Wellness and Wabi-Sabi

"well, Ness…"

I am expert in disease. This word hails from the French for "trouble, discomfort, inconvenience, lack of ease". That's a hell of a thing to be well schooled in, and even though I am well-schooled (to the tune of 1/4 million bucks in student loans which I will possibly pay off before trouble and discomfort claim me), I still struggle with just how well a living being is supposed to be.

Should we never have pain? Should we always be at our athletic peak, able to leap down stairs without a thought and climb hills without gasping? What does it mean if you are born with disease? Why is good health "normal", when in my experience, every day threatens us with trouble and inconvenience? Some people, whom the modern slang might describe as "haters", even consider disease and trouble as a sign that God is angry with a person, or more often a group of people who do not share the hater's views. Most of us, when we get sick, can find some blame somewhere, and I suppose most often in ourselves. Because we are supposed to be healthy.

I have a kid who likes to get 100% on tests and assignments. And though we are not biologically related, I can tell you that apple did not drop far from the adoptive tree. I find myself telling her to let there be imperfection, to rest more, to cut herself some slack. Deja vu and bullshit, because I have heard those words myself and do I listen? Yes, I do! And I meditate five times a day! And I lived happily ever after.

Being bald, with an autoimmune system that eats my skin alive and stroke-worthy hypertension is the trifecta of beauty and perfection. Just the other day, Sports Illustrated called up to see if I would be the centerfold for the next swim suit edition. I, of course, had to tell them no because I am too busy doing my  MKSAP 17. Also, napping and taking warm baths. "My doctor made me take some time off, and posing for your magazine is way too strenuous for my delicate self. Good luck finding someone as cute as I am!"


I am not so delicate as to stop running though. Yes, I recently found myself on a casino floor and yes, I sprained an ankle on my Thanksgiving day run. But me and Klay? Nothing can keep us down. Not even hypertensive encephalopathy, the Milwaukee Bucks and other such inconveniences.

Why should people be unwell? And if being unwell is part of being human, why do we fight it so very hard? Many of my colleagues bristle at the battle analogy for dealing with disease. I tend to see more grey area here, because I understand, as an athlete, how approaching something hard as a challenge that you must face is valuable. We find out who we are and tap into our own strength when we compete. The thing is, disease is not a foe with any scruples. As a matter of fact, disease is a concept that we have created to describe the physical and mental imperfections of being human. Therefore, fighting disease is a little like fighting ISIS. It hurts, it stinks and it makes no sense. Finding the perfect battle plan is folly.

Which is not to say we should give up on being well. Here are ten pointers on how to guarantee wellness in the New Year:

1) Psych! Never believe this shit!

Seriously though, I do have a few thoughts on wellness.

1) Listen to your doctor/NP/PA. No, I am not saying this to promote my already inflated sense of ego, but rather to say, these folks care about you. I actually listened to my doctor and I am starting to feel better already. It was not easy, because it is widely known that doctors are second only in being the worst patients to nurses. Nurses: love ya!

2) Exercise.

3) Beethoven. Or whatever music floats your boat.

4) Allow yourself to grieve. For whatever life throws at you that gives you grief.

5) Hugs.

6) It is normal to have some disease. Don't ignore it. Seek help. And don't judge others OR YOURSELF for their/your suffering or infirmity. That's just mean.

7-10) For me, personally, I have to run. Even when I've been benched from the rest of life for impending cerebrovascular disaster.

Lucky for me, I get to run here (watch this video). And while watching this, remember, even the young and fit have imperfections. They just hide it better. Imperfection is beautiful. Reduce dis-ease by accepting the transient nature of suffering. Go full on wabi-sabi!

