a box? She thinks to herself. The thought brings a small smile. And with that, she wipes her tears on her sleeve, unlatches the box, and as she does a beautiful summer breeze blows in the open window at the end of the room. The breeze lifts the lace curtains of the window almost to the ceiling and works it way through the room to where Rose sits. As it reaches her and her gift, the contents of the box fly into the space of the room like doves finally being set free.
At first Rose can’t tell what they are, but as they start to land from their flight on the bed and floor around her, Rose sees. And, with mouth agape understands instantly. It was her. She was leading them and, Rose now realizes in crystalline clear certainty, left when she knew her work was done.

Posted on

Three Weeks

I’ve had an interesting few weeks.  It has been interesting to have some time off, some more free time, spare time, but nowhere to go.  This suits me just fine, but it was interesting to see how many internal toddler tantrums I had with the process during it.  Yes, I purposely said ‘interesting’ three, now four, times in a row there.  In medicine, the collective we tend to say ‘interesting’ when something is either not good or has us completely puzzled, i.e. we often say it when we are slightly miffed.

The weeks have been good without a doubt, but at times I felt very much, not good. 

The weeks have puzzled me. 

Interesting.

I want to share with you a few things that were said to me over these slowed down weeks:

“You ARE doing it”

“How are you holding up?”

“Tell me more”

“Throw it all to the wind”

“Surprise them”

“They’re great.  Sharp.  Like their mother”

“More than I think you realize for me”

“Be safe, Jenn”

“Good morning, my love”

All these utterances had different contexts.  They were all from different people.  Each of them stopped me in my tracks.

I can’t tell you the story of each, I couldn’t come close to doing them the service they deserve, but I’ve been wondering about what their common threads are.  I am not sure I am going to be able to articulate them here at all but let me try.

Back when I was musing about Mastery versus Perfection, I noted that there was still a 20% that I was still interested in reaching for.  Part of that 20% is more connection, the universally common desire, of course.  However, I don’t do awesome with friendship.  Something about not recognizing when it is desired, assuming I need more out of it than someone can give, assuming I can’t give what is needed for someone else, not understanding how to have intimacy in friendship but deeply desiring it, and so forth.  Some might say, I overthink things (ahem.)  As I said, I don’t do awesome.  But these weeks, I’ve been doing better.  Perhaps dear Covid, by mandating distance, has unexpectedly given me the gift of a little buffer and thus, a bridge, to tip toe back into this need.  Because, despite the perpetual wondering of what the hell I was doing, why do I even have social media, why do I put the additional pressure of writing on myself, and why must I share it etc. etc. my phone kept lighting up with message after message.  And they were genuine and beautiful.  So then, ok, fine, I surrendered, let’s just agree (me and myself) that we must be doing okay.  Carry on.

Another common thread was a bit of an understanding about what it is that I am meant to do here.  And when I had this realization, I literally meant, there, in that chair, morning after morning, seemingly doing nothing at all and often getting really frustrated with myself about it.  So many tantrums. “Just get up!” “At some point you actually have to do something!” “Why are your runs now happening at NOON?!”  My poor husband.  But that morning it occurred to me that what I have been doing here these last days, in fact these last eight months, is gathering my things.  Gathering my rituals, my talismans, my materials, my reinforcements, and my thoughts.  I’ve been practicing what I preach with such urgency, I’ve been getting to know myself, befriending, nurturing, falling in love.  I have known that part, in a way for a while now but what I hadn’t understood it that its purpose wasn’t just to help me, but others too.  Others mostly. 

My brother once said to me “I just want to be on stage!!” to which I immediately responded as if possessed, somewhat surprised to hear myself, “Not me, I just want to be backstage.”  What was equally surprising to me in that moment is that I also immediately understood that what I meant was not that I feared the stage, but that to me backstage was magic.  I don’t want to be the star; I want to write their lyrics.  This, I now better understand, is how I want to lead.  I want to be at home, under a blanket, understanding our vision and clearing the path while you go out there and do all the show stopping.  I picture you running on a vast mountain trail, shield on your back, sword in your hand and me, nimbly and secretly clearing rocks and twigs from where your feet may fall. Carry on.

So, it was a good three weeks, actually a really great three week. I do hope there is more in store.  For now though, I am grateful for better understanding and renewed gentleness.  I get that I have tears as a talisman.  I worship my beautiful den from which I can guide and way find.  And I know, at least for today, that what it is that I am doing is connecting me deeply to those who to do it too.

Posted on

Our Song

Ahh, full moons, I’ve come to realize that they are when the moods are deeper, the lyrics hit harder, and the tears are way closer to the surface.  For me, this is a great thing, ultimately.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved listening to music and daydreaming, tiny little stories to a beautiful soundtrack.  Usually about love, sometimes about a feat, every so often about an act of defiance.  Usually about love. 

