The Secret o' Life.

The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.

Any fool can do it, there ain't nothing to it.

Nobody knows how we got to the top of the hill.

But since we're on our way down, we might as well enjoy the ride.

~ James Taylor

____________________________

"What's the key to making eighty-nine and still looking as good as you?" I asked.  The resident working with me smiled knowingly since this is one of the most predictable questions they hear me ask of the spryest of our Grady elders.

I never miss the chance to unlock whatever secrets my patients might have for longevity in life and marriage. So I always ask. And every time, I get an answer that makes me smile. Some short and sweet. Others long and elaborate. But somewhere nestled in every response is something for me to stick on a post-it note inside of my head for safekeeping.

And so. At the end of our visit, I asked that same question in that same way I generally do when addressing my Grady elders. I use their lingo, too. After hearing it enough times, I decided that I liked the idea of "making" some golden age. "Making" eighty-nine sounds like climbing the rough side of a ragged mountain--and now reaching those elevations that few have achieved. And interestingly, years don't seem to be referenced as being "made" until you get over a certain hump in the birthday game.

Yep.

"You know I'm gon' make ninety in one month!" she announced with a proud slap of her knee.

I clapped my hands and nodded. "I saw that on your chart, Mrs. Calhoun! That's so great!"

"Sho' is." And from the look on her face, I could tell she meant it.

"So no secrets? You know I'm trying to find out how to make ninety and have it look like it looks on you, Mrs. Calhoun."

"Oh, baby it's simple. First, you gots to get on up in the mornings. Get on out the bed and move your body. I ain't saying you got to go crazy or nothin'. Jest get on out your door and walk some place. Work in your garden. Walk on over to see about a neighbor or to the store. But you can't jest stay holed up in the house watching the television."

"I like that advice."

"Mmmm hmmm. See, folk get up in age and stop moving they body. And now, I understand that ol' Arthur set in on some folk bones and they can't move. But even with my arthritis, I makes myself get on up and move. Every day."

"That's good stuff, Mrs. C. What else? You know we're taking notes." I winked at her and pretended to position my pen to write down her next words.

"Well, now another one is minding your own business, you know?"

I laughed when she said that. "My husband tells me I need work in this area, but yes, ma'am. I hear you."

"See, when you gets up in age, folk get to thinking they got the green light to weigh in on whatever they see fit. Like telling young folk what all they s'posed to be doing and how they s'posed to do it. Saying stuff about how folk run they house and who they decide to be with. And see, me, I figured out that staying worried 'bout stuff that ain't your business 'specially when it come to your kin as they start coming of age make you old. So, I jest mind my own business, you know? Even when folk used to try to get me to chime on in on something, if it ain't my business I jest shrug my shoulders and say, 'Ain't my business.'" Mrs. Calhoun shrugged for emphasis.

My resident nodded slowly and looked over at me. "That's great advice, actually."

"I never thought about the part about growing older and giving your opinion on something. That's a really good word."

"It's true, Miss Manning. Look like people excuse they elders for saying crazy stuff that ain't none of they business. So I think that make people judge folk and get to talking about a whole bunch of stuff that jest make everybody uncomfortable, you know? And I still got my thoughts on stuff but if it don't affect me and mine, I don't really fret about it. Saying a whole bunch on people's lives lead to arguments and hurt feelings and all that. Plus it make people not want to be around you. All that make you old."

"I really should have been writing this all down, ma'am." I squinted an eye and went on. "I can tell you mean what you're saying, too."

"I sho' do."

"Okay. So move my body and mind my business. Got it. Anything else we need to do?"

It's funny. Mrs. Calhoun was genuinely entertaining my questions about living to be an octogenarian. Though most of my patients answered me, few were so thoughtful in their replies. Her lip jutted out and she rolled her eyes skyward as if sifting carefully through her words. Finally, she lifted a long crooked index finger and looked straight into my eyes. "One more," she said in her gravelly voice.

I scooted my chair forward and leaned in. She didn't speak immediately. Instead, she held my gaze with narrowed eyes for a few beats, curled in that finger and brought it to her lips. I stayed silent, waiting for what I knew would be worth the time.

Her finger extended again to point at me and then the resident physician beside me. "This probably the most important thang. You got to see about yourself. I mean look out for your own happiness and don't let nobody treat you bad, you know? Like, when you a kid or a even a young person, it ain't always easy. But once you grown, you got to love yourself enough to not let nobody get away with being ugly to you. And that include you-yourself, too."

"Okay. . . " I lulled her to go on, leaning even closer.

"Put on some clothes every day. Brush your hair and care 'bout how you look. That's all a part of seeing about yourself."

"Got it."

She paused for a second and then patted her hand on the desk. "Oh! And I almost forgot. Make sure you got you a good stick a red lipstick in your  bathroom drawer. And that you wear it sometime."

"Red lipstick?" My resident glanced over at me raised her eyebrows. We both returned our attention to Mrs. Calhoun, intrigued with this unexpected statement.

"Yes, sugar. A good one, too. One that make you feel like a woman. Not no gloss or tint neither. I'm talking 'bout a R-E-D red that can't nobody mistake. You keep it there for when you need to feel strong and good. Or sometime jest for no reason at all. Paint it right on your mouth and look yourself in the face."

Damn. I was taking this all in in giant gulps. I wanted her to go on  and, lucky for us, she did.

"See, putting on some red lipstick--that's saying something to yourself. You telling yourself you worth noticing. But then you got to walk in that. Wit' your head all the way up like you know something they don't."

Whew. This woman was preaching, do you hear me?

My resident feigned a frown and groaned. "But Mrs. C, what if you look terrible in red lipstick? I can't even imagine myself with red lipstick." She laughed when she said that but Mrs. Calhoun didn't.

"Every woman can look good in red lipstick once she find the one that suit her. But the key is jest that she just got to make up her mind that she deserve the attention it brang, see. It ain't never the color. It's that part that hold women back from it."

And that? That I knew I wouldn't want to forget. Like, ever.

No, I would not.


A little later, I saw Mrs. Calhoun in the hallway, cane in one hand and discharge papers in the other. I stood there watching her and reflecting on her words as she took those short deliberate steps toward the exit. At the last minute, I decided to sprint up to her to hold the door--but mostly to tell her goodbye.

"It was so good talking to you, Mrs. Calhoun. Thanks, hear?"

'Oh, Miss Manning, you know I love talking to you young people." I beamed at her reference of forty-five year-old me as a "young person." She nodded in acknowledgement of me propping open the door for her and headed into the lobby.