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

I was lying on the floor of my hotel's casino after my recent half marathon, wondering what the point of   anything was and whether anyone would ever notice that I was there. Perhaps it is a frequent occurrence, the person laying flat on their back on the (rather digusting) carpet while the lights continue to flash and the booze continues to flow. Thankfully, a friend texted:
where r u?
To which I answered:
on the floor of the casino

She heroically came down to fetch me, and the hotel pseudo-medics did their best to talk me into an ER visit. No offense to my friends in the ER business, but no thanks. So instead I got a first class limousine wheelchair ride to the 22nd floor of Mandalay Bay, baby, with a gallant assist-transfer into the fetal position in bed.

The end.

All of this is to say, if you are going to run a half marathon, consider adequately training first. Then consider that 40-50 mph gusts of cold wind with sand flying into your eyeballs while rain is falling in the dark on the strip of Las Vegas at night may not actually be ideal running conditions.

Still, I am glad I did it. No really, I am. Mainly for the time with the good people that I spent time with in Sin City. Also, because it reminded me that even when running reminds me of some kind of Dante circle of hell I still like it and the medals in Vegas had these slot machine things on them that were pretty snazzy. Also, I met Meb at the expo. He is very kind.

Big race expos are bizarre. Or maybe like a bazaar. How much running related merchandise can one fit into a convention center? Is that much spandex in an enclosed building hazardous to your health? And how much stranger can the Gu energy gel flavors be? These are the questions I have.

Today I was walking down the street, basically minding my own business, when a bird nailed me. That is to say, it shat upon me, on the front of my pants. I was 15 minutes away from my next house call and this was one impressive stain. The last time I was targeted by a bird was in 6th grade, on one of my first dates with my boyfriend Fritz. That time we were holding hands under a tree when a bird nailed me on the shoulder. He laughed at me. That relationship was short-lived.

Last night, I was awakened by a windy, rainy storm. I groggily raised my head, and my trusty dog was sitting up on his haunches, staring intently at the skylight. I finally coaxed him back to a restful position, but he was disturbed.

Storms, bird assaults, casino floors. What is the meaning of all of this?

As Snoopy noted, it was a dark and stormy night. And this, though terrible writing, is an accurate depiction of so much of life. Why do people hurt each other? Why do children die? Why must people respond to fear with hateful actions and thoughts?

A wise person I know mentioned that the woods at night represents the dark parts of our being. However running in the woods is like the light that diminishes what is scary and dark. And having someone with you running in the woods at night is even better.

Running the Las Vegas strip at night? Perhaps not so profound. Still, as I ran toward the finish line at The Mirage in Las Vegas (the irony here was not lost on me), I could see the light. Mainly from the fake volcano and the neon signs. Still, light is nice, especially on a dark and stormy night.

My dog peering at the fathomless night sky may not know the mystery but he knows that what matters is we are safe. Or maybe we are not. If you cannot be safe, be near those you love. Thus he snuggled next to me, spine to spine. And the wind howled on.

The Woods at Dusk

There are eleven things worth living for today, I reckon.

1) Dogs. Dogs who like to run. Dogs who cuddle up to me during house calls. Border collies are always my favorite (sorry Miles). Dogs with names like Miles, which apparently is from the Germanic "Milo", meaning gracious. There is a local kid named Milo who is an amazing dancer, by the way. It could also be from the Latin "miles" for soldier. Or the Greek Miles for "destroyer". Or Irish meaning servant or Hebrew meaning gift from God. All of this is from the internet, so I don't believe a word of it. Tonight, running at dusk in the woods, he acted the soldier-destroyer once when a fellow (who seemed perfectly nice, btw) surprised us on the trail. Miles does not mess around. Phyllis is a good dog name too. Apparently derived from foliage (Greek), and might be linked to a woman who killed herself out of love for some guy named Demophon and then turned into an almond tree. The Phyllis I know takes no shit from boy dogs, so I am suspecting she is safe from becoming almond milk at Trader Joe's some day.

Miles and Phyllis, October 2015

2) Husbands. Specifically mine. I do not know how your's behaved today or on average in recent days, months and years. Mine is a saint. There is no internet derivation of his name, which is unusual and often misspelled. 

