When I get back to the clinic to start my afternoon, I slump into my chair. I criss-cross my legs one way and then the other. I shift my hips this way and that, tossing and sloshing frustration. Slowly and persistently, I wear through the afternoon. It’s a blur of appointments, prescriptions, lab work, and messages.
Finally, my last patient of the day arrives. She’s 30, healthy, and here for a wellness visit. It should be an easy visit. We talk casually about nutrition, physical activity, and sleep. This part of the conversation goes mainly as expected.
In the seat of the physician, energy exchange tends to be one directional. I ask probing, personal, and intentional questions to hopefully motivate the patient into finding the answer to their own problem. They ask me questions about medicine, science, and the research, seeking objective evidence to fill in their knowledge gaps. Occasionally, a patient will throw a personal question back at me.
As I conduct my exam, she asks me an unanticipated question, “do you have a morning routine?” I take my otoscope out of her ear, lean against the countertop in front of the exam table, and look at her for a moment. I consider my answer.
The honest answer right now is “no.” While I have had seasons where I exercise, journal, or mediate in the morning, I’m not currently doing any of those things. As I consider her question further though, I realize the brutally honest answer is ”yes.”
I wake up every morning, and I fight my alarm. I try to force myself back to sleep. Oh no, not again, oh god no. Maybe if I fall back asleep then today won’t really happen. I eventually — begrudgingly — drag my body out of bed and into the bathroom to splash water on my face and try to tame my scruff. I rush through some chores, throw on scrubs, and spill my coffee as I run out the door on the way to work. It’s a total tragedy, until I log onto the screen at 7:58am and put on my showtime face.
It didn’t always used to be this way, and I certainly understand the importance of a morning routine. Julia Cameron introduced me to morning pages in The Artist Way, which was truly transformative. For years, I practiced rising early to write a few pages before my day got started. It was a quiet time of contemplation and introspection. It was some of the best work I accomplished, and I felt grounded and clear-headed the rest of the day. The practice of a regular writing routine produced prolific creativity.
Just as the planet Venus follows a predictable pattern through the night sky, an artist must cultivate a routine. The Goddess of Art and Beauty is generous to those who show up to the page to receive her gifts. Inspired writing only happens if I’m writing.
Morning pages was a good routine, until it wasn’t. It was good until it became dogmatic. Guilt sat heavy on my chest if a skipped a day, so I kept pushing ink onto the page. My hand cramped as it gripped the pen. Cursive became scribbles. I scratched out every other word because my hand couldn’t spell as fast as my mind. Then I scratched out my attempt to correct the spelling because I misspelled it again. My words lost meaning, purpose, and direction. Instead of a meditation, it became a race against the clock. Another task to check of my growing list of things to do for the day.
Now I rush, rush, rush through my morning. I drag my caffeine-fueled, adrenaline-filled body through the day, until I can get home to collapse on the couch, moving from screen to screen to screen. Tomorrow, I tell myself, tomorrow will be the day that I become the writer I’m supposed to be.
Instead of a confessional, I deflect, “oh yes, the early morning hours are thought to be sacred. Why do you ask?” My evasion goes unnoticed.
I take my lunch at Cosmic Cafe. It is a short walk from the clinic, and I get a chance to walk by a duck pond. I order the same thing that I always do: a chicken salad sandwich with house-made chips and an espresso. I take my hat off to give Prim a bit of fresh air.
Looking around the cafe, I see that most of the patrons are holding a weapon of mass destruction — the smart phone. I question if these devices are truly advancing our species or merely distracted us. The beasts will continue to evolve with nature while humans are left behind clutching onto a shattered piece of glass. I feel the heat of my own phone in my pocket. It tries to seduce me.
I prefer books.
Books create a sense of kinship for me. It’s a relationship between the writer and the reader. It creates a shared experience that connects readers across cultures and centuries. Stories possess the power to leave a lasting impression, and serve as a living memory. One such book that has imprinted itself upon my flesh is The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman by Laurence Sterne. Take for instance this quote written around 1759:
I have undertaken, you see, to write not only my life, but my opinions also; hoping and expecting that your knowledge of my character, and of what kind of a mortal I am, by the one, would give you a better relish for the other: As you proceed further with me, the slight acquaintance which is now beginning betwixt us, will grow into familiarity; and that, unless one of us is in fault, will terminate in friendship.