Just as she was right in front of me, I spoke.  "Mrs. Calhoun? I'm just wondering. . . do you still have a red lipstick?"

She turned to look me in the eye and smiled wide. "Sho' do, baby."

"I love it. Think you'll wear it next month when you make ninety?"

"Maybe. But it ain't got to be no special occasion, do it?" Mrs. Calhoun reached out and patted my shoulder when she said that. Without saying a word,  I dragged in a deep breath and nodded hard to let her know I received her good word.

Because I did.

Move your body.
Mind your business.
See about yourself.
Oh, and have a good red lipstick. 

Words to live by. Like, literally.

Yeah.

***
Happy Saturday. Best. Job. Ever.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . 

Controlled prescription.

Yes. This. All day, every day. 

***
Happy Hump Day.

Be kinder than is necessary. . .

"Be kinder than is necessary. . .for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle."

~ T.H. Thompson and John Watson

Life is good.

Saturday was amazing. It was the first weekend that mother nature had gotten the September memo and put that tiny bite of fall into the morning air. And it was perfect because nothing says "football season" like that kind of weather. The kind you tailgate in or the kind that makes you wince when you see exuberant frat boys gyrating on fifty yard lines with painted chests.

And so. The BHE (aka Coach Harry) headed out with Zachary a bit early and Isaiah and I joined them in time for the game. And I know I already said it but I need to say it again. The weather was just right. Sunny but cool. Blue-blue skies and this gentle breeze that felt like a song brushing across your face. Something about it all felt magical. I'm not sure why but it did.

Isaiah and I set up our lawn chairs and made ourselves comfortable. We were good fans appropriately dressed in the team colors and fully prepared to hoop, holler and okay, just maybe, trash talk a little bit.

Because in football a little bit of trash talking is allowed.  Just nice trash talking.

So yeah. The team bursts through the hand-painted poster and that made me really happy mostly because it's the kind of thing Deanna would have made for Zachary if he asked her. And I remember him once asking why she didn't make him more posters and her saying, "You didn't ask me. Just ask." So after that a monster was created.

Yep.

Zachary didn't necessarily ask anyone to make a poster but he did ask us to wear orange. He also asked if I'd get shirt made with his number on it so that the world would know he was my son. He liked that gesture last year so decided to "just ask" again. He also "just asked" a lot of people to come to one of his games. Uncles. Friends. Even his school principal. He asked just like his auntie instructed. He sure did.

 

So at this game on this magical day, some of those people got up early and stood out there in that same soft breeze. They, too, had lawn chairs and even orange on. No, no none had their chest painted but still. It was good to see the support. He was especially excited when his two coaches from last year were standing on the sidelines with those coach-y looking folded arms. His chest poked out further. His face got more determined.

Zachary is mostly a cornerback. Yes. Little Zachary. He gets down low and is unafraid to hit or tackle anyone. And it's super exciting to see once you get over the whole seeing your kid jump on top of someone thing. So yeah, my little blocker was more ready than ever. He was beating his pads with his hands and giving chest bumps. It was on.

So all of us were standing on the sidelines or sitting in our lawn chairs smiling and laughing. The coaches with their coach-y armfolds and Isaiah with his iPad. And that play got called and people started running you could hear the pads clapping together like always. But then, something else happened.

Wait. Huh?

The ball was passed to #3 and he slipped and spun out of that pack. Someone dove at him and he shifted his body sideways and outstretched one hand. And got away. Out. Fast. With people chasing behind him as fast as they could. Faster and faster until finally it was clear. No one was going to catch him. At least not this time.

Touchdown.

Now. Picture this. Your first real time running the ball and you make this really dramatic touchdown. But not just with your mom and brother on the sidelines but with your prior coaches who knew you when you were first learning the game and your godfather who held you as a tiny baby when you were dedicated and even some people from your school because you invited them. Imagine all of that and all of them jumping up and down and cheering like crazy in their orange. Then. Envision the best part--your father who happens to be your head coach--losing his mind and being unable to contain his elation.

Can you even get your mind around it?

It was awesome. No. It was more than awesome. It was magical. Really and truly magical.

And you know what? #3 made another touchdown, too. What's even cooler is that his other teammate from last year who was also one of "the little guys" back then scored twice, too. And those coaches from last year who knew them way-back-when were hooping and hollering and jumping up and down. It's so hard to tell through the grills of their helmets but man, oh man were those kids over the moon.

And even though it isn't always about winning and yadda-yadda-yadda, we can all admit that it feels pretty damn good when you do. We talked about how hard those kids and yes, Coach Harry, had worked to get where they were. We shared about how the things he'd learned last year from his other team applied to now and even how running track had strengthened his legs and helped him to run faster. And as we talked about all of those things, I somehow felt less resentful of the time commitment that had gone into all of those things. It was a powerful life lesson of what happens when you just keep working at something until you get better.

Then Isaiah reminded me of one of our "precepts" that we talk about on the way to school each day. These are our "words to live by" that we've been creating and discussing which mostly feels like me talking and him eye-rolling. But, yeah, it turns out that he was listening and reflecting because he said it right then and there.

"The only way to get better at anything is through hard work and not giving up." He recited that  precept and then smiled big and wide. And Zachary looked at him and smiled right back because those words were resonating with him.

After the game, we went to our favorite neighborhood Cuban-Spanish spot for lunch. And the boys were recapping the game and talking about Pokemon cards and, for once, something other than Minecraft. Harry and I were chatting and laughing and intermittently holding hands under the table.

"Good Lord. That was SO exciting, wasn't it?" I said.

"Yeah, man. All the boys did so great. But yeah, I had to keep it together when my son ran into that end zone." Harry shook his head and chuckled to himself. "Man."

That last "man" was quiet. He looked a little wistful in that moment and that's when I knew. I knew that even in the midst of all the magic, we were feeling the exact same way at that moment.

"Yeah." I twisted my mouth sideways and felt my eyes starting to prickle a bit. I squeezed my eyes tight and took a deep breath.

Nobody had to say it. We knew.

There was nobody who would have loved this day more than Deanna. No one. She would have likely been yelling so loud that someone on the other team would have asked to have her removed. And when the second touchdown came? Man, please. They would've had to take her away in handcuffs for going so crazy.

Even the coaches from last year remembered. One of them said, "Damn, you know your sister would have been out here crunk!" And I was super glad that he said "crunk" because that word is slang and funny enough to break up any emotion that came from him not only mentioning but remembering Deanna.

Which reminds me. That same coach who only knew my sister from her fancy posters and big booming voice stood solemnly with all of us in that memorial service for Deanna last year. It remains a gesture that I will never, ever forget for as long as I live.