3) Friends. They are the people who show up every day, any hour of the day, without whining or complaint. They say funny things. They often are a lot wiser than I am, and they do not mind when my hair falls out, including half the hair of one eyebrow. Friends like their half bald, half-eyebrowed companions. You know who you are. 

Any bets on how bald I will be tomorrow?

4) Running. OK, I have not been talking enough about running on this blog purportedly about running! I am not as fast as I used to be, and in this town I was never that fast to begin with compared to the elites who seem to breath speed through redwood mist or something. But, I can run. I mean literally, I can put on shoes, go outside and run. There are many people that cannot do this physically. Or are so busy trying to just survive that the idea of spending time running in the woods is ridiculous. Tonight's run, in the woods at dusk, was nice. And every time I run somewhere beautiful, I feel better. Every single time. 

This is my back yard. Yes, I am boasting. 

5) Patients. Erma Bombeck once said "Never go to a doctor whose office plants have died". Which is why I never keep plants in my office. Seriously though, if your doctor has the time to tend their plants, they are not working hard enough! Your doctor should be oliguric, and preferably divorced because they have spent so much time with you that their spouse left 16 years ago and your doctor hasn't even noticed yet. Their children are all nuclear physicists and your doctor's last day off was at age 10 when they skipped piano lessons to ride their bike to Kwik trip to get an orange push-up. Seriously though, my patients are why I do medicine. And when I am with them, time melts away. Like an orange push-up on a summer day.

6) Children. Full disclosure here: parenting is harder than anything I have ever done in my entire life. This includes: 

a) childbirth, which is hard but temporary

b) standardized tests

c) learning Ravel Jeux d'eau

d) The Tour of the Unknown Coast

e) all of the marathons I have run, including the one NYC marathon where I cried all the way through Central Park

Children, whom I would lay my very life down for in an instant. They make me soar, they stomp on my heart, they can destroy me in an instant. Love them. 

7) Music. I am currently rereading, for about the 18th time, Song of the Lark by Willa Cather. It captures something about music and musicians in a very organic way. And I do not mean organic like Whole Foods, California, healthy, snobby, righteous organic. (I only buy organic). I mean salt of the earth organic. Music is at the very core of who I am. For some reason I shied away from it and decided to be a doctor. This could be why I get so sad sometimes. KIDS IF YOU ARE READING THIS: FOLLOW YOUR TALENTS AND PASSIONS. Unless they are illegal, in which case I suggest you get your shit together immediately. 

8) Books. I am surrounded by writers. My husband, my eldest child. Sometimes I think my poodle is writing a book in his head because, just like my husband, he will suddenly sit down and stare into space intently like there is something there he is trying to figure out. I can converse with husband or dog at these times, until I finally realize I am essentially talking to myself. Writers live on some different plane of existence. I am grateful for them because when I read, I too get to escape to a different plane of existence. As long as it is not a real plane, because I dislike those intensely.

9) Rocks. Literal and figurative. I can spend hours collecting rocks. I can also appreciate the solidity of them. Today I bought a couch for my office. It represented to me the solidity of the decision I have made around work. A couch is kind of a sign of commitment. Nothing is really set in stone, and stones actually change with weather and water and time. But they are so nice to hold in ones hand. And a good, solid couch? Let me explain, my couch is not made of stone. It is actually comfortable and soft. I just think couches represent solidity. 

Stones. October. Woods at Dusk.

10) Hats and the people who make them. 

Do you like my hat?

11) The Woods at Dusk. This is when the mountain lions are said to prefer eating people. I never worry though, as I have lightning speed and a fierce poodle and West Highland Terrier to protect me. The woods are good anytime, but early mornings and late evenings are the best. The light is ever changing. The redwoods split the light, which is one of their superpowers. It is quiet and usually few others are around. It is like a cathedral, but with big hills which suck the living air out of your lungs and make your heart almost explode. It is a labyrinth with cut backs and fern canyons and redwood droppings as soft as pillows underfoot. It is not for the meek of spirit. It renews your soul and kicks your ass all at the same time. It can save lives.

