Flight

I rather feel like I'm living someone else's life.

I think I like this person, though. She's occasionally moody, sometimes uncertain, but always gleefully surprised by the good things that drift into her life...or come crashing in, dancing in, or walking in like they have always belonged. I've been told she's interesting. Good.

The quality of this post is going to be sketchy. This other person who I am is currently sitting in the airport. It's half past nine--there are two hours before my second flight takes off. I have another layover in Charlotte, NC, and then I'm with Mom, and Mandy, and home.

It's bewildering.

Am I really done with the first half of this year? Did I really survive this past test week? Am I actually going home for the first time in months? Twelve hours from now, will I be landing on the East Coast?

I can't quite process it.

But, I'm so glad.

Home.

Three lefts do a right make

I really like this picture. The colors just make me want to jump in, swirl them around, make things, play music. I guess that's a pretty good indicator that I mostly live in the right half of my brain, with occasional forays into the other side so that I can make sense of the world. I like the unexpected, the vibrant, the emotional side of life. It's all color and possibility, desire and laughter. Even the sad moments are washed in the darkest purple hues, like the sky just on the midnight edge of twilight. Oh, the structure of the left is comforting--it makes sense, helps me know where I am and where I'm going, and why. But I like scribbling over the black lines and filling in shades and adding texture to what is linear and concrete.

This week, I feel like medical school has forced me to live on the left side. And I hate it. Not the schooling itself--not what I'm learning--but the fact that I haven't found a way to make the intense days feel balanced. Instead, they are black and white words on a page, words without rhythm or rhyme, no music or flow, hour after endless hour. That's why I highlight so much, I think--trying to bring in color to make sense of patterns, to create a simple work of art that both halves can understand and, hopefully, commit to memory. Here's to hoping it works.

Jiminy

It was late. I had been in pajamas all day, studying and intermittantly wondering in despair if I was going to fail, and then being completely unconcerned at the thought that I might. I'd also been considering the advantages and disadvantages of using caffeine to keep myself awake--but that's a story for another time.

I'd decided to go to bed. Teeth brushed, fingers run through hair, face scrubbed. I've got my routine, you know, and I like it--mindless and relaxing. Sometimes I'll look down and noticed with pleased surprise that I've just trimmed my nails. When I get into the going-to-bed routine, things just happen, and I accept them thankfully.

Anyway, I digress. I'd just hung the towel back up on the rack when, suddenly, all hell broke loose above my head. It was something like what I imagine would happen if you turned a fleet of baboons loose in an elephant cage--a lot of thundering back and forth, high-pitched shrieking, things hitting walls. When Alex began to scream, I dashed towards the stairs, thinking, "Gotta be a cricket."

We don't do much unnecessary housekeeping, here. There are too many things to study--at least, it's a wonderful excuse. So the tiny little spiders that live in corners and around doorways have been hanging out and getting frisky, if you know what I mean--proliferating, replicating, reproducing, multiplying. Whatever makes you happy. It is a well-known fact that crickets eat little spiders (and when I say that, I mean that I made it up and thought it sounded good. Making the hypothesis fit the evidence). And so, as the spider population has exponentially multiplied, so have the crickets. I do kill them whenever I find them--bugs in general do not bother me (reference the spiders) but they sing at night and it irritates me. If one ever breaks into song and dance in my bedroom while I'm trying to sleep, I'm going to get all cytotoxic T-cell on his thorax. Anway. I digress again. When I last left off, I was dashing up the stairs, realizing that those screaming voices were all calling my name.

I pop through the door and, sure enough, mayhem. Steph is wildly waving a textbook as she jumps and screams, Alex is shouting at her to put it down because he paid for it and a $200 book is not for smashing insects, and Danielle is running back and forth, yelling something incomprehensible. Utter chaos.

I smashed the cricket. Took maybe four seconds.

Peace restored. I went to bed.

Yep. Swag.

(Swag being a term Steph keeps using. I don't actually know what it means, but I think it's somewhere around pretty awesome? Before living with Becca, and then in this house, I would never have thought that the ability to rid the world of a 2 cm bug constituted being "swag", but apparently it's a rare commodity. *Shrugs.* I do what I do.)