Anyways.

So the day was magical and beautiful but at the same time bittersweet. And, yes, we all agreed that Deanna was there--she was--and that she gave those boys wings. But still. It did kind of hurt that we didn't get to witness her witnessing it. I think that was the part I was the most bummed about.

But you know? The kids talked about Deanna right out in the open. And they weren't sad or wistful or bummed or any such thing. They were eating their quesadillas and saying things like, "Oh man! Auntie would have been SUPER DUPER loud!" and "Auntie probably would have run all the way into the end zone with you!" And they just laughed and laughed.

Which made us laugh, too.

"It's cool that Zachary is still wearing Auntie's lucky number this year, too," Isaiah said with food in his mouth. "That's giving him some good luck, right mom?"

And I nodded and said, "You might be right, bud."

Then they changed the subject but I just sat there thinking about one of Isaiah's precepts from last week.

"Life is good."

"That's it?" I asked.

"Yes, mom. That's my precept. Life is good."

And once I thought more about this beautiful, magical day and my life with these beautiful, magical people who share and create these beautiful, magical memories together, I understood. Isaiah was right. Those were words to live by.

Life is good.

Joy, pain, sunshine, and rain. . . Life is good. It so very is.

Yeah.

***
Happy Monday.

I'm right here.

A group of young adults were gathered in a local pub for dinner. Air filled with a mixture of wafting plumes of cigarette smoke, hoppy beers, and music just loud enough to count as ambient noise. It was a perfect place for these friends--easily a dozen of them--full of that carefree exuberance you see in twenty-somethings. Their laughter was robust and their jokes unabridged. Not in that obnoxious way. Just in that way that says, "We're glad to be alive."

One seemed to be the life of the party. His hand motions were animated, his fingers splayed apart and almost exaggerated. He had the kind of smile that was so wide and full that you couldn't help but erupt into the same when you saw it. And perhaps this explained the energy at the table more than anything else.

A waitress who appeared to be close in age to them fluttered over to take their orders. She seemed mostly glad to be assigned to their table, almost as if she knew that infectious joy might catch the hem of her garment and ignite her with that same. She licked her finger and turned the page in the pad of paper in her hand. "Are ya'll ready to order now?"

The lively one answered first. "Yes! I don't know about them but I'm hungry like the wolf!" That made the group howl with laughter, maybe even like that metaphorical wolf.

The waitress glanced in the lively one's direction. Well, sort of. Something about him seemed to have caught her off guard. Her brow was furrowed and there was this awkward, forced quality to her expression. "Umm. . . that's. . . really funny, actually," she finally said. Although it isn't clear what she meant by that. She released a nervous chuckle and then addressed the entire table, "Has everyone decided on what they'll be having this evening?"

They all seemed to prop open their menus as if on cue. The waitress pulled the Bic pen from behind her ear and raised her eyebrows at the gentleman sitting to her immediate left. He got the message and started the litany of orders in this noisy pub. Still intermingled with laughter and jokes. The kind that says, "We're glad to be alive."

"Fish and chips. But only if you have malt vinegar. Because having fish and chips without malt vinegar should be a crime, chile!" (laughter)

"Give me the juiciest, greasiest all-beef burger you have. How would I like it cooked? Cooked? Bring it out here right now, baby, because it's already overcooked as we speak. Rare. That is, I want that sucka moo-ing and fighting me between two buns." (more laughter)

"Do you have any kind of salad? SIKE! That's a joke. Give me the bangers and mash. And a plate of onion rings." (laughter and high fives)

And all of this went on and on in a clockwise fashion around that table. All with witty one-liners, back slaps, and fun. Especially from that lively one. He seemed to have this infectious enthusiasm that made everyone at that table just a little bit happier.

"Myyy turn," he announced while waving his hand high over his head. The waitress offered him that same layered expression. She cocked her head sideways and sort of jutted her bottom lip out. Then she shifted her eyes away from the lively one to the young woman sitting directly beside him. "So cute," she said in that way you describe baby koala bears. "Will you be ordering for him, honey?"

And just like that, the mood changed. That easygoing happiness came screeching to a halt as everyone sat there looking nervously at one another.

"IIII can. . . .I can order . . for myself."

"Oh, honey. I'm sure you can." She feigned confidence in him and nodded quickly at him -- just like people nod at babies taking their first steps. Cute for babies and koala bears, but patronizing and offensive for adults.

A hurt expression washed over him but she missed it. In a somber voice he told her,  "I have cerebral palsy and that's it. I can read, I can choose a meal, and I can order."

Like all things you see and hear repeatedly, once you got to know him, the less noticeable his speech impediment seemed. In fact, it was almost nonexistent after a while. I am willing to bet that those friends of his were so far beyond it that they didn't really pay much attention to it. All they saw was their friend.

But still.

His voice was no longer laced with that mischievous wit from before. Now he seemed more self conscious of his differences from the rest of his "normal" friends. The rhythmic crescendo-decrescendo of his affected speech and his slow hand movements now appeared more pronounced.

The waitress just stood there, still pointing her pen at that pad. Her face was frozen, mortified, but weirdly unapologetic. "My bad, I guess," she said with a tiny shrug. She glanced back at the other people sitting at the table with him, still not giving him the dignity of her eye contact.  "I was thinking he was---"

"I'm right here," he interjected, pointing two awkward fingers at his eyes and then gesturing back toward hers. "Right here. You can talk to. . .to me."

And that? That wasn't unusual for him. He'd spent his entire life navigating through these uncomfortable assumptions of what his motor disability meant. He'd learned to counter the unwarranted pity he always seemed to garner with humor. With those who had the chance to really get to know him, that coping skill served him well. But still. Time after time, he had to face moments like this one--unknowing people who reduced disabilities like his to these limping, slurring caricatures portrayed by stand-up comics--complete with super-slow, simpleminded mentation that, for him and many others affected by cerebral palsy, wasn't a component of his differences at all. At all.

But now that I think of it, even if it was, there would still be feelings. I'm pretty certain that those feelings could be hurt by daily insensitivities such as being regarded as invisible or even infantile.

And so, like always, that moment stung. Piercing like a million angry wasps all at once and embarrassing enough to make his face just as red.

"Everybody thinks I'm mentally retarded," he said softly. "Everyone, Dr. Manning. Nobody sees me as a regular person, a man."

This is what my patient told me right before telling me that story. Tears were rolling down his cheeks and he clumsily patted them with Kleenex. "I do," I finally replied.

