Sometimes, even still, there is music that'll sneak up on me and still completely astonish me. The fact that there is someone out there experiencing, like i've said before so many times, the exact same sort of living that I am and is able to express, not just the words but the notes that perfectly pair with, IT.
Those times going on that no one else can understand, but this random person, in some random place, with her own random experiences that somehow fell into rhythmic place with mine.
And it makes me want to share it with the whole wide world.
Showing posts with label stumbles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stumbles. Show all posts
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
"I Am Not Yours"
I am not yours, not lost in you,- "I Am Not Yours" - Sara Teasdale
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
Sometimes you stumble upon these little snippets of someone else that speak directly into your life at that very moment. Sometimes someone else, someone who died well before you were every even contemplated upon, sometimes they got what you are only just now experiencing in such a way that it instantly revolutionizes the way you originally understood, well, yourself. It changes the way you understand your very own emotions and that is something very few people can do with three simple verses. It is only amplified when much later put to music.
What an impassioned way to say something otherwise lost on most.
Monday, July 26, 2010
this says it all
"Seal Beach" - The Album Leaf
Our professor read this to us the first day of class and it meant little to nothing to me then. Just about 10 weeks later, it means everything to me. I have grown weary of our time in the lab and yet I am so grateful for the experience. I know without it I would not have discovered the depth of my empathy, the intensity of my fears, nor would I have learned so permanently half the things I have in these few summer months. I want to put this here as a reminder of the beginning of my experiences in graduate school. I want to be able to come back to it, even years from now and remember, vividly, what it was like; the good, the bad, the raw, the reality.
The Book I Couldn’t Buy
by Emily (Isaak) Schindler
I remember the difficulty we had with the electric saw that day. A professor had to come over and help us. There was smoke, the blade was turning brown, and you refused to yield to his heavy-handed attempt. He stopped, turning off the saw. “There’s your problem.” A wire, covered by connective tissue, had been used to rejoin your sternum after open-heart surgery. I remember thinking that it didn’t look very elegant--I briefly wondered if the surgeon had misplaced the real wire, forgotten the real technique, and instead taken a paperclip, wrapped it around the bone, twisted it a couple of times, folded it down, patted it, and closed you back up. It just didn’t seem very official.
We scoured you for clues. Your heart, large and broken, told most of the story. Neat blue stitches anchored vessels borrowed from your inner chest wall and your leg to your failing heart. The thick, muscular wall of your left ventricle invoked thoughts of strength, thoughts I knew were wrong--your heart was weak. Your left atrium exploded. It simply wasn’t there. Your heart failed you and your aorta followed suit.
I’m sorry. I really am. I remember looking at the impersonal card hanging from our table and thinking almost 90 was a nice, solid age to live to. Perhaps you had a taste for steak, indulged in dessert, and drank beer. Maybe you just ate too much. I would have gently told you that your weight was a little too high, that you would feel better and live longer if you changed your eating habits. I would have also remarked on how lucky you were to be so strong still--your muscles are all so long, large, and defined. It’s just that you’ve got a little too much fat on top of all that. Your prostate is enlarged. It was probably a nuisance. But that’s no matter now.
Maybe you tried to change. Maybe you did change. I can’t know. Won’t know. It’s odd, knowing things about you no one else knows. Your obturator artery comes off your inferior epigastric artery. The arteries feeding your large intestine were truly unique--from everywhere to everywhere. The instructor told us not to even look at them, lest we get confused. None of this really matters to you, I know.
Wildly variant minor arteries probably weren’t going to change who you were as a son, lover, student, employee, citizen, father, man. Fortunately, you saw that they might change who I would become as a physician. I wonder if you knew what would happen to your body, if you understood the violence that would be done to it. I have a feeling you did. I’m guessing you knew that we would separate you layer by layer, bone by bone, and learn you inside and out. You knew we needed you. You knew I needed you.
Your body was the book I couldn’t buy, the class only you could teach. You knew it and that’s why you were there. Now I know it, too.