I have a cathedral in my back yard. Nyah, nyah.

Lippity-Lippity-Not Very Fast

"I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening. His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea-and she gave a dose of it to Peter!

One tablespoonful to be taken at bedtime.

But Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper."

-Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter

Fictional mothers are rock stars. Peter Rabbit's Mom, for instance, can solve everything with camomile tea. Granted, Peter lost yet another jacket and with Mr Rabbit already baked into a pie by Mrs. McGregor it is all she can do to keep the family clothed, fed and housed. 

Then there is Little Bear's Mother. She cooks, sews, tells stories, never gets angry and generally kicks ass. Little Bear is well-adjusted, kind and high achieving. And they are all drawn by Maurice Sendak. Sometimes I wish I was drawn by Maurice Sendak.

Perfection in parenting is all around us. In the doctor's lounge, it is manifested by tales of science fair victories by future nobel prize winners. At sporting events, it is a gaggle of future olympians, bringing honor and glory to us all, with parental button-popping serving as a serious threat for eyes being put out all over the place. Which is why I ALWAYS wear protective glasses to children's sporting events. On Facebook, which I personally am quite fond of, it is happy, shiny people with happy, shiny children and happy, shiny dogs. Guilty as charged. 

I spend my days with people. Which seems like a stupidly obvious statement because unless you live on an island that is yet undiscovered or unless you are one of those Humboldt hermits, you too probably spend your day with people. But I am an introvert and I am telling you I spend my day WITH PEOPLE. Like up close and personal, getting right to the intense stuff because generally there is no time to waste in end of life care and/or geriatrics. And here is what I can tell you about the state of people: they suffer.

I think Maurice Sendak might've been trying to get at that concept with Where the Wild Things Are.

I am, in general, not in favor of suffering. 

But without suffering, there is no sense of relief. Like the pleasure of gulping water when thirsty, of an ache that subsides, of a heart break that slowly becomes nostalgia, then a portal to something bright and precious that has been crystallized by time and the searing heat of tears and intolerable grief.

I was running today (this is a blog about running, after all). It was in the woods, and it was with dogs. They and I meandered. They gained on me on the uphills (dogs seem completely oblivious to the hell of incline), and fell behind when I went down. I have been in a deep state of grief in recent days, but today I laughed twice. Not just a giggle but an unexpected eruption of hilarity. First time was at the car wash. I was out doing housecalls and my car was so dirty I could barely see out my window, so I went into the automated carwash. I was listening to Beethoven's Choral Fantasy during this and it was so in sync with the massive red brushes and dramatic shower of water on my car that it was actually kind of idiotically spectacular. I could totally see it as a scene in an avant garde film. I hereby claim this so don't try to use it in your next avant garde film. Second time was while running. I was running down hill after what seemed like endless climbing and I kind of lost control. I mean, I just started bicycling my legs faster and faster and essentially let go and I was flying. I was suddenly 7 years old again. The dogs were in my dust, It was a blast, and I just burst into laughter.

Grief. It is a funny thing. It engulfs you and you feel trapped inside of it, unable to breathe. Then it releases you and you fly up into the light and gulp the post-rain pine scented air only to fall back down, wracked with the ruinous violence of sadness. Like breathing, there is not a choice.

Parenting is to know that suffering is worthwhile. You cannot have the smell of your child's sweet head without the hurt of loss. You cannot control how the world, the genetics, the impulsive decisions of young people and the immaturity that believes suffering is only something other people should do informs the path your beloved child takes. 

When grief lets you go for a bit, you fly up into the light. You revel in Beethoven and run with abandon down a path in a redwood forest. You release some of your lightness and send it with a kiss to where the wild things are.