"You're. . .a doooctor," he responded. "That's what you're supposed to say."

And I sat in silence because I wasn't sure whether or not there was any truth in that statement. I hoped not.

"What makes me sad is not my disability. What makes me sad is how people see my disability instead of me." He patted his chest for emphasis. "Me."

"That makes me sad, too."

"Everybody wants to feel valued," he said. "Everybody wants you to just see them and love them for who they are inside. Not the things you see on the outside."

Something about that simple truth made my eyes prickle with tears. He went on.

"Black, white, boy, girl, straight, gay, old, young---it don't matter. It's like I told that waitress, Dr. Manning. 'I'm right here.'" He made that same motion with his hands to his eyes again. "Right here."

And I just listened and nodded and took that all in. Because this was a good word. A really, really good word.

He asked me to share this with other people and I promised him that I would. He, too, writes and clapped his hands when I asked his permission to write about him on this blog. "As long as it ain't Perez Hilton," he said with that same sarcasm that had his friends laughing out loud. 

"Nope, " I responded.

"Okay. Then I'd like that. I'd like you to share my story and what I said."

"I promise I will."

"And Dr. Manning? Tell them not just for me with my cerebral palsy. But for you, too."

I stuck that on a mental post-it note in my head for later on because that? That word was as much about him as it was about everyone of us.

And no, I don't make this stuff up. And sure, I do use some literary license and change details because that's the right thing to do. But--I swear--I am always, always true to what I learned from the experience. Always.

That said, I described what I imagined when he told me that story at his bedside. His eloquent words painted a picture for me that I could see and feel. And honestly? The "literary license" was at a minimum this time because I was paying forward this important lesson he gave me permission to teach to others.

And this, my friends, is what Grady gave to me on a rainy day last week. A good word, a new insight, and an opportunity to remind myself of something we all spend our whole lives wanting. To matter. And to not have to tell people repeatedly that I'm right here.

Yeah.

***
Happy rainy Saturday-night.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . which, okay, is really a song about intimacy but I heard the song differently after thinking of this today. So get your minds from the gutter and listen to Miss Minnie Riperton as she reminds us to see inside each other (even if she had something else in mind.)

Enough already.

They called her name and everyone jumped to their feet. The applause was thunderous. All of those synchronous hands clapping so loudly that it almost drowned it out.

Almost.

She rose from her seat carefully. Halfway stunned and halfway excited. Someone beside her patted her on the shoulder.  A close friend wrapped her in an affectionate headlock and said in that way that only a true friend can:

"SO proud of you, dude."

Those words from that friend were so sure and affirming. It made her feel like a winner. Like all of this was something that she actually might be worthy of and had earned. But then, there it was again. That tiny naysayer in her ear.

"It's only because you're likable, you know. Nice. Friendly. That's why. There are others who are so much smarter, you know. So much better than you."

That's what that voice was saying. Like it couldn't let her be fully happy about this accomplishment. Or at least think for even two seconds that she was deserving.

When she walked to the podium they handed her a plaque. That made it even more real. She stood there staring at the pressed wooden board with the engraved metal plate.

RESIDENT TEACHER OF THE YEAR 

1999 - 2000

Just below that was her name. Her name. Out of all those people. Her name.Someone turned her shoulders toward a camera and nudged her in between the Chairman and the Program Director.

"Smile everyone . . ."

The photographer pulled her face away from the viewfinder and cocked her head sideways. "Come on, a real smile, doctor!" So she went ahead and smiled. Big and wide and happy and proud. And that felt good.

But then, just like that, there it was again.

"You're actually just more easy to remember than anything else. If you weren't of color and female, they'd not even remember who you were, you know. You do know that don't you? I mean, don't get me wrong. You're pretty good and all. But man, you better hope they don't find out that you're not nearly as great as they all think you are."

And just like that, a wrinkle of worry rippled across her brow again. She fought against it as she returned to her table. Eyes landing on person after person who smiled up at her with twinkling eyes and congratulatory gestures. All the while, fighting an internal war between perception and some distorted idea of reality. What was true?

A chief residency and a couple of years later, she was back in a similar place. This time at a new hospital with new faces and new experiences.  Second year on faculty, standing in the back of a conference room with half of a mouthful of a turkey sandwich, her name got called again.

Wait, huh?

And just like that, she could feel that tiny war trying to start once again. That relentless battle against any and every accolade, compliment, or triumph.

Again. Again? Damn.

Later that evening, she was home alone staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. She felt those words rising up to pick her apart.

"It's all a popularity contest, you know. All of it. It has little to do with your real impact as a teacher or anything like that. It's all popularity."

And she stood there looking back at her reflection and felt tears stinging in her eyes. But no, these tears were not tears of defeat. They were the kind that form when someone is loading up ammo and preparing to fight against an enemy. A giant Goliath.

This time she fought back. Not with audible words or swinging fists, but still, she fought with her conscious thoughts.

"I'm proud of myself."

"You're not what they think."

"I am not what they think. I am more than that."

"It's a popularity contest."

"Maybe something I have done has been popular with a learner."

"It's because you're black and female."

"It's in spite of that."

"So many other people are smarter and better than you."

"There is only one me."

"You aren't so perfect."

"I am quite imperfect. And I'm okay with that."

"You're not all that."

"I am enough."

The real fight started then. And it continues.

Yes it does.

***

image credit

A few years ago, I sat in a room with one of our female chief residents. The day she was asked to be chief, it was a no-brainer to everyone. .  . . except her. The first time I heard her say that with a chuckle to a group, it was met with an immediate barrage of counter-comments. But me, I put it on a post-it note in my head for later. This day during her chief year when I sat in that room with her was that "later."

On this day, I could tell that she was flying on one wing. I asked her what was wrong and she shrugged. So I asked her again, this time in a quiet room.

"I just don't feel as great as everyone thinks I am," she whispered through muffled sobs. "It's like all of it is some kind of fluke. . . some kind of facade, you know? I keep waiting for someone to come along and discover the truth."

"And what is the truth?" I asked.

"The truth? The truth is that people just like me for whatever reason. But otherwise I'm not at all what they think."

"No, you aren't what they think. You're more than they think."

"It's really just a popularity contest."

"Maybe your work product has been popular with our learners."

"But I'm not everything that. . . ."

"You are enough."  

That is quite close to exactly what I said that day. I must have struck a nerve because she just wept and wept.

Those answers came fast because they had become a part of my own war cry. But they can evoke some tears because it stirs up something inside of you when you decide that you're going to believe them.