Our professor read this to us the first day of class and it meant little to nothing to me then. Just about 10 weeks later, it means everything to me. I have grown weary of our time in the lab and yet I am so grateful for the experience. I know without it I would not have discovered the depth of my empathy, the intensity of my fears, nor would I have learned so permanently half the things I have in these few summer months. I want to put this here as a reminder of the beginning of my experiences in graduate school. I want to be able to come back to it, even years from now and remember, vividly, what it was like; the good, the bad, the raw, the reality.
The Book I Couldn’t Buy
by Emily (Isaak) Schindler
I remember the difficulty we had with the electric saw that day. A professor had to come over and help us. There was smoke, the blade was turning brown, and you refused to yield to his heavy-handed attempt. He stopped, turning off the saw. “There’s your problem.” A wire, covered by connective tissue, had been used to rejoin your sternum after open-heart surgery. I remember thinking that it didn’t look very elegant--I briefly wondered if the surgeon had misplaced the real wire, forgotten the real technique, and instead taken a paperclip, wrapped it around the bone, twisted it a couple of times, folded it down, patted it, and closed you back up. It just didn’t seem very official.
We scoured you for clues. Your heart, large and broken, told most of the story. Neat blue stitches anchored vessels borrowed from your inner chest wall and your leg to your failing heart. The thick, muscular wall of your left ventricle invoked thoughts of strength, thoughts I knew were wrong--your heart was weak. Your left atrium exploded. It simply wasn’t there. Your heart failed you and your aorta followed suit.
I’m sorry. I really am. I remember looking at the impersonal card hanging from our table and thinking almost 90 was a nice, solid age to live to. Perhaps you had a taste for steak, indulged in dessert, and drank beer. Maybe you just ate too much. I would have gently told you that your weight was a little too high, that you would feel better and live longer if you changed your eating habits. I would have also remarked on how lucky you were to be so strong still--your muscles are all so long, large, and defined. It’s just that you’ve got a little too much fat on top of all that. Your prostate is enlarged. It was probably a nuisance. But that’s no matter now.
Maybe you tried to change. Maybe you did change. I can’t know. Won’t know. It’s odd, knowing things about you no one else knows. Your obturator artery comes off your inferior epigastric artery. The arteries feeding your large intestine were truly unique--from everywhere to everywhere. The instructor told us not to even look at them, lest we get confused. None of this really matters to you, I know.
Wildly variant minor arteries probably weren’t going to change who you were as a son, lover, student, employee, citizen, father, man. Fortunately, you saw that they might change who I would become as a physician. I wonder if you knew what would happen to your body, if you understood the violence that would be done to it. I have a feeling you did. I’m guessing you knew that we would separate you layer by layer, bone by bone, and learn you inside and out. You knew we needed you. You knew I needed you.
Your body was the book I couldn’t buy, the class only you could teach. You knew it and that’s why you were there. Now I know it, too.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Even if it's just your husband walking through the door after a day of work. Or talking to your mom and dad on the phone. Or a really tasty latte. Or a spoonful of almond butter. Or a really good workout. Or hearing a new song that you cannot wait to get home and
Even if it's just the comfort of lying in your bed and closing your eyes for a good nights sleep. This is such a true statement and almost always forgotten.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
wrinkles
...dismiss whatever insults your own soul,
and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency
not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face
and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body...
- Walt Whitman
Such a true argument for why plastic surgery is completely unnecessary. I have always welcomed scars eagerly, battle wounds to be proud of. I look forward to having "laugh lines" and wrinkles around my smile. I look forward to ever increasing the number of furrow wrinkles on my forehead from many an intense, intentional conversation. I cannot wait for the wrinkles to deepen in the corners of my eyes from the facial explosions that my life will bring.
I cannot wait to grow in love, grow my family, responsibilities. I cannot wait to grow my faith & my trust.
I cannot wait to grow old and live.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Stumble
I have a new obsession. I've given up Facebook and replaced it with,
STUMBLEUpon.
Talk about amazing. Here's a quote I found as a result. I'm writing it here to remember it.
- Mark Twain
STUMBLEUpon.
Talk about amazing. Here's a quote I found as a result. I'm writing it here to remember it.
Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of a joy you must have
somebody to divide it with.
- Mark Twain
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