As a kid, I would record songs off the radio onto a tape, endlessly trying to get the start and stop timing correct and mesh them all together.  Then I’d play the tape while falling asleep at night, dreaming my little dreams and trying to sort out events that happened and those I wished would.  Eventually, I would tire of the tape, the songs would have done what they needed to, all the stories would have been played out, and I’d set to making a new one. 

Twenty-five years later, I still do it.  Playlist after playlist, bringing moods to life.  Sneaking away to the bath, or a drive or a walk, to dance around in my mind a little and see what the melodies and lyrics can reveal.  Not escape, not at all, amplification, at least.  I run faster with music.  I glow brighter with music.  I don’t think I could write at all if it weren’t for music.  I often feel like its student. 

Most of the songs we love are ones that we can picture singing to someone else, I think.  Yelling, whispering, pleading.  Many other songs, of course, are ones we would love to be sung to us.  Many lovers have a song.  Is that not just the most wonderful thing?

One of my husband’s favourites is:

The other morning when I was heading off on a grey day to run in the damp, on a trail I wasn’t too thrilled about, I played this song.  I mused about if I had to pick one, I’d pick this one as ours.  And indeed, the tears streamed down my face. 

It was a great thing.

Because this one I hear being sung to me.  By the man whose heart is the most generous I’ve ever known.  I am a strong, opinionated, ambitious woman, but the thought of being fixed is still enchanting to me most moments of the day.  I don’t hear this song being sung to someone who is broken weak but to a person who is perhaps broken not yet knowing.  I hear it being sung by one who sees what the other does not or who sees what the other has forgotten.  Who sees that, with a little mending and a little tending, that the other is even more. 

Of course, there were and are things that needed and need fixing.  It’s a good thing. 

We saw this song live not too long ago, neither of us will ever forget it.  That was one of our favourite nights together.  My solo moment in the car that morning will be another favourite of mine.  The lights do guide us home.

Of course, it’s possible he sings it thinking I’m singing it to him.  Of course, the other night in the bath I sung it to all of you. Of course, it’s possible he just likes the song, eh?  Rad riff, bru.  Best build up ever, hey? Shut it honey. XO

Posted on

Feelings & Hurt

So, something has been bouncing around in my head for a while now. It claimed prime occupancy when I realized that my posts on Vibrancy and Love were the most well received here in a while. This, sort of, pissed me off. Ha! Indulge me if you will.

I’ve been hearing two things with increasing frequency:

1) My life is great, I have nothing to be X about, I shouldn’t feel X, what is going on?

and,

2) I’m feeling really shitty, totally off and confused, but I’m just going to focus on the positive.

Now, 1) is often said to me by my incredible patients and “X” usually ends up being either anxious or depressed or a neat little mix of both (brutal, I know guys). 2) is usually said to me by friends, family, or the whole of the internet. If you are my lone crooked little follower that has read my words thus far on this blog, you probably can guess what my response to both 1) and 2) is. For the rest of you, let me clarify:

Bullshit.

Before you yell, let me explain.

I absolutely think the vast majority of us need to be unconditionally grateful, often way more grateful, for the lives we have and lead. The fact that I can sit here and muse on a blog and you can sit there and read it is ridiculously privileged and we should never ever forget that. However, if you feel something, whether that be joy, bliss, sadness or like shit, don’t you dare ever put a “shouldn’t” in front of it. Unless you are actually a psychopath, don’t you dare. The whole point of life in its entirety is feeling something. If you feel something there is a reason why. These things that make our throats swell, our chests contract, our abdomen’s ache, our heads spin, and our limbs tingle have purpose. So, for Pete’s sake, feel them. You can try to do so in private, that is certainly a start. But, I think ultimately, the big ones need a bit of an audience. The conversation that you are likely to have if you say: “I feel like X, I don’t know why, but there it is, can you help?” versus “I feel like X, I shouldn’t, so let’s not talk about that, K?” is likely to be far richer and beautiful for you, and also the person you share with. (Obviously as the lunatic who shares her thoughts on the internet, I am heavily biased in this nuanced opinion).

I will reiterate, as I don’t think I can say it enough here on these pages, not one single feeling is wrong. They all have a purpose and they all are a lesson. Use them. Dammit.

If you are a grown man, with a great family, a steady job, and money in the bank and you find yourself all of a sudden crying every day, there is something going on. You actually probably already know what it is. So, go ahead, name it. If you can’t, yet, find someone to sit with you while you start trying. You can be grateful and privileged and also in pain. Not one of those things are mutually exclusive. If someone in your family, who you love, is in crisis, and you who, supposedly, is not in crisis, for some reason finds going to work increasingly like trying to run in quicksand with an elephant on your back while being chased by a starving tiger, I think maybe you have the right to feel a few feelings. Right?