Initially I worried about sharing that story. The part about me, the part about that chief resident . . all of it. As for the me-part, I felt nervous about revealing that amount of insecurity. But part of me believes that I'm not alone in feeling this way sometimes, so I know that by admitting to it, it helps me--and perhaps someone else--move past it. As for the her-part, I feared she or someone else would know who it was. But then I realized that nearly every female former chief resident I've known or woman for that matter who's reading this has probably felt some version of this. The other thing is that this has not only happened to me one time with one female chief resident. So really? It could have been anyone. Hell, it could have been me.

At one point it was me.

But, for the most part, it's not me any more. Nope.

Lord knows that I'm not perfect. I can be a bit feisty. I procrastinate like crazy. 99.9% of my schedule, my life, and my everything can only be explained by me despite how much administrative and BHE support I have. But you know what? Despite all that, I'm alright with me.

I try hard to do things with intention. Far more than I did or even knew how to do way back as a resident. Now I know more than just those negative things. I know that I'm a creative thinker. I'm a good communicator and I'm good with people. I genuinely care about the people in my life and try to show them I do through my actions. But mostly that's no longer me because I fight. I fight to channel that nervous little middle-schooler inside of me that once coached herself to believe that something she had to offer was special. Uniquely special. And then, with all my might, I try to bring the best version of me available.

And only I can do that.

Yeah.

I read a note from a young female medical student advisee last week. It was so kind and heartfelt that it instantly made me cry something eerily close to the ugly cry. I was so moved. This one person had carefully outlined what she personally felt about the impact I'd had on her. No. It didn't involve anyone else. Just this one student and her own experience and impression. That's it. The part that made me cry was how specific it was; somebody got it. Somebody got what I was trying to do.

Yes! I am enough! Man. That note helped me to fight some more against that pesky enemy. I am enough. Me works. Me is okay.

So (along with some profuse gratitude) I responded to her kind words with a few of my own:

"Remember that you are the only you the world has and you've worked hard to be where you are. I'm so proud of you, and you deserve all that has come your way.You are wonderful and special and enough. I am better for knowing you. Hold on tight--the best is yet to come."

Enough.

No. This isn't only applicable to female physicians or chief residents or medical students. This is a word for every single woman, mother, sister, daughter, wife, friend, girlfriend, ex-wife, teen, or person who has heard that heinous little enemy within spewing those venomous words of self hatred and self loathing in her ear. And sure, such things happen to men, too, but for whatever reason there is some way that women are uniquely wired to tear themselves apart when no one is looking. So yes, my sisters. This is a word for all of y'all. And me, too.

So I say to you what I say to myself in the mirror nearly every single day: 

"Enough already. Enough. Already."

Then, with bare-knuckled intention and butterflies in my stomach, I fight. Dammit, I fight.

And you know what? These days I'm winning.

***

Happy Tuesday-almost-Wednesday. Maybe it's time to retake the "NO SELF HATERATION PLEDGE" again as a reminder not to hate on ourselves and to leave all hating to the professional haters out there. Matter of fact, I think I'll jump on it in May. Or at least a part of May. Who's in?

Oh! And with that suggestion, of course I must play the "NO SELF HATE" anthem. Remember this? Love. This. Song. It is SO going to be playing on my mental iPod all week. (If you see me and I look like I have extra swag, that's why.)

Joy to spare.

I saw this man in the clinic the other day whose smile lit up the room like fireworks. His weathered skin looked like tobacco leaves that had been rinsed and dried in many suns. And just like those leaves it appeared to have gone through a long process to get to that perfect shade of reddish-brown. Unlike that tobacco, though, nothing about him was poisonous.

At all.

I watched him talking to the resident. I had introduced myself but after that wasn't saying much during this encounter. Instead I just studied this Grady elder sitting before us.

Something about that act slowed everything down. His leathery hands moved in slow motion as did the whole moment. Like a silent movie going at half the normal speed. And that smile. Oh that smile.

With each laugh, his light-brown eyes disappeared behind redundant folds of eyelids; hidden in joyful slits created by the new horizon of those smiling cheeks. Eyebrows untamed and peppered with silver hairs perfectly framing those eyes and their crows' feet that reached clear into his scalp.

And that smile. Oh, that smile.

That smile was so wide that it peeled back his lips and revealed the top and bottom rows of his teeth. These weren't dentures either. They were his. Imperfectly perfect and all his. His teeth were a shade of beige. Four of the top ones were perfectly rimmed in gold, which sparkled each time he smiled. And he smiled often so I got to take it all in.

Finally, I spoke.

"I love your smile, sir."

And in response, of course, he smiled. Full and genuine. . .selflessly presenting it like some sort of offering. Then he said, "That's joy you see."

I had watched him for nearly two minutes. And since it was really in slow motion, that was really more like twelve minutes. He was right. That was exactly what I saw. Joy.

"I can see your joy, sir."

"The Lawd been good to me. I got joy to spare!"  He patted his chest, threw back his head and then laughed deep and throaty. Joy oozed from his lips and coated every square inch of that room.

"Joy to spare." I repeated that wisdom so I wouldn't lose it. I said it again in my head, Joy to spare.

"We all got joy to spare, you know. At least we should." Another smile. Another laugh.

I wanted some of his joy so when he reached his hand out to me, I took it. Took that offering because he wanted me to have it and he had more to spare. I held his hand tightly and felt his energy. Then, while touching him, I let those words resonate in my soul.

"We all got joy to spare, you know. At least we should." 

Yes, we do. And yes, we should.

And this, my friends? This is the Grady Hospital I know and love.

***
Happy Sunday.

Go your own way.

You can go your own way

Go your own way

You can call it

Another lonely day

You can go your own way

Go your own way

~ Fleetwood Mac 

________________________________________

Decisions. So much in life is just decisions. Even the things that happen without your permission--at some point--depending upon how you choose to deal with it, have outcomes that come down to our decisions. From the big things to the small things and all the stuff in between. Right now, I'm reflecting on it all.

Something crappy happens. So you make some decisions.

Do I curl up in a corner and wither away feeling sorry for myself?
Do I fill my body with so much anger and rage that it comes exploding from my mouth in the form of colorful expletives?
Do I get all surly and sarcastic, saying things like "Life's a bitch and then you die?"

Eh.

Guess it all depends upon what you decide.

Yeah, so I'm not thinking of anything particularly deep at the moment. I guess I'm just reflecting on the last few days and just thinking. Thinking about decisions and free will which, I guess, is kind of deep if you think about it.

Or if you decide to think about it. Ha.

Anyways.