Wild catch

I haven't been angry in such a long time. Not truly angry. No rage, no slow burning that flares up into a wildfire without warning. There aren't many things in my life that can set this off--and the ones I know, I take care to avoid. With my temper, it's important.

Why is it happening now? I don't understand.

One of our professors has done a mediocre job, I believe, in presenting his information. His lectures are vague and his powerpoints are the only study material he provides--and they're mostly pictures, a presentation ripped from another school. Even when I take notes, it's difficult to go back and decipher what he intended us to take away--oh, the concepts are clear enough, but the details? So I decided to come to the review this morning instead of studying, hoping rather strongly that it would be useful, and give me a clearer picture of what we're to be tested on in a few days.

It's worthless. Apparently, he's been letting questions pile up in his email, and now he's answering them--even the ones that don't pertain. I listened to his several-minute explanation of an obscure point, only to follow up with, "But you don't need to worry about this. It's not going to show up on the test."

Rage. I was so surprised that I only managed to catch it with the tips of my fingers before it flared up into something uncontrollable.

I don't know why.

Perhaps it is because time is slipping away from me now--and he's wasting it. I'm caught between feeling like I should stay in case something useful happens--but I have to study--I don't know what to do.

I shouldn't be angry over this. I should just...study.

Catching up

This is just a quick update on my life. I don't have time for anything good, exciting, or creative--actually, I take that back. Here's something I sketched in between Immuno lectures. One out of three, possibly.

Breathing out ghosts, and crunching in leaves
Watching the ice tracing lace on the trees
Seeing light in the dark, cast through windows on snow
Watching the flakes fill up tracks as we go
Rewriting the world that we all thought we knew
Winter softly descends as I stand here with you.

Now that that's out of the way, we've already established I have no time. Also, I am sick. It was just a cold, and then I was getting betterish, and now...worse. No fun, because tomorrow starts my up-at-half-past-four, study every possible spare minute pre-test week marathon. And I've already gone through two boxes of tissues. Somebody, please, shoot me...

On a better and brighter note, for those of you who don't know, I am somebody's girlfriend, quite a wonderful somebody, in my humble opinion, and I have been so for...one month and one day and three hours, seven minutes... Not that I'm counting, of course. But even so. And he brought me these amazing little clementine-like oranges, except they're sweeter...I might get sick more often. Agh, it sounds so unimportant, putting it like that...but he's...important. Very much so. I'm quite pleased. No, that doesn't cover it either. I'm...obviously unable to put into words how much it means to me. I need to sleep, perhaps.

Also, my mother and little sister have discovered skype, and it's wonderful. I can't wait to go home for Christmas.

Goodnight, moon.

Want and Need

The sun was sinking tonight, painting everything unreal shades of pink and gold. It glinted just the right way off of the sign, flashing "Down on my luck, please help" right into my eyes. The silver reflection from the marker juxtaposed with the cardboard was startling.

I don't know how old she was. Late twenties, early thirties. She didn't smile once in the few moments I watched her, and she leaned against the Wal-Mart sign like it was the only thing she trusted in the world to not give out from under her at any moment. My car was stopped only three feet from her scuffed shoes, but she never really looked up.

Then again, neither did I.

I didn't know what to do. I had no money. In situations like this, it's easiest just to ignore the humanity separated from you by a sheet of glass and a lifetime of choices. Some of the choices were yours. Most weren't. She and I were so close, and a continent apart.

Suddenly, I wanted to roll down the window and say hi, break the barrier of silent judgement. I wanted to ask if she was hungry, if I could take her somewhere and feed her. If she had a cat. If she needed a place to stay. What her story was. Maybe just give her my number in case she needed someone to call and had no one else. Perhaps it was a crazy decision--but most of my life has been rational. Too rational. And this felt right.

I should have acted faster. The resolution had just formed when the car horn blared behind me, and I realized that the light was  green and I was the target of half a dozen impatient drivers, strung out behind me in an irritated line. I hit the gas without thinking and began to move.

Her eyes darted up at the noise and met mine. There wasn't any mystical connection there--they were just tired eyes. But she was a person, and I drove away from her, and I didn't have to.