Now, so far I think we can agree that coming to an agreement on 1) was easy, you’re going to be angrier with me about my feelings about 2). Hang in there.

Yes, admittedly, I will concede that I have never been nominated Miss Sunshine in any of the circles I’ve travelled in, but if you cracked open my chest I think you might actually see super cute bunnies, rainbows, floating pink hearts, and, in general, a big lovefest. And, again, I’ll say it again for the people in the back, most of us should be grateful af. But the reflexive ‘I’m just going to focus on the positive’, is getting really fucking old to me. And, don’t even get me started about the how going through X has made me stronger so yay speak. Good lord. For the love of all that is holy, some things that happen to us are wrong and bad. Full. Stop. Being awfully touched by someone uninvited and scary, your baby dying before its first breath, being harmfully betrayed by a loved one, getting a diagnosis with a whole life to live; that hurts. Hurt is hurt. Name it so.

Last week, my kids were doing their usual infuriating wrestling match before bed. Somehow my eldest ended up on the floor of her closet defending that turf while my youngest, all limbs flailing I presume, was on the other side of the closet door. At some point young one pushed said door and met some resistance as older one’s toes were between the two solid pieces of wood that would normally, unencumbered, span said door’s hinge. Not being one to back down from a challenge, young one pushed harder. I’m guessing this hurt like a mother trucker as the wail that ensued from older one was, well, loud. As I arrived on the scene to see older one’s toes red, smashed, and almost visibly throbbing like they were in a cartoon and the youngest one standing in despair of what she had mistakenly done, guess what I didn’t say? I didn’t say, “welp ladies, looks like time to focus on the positive of this situation, eh?” No!! I said, oh my sweet lord that looks like it really hurts, let me get you some ice. And, and, I asked younger one to apologize. Sincerely. Which she did, with tears in her eyes as well. Of course, everyone recovered and went on to fight again the next night, toes and all.

The difference between the toe debacle and 2)? Well a whole stratosphere, but also very little. Hurt is hurt. Those feelings you think you shouldn’t be feeling, guess what? Also from hurt. And you know what makes hurt hurt more? And linger and resurface and hide behind corners? The hurt from some one or something that you never got an “I’m sorry” for and likely never will.

That hurts.

None of this new news and I am no where near qualified to tell you how navigate the pain and either find the sorry or learn to be okay without it, but what I am sure of is that you are damn well allowed to feel what you feel and to feel all of it as long as you need to.

So, let’s check in. Hate me or am I making some sense? Or, am I making sense, and thenceforth, you hate me?

Either way, I’ll summarize: you are meant to feel whatever it is you are feeling. If that feeling is termed shit, well then, there is work to do to move onto better. Also, on your way from shit to better if you admit/find that there was hurt, especially that lacked a sorry, well, that is really hard. You are allowed to struggle with that. If you are the unicorn who hasn’t been hurt or the enlightened wizard who has worked through it, the rest of us beg you, when we allude to our hurt, just be brave and sit with it, don’t redirect us. If you are neither unicorn nor wizard and are, in fact, just like the rest of us, know that we want to do the same for you. As a collective, I kind of think it is time that we go there.

Now, I think I am slowly starting to get it through my stubborn psyche that going “there” is hard. It’s scary. Absolutely. (And, brace yourself, if you haven’t yelled at me yet, you may be about to with this next statement..) Why do you think many seem super thrilled to sign ourselves up for the coaching trend versus spending some cash on counseling? Coaching to me sounds: positive, go get ’em, you’ve got this! Counseling to me sounds: grey, messy, holy shit am I really going to speak that? How would you like to spend your Sundays? Would you prefer a super amped pump up session about your strengths or a rocky trip down memory lane? Wooo boy! Sign me up for the former only please! Right? I’ve done neither, likely need to do significant amounts of both like yesterday, but I think it would be absolutely foolhardy, not to mention a large waste of money, to believe you could excel in wherever it is you are meant to go without getting a good understanding of where you’ve been. Not to mention, a few “I’m sorries.”

Of course we hesitate to spend our Sundays going there because of all the usuals: fear, uncertainty, shame. We wonder where exactly is “there”. And, geeze, is it bad? How bad? If I get all the way there will I be able to find my way back? I mean I feel like 6/10 on the shittiness scale now, what if I go there and it becomes 9/10, for life?

I am also willing to bet that going “there” is extra petrifying if you perceive yourself to be alone. I get that. If there is scary, if there is unknown, if there has no guarantee of a return ticket home, we’re going to desperately want a hand to squeeze, what if you think you have no hand to hold on the way? Scary.

I guess all I can say to all of that is, nonetheless, I think we have to go. Also, I’m willing to bet that you in fact do have a hand. And, if really and truly not, I happen to have two on offer.