I saw this dude in the clinic today who used heroin for "more years than you even wonna know." He'd dabbled in crack cocaine, smoked a little reefer here and there, but none of them made him feel as good as the "herr-aahhn" did. But the thing about it is. . . he'd quit using it. The heroin--he'd quit altogether. Yes. That and everything else except for cigarettes. And that's how we even got on the subject because I was talking to him about quitting smoking and he said:

"I'm still thinking about it."

And for me, that was cool because that meant he hadn't decided to quit yet. Or rather he had decided that he still wanted to keep smoking. But in that same breath he told me about how when he was ready, he would quit just like he quit herrr-aaahhn and all that other stuff he did on the side.

"How did you quit the heroin?" I asked.

"I just decided I was done with it," he replied.

Which made sense to me. So next, I decided to ask him one more question to see if I could get him closer to deciding to quit the cigarettes, too. Especially since he had some horrible medical conditions that were being made horrifically worse by his tobacco use.

"Sir, how are things with your nature?"

My resident with me looked puzzled and that patient sounded puzzled when he said, "My who?"

But see, the patient was just surprised, not confused like that resident doctor.

"Your nature. Do you have troubles getting erections?"

And he narrowed his eyes at me for a bit and then decided to be honest. "My nature ain't been right for a minute now."

So I just shrugged and said, "Okay. Well smoking can hurt the blood vessels that help you get a hard-on."

And my resident's face flushed at that term which, yes, I had decided in that instant to use because it was graphic and I was going for graphic. And because I'd decided that in this situation, too many other words would have just been a waste of airspace.

That man told me that hearing that made him think and that just maybe, he'd decide on a quit date real soon. And I told him that I was cool with that, too, because I was.

Because it was his decision.

Another lady was overlooked in the waiting area today. We didn't get to her appointment until two hours after she'd arrived which was NOT cool. So as soon as I entered her room, I was profusely apologizing. She looked at me just as peaceful as ever and said, "It's alright. Not alright where my time ain't precious, but alright where we can move on. I accept your apology and appreciate it."

And next she pulled her pill bag out of her pocketbook and prepared to keep it moving.

"You are so peaceful," I decided to tell her.

And she replied, "Being pissed off and angry is a decision."

I told her, "Yeah, like I heard somebody say, 'Being angry is like you drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.'"

She laughed out loud. "You got that right!"

And that was that. So we decided to get to why she was there instead of fume or fret or whatever we could have done for the rest of that visit.

Yeah. So that was that.

Then, toward the end of my crazy busy day in clinic today I got this text from Harry that said:

"Don't forget I am going to the Hawks game tonight."

And the truth? I can't be sure if I forgot or if I didn't really know ever. So I furrowed my brow to contain the ripple of irritation that rolled over me before preparing my thumbs to text back.

"Uuhhh, hello? When did we talk about you going to the Hawks game?"

But just as I started to push send, I paused. I wondered the point of my response.

Was it to make him feel bad?
Was it because I didn't want him to go?
Was it because I felt annoyed at some kind of social thingamabobby planned on a Monday?
Was it to punish him for not re-reminding me before two hours before the game?

That's when I deleted that text and decided on a different approach. I answered those questions for myself.

Did I want to make him feel bad? Uhh, not really.
Did I not want him to go? Honestly, it wasn't really a big deal on this night.
What about the social thing on a Monday? Eh, not really so bothersome now that I thought of it.
Was I trying to punish him? Sheesh. I hope not.

I realized that if I sent that text, it would just mean that I was deciding to be an asshole. Plain and simple.

See, the day before, Harry had spent the entire day with our boys. Soccer practice and soccer games and then he even grilled for them. The day before that, he had Isaiah's best buddy over for a play date and later had a "boys' night" with just him and the kids which involved dinner at Chili's and ice cream from Breuster's. All while I was off doing the things I wanted to do like go to a MOMO-CON-slash-Delta Ball, have a fun reunion dinner with my college sorority sisters, and even get a pedicure.

So the thing I realized by pausing is that in the grand scheme of things, I am not married to a selfish person who disregards my time. My next decision was this text:

"Great. Drive safe and have a great time."

To which he replied:

"I love you so much."

Which I have decided is much better than what would have surely become a passive-aggressive exchange without any point.

All because of a decision.

So yeah. I guess I'm just rambling because the simplicity of this concept astounds me. So much rides on free will and decisions.

Which also reminds me:

I heard Harry lecturing the kids on Saturday about making good decisions. He was saying it in that stern-daddy way but now that I think of it, it was a good word.

"You are responsible for your decisions. You've got to make good decisions, sons."

And yeah, he was really talking about their decision to get soaking wet and muddy in the backyard when they'd been specifically told to not go near the creek out back. But still. He was schooling them on the same things that made that patient put down that herrr-aaahhn or that lady who'd waited for two hours not tear me a brand new you-know-what.

And you know what else?

I have some friends whose hearts have been broken by disappointing decisions made by their significant others. Feeling broken and angry over all of it but deciding over and over to try hard to be strong. Making a decision not to live in crippling bitterness even though they'd be well within their right. A decision to not drink that poison because it's clear who dies when that happens.

Yeah.

I guess it's all kind of like Fleetwood Mac said in that song. At the end of the day, no matter what is being dished to you or done for you, you can go your own way. And damn it, when Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks sing it, I really believe it.

Whoa. Now that was some real rambling. But I decided I needed that tonight. Hope you don't mind me unpacking--but then you may have decided to stop reading three paragraphs ago.

The take home?  If there is any, I guess it's this:

How we live is based upon decisions.
How we love is, too.

***
Happy Monday.


Now playing on my mental iPod. . . .The song Lindsey Buckingham wrote as a message to Stevie Nicks. Interestingly, they decided to still make this record, even though their love had unraveled. Just look at Stevie's and Lindsey's faces on this video.  It's a trip. . . .decisions, decisions!

Hurry up and wait.

image credit

Slow down, you movin' too fast.

You got to make the morning last.

Just kicking down the cobble stones.

Looking for fun and feelin' groovy.

~ Simon and Garfunkel "59th Bridge Song"

______________________________________________

I was holding a patient's hand yesterday. She was the last person I was seeing on rounds that day and it had been a long day. I was feeling over-scheduled and over-tired and over-everythinged. The clock was on my back and the list of things I had to do at home was just as long as the one I had finally finished at work.

I needed to go.

It was already 5:20 P.M. The sun was already on a downward descent and late afternoon sunshine was peaking lazily through hospital blinds. And today, there wasn't much going on with her so I felt confident I could get out in time to get both kids on time.