I don't know how to explain this, exactly. I didn't want to help her out of a guilt complex, because she has less than I do. I didn't feel like I owed her anything. I just...wanted to. Because she needed it, and because I could. Because I am sick of being focused on myself.

And I drove away. But there will be a next time. It won't be quite the same--different person, different circumstance, different story. Maybe it will be in a library instead of a street corner. Perhaps a coffee shop, or a strange place where I'm not supposed to be.

I hope I'm ready for it.

Transition

Awareness.

It is always emotion that drags me out of oblivion. In those brief seconds between sleeping and waking, I struggle to separate reality from the vague remnants of a dream.

This morning, the emotion was loss. I don't know why.

It's so sudden, the transient moment between darkness and daylight, and it fades so quickly. It leaves me to begin my day with questions.

What would I have changed, if I could live yesterday over again? What do I regret, what do I cling to, what leaves me excited about living today? What have I learned? What unexpected gifts were handed to me? What direction am I going, and why? 

What will joy look like today?

*This is super rough and I'm dissatisfied with what I got across, and what I didn't. I shall try again tomorrow.  Until then...

This mechanical pencil won't stop squeaking

Word.

I wish I could leave it at that. But actually, brain to paper has never been difficult. It's getting it stored in an easily accessible, relevant way that's so time consuming.

In honor of turkey day:

Mirror, mirror, next table over...

They sat in the cafeteria at the next table over. Both moved slowly, although she was more ponderous, taking her time to stagger across the floor, each step looking like the first stage of a nasty fall from which she only caught herself with difficulty. Her purse dragged the ground and her shirt draped around her like a bedsheet.

I only noticed them when she spoke.

"These damn Adventists. I don't understand this cafeteria system. They can eat meat, you know, just not pork. It doesn't make any sense that they would only have vegetarian food here. It's so stupid that they let their religion leak into their food choices. And we have to suffer for it."

I lifted my head to look, surprised and a little irked. I couldn't tell you why, although the fact that she looked like she had never suffered for lack of food a day in her life might have had something to do with it. She continued.

"Now look at what you've done. You went and left your chimichanga in the serving line. No, don't tell me you didn't! I had to go and get it while you were galavanting around in the halls like a fool. Don't you even think to tell me I didn't have to go get it." Her voice was bitter and harassing, deeply disppointed and scornful. Over the next half hour, it never changed.

At this point, I took a hard look at the man with her. He looked normal, heavyset, about the same age, and infinitely good-tempered, perhaps on the simple side. I never actually heard him speak the entire time we sat there. She would pause, occasionally, and there might have been a small frission of sound in his vicinity, to which she would reply, "You think? That's ridiculous. PA's shouldn't be allowed to practice in hospitals. The last time we were here, one almost made you overdose on your medication before I caught him. And I told the MD that he didn't know crap and shouldn't be allowed inside the doors."

A few minutes later, her voice rose again. "And that idiot physician only had half of the lab report, and if he'd taken the time to do his research he would have realized that there was nothing wrong with her mitral valve. I tell you, this hospital  could use with a little shaking up. I'm going to make a stink about it. I think there's a place you can do recording, and I'm going to record our conversations and prove that they don't know what the hell they're talking about. I'm going to put it in the newspaper. Not knowing a mitral valve was normal! I knew about it before they did."

At this point, I almost couldn't concentrate on my PDX notes. The hospital wireless is too slow to stream music, so I couldn't drown her out with my headphones, and I was indignant. Where did this woman come off? "Uneducated" was the kindest description I could think of.

I keep writing this in the past tense, but I'm still sitting here, and so are they, and I'm having a hard time studying. She keeps getting louder, and by now, she knows more than all the specialists in this hospital. They're all stupid, little better than techs, who know less than nothing, in her liberal opinion. I'm a bit angry.

I think that I am not going to medical school for four years, and through residency for another handful, and paying out hundreds of thousands of dollars, for people like this to think they know more than I do. Or even have more common sense than I.

But that leads me to the real problem, which is not the obese lady with the loud opinions.