I share the same sentiment as the author. Though we are living lives 250 years apart, we share a desire to foster friendship with the reader. Our consciousness is connected beyond the limits of time and space.
I am deep in thought, when Tristram sits down in front of me with a cup of tea. Purple clouds that smell of lavender fields float atop his cup. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a well-worn deck of Tarot cards and a crystal. The crystal is obsidian, black as coal but its smooth surface glimmering like stars in the night sky.
Tristram suddenly spews tea across the table and lets out a belly laugh. I shift uncomfortably, grabbing a napkin to dry myself. He finally controls his giggles, wiping tears out of the corner of his eyes. “Here, read my tea.”
“Pardon?”
He holds up his tea bag with a piece of paper attached on a string. I read the text. Know the unknown, hear the unheard, see the unseen. I smirk and hand him bag the teabag. “Clever,” I say, though my voice falls a bit flat and uncertain. I have an uncanny feeling of someone rummaging around my thoughts.
Tristram takes the deck of cards and begins to shuffle. Each card folds into each other like a well choreographed dance. I find myself mesmerized by the cards that flip and turn in midair.
“I’m getting a messy energy from you.” Tristram says. A card falls out of his hand as he shuffles, and I’m not so sure that I’m the messy one. He flips it over. “Oh yes, that explains it then. You’re a romantic.”
“This card is the Fool.” I point out.
“Poetry and wit aren’t so different.” He points to a picture of a man about to walk off the side of cliff while gazing up into a rose. “Let’s just say you enjoy living life on the edge, somewhere between falling and flying.” He pushes the Fool off to the side.
“I fear you have the wrong impression of me. I’m not so much a risk taker anymore.”
“Perhaps it’s time to be.”
He locks eyes with me, and I feel a gripping in the depths of my stomach. My muscles become very still, and I feel a sensation of warm soup flow down the length of my back. Something in my pelvis stirs, which confuses me. Lightening flashes behind his eyes, “Shall we cut the cards?”
I reach for the cards, as if tranced, smooth under my hand. I feel a magnetism near the middle of the deck, and my fingers tighten around the top half to move it aside. Tristram cuts the deck again with his left hand, and then stacks the three piles on top of one another.
Tristram flips over a few cards, and hums knowingly. Finally, he says, “Yes, you will experience abundance. Just remember that you are better together.” I reflexively spin my wedding band on my finger. “Ultimately, all signs point to yes.”
“Yes to what?”
“Yes to your question.”
“I didn’t ask a question.”
“Didn’t you though?” Tristram asks.
“Am I a romantic or a fool?” I finally ask.
“Indeed.” Tristram winks. “You’re likely about to go through a period of intensity. If you can listen to your Inner Voice and Go with the Flow, then you may experience a Great Flowering.”
I watch Tristram sit back with his hands gripping around his tea. He closes his eyes and savors his words. An undeniable sense of satisfaction spreads across his face.
A pile of dishes clatters behind me, grabbing my attention. I turn to look to see what caused the commotion. Prim had made its way up to the espresso machine, bringing all sizes of ceramics crashing around it.
When I turn back around to face Tristram, he is gone. His cup empty and turned upside down on top of the Fool. On the back of the card is a note, “Smell the unsmelled.”
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Let the fire Rage! Riot! Revolt! It seethes and loathes. Rage flowing through its blood Hot and steamy The frog boiling in water. The nose within a nose, Incensed by the vapors, knows no separation of Self. It is the setting sun and rising star A mass burning through blue sky Millions of lifetimes away It is the body within the soul the light within the flame Existing on the same — Now! It is always the same and yet — It never was. Fire moves quickly and fluidly, Giving away to sight, Burning into the night. It is never the same and yet — It always is. Stoke its power and hear it Roar! Embers cackle like a witch and whisper stories of ghosts dancing in the shadows. Darkness returning where the fire once burned. The flame of the candle is the same as the hearth Blazing bright, Creation of light, Never the same flame twice. Revive! The life that once was Into the life that will be One.