Unarmed

This morning I was going through my usual routine of a cup of coffee with quick email, Twitter and Facebook check before work. This is after showering, dressing and smooching my family and dogs. There might be cereal or, better yet, waffles with peanut butter involved (a breakfast I learned from a surgery intern when I was a medical student: damn good fuel for a day that might not allow you to pee, much less to stop and eat something).

Anyway, I was looking at social media and came across a headline: "Shooting on Oregon Campus". Irrationally, or maybe actually rationally, I stabbed at my iPhone screen to open the article because I immediately needed to know WHICH Oregon college campus and please God let it not be the one where my child is right now.

It was not. But does that make it OK? Several people had children, family, friends who were murdered on a college campus today. Why is that OK?

The evening before I was at the hospital admitting someone who would have rather not been admitted but such is the way of healthcare in our advanced society. The first thing this person said to me when I walked through the door and introduced myself was "They sent me here unarmed!" In my head I was saying "Yeah, that was intentional"because I know the history of expertise in concealed weapons in this particular individual. To my credit I did not check every square inch of the bed and bedclothes.

Maybe I would be safer if I armed myself? Then every threat I receive in my line of work would be countered with my calm bedside manner accompanied by a steady finger on the trigger. Does that sound crazy? Hell yes, it does, because IT IS.

Thoughts and prayers are nice, but inadequate.  There is a thing going around on social media now about letting people who love guns have them, because America is about freedom. But I have to ask myself how free I feel when I can seriously contemplate, over my morning coffee, that a mass shooting on a campus might involve a child of mine. Other countries do not have this problem, because they control gun access. Period.

I run in beautiful places whenever I get the chance. It allows me to clear my mind, to feel blessed by beauty, to let go of anger, stress and fear, to feel the strength of my own body and to tap into endorphins which are almost as powerful as waffles with peanut butter. I have, occasionally, been threatened by unsavory men. Once I was almost intentionally run over by a guy in a pickup truck. But ultimately, I feel safe because I do not feel hate toward others. I actually like people and I will and have and will again not attend some family function because some stranger needs me due to their health crisis.

I believe in compassion. I am in favor of freedom. I fight for health in individuals and my community for a living.

Today, we were robbed. Someone walked into our home and stole from us. I actually suspect it was some kid who has been here before, and although I feel invaded and frankly pissed off, I also recognize that humans are flawed and there is no way to avoid unpleasantness in life. Suffering is part of the human condition, and those who perpetrate hate and burglary and murder are certainly suffering the most. Otherwise, why would they do this?

I have also been recently robbed of a ring my father gave my mother not long before she and he died, and my one pair of real pearl earrings, received as a gift from a dear friend over 25 years ago. That hurt. But mainly because I want to believe in the goodness of people, of children, of my neighborhood, of my community.

But no amount of hurt, anger or vulnerability could prompt me to arm myself against another human being.

Can guns be OK? Yes. Should they be very, very, very difficult to buy, carry around your community and point at another human being? Fuck yes.

Enough is enough.

Limits

My daughter dances for a studio called "No Limits". It is an apt name, given the way they can just leap and land in the splits (makes me cringe every time). Life is full of limits though. The ones we set for ourselves are probably the most restraining, but we learn it from years of parents, teachers, other kids, classmates and work mates telling us we should or could not do something.

Limits make a great excuse for staying in our comfort zone.

The other day I signed a form at the recruiting office for the US Army saying I was OK with them potentially sending my 17 year old son into combat. Now it helped that my son wants this more than anything. Also that the recruiter is the son of a nurse I know and respect. Also, being a young man in Humboldt County without direction is actually quite a bit scarier than being part of the military. I just hope to God that Donald Trump will not be his Commander in Chief.

20 years ago, I would not have pictured myself signing a child up for the military. But the grey area of life is expanding, while the black and white is just a little tiny sliver in my peripheral vision. There might be  a few things of which I am totally sure, such as Beethoven is to die for, racism is never OK, women are just as capable as men and soda causes cavities and obesity. Truly though, I can say I would be proud to support my son in the Army. Not because I like the idea of combat (I do not). Not because I agree with the wars we have fought (I do not). But because I respect the service, the dedication and the potential self-respect someone like my son might gain from making such a commitment. I am the daughter of parents who would've risked their life for peace. But they too were deep thinkers, and taught me to question even my own beliefs. Life is complicated.