I think I must be very arrogant. I think I must pretend I'm not better than other people. Because sitting here, listening to her, I feel like I am.

Ugh. That's ugly. Much worse than her tone of voice.

If she'd grown up in my place, with my family, privileges, education, what would she be like? If I were her, where would I have come from, and how would it have changed the way I think, and speak, and see the world? An entirely different worldview, completely independent of any inherent fault or virtue.

I could be her. So easily. And yet I think I'm better than she is, as if through some intrinsic goodness.

That's utterly ridiculous. Appalling.

I don't like seeing my flaws.

Charlie

Charlie is dead.

Charlie, with his pants that were too tight, and his socks that came too high. Charlie, who didn't know what it was like to laugh moderately. Charlie, who awkwardly and cheerfully flailed his way down the river in an innertube, white legs gleaming brilliantly, like marble in the sun. Charlie, who so loved to air the French he knew, and who delighted in quizzing us on vocabulary. Charlie, so patient with his fatherless grand-daughter, loving her, raising her, making sure she never knew that the life she had was not ideal. Charlie, who would get up in church and talk on and on, but so earnestly that you couldn't fault him for going over time. Charlie, who with all his funny mannerisms was a father when he didn't have to be. Who drove our bus on mission trips and played cards with us and grazed his way down the potluck table and could never go anywhere without making at least half a dozen U-turns and who never got mad at me when I practiced my skills lifting his wallet. Charlie, who always kept a pocket full of mints that he would furtively pass around to us in the back of the sanctuary, his guilty smile hiding in his grey mustache.

Charlie, who is dead.

My mind instantly internalized it, shoved it aside, behind stacks of things to do and obligations and stuff. But grief shouldn't be something to be ashamed of, and I didn't want to do that to him. He's more important than that. It took me until the middle of Physio class later that morning, when I suddenly remembered him sneaking three of us out of work to go pick oranges in the jungle, and his funny giggle at how we'd outwitted "the grown-ups." Then the rest of the memories came spilling out, so fast. And I realized that he was actually, truly gone.

And then the tears came.

Oh, Charlie.

Soul

"When you get to know someone, all their physical characteristics start to disappear. You begin to dwell on their energy, recognize the scent of their skin. You see only the essence of the person, not the shell. That's why you can't fall in love with beauty or looks. You can lust after it, be infatuated by it, want to own it. You can love it with your eyes and your body, but not your heart. That's why when you really connect with a person, any physical imperfections disappear, become irrelevant."

I used to wonder how the soul of a person would look if the outside were stripped away, and only the core of who they were was left standing there, simple and unaltered, unadorned.

This is the answer.

You only have to look at your closest friend-- the one who knows you inside and out, who can sing your secrets to sleep, who has their heart tucked somewhere in your hand--to realize that you don't see the shell at all. You couldn't describe their attractiveness based on their physical qualities alone, couldn't ever actually be sure what a stranger would observe, because you see so much deeper. Their soul shines through and obliterates any imperfections.

I love these discoveries.

Sometimes I look at these individual hearts tucked into my palm and marvel at who they are and what they've become. The truest thing I could ever say of a friend would be, "Your soul is beautiful."

And they are.

Respite

Test week is over.

I passed biochem, which means I don't have to do medical school during the summer. It was significantly iffy for a while.

This is me.

Imagine those eyes a bit wilder, imagine you've been up at 3:30 am studying every morning for the last week, imagine you are too tired to sleep. Assume your right arm is five degrees colder than the rest of you, assume your back is knotted from tension, assume you just had your first real, hot, sit-down-to-eat meal in three days. Pretend your house is trashed, pretend you are too tired to sit and do anything but look at it, pretend that you actually forgot your own name for a full six seconds today--heck, pretend anything you like, as long as you pretend that now it's over for two whole days.

This is me.

Thank. God. 

"Where the stars split into green fire"

I want adventure.

I've forgotten what it's like to stand on a beach at midnight and marvel at the unceasing rhythm of the waves, and the silver trail that the moon bleeds as it flees across the ocean. I miss watching the sun rise in the desert, achingly cold as it steals the stars away from the darkness. I want to chase back the night with stories around a campfire. I need to push to the top of a hard climb and feel the jubilant satisfaction of knowing that I can use my wits and skill to defy gravity. I want that hard, fey joy back. I need it.

