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Canaries

To my colleagues.

I’ve been asked to talk to you about why family physicians should “Rule the World”.

To start, I’d like to read something from Glennon Doyle’s Love Warrior:  She writes,

“The canary’s body was built to be sensitive to toxins, so the canary became their lifeguard.  When the toxin levels rose too high, the canary stopped singing, and this silence was the miners’ signal to flee the mine.  If the miners didn’t leave fast enough, the canary would die and, not much later, so would the miners.

….

I tell Mary Margaret that I don’t think we’re crazy, I think we’re canaries.

 “Could it be,” I ask, “that we aren’t making any of this up – we’re just sensing the very real danger in the air!” 

I tell Mary Margaret that I think the world is more than a little poisonous and that she and I were built to notice that.  I tell her that in lots of places, the canaries are appreciated.  They’re the shamans and the poets and the sages, but not here.  … [Here] They don’t want to know how broken the world is, so they just decide we’re broken.  When we stop singing, instead of searching the air, they put us away.  This is the place where they keep the canaries. “

Now, I still consider myself to be relatively new at this, which is pure delusion really, but I have been watching a lot of canaries stop singing recently or at least come very close.  The canaries I’m talking about?  Our patients.  They are so increasingly unwell.  Physically unwell, with no road signs to follow to get better.  Mentally and spiritually unwell, whatever that word means to you and them, with no hands reaching out.  Our patients are wandering through this world and health care system with their songs getting quieter and quieter.  What’s worse?  The “system” is so blindly far behind, it isn’t ready to understand this yet, it is NOT searching the air, and it is not and CAN not help them catch a fresh breath.

But you can and are, aren’t you?  Every minute in your office and likely most days when you are out of it – it’s your focus.  You get it entirely.  You are trying to get them the hell out of that mine and into fresh air.  Your work is never just medical, though your expertise in its breadth is astounding, it is always medical and a something else.  That is your exquisite gift.  In isolation, filling out a form, making a call, listening, looking in an ear when you know it’s fine, reviewing again that your thyroid is fine – but it might be that your boss is a real asshole, sometimes doesn’t seem like expertise, does it?  Wrong.  The beautiful ballet of acts you do every moment in your office, without even realizing it, is what keeps people singing.  I cherish my other colleagues absolutely, I don’t think any ill will towards those in other places in the system, and I am well aware that it takes a very large proverbial village, but I believe with all my heart that it is only us, here, that have the precise skillset needed to walk people out of mines.

Don’t believe me?  Pick any single patient that you’ve seen recently and then imagine what it would be like for them if you didn’t exist.  What would health care look like for them?  What would it cost them?  What would it cost the system?  If you vanished, who would replace you?

Still don’t believe me?  Think of a patient that you’ve worked with to get them “better” – whatever that meant in that circumstance.  Once they were “better” what did they then do?  Did they start playing music again?  Did they sponsor a refugee?  Did they show up better for their partner?  Were they able to keep this baby and break the cycle?  Did they make choices based on kindness instead of anger?  When someone is made to feel “better” they do better in places we can’t even imagine.  We know that.  We see that.

We, here, were trained to notice ALL the dangers out there and to help people walk away.  We don’t walk them out of one tunnel only to let them turn the wrong way down another, we get them right OUT.  We do so not only with expertise, ethic, and kindness, but also a firm understanding of the system as a whole and when a lever in it needs just a little finesse or a large yank.  We do this better than anyone.  We do “better” better than anyone.  And we’ve been doing this for a very long time.  Unfortunately, in mines that are becoming deeper with ever more complicated networks and harder to find resources.  This has consequences.  The consequence that drives me to write to you is that I see another group of canaries going unnoticed:

US. 

“I tell Mary Margaret that I think the world is more than a little poisonous and that she and I were built to notice that.  I tell her that in lots of places, the canaries are appreciated.  They’re the shamans and the poets and the sages, but not here.  … [Here] They don’t want to know how broken the world is, so they just decide we’re broken.  When we stop singing, instead of searching the air, they put us away.”

Sadly, I think this may resonate with a lot of us. 

We’ve been voicing the alarm for so long.  But instead of being brought up out of darkness, we are being told that we are the broken ones.  You need to delegate more, you need to be available more, you need to become more efficient, you are spreading yourself too thin, you are asking for too much, you need to take on more technology, you are at risk of burnout, you need to care more, you should be grateful like them over there, why don’t you feel grateful?  We are being put away.  If the canaries stop singing, the miners don’t get out.  Our patients are sounding the alarm about a toxic world.  We are sounding the alarm about a toxic system.  And we are here tonight because now the alarms must be heard.  I, personally, don’t want to work in a system where your songs don’t exist.  Without you, then everyone behind is the next to go, and then there is no “better”, anywhere.