Let the story begin Sipping a warm cup of tea On a easy, joyful, and magical evening With a playful imagination Infinite with possibilities The coiled serpents wrapped in a basket The most important thing for a writer to do is to write It is more than a nudge It is a creative force Rising swiftly, courageously, graciously Transcending into the extraordinary It is a freedom found within Inexplicably drawn towards Juiciness Freedom is the elixir of life The writer’s world is a sensuous one Flowing thick and shiny like The whirling planet of Venus — the Goddess of Love and Beauty Stories start as budding potential Seeds growing into beautiful flowers Dancing wild on the page Brighter and brighter Exalted in this moment
The Ocean is darker than blue It is the midnight sky speckled with falling stars The Ocean is deeper than God The Ocean blends into the sky to form a seemingly endless expanse It is here that I find my home It is hear that I find my final resting place The Ocean is all consuming It is the element of Water Water is purifying It cleanses all things It washes away the past and creates a clear future The power it has to consume life It also has the power to create it From the Ocean walked the first Man It is in its dazzlingly depths that miracles happen Time weighs heavier than the lowest valleys of the Ocean While the Ocean may crush bones, it is Time that can crush the soul “Why so morose,” caws the seagulls. Here the sky is empty of all life. It is too far for the birds to fly. It is healing in its own way I could stare out into the Ocean for lifetimes and never grow bored. I hope for a whale, dolphin, or shark to peak its head above the surface. Anything to show that I am not alone in this world. The openness of the Ocean mirrors my heart I watch the waves crest and fall as if the years flowing by my life. Some are large and demanding Others pass without notice What stops the Ocean from flowing away? What stops it from falling off the edge of the Earth or floating into the sky? The water holds an attachment to the Earth and an aversion to the sky The Ocean is like the endless abyss of thoughts Sometimes the water is smooth and other times it is rocky Some waves leave an impression, but by in large they just keep reseting themselves. Looking for a place to grip and hold onto. It’s near the edges that this waves can carve into the Earth over time In the middle of the Ocean the thoughts remain anonymous The Ocean is healing The wind sweeps away at the surface Deep below the surface the water grows still Silent The sound a constant ahum I look out across the sparse and see all shades of blue I am filled with hope and joy The Ocean teaches me patience The farther I go out to Sea, the more I am able to let go of attachments I feel a loosening happen in my Soul The Ocean is in constant motion The Ocean beckons me to listen Its beauty lies in its danger
A mass of fur darts out of the tall grass next to the road. It races in front of me. I clutch my hands to my chest and become stone.
“Ah!” I scream, feeling the sudden shock to my nervous system. Adrenaline floods into my bloodstream like a dam breaking. My sense of self returns a moment later, as my logic catches up with my senses. I close my eyes, allowing my body a moment to feel the rush of energy. I grin.
“Ha!” I exhale — a sigh of relief and humor. A rabbit stops ahead on the road, breathing heavily, watching me warily.
“Prim,” I whisper the name to the rabbit, holding its gaze. The rabbit considers, then nods to accept the connection. I return the nod with gratitude.
I recite the spell again, “Ah-ha, Prim!” The bond seals. As I take a few gentle steps towards Prim, the rabbit’s breathing slows. Extending an open palm, I kneel down to my knees — first the right, then the left.
Prim hops towards me, and I notice that the rabbit has a limp to her back leg. “It is nice to meet your acquaintance,” I say. “My name is Sean. Do you mind if I take a look at your leg?”
Prim blinks and then lays down with the hurt leg facing me. I rub my palms together, and I gently pick up the leg. I notice a few lacerations, which have already stopped bleeding. “I’m going to wash off some of this dried blood and mud. It may hurt, but it needs to be cleaned.” Prim blinks again, unconcerned.
I reach in my bag to grab a water bottle. I wash the rabbit’s leg. Water drips away pink onto the Earth. The leg looks like it had been caught in a snare. Perhaps, it was a farmer who meant to catch a coyote and found a bunny instead. The bone feels intact, though the rabbit tenses as I pressed deeper.
“You’re badly bruised. I recommend staying off it for a few days.” I wipe my hands on my pants and stand up. The rabbit seems much smaller from this perspective.
“Do you have a safe place to go? Where is your burrow?” The rabbit continues to lay helplessly on her side, staring up at me with one eye as dark as the night sky. A dog barks in the distance. Prim’s eye dilate with fear, and my heart shatters. Perhaps it wasn’t a snare after all , but the trappings of a canine. The rabbit remains frozen, seemingly exhausted.
“You can come with me.” Prim blinks one more time. I pick up Prim and place the rabbit in my hat. She closes its eyes to rest. Then I carefully position the hat on my head, snuggling it down a little tighter to be safe.