To test myself against something that didn't come from a textbook. To marvel at something bigger than I am, and share that marvel. To be reminded that life is so much more complex and intricate and mysterious than this, and rediscover what is unique within myself. To just go, and be; something, anything, anywhere. To be alive.

Something inside me starts to die without this. I can't even define what "this" is--but one of my favorite authors said something along the lines of, "If I want to find my soul again, that means I need to go to the green, lumpy places on the map. That's where it will be." And I need to give my soul room to breathe, expand, remember what it feels like to wonder, and wander, without restrictions or reservations.

There aren't many green lumpy places around here. But there is ocean, there is desert, there are rocks to scale and shells to find and music to weave and nights to spend under the stars, far from where I sit tonight. I want this.

Five more days. Then I can cut myself loose--be free, even for a day or two, to become me again. I rather miss that careless, confident, cheerful girl in the mirror. I want to be able to lean forward, and brush the glass, and whisper, "There you are, again. Hi." I want to see her eyes glowing back at me, incandescent with secrets and fun.

Five more days. Then look out, world of mine. I don't know where yet, or how, but adventure calls. And I'm going to find it again.

"...walking the edge of the way
The world is supposed to be,
Just to be alive--
Gone
Off to places where the deep drum roll of the earth can be heard and felt
Through the soles of bare feet
Dancing to the song of the stars
Through the fire and ice of the Northern sky--
Laughing
Joining the crash of the waves on rocky coasts
Incessant rhythm of the sea
At once raging and calm,
Alone but never lonely--
Dancing
Together with the voices of the mountains
Responding to the music in the world,
Singing with heart's blood
And fierce joy in simply being alive..."

--March 2008

Again

Bloody hell.

It's not supposed to be like this anymore. I'm not supposed to feel trapped inside my own head. Not now.

Except.

Alone

I'm stressed to the max right now. Everything today has just built into this towering wave, the kind that never quite falls but keeps getting higher so you know that, when it does lose the battle to gravity, you're screwed. Basically. And gravity is scheduled to fail next week.

It makes the fragments of sunshine so much sweeter, when they come.

I just got off the phone with my little sister. She's precious, you know. This wicked sense of humor wrapped in blue-grey eyes and a careless disregard for convention and rules, all in one petite package. Despite all the fights we've had, and are probably going to have in the future, I've always admired her for being real in ways that very few people dare to be. She's prickly, but under that is this incredibly intriguing person. I always feel like there's something new to learn about her. Endlessly fascinating. 

She called me tonight. First, that's just a warm spot in my soul, because...because. She did it. And she listened to the sordid recitation of my week, and then she told me about her life, which wasn't much better than mine. She let me in. Just a little, but enough.

I like to catch those moments and savor them, hold them close like a hug from three thousand miles away. We haven't had too many of those, but they're getting more frequent, and I'm just so glad. Because...because. Just because she's so important to me.

I had this line running through my head just before she called. "But nothing's going right...and everything's a mess...and no one likes to be alone." It was so good to be reminded that, even if it's true, and it is...I'm not.

Farseeing

Every word we've ever said--
Each choice a single, brilliant thread
Intersecting, changing meaning--
The ebb and flow can be deceiving
These subtle twists in our direction
Beyond the range of our perception
Fate is tangled, changing always--
And no one can see all of the ways
A single word, a careless act
Can tear the web--leave it intact--
Or change the future altogether
And yet--to live outside of never
These passing futures, this silver web
Run through the dark inside my head
Seen whole for a moment only
Sometimes the view from here is lonely
The past now in the future stands
Silver lines run through my hands
Gossamer threads with azure lining
Possibilities rare and shining
Where we'll go and what we'll be--
Briefly, my epiphany.
But not to touch--not anymore--
I have made that choice before
But some lines broke--the threads were crossed--
And countless futures made and lost
So now these fragile silver wisps
Slide by, just past my fingertips.