“Ruling the world” may be a bit tongue in cheek or reek of ego and pomp, perhaps.  And if I were talking to a group of lost world leaders or social media CEOs then even its insinuation would be inane – the flame of their ego needs no gasoline.  But I’m not talking to them, I’m talking to you.  You are kind and moral.  You search the air for people. You set them free.  You are the shamans and the poets and the sages.  Tonight, is about making your songs heard far and wide.   What you are feeling isn’t “crazy”, no you aren’t making this up.  The feeling of being put away is real.  But, everyone in this room hears you and sings with you.  We know, change needs to happen, there are some who don’t hear yet.  For them to hear, we need to believe in our songs like we’ve never believed before.  We need to believe that by sounding the alarm we are doing good.  We need to believe that if we are allowed to walk out of the mine and take a fresh breath, then we allow thousands behind us to do the same.  This is not about ego or money or power, this is about the truth and what is right.  Please believe that your song has importance and worth and virtue.  When you do, you will get out, everyone behind you will get out, and “better” will be spread far and wide.  This world needs a lot of “better” right now.  So yes, my friends, please do, go forth, sing, and lead this world.

Xo J

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Excerpt – 1

She’s out running again.

The trail goes on. Pine needles and leaves cushion perfectly and fill the air. The trees rise up on either side, like her army of protectors. Occasionally she stops and puts her hand on one in gratitude and kinship. She swears one day she’ll feel touch in return. Her earbuds are in today as she is searching for the furthest expanse possible, unbeknownst to her, maybe.

Around thirty minutes in the cobwebs start to clear and the clean-out beings again. Every run, a journey away from critique and towards love.

Running is both her best friend and her worst enemy. At least that is what many try to have her think. The many, that is, who don’t know her at all. Take it easy, be kind to yourself, why do you do that, there must be something wrong, there she goes again; in moments of hesitation, she wonders if they are right. But around kilometer twenty-one she shakes that off another time and knows better once again. The beat is intoxicating. At times she sings and at times her breath is taken away in a heady mix of exertion and awe. Tears of exaltation are often close. Between lyrics, her mind does its thing. There’s the wrestle of the weeks events, the smattering of things to remember to do, and the recurring wondering about where this all ends. Every now and then her watch vibrates and another kilometer passes. God she feels good. Her body is fully her own and her mind knows no limits. If she could hear it, her breath would be frequent but steady and firm and completely under control. Passersby catch her smirk. Many of them understand what is going on here and make space for it.

Back at the car she peels off her vest and loosens her shoes and takes a long drink of water. She lets out her hair, flips it over, and pulls it up off of her face. As she does, her hand runs across her cheek and the salt stings and scratches. The day is warm. The run has done just about all it was meant to do. She pulls out of the lot and heads back home. Slowly the scenery starts to pull at her insides. Cement, exhaust, indifferent architecture, lifeless streets; its contrast to where she just was and where she has been is jarring.

The drive is short. Back at home her senses get relief again.

He’s in the kitchen, completely at ease between tasks. His beard has grey in it now. She likes to think that every grey hair is a hash mark in the tally of battles they’ve won together and secrets they share. He asks how it went. He always asks. He knows. He knows what the run’s purpose is and he knows that some runs just aren’t long enough to totally get there. He asks to learn if she got there or not. Her shoulders relax, he puts his hands on her hips, the weight of them is perfect, she feels every short whisker surrounding the skin of her lips, she takes a deep inhale. There’s a flash of recall where these lips and hands were last night. The present and the remembered ecstasy at once completely different yet equally powerful. And just like that, the last clutch of critique lets go and slides away and love expands back into its space.

“It was good.”

“Kids are on the tramp and I’m going to go grab some groceries. Tonight we need to book those flights and can you sign a bunch of cheques for me? I’m out and it’s a pay week.”

“For sure.”

She walks upstairs, draws a bath and puts on a new album. As the bubbles fill the glistening white tub, the sunlight in the room is perfect. Her tea sits on the tub’s edge and its roses, almost imperceptibly, start to unfurl. Lavender rises in the air. As she sinks under the water the smirk returns. What magic lives in this house. What potential bounces electrically off of these walls. What she doesn’t quite understand yet though, is how to focus it. Her mind buzzes, her abdomen aches as a flurry of neon butterflies travel throughout it, she closes her eyes. There’s a break in the music. She can hear squeals of delight outside. Her faithful guardian lies outside the door breathing gently. She understands. She is going to write. Question is: where is she going to start and how much is she going to tell.

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Outlandish, or is it?

Ya, ya, ya, old news. I know ladies. I am sooo late to the party. It’s a common theme with me; generally several spins behind the trend. Whatever. Sometimes I just really need to see how it all plays out before I hop on the bandwagon (inserts shoulder shrug emoticon). I do apologize for taking so long and bow to ask forgiveness.

Anyway, currently obsessed and I want you to understand why.

Truth be told I’m very easily obsessed but I’ve been musing about what it is about Outlander? Ya, ya, ya Jamie is hot and they have sex. Yes, this is true, but ladies, this is not a unique formula. I’m watching the TV series. From the start all my senses were in rapture; the scenery, the music, the costumes, and of course the characters, all of them. Again, though, not unique. Why then is the draw so strong? You’ve been sharing sideways smirks about it for years, I was laughing about it at 4am at work overnight, it captures across generations. There’s many a spot to find a chiseled jaw and broad chest. Don’t sell yourselves short ladies, there is more to it and you than that. Could it be that other needs are being met? Of course I think so. Like whiskey down the throat, I think it is burning our insides with its romance, drudgery, and utter reverence.