So, I suppose, in the end what I think my particular heart aches for is, once again, more of yours. I also think that our hearts are full of all sorts of things. Some things good, most things really great, but a few things that are a little less positive. I want to see it all. I want to feel it all. I want to know if you feel like shit. Let’s laugh about it. Let’s troubleshoot it. Let’s google “super pumped up counselor” together. At some point it is going to have to happen. So let’s do it now, start the walk to the other side, then we can ride all the rainbow coloured unicorns of positivity we want while being coached to super stardom. Promise.

xo J

Posted on

LOVE

So I have a few weeks away from clinic and call, and it’s mid month, these two things are working out well for my mind to expand and wander. Lucky me.

I have always loved learning about the heart. First, it was purely practical. It was its physiology. Physiology is the study of the functions and actions of living things and all the phenomena involved in these. Rad right? I spent hours drawing arrows to and from the heart trying to memorize its patterns and flows. To this day I love those old medical drawings of hearts. There is something so grand and noble about them.

As I went further on in life and medicine, as many stories go, I had other interactions with the heart. Several times, it stopped beating. Oh how hard it is when it stops beating; whispering on my grandfather’s chest in that ICU when we knew the stop was near, holding my Dad in that ICU waiting room when it did, driving away from my grandmother’s hospital bed, knowing. Before any of this, in a state of constant effort to keep doors shut I suspect, walking that horse around that ring. My partner, my love. Those huge brown eyes that saw me. Knowing that when our walk was done, a needle would be placed and that would be that. Pets, friendships, loves, ideals, beliefs, these all have beating hearts. Some stop sometimes.

Of course, some start sometimes. Sometimes totally for the first time. Sometimes anew.

These days, I spending a lot of time listening to those first beats. Lucky me.

When you are my age, with my heart, having seen hearts stop and seen hearts start, you find yourself wanting to seek more, about the heart.

I’ve been doing this most wonderful meditation by Bree Melanson for the last few months. Of course, those that have had different educations or interests think of the heart a bit differently: as our true intelligence, as the seed of the soul, as a magnetic field, as a true north, as our truest selves. They talk of being wholehearted, exploring your heartspace, being heartfelt. Having thoroughly explored the terrain of the heart from the outside looking in in my twenties, I’m enjoying being guided through it a new way now, from the inside out.

Those of us who seek and wander, well honestly all of us, at some point in our lives will wonder about our purpose. We will question. I have been wrestling with this for a few years now. It’s been a little dance. Picture a cat and mouse near a wood pile. The cat sits quietly, waits, but eventually runs out of patience or senses an opportunity, so it pounces. Mouse darts behind wood. Elusive. Over and over. Cat gets tired, moves on to easier pursuits, like say, a career in medicine.

But this morning I had a clearer thought: what if my purpose is just love? Of course I place the just there as a placeholder for my hesitation with this idea and as a escape hatch for those back in the first world. That practical world. With all my education and training and privilege and ability, how could my purpose be simply love? Well, I don’t know, but I think it might be.

Purpose: the reason for which something exists.

Given my conditioned hesitation, still sitting and contemplating this morning, I sought to find evidence. Where have I felt love and did it feel like truth? This may seem a ridiculous question, but it wasn’t necessarily for me. I walked through all the corners of my memories and tried to move boxes and make a list. It was a little scary to realize the difficulty I had in doing this. Not because it, love, didn’t occur, but because, I think maybe, often I was too afraid to register it. Why? Another blog post maybe, hey?

But I pushed harder. That hand around my arm on those bus rides. Those wondrous birthdays. The letter given. When they hunted down the Thriller album for me. My hand and head on his warm neck. My kids, always. It was a good start.

Then of course I realized more of the point, when did I give it and how did that feel? Well, I gave it to all those goodbyes, some hellos, in that room, to her in the bathtub, to him in the car, to him on that day, every time I closed that front door for the night, and I give it to my patients and to my kids, always.

I feel it around me if I stop to.

So it is there. It is what I crave. And when it goes missing, I fade.

Is it a reasonable expectation to ask that love be there in your every day experience? Is that a reasonable ideal? Is it okay if it just bookends your days or if it just drops in unexpectedly from time to time? I suppose it depends on your soul doesn’t it? I don’t think it is okay for mine. It is the rod with which I divine. When I’ve been lost from love, I’ve simply been lost.

You can see why I had such a beautiful morning now can’t you?

Because here’s the exquisite gift (especially for yours truly) that I may be finally understanding: I have full control over LOVE. Because love is great to receive, yes, like really yes, but it is equally as great to give. So, in some ways, I can just relax. I have more understanding than I did yesterday and what has come to the light is, in fact, beautifully in reach. Of course, it is not that simple. It never is, is it. There is also a very big risk (especially for yours truly). The risk of letting the pain of all those stopped beats, and knowing there will be more, stand between me and my purpose.

Photo by Wyron A on Unsplash