Limits are bad. Except when they are helpful, such as how many pounds an elevator can hold, what blood alcohol level is acceptable for driving and how many times "Let it Go" can be played in ones presence in a 24 hour period.

I am registered for a wilderness medicine course in Big Sky, Montana in February. I hope to get my Advanced Wilderness and Expedition Provider Certification. Why, you ask? Well, one never knows when disaster will strike (the "big one" is going to happen at any second here in Northern California, and that's no joke). But more importantly, I want to push my limits in terms of what I can do to take care of myself and others around me in a situation with limited resources. I have a goal of doing a long run for weeks to months on trails, and having a few tricks up my proverbial sleeve will be reassuring. Also, I need to learn to use a compass. I am almost 46, and it is about time, I would say.

Medicine is an interesting profession, in terms of limits. We like to think we have none, and that whatever comes we can resuscitate our patients, unless they choose not to have us do so. "Would you like to be resuscitated?" "Why yes, doc, I would!" The only glitch is the whole 100% death rate thing. I personally have resuscitated a 103 year old. They lived and were able to get the tribal tattoos given to those who make 104. Once I did CPR on a VA patient on the floor of a VA nursing home. The next day, he grouchily declared "Next time, don't push so hard!". Seriously though, why is death so scary? Are we limited by our imagination? Every living thing must die and if we all lived forever, I would shudder at the thought of the lines for the women's bathrooms.

On September 18th at 6-8:30 PM at the Arcata Community Center, there will be a showing of the documentary "Being Mortal", based on the book of the same name by Atul Gawande. Is this a shameless plug right in the middle of my blog post? Yes, it is. I am Emceeing this event, which, by the way, is pushing my comfort limits right to the very edge.

My eldest daughter is a runner, a writer, a comedian and a Zen Master. She has not gotten run over by a Segway recently. She has not celebrated a top finish too soon. But she shows up every day and runs her best. She writes with skill. She makes people laugh. She raises an eyebrow when I get all type A. Her limits? Well, sometimes she does not recognize the power she holds. It can be hard when people judge us on first place finishes and consumerist prowess. She is not a shopper or a spotlight grabber by nature. On a recent trip she slugged a lamp in the middle of the night thinking (in her dream) she was reaching for a basketball. This made me laugh till I cried, but not because I thought it was ridiculous. Rather, because I thought it was sublime. Even in her dreams, she shows up and gets the job done. Lamps be damned.

Will I run hundreds of miles on trails? Probably. Will I ever find balance in my work life? Probably not. Will my kids flourish and push their limits? I hope so. Will I die? Most definitely. Will my dogs ever stop barking at the garbage truck? Unlikely.

There is exactly one limit we all need to heed: life is finite. I keep Matt Miller's picture on my desk as a reminder of that and a reminder of what matters most. In no particular order:
1. showing up
2. having compassion
3. laughing
4. spiritual renewal

Speaking of spiritual renewal….

Wild and Precious

In Travels with Charley, John Steinbeck turns phrases through multiple states of America, with his stately blue standard poodle at his side. He covers miles and answers the deeply American urge to be on the road of discovery. His questions seem to be unanswered though, only finding further ambiguity around every turn. A fair amount of whiskey and coffee fit to eat with a fork is involved. He encounters kindness, and the most abhorrent "vomiting of demoniac humans". He puts his feet in cold streams, decides not to shoot a pair of coyotes and argues politics in his home town with his staunchly Republican sisters. He comments on the "real man." Charley is completely self-possessed throughout.