Obviously the romance of it all is positively divine. I mean, come on, who doesn’t want to walk around in a sheer white gown that hangs just so over your breasts while the cold, damp stone room is heated and also lit by the perfect fire and your bed, plump with heavy linen, awaits you surrounded by candles? And those dresses. Jesus. Why don’t we still do that? The layers, the fabric, the curved silhouette, the appearance of floating effortlessly through the streets, or woods. (Not to mention that one can’t help but notice that apparently no one wears underwear. Good grief, can I get an amen for how annoying underwear is?!) Every moment is dripping with ceremony and ritual. What is getting dressed or undressed like for you? What is the lighting like? Are you rushed? Do you take your time? What do your clothes feel like against your body? What is your bedroom like? What do you do right before you go to sleep and when you first awake in the morning? If you have a partner, do you look at them, touch them, kiss them? If it is just you, are your senses pleased before your drift off? What is the first thing you look at in the morning? Of course it is easy to curate romance on screen, but don’t kid yourself that it is out of reach here too.

You know what else is divine? The dirt. Good god, the dirt. Hair rarely washed, face always smudged with a layer earth and sweat. You can almost touch the feel of that skin; just recently sated from exertion, dried from perspiration, at once clammy and warm and full of scent. The drudgery of it all makes me yearn. (Yes, that is such a privileged response, I know, see previous post regarding that anguish.) The lack of true danger and worry in modern life and the ease at which seeming needs can be met erases all hope of carnality. What would it be like to just have your day satisfy your physicality? To have tasks take more effort and time then a button pushed? Why do we resist preparation and strain so? Somehow I can’t help but wonder if anxiety is rising because we all know that the pendulum might not even be at mid swing? Our race for ease and growth and modernity will ultimately be our demise and at its peak rightward swing the pendulum will fall back, and down, and left. Will that bring relief to some? Are souls aching for a little dirt and toil right now? Or is the imbalance that we feel, more likely that, for earth’s majority the drudgery is crushing but invisible to the rest; the rest who are both simultaneously lost from it and able to lift it.

Romance, toil, texture, dirt, candlelight, sweat; those are key, yes, but what really gets me? It is the utter surrender to reverence. Reverence: profound adoring awed respect. Is this not what we all seek? Even more, when we receive it, do we notice? Are you truly alive if you don’t revere another? Oh yes, I love watching this spill all over the screen, episode after episode, look after look. When you are twenty years older, having now borne children, and stand naked and you truly are the most beautiful woman in the world. When you quietly speak your profession and the one you revere doesn’t hesitate a second before confirming that he, of course, knew you were always that. Oh yes, how wonderful it is to let it wash over. And oh how much do we need to forage for this here and now. Not just to and from the ones we lie beside but when we touch the earth, take a deep breath, glance sideways at a butterfly, we must notice that this too all deserves our most gracious reverence.

So off you go, read the words again, watch the scenes again, please. This time though, pay a little more attention. Find what it is that draws you in. Whatever it may be for you, this Sassenach hopes you don’t think it entirely outlandish to go seek some of it for yourself. Find your ritual and romance, slow down and toil a little, and by all means, drop your clothes and be revered.

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Reading.

What I’ve loved recently:

Brave New World – Huxley

  • if you can grab the version with the Intro by Margaret Atwood I recommend it
  • I found this made me think a lot about parenting among many other things

Love Warrier – Doyle

  • not perfect, but there are some pieces in here that so hauntingly describe what it is to be a woman that it can take your breath away quite literally

Atomic Habits – Clear

  • I over did it a while ago with the whole “hack” and “productivity” genre that I’ve been avoiding this book for a while, surprised and happy to report it is really really good and think universally applicable

Currently in the middle of:

The Bell Jar – Plath

On my bedside table:

The Handmaid’s Tale and The Testaments – Atwood

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Split in two.

I feel split in two.

I feel conditioned for success, yet often long for its opposite; obscurity, simplicity, less.

Driven to have a voice, wondering if that requires sacrifice.

Walking warily down a road that has a perpetual fork unraveling ahead in the distance.

Is this how some seemingly go mad?

Who are those who are nurtured by both more and less? How do you give your voice whilst not losing your heart?

Peering in one sees achievement and growth. But, as I sit here looking outside at the swaying trees, with candles alight on my desk, with music playing along side me and herbs dancing in my mug, I am wondering if there is risk of stifling.

Oh friends, this is not a case of Instagram existentialism. I am not trapped. I am not living someone else’s ideal. I am certainly not without choice. But, I am unreconciled.

How do flights and meetings and Teslas and growth live in the same space as music and art and sex and contemplation? Is it a delusion that I am being fulfilled by both baskets of opportunity? Is it folly to believe that a right or a left must not ultimately be chosen?

I don’t know.