If I hurried, I'd be just fine.

There was a procedure that she'd needed and that procedure had been done. She'd tolerated it well and all of the teams of physicians caring for her were now working in a lovely three part harmony. Plans clear. Clinical course, at this point, predictable.

This was supposed to be a quick in and out visit. A chance to check on her pain and see if she needed anything. What would work best for my schedule would be for her to say, "Nope, I'm good" or even ask one obligatory question to which I could quickly answer.

Not so fast.

"Hold my hand," she said. She was telling me more than asking me, so I sat down on the edge of her bed and did what she said.

"You okay?" I softened my voice to let her hear my concern. And to hide my ticking time clock.

"I'm fine. I just want you to hold my hand for a little while that's all."

What? But. . . 

"Okay," I answered. "I can do that." Because even at 5:22, I could. At least for a moment.

So I held her hand and waited for her to say something but she didn't. She just sat there watching Judge Judy and not even looking at me. The silence was killing me so I made some small talk.

"Are you moving your bowels okay?"

"I am." She nodded her head while saying that. Keeping her eyes on Judge Judy.

"Any pain?"

"Just a little. But the pain pills help mostly. So mostly no pain." She shook her head. Back to Judy.

"Okay."

I softened the grip on her hand and she sensed it as the warning that I was trying to leave. Her fingertips pressed into the back of my hand.

"Don't go. Can't you just stay with me for a little while?"

Eyes off the television and now on me. I didn't respond. Instead I just sat still to show her that I'd try to stay a little longer. Even though I really needed to go.

Like, for real.

I looked into her eyes. They were unusually wide like brown saucers.

"You sure you alright?" I finally said.

"You know? Nothing is wrong right now. I just like you. I like your voice and how you look at me. It makes me feel better for some reason."

My face immediately grew hot.

"I like you, too." That was all I could think to say. But at least it was true.

After a few moments, she let my hand go. Then she said, "I know you got to go. You probably got to go on home or see other patients and I know that. I can tell you a busy person. But you know what? You got this special thing about you that don't make people feel rushed. Even when you in here quick it feels like you got time for me."

Wow.

I sat there speechless. I thought about how many times this week I'd already told my kids to "hustle up."

"If you feel rushed I guess it don't even matter if it's not a rush," she added.

I thought about the last thing I'd said to Isaiah as he dawdled that morning before school. "Come on, buddy. Sense of urgency, bud, let's go. Hustle up." Even though we were making good time this morning.

Yeah, hustle up.

"I guess perception is reality."

She looked over from Judge Judy. "What's that, Miss Manning?"

"Just what you said. What it seems like might as well be how it is."

"Yeah."

"You know what? I was kind of in a hurry when I came in here. I can't lie."

Now she was off of Judy for good. She smiled at me sideways.

"But you didn't make me feel like that, see."

"Hmmm."

I squinted up at Judge Judy and then looked back at her. The verdict was just about to be rendered. This let me know that it was very close to 5:30.

And that I still needed to go.

"You know? Some days I'm pretty sure I don't get it right."

"Today you did."

I grabbed her hand again and squeezed it. "Man. I kind of needed that today. You must have sensed that I did."

"No, Miss Manning. . . you know. . . actually I didn't."

"Well, it seemed like you did." We both chuckled.

"So what it seem like might as well be how it is. Right, doc?"

"Right, indeed."

I paused for twenty more seconds after hearing Judge Judy bang her gavel. Judgement for the plaintiff. The credits started to roll and a commercial came on.

"Alright then, Miss Manning." She gave my hand a pat of dismissal.

I stood up to leave and headed toward the door.  I flicked off her light switch and replied, "Alright then."


***
Happy Friday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . 

The Old Man and the Knee.

Arthur-itis.

"Hey there, Miss Manning!"

You announced that greeting to me while craning your head out of the door of a clinic room. Me, I was hustling and bustling through the hallways trying to get things situated for the afternoon session. I glanced back in your direction and couldn't help but slow down.

"Hey sir! What you know good?" I spoke to you in that easy and familiar language that we both know so well.

"Awww, I ain't no count!" And then you laughed out loud, slapped your knee, and then winced a bit. "Woooo! I bet' not stir ol' Arthur up."

Arthur. As in Arthur-itis.

I stopped in the doorway with a stack of papers in my hands and smiled at you. Today you were alone instead of with your daughter. This was fine because even though she sees about you, you "do for yah'self." Your dark leathery complexion has weathered the storm of your "eighty-some-odd" years quite well and I decide today that I love it all. Including those milky, bluish rings now filling the irises of your aging eyes.  An interestingly beautiful contrast against that coffee-colored complexion.

Yes, I love it all because it represents so much of what I love about Grady. Storms weathered with beautiful contrasts. 

"I don't think I recall you havin' so much gray hair, Miss Manning!"  You announced this in that unapologetic way that only the Grady elders can. "But tha's alright. I still think you a pretty little thang."

Pretty little thang? Ha. That's what I'm talking about.

I carefully watched you as your mouth moved.  Cheeks with deeply chiseled lines and scarce remains of what was once a beard pasted around your chin and cheeks. The teeth in your mouth looked to be the ones you were born with; large and rectangular but now with a tannish hue and old school dental work gleaming from the sides.  Your neck with its redundant skin is supported by shoulders that have remained unusually broad and strong.

"Chopping wood," you said. "Asked my grandson to do it, but he ain't no count." We both laughed again.

You've taken the liberty of removing your coat, folding it neatly on top of the plastic bag you'd carried in that day. And like the perfect patient that you are, you'd also removed every single one of your medication bottles from that same bag and lined them right up on the table.

"I stopped coloring it," I added in reference to the gray hair again. "Too much trouble, you know?" 

"Yeah, I hear you. I never got too much gray but I thank I woulda took the gray over losing it all!" You cackled while rubbing your shiny hairless scalp. Then you slapped that knee again and woke ol' Arthur up again. "I jest went on and shaved on off. It never really came back after that."

"Less trouble though, right?"

"Reckon it is!"

I saw your cane leaning against the wall. Weathered but still quite functional. Just like you.

"Knee still giving you a lot of trouble?"

"You know? Not as bad since they inject that medicine in it. But you know, these ol' knees been good to me so I manage just fine. This right one like to get stiff in the mornings. He get to loosenin' up as I get up and around though."  The pronoun reference to your knee warmed my heart. You warmed my heart even more. I knew I could stand there talking to you all day so I decided to move on.

"Alright then, sir. Your doctor is checking your lab work and will be in here in a few minutes."