The weird thing is how it could've been written yesterday, aside from some use of words that should be forever banned from our vocabulary. He taps into the bizarre way Americans are all linked, despite disparate ethnic origins and a general distaste for his NewYork license plates from anyone west of the state line. He has a point about our collective alikeness. And our individual uniqueness. Paradox in red, white and blue.

Prior to my rereading of Travels…, I reread Wild. This book now turned movie about a woman trekking the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) has received critique from those that are in the know about hiking the PCT. You cannot just get a pair of ill-fitting boots and a ten million pound back pack and hit the PCT! She did though, and though I can see the point of the experienced hikers, I think they miss the point of her story. A heroin abusing, grieving woman in her 20's, now orphaned and completely clueless about the trajectory her life should take. That is the story: a search, a quest. Not unlike 58 year old Steinbeck, looking for America, and maybe a little for himself.

Recently I trekked through the Bay Area (San Francisco and environs) with my two teenaged daughters. We stayed in the lap of luxury, in some soulless high rise Financial District Hotel with a staff who were truly lovely. We walked to restaurants, great and mediocre. We drove to find playgrounds: water slides, the Sausalito Bay to stand up on boards and paddle against the fierce wind, rock climbing on a man-made wall in the middle of the Mission district with no parking anywhere within one hundred miles. We watched Giants swing bats by the Bay from the truly highest seats in the stadium, and I kept picturing Harry Potter et al at the Quidditch World Cup, just wishing I had one of those pairs of magical binoculars.

My eldest and I ran the half marathon in San Francisco. It was most memorable for the cab ride there, and the cabby himself, but I cannot describe him as my author-daughter has already claimed him as a future character in one of her books. I have learned not to cross the authors in my life.

I have a weird perspective on life. I had these parents who were both fully present and got the hell out of my way. These days that would be called "neglect." "Why are you not helicoptering about your children?", the authorities would say. "You mean you did not drive 150 miles at 5:30 on Saturday morning to watch their cross country meet? What is wrong with you?" My parents had their own life, and they loved me. That's all I needed. And they gave me the tools to live independently and well. I bring this up because I have been thinking about loss, and what is important in life. I lost my parents as a 20-something year old, not so much older than my own children. I start to picture them without me around, and my main hope is they wash their sheets weekly and occasionally cut their fingernails. Also,  that they have compassion for their fellow human beings and animals too. And they always, ALWAYS, appreciate Beethoven and John Coltrane.

My weird perspective, I think brought on by an early realization about mortality (said goodbye to Dad the first time at age 5, in the CCU) is I am often overwhelmed by beauty, but it does not have to be what I see at the Metropolitan Museum of Art or even the grandiose redwoods I run by regularly in my own back yard. I mean the small beautiful things that just present themselves, almost constantly but only if you are awake and not sitting there obsessing about your glory, fame, pocketbook, getting through the next light before it changes or fitting into those jeans from when you were 23. Things that can even be there after you have witnessed the greatest sufferings, as I do frequently in my line of work. Like today, when I walked out of the hospital in Fortuna, the sky was painted with clouds that would make the most sappy of paint-by-numbers paintings blush. I stopped, looking at the sky and picking the gravel out of my flats from the parking lot, filled with awe and gratitude. And also very hungry, as the overcooked broccoli at grand rounds did not offer much sustenance for my long afternoon in the field. As Mary Oliver said so nicely: "what is it you plan to do with this one wild and precious life?" Today's answer: no more overcooked broccoli, unless I am really, really hungry, then overcooked broccoli might be the cat's pajamas.

Curt Harper is a 49 year old autistic surfer who, if this 19 minute movie can be believed, has the answers Steinbeck and the author of Wild were looking for. He shows up for the waves, for his job, for trains (he admires trains), for dinner with his (might I add here amazing) parents, and for the groms who delight in his presence.

Spend 19 minutes watching this. Or not. But either way, I think the pleasures and answers to life might not be so much complicated as they are mystical. Or perhaps just hysterically funny, like a cab ride to a half marathon on a Sunday morning. If you want more on that, read my kid's book.