“Quickly now,” I say to Prim. “We’re going to be late for clinic,” glancing at my watch. The watch is a gift from my parents. The watch face is a dark navy blue. The longer, faster hand takes a full day to move around the watch face. While the shorter, slower hand completes its revolution a month at a time.
I pick up my pace, connecting my breath to my footsteps. My legs feel strong, traversing a path that I walked hundreds of times. My body knows the way, which allowed my mind some space to wander. The storm last night disrupted my sleep. It was a fitful frenzy of dreams and doubts.
I am a relatively calm and level-headed human. I grew up on a ranch, where things move slow. We observe the cycles of life, and our family dies at home with loved ones nearby. While ranch life certainly comes with a lot of work, we also recognize the times when deep rest is needed.
I became a physician to help people. My personal statement waxed poetic about human rights, service, and learning. At the end of the day, I just want to help people.
Then I actually entered into the medical field. My first year of medical school was my first year away from home. It was a shockingly different pace than ranch life. It was an uprooting that left me feeling constantly on-edge. I watched a mountain of debt grow more and more daunting each semester. The amount of knowledge that I was expected to accrue made me feel guilty any time I wasn’t studying. Then I was thrown into my next milestone: residency.
Once again, this was a time of big life change for me. I lost myself in a toxic love triangle, stuck between the demands of work and the insecurity of an ex-boyfriend. Boundaries became impossible. What I liked and disliked was no longer up to me to decide, so I convinced myself that pleasure was in the pain.
When I finally finished my training, I felt like I was starting fresh. My teachers passed the practice of medicine onto me, and I now I had the opportunity to develop my own practice. I met and married my husband Bear. I finally got to decide.
“Prim,” I say to the rabbit in my hat, “I decided to quit my job today. Well, maybe not today. Or even tomorrow. But I made the decision that it is going to happen.” Prim shifts her weight to make herself a little more comfortable. She seems to approve. “I’m going to quit my job and become a writer.” Though I keep quiet the part where I haven’t written anything in months. I’m stuck in serious writer’s block. Utterly uninspired.
A glistening of light catches my eyes. Morning sunlight reflects off water. The storm from last night must have washed out the road. The earth is saturated. I stop at the edge of the mud and consider my options. I look left and see mud. I look right and see mud. The only path ahead is through.
I take my time, stepping slowly and carefully through the mud, as not to slip. My shoes become wet and soon my feet. I silently curse myself. I wish I remembered to bring a change of socks, but the day started in a hurry. When the last thundercloud left with a clang of defiance in the early morning hours before dawn, I awoke agitated and jumped out of bed.
It seems I rarely practice medicine anymore. Instead, I’ve been dubbed a provider. Sometimes this makes me feel like I am simply there to provide the password for patients so they can get on with their day. My favorite therapeutic tool is time and patience, and no one seems to have enough of it.
When I wrote my personal statement a decade ago, I thought I would be treating neglected tropical diseases. I thought I would be serving the underserved. I thought I would be educating patients on how to live a balanced life. Instead, I’m often met with mistrust. Who needs advice from a doctor anymore, when you have AI?
I start to cross the bridge that separates my road home from my road to work. I stare at the river flowing beneath me. It moves with particular ferocity today, quick and spreading from the rain. I look upstream first, watching the water flow towards me. I look down at my reflection, distorted by the current. A future filled with illusions. Another busy day of writing prescriptions. I will invariably sign off on pills to remember and pills to forget; pills to make people happy, and pills to make people horny; pills to lose weight, and pills to provide nutrition. Prim starts to fidget.
“I know,” I say. “Only sixteen patients on my schedule today: eight in the morning and eight in the afternoon.” Though of course, I will end up taking care of a dozen more, through the faceless messages, refill requests, and returning lab work. The battle against paperwork is relentless. I take a big breath in, and I blow it out with a grunt — halfway between a warrior cry and a moan.
I turn to face the other side of the bridge, looking downstream towards the endless forest. The trees were dense with a thick fog hanging in the canopy. “They say spirits live in the forest, and they tell stories of the past. Stories long forgotten and untold.”
As I watch the water flows with ease and effortlessness, I see a turtle laying on a log near the bank of the stream. It basks in the sun, decidedly unhurried. “It looks like the turtle wins again.” Prim taps her foot impatiently on top of my head. “Oh yes, we best not be late. Busy day ahead of us.”
Writer Body and Soul 