"Okay then, baby. Good seeing you, alright?"

"You, too, sir."

"And Miss Manning? Keeping a smile on your face make you look prettier than any old hair dye can any day."

That's what I'm talking about.

One of the nurses overheard that part as she came in to check supplies in the room. I looked over at her from the doorway. "You hear that? That was a good word, huh?" 

She laughed and replied, "Ummm hmmm. But I think I'm gonna smile AND dye my hair."

Ha.

This day was a good day.

***
Happy Tuesday.

Just do it for love.

"In your world of noise
Or in your quiet place
Whatever you say
Whatever you do. . . .

Just do it for love."

~ anonymous man on the beach

This lovely man sang an original song for my friends and me today on the beach. He threw back his head and lifted his voice over that salty air like no one was even watching. And it was beautiful. Really, really beautiful like bells ringing in unison or Etta James singing "At Last."

I asked him his name and he just laughed real easy-like and said, "Yeah, mon, I'm just the singing guy." And that was as much as he was willing to say so I left it at that.

The Singing Guy sang that song plus another by Tracy Chapman that was hauntingly soulful. We applauded and he beamed brighter than that Caribbean sun -- seeming to appreciate our genuine entertainment far more than those few loose bills we dropped into his hat.

That made me think about all of the amazingly talented people in tiny pockets all over the place and how few people get to see them or hear them. Strumming guitars and writing music that sounds as perfect as anything I could purchase on iTunes. Or maybe even better.

As a writer, I relate to this. Our applause was affirming. And affirmations feel good.

And so I offered more. "Singing Guy, I loved your original song the best of all. Those are good words for me to hear in my head going into a new year. Thank you for sharing them with us."

And he beamed again. This time even brighter.

I recorded his song and have replayed it for myself two and a half times already. (That's how I remembered the lyrics.) Even though he gave me permission to share his picture and my little iPhone video, I wasn't fully sure if I should. Hmm. Will think about that some more.

"In your world of noise
Or in your quiet place
Whatever you say
Whatever you do. . . .

Just do it for love."

That's a good word on a whole lot of levels. Yeah, mon.

***
Happy Friday.

Why the caged bird sings!

Here's something cool:

I just had a narrative/story published in the November 16, 2011 issue of The Journal of The American Medical Association (JAMA.) And yeah, that's kind of a big deal, but that's not the really cool thing to which I'm referring. Nope. That ain't it at all.

This is. 

At the end of my story, there was a little over a half of a page left of blank space so they added a quote to fill it up.  Here's the quote:

"One writes out of one thing only--one's own experience. Everything depends of how relentlessly one forces from this experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give."

~ James Baldwin (1924 - 1987)

Now is that rad or what? That THIS--a James Baldwin quote--would be the chosen words to follow something I wrote?  In a medical journal--better yet--The JAMA no less!?

To me? That was an extraordinarily high compliment to have my story inspire placing that quote. And maybe it had nothing to do with my story. But still. It was there. Right next to my story.

Talk about hyped. I was more excited about seeing that than my own article. I don't know. It just felt sort of. . .sort of. . . spiritual to read those words behind my own. Because they resonate with me, and so does the author.

Why, you ask? Because the author of that quote is James Baldwin. James Baldwin, y'all! Unfamiliar? Okay, well check it-- Mr. James Baldwin was the iconic Harlem-based writer whose literary genius inspired the likes of Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou. A social activist and fearless, award-winning author who both challenged and moved Ms. Angelou to write her critically acclaimed autobiographical novel "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings." A man whose words read like art forms. . . . 

*sigh*

Yeah. That dude. As the chosen person behind a quote in a top-tiered medical journal. Damn.

His words? After my words? Maaaaaaan, that's what I'm talking about.

***

No relation to Alec or Billy.

In the words of James Baldwin:

“Love takes off the masks we fear we cannot live without

and know we cannot live within.” 

 ***

“Not everything that is faced can be changed, 

but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”  

***

“Children have never been very good at listening to their elders, 

but they have never failed to imitate them.” 

***

“The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose.”

***

“The price one pays for pursuing any profession or calling

is an intimate knowledge of its ugly side.”

***

“It is certain, in any case, that ignorance, allied with power, 

is the most ferocious enemy justice can have.”

***

“Trust life, and it will teach you, in joy and sorrow, all you need to know.” 

***

You feel me, now?

***

Happy Monday, good people. . . . happy Monday indeed.

Stay hungry. Stay foolish.

Steve Jobs, Revolutionary and Dreamer 1955 - 2011

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. 

Don't be trapped by dogma 
which is living with the results of other people's thinking.

 Don't let the noise of others' opinions 
drown out your own inner voice.

And most important, have the courage 
to follow your heart and intuition. 

They somehow already know 
what you truly want to become. 
Everything else is secondary."


~ Steve Jobs, Stanford Commencement Address 2005

Now that's what I'm talking about. This man never even graduated from college.  He was a tremendous success but credits it all to being "hungry" during some of his biggest failures.  Steve Jobs, the creative mind behind Apple Computers and Pixar Animation died today at the age of 56.  He lost his life to pancreatic cancer. 

Today I'm reflecting on what happens when people dream and live out their passion. I am inspired by Steve Jobs' story and his life.  As I type onto this MacBook Pro, check for comments on this iPhone that will likely get replaced this month with the newer version, and finish reading a piece of fiction on my iPad tonight, I am marveling at the power of what one imagination, when combined with the enthusiasm, support, and elbow grease of others, can do.  

Oh and what's up with this font, you ask? Well. . .we have him to thank for cool fonts like this italic one. Who knew that a calligraphy class he took back in the day would lead to this? You never know how something will help you later. . . .

"When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: 'If you live each day as if it

was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right.' It made an impression on me,

and since then, for the past 33 years, I've looked in the mirror every morning and

asked myself: 'If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am

about to do today?' And whenever the answer has been 'No' for too many days in a

row, I know I need to change something."

Alright. So what are you doing? Are you living your life or someone else' life? What's your intuition telling you? What's that inner voice saying? Well???

Time is limited. . . .choose carefully.

Rest in peace, Steve Jobs. And heartfelt prayers for those you leave behind.

***

"Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish." Steve Jobs' message in 2005 that is as good a word as any I've heard in any church. Check it out and be inspired.

**P.S.  Nate G., you channel Jobs' spirit in so many ways. Stay hungry . . .stay foolish. . . . you inspire me, too. You so very do.***

And now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .as I think of a revolutionary mind. You say you want a revolution? Then get crackin' on your dream!