Homeless

Dear God in heaven,

Is this supposed to be funny? Because I don't hear any divine laughter.

It's one of those weeks. The ones where you wake up to gray skies and they actually look brighter in contrast because the fog in your head is so pervasive, which doesn't make anything better--it just enhances the gloom. I don't know if I really have an excuse to be this way. I have plenty of food (relatively--I'm actually out at the moment, but as soon as I find the time, the problem will resolve). I have good friends who keep me smiling even in the middle of information cramming (although some of them routinely creep from the shadows and scare the bejeezus out of me). I have a roof over my head.

A roof.

Oh, yeah, actually, not so much anymore. About that.

Our landlord just had a baby. Or, his wife had a baby, which always makes it hard for me not to roll my eyes when the couple says "We're pregnant," because there's no we about it. She looks like a small planet, and he's normal. Let's be honest--unless you plan on actively going through labor, you are not pregnant. Anyway.

So, now they're living on one income, which apparently isn't enough. So, he's selling our house.

Meaning, we have to find a new place to live by Christmas. We do get a month's notice when it actually sells, but we are medical students. In school. We don't have time to look for houses, and we can't sign a new year-long lease that starts in November, December, or January; and moving? Are you kidding me? When do we have time to move?

I'm also pretty stressed about the upcoming test week. It's so intense, and I feel behind all the time. I'm so, so thankful that Sabbath starts in a little less than eight hours. Sabbath will bring Thai food and Ryan and sleep, not necessarily in that order, but all wonderful in their own way.

But this situation is becoming more and more real. I managed to ignore it last night and this morning, but then I started thinking about logistics during class. Bad idea. I'm pretty peeved, and getting angrier. It's not healthy and I'm trying to stop the spiral by leaving it here, for all of you. And by realizing that the only thing I can do is to keep studying, and look for a new place to live, and not fret about it past that.

I do fret so.

*In a sudden reversal of opinion, I have to say that I'm friggin' lucky. I have nothing to complain about. See the woman in my picture? That's her life, on that sidewalk. Look at me. I need to shut my mouth.

Eternity

To view the past secured in stone--
(In just a certain slant of light)
A moment caught in amber ice--
A thousand years would not suffice
To wonder at the sight.

Lillies

She walked through the crowded supermarket (although really, walked wasn't the right word, it was more like an idea sliding elusively through a tired mind) and chose the oranges she'd come for. No nonsense today, no shopping, no wasting time. She had too much to do (no time to actually live today, more like the day was for creating other days) and places she had to be.

But a stray flash of red caught her attention from the corner of her eye (the part of the eye that finds beauty even when it doesn't want to be found, out of the side of her vision that saw shades of pink instead of gray), and she stopped so abruptly that a man bumped into her. Hastily apologizing, she turned and headed back to the display of flowers.

They weren't much, but she didn't have money to spare. She knew it...and still she hesitated, seeing how the sun caressed the blush-red petals and lit the cores with fire. She rejoiced in how lovely they were (as you often do when your sense of wonder has not yet died, and hers was so alive that it danced when she ran a finger over the lillies), and it was done. Choice made.

With the flowers in hand, she realized that there was no vase to put them in. Her feet stole off down an aisle and deposited her in front of the champagne bottles (not the kind that leave you flushed and giggling, no, these were the kind a priest would bless and then ignore because really, what self-respecting priest doesn't drink wine?). She had one in hand and was gone, off through the doors, returning smiles directed at a happy girl who looked like she was going to a party, incandescent with a secret.

She locked the door to the apartment behind her. It was quiet and dark, and when she pulled off her dress clothes and replaced them with jeans (because nobody can study in dress clothes, you know), she gleefully put the flowers in a temporary pitcher of water and sat down with her glass of wine-that-wasn't-wine, and while normally she would feel the silence (and the weight of past and present and future and possibilities and mistakes and life getting in the way of her concentration)...those flowers glowed from the kitchen counter next to the candle, and she held the glow close.

Mine to me.

I keep writing sketches and then saving them instead of posting. I'll finish typing, look at what I've got, and say, "No...I guess I can't put that one up." And I'll rewrite it. "Well...no. That one is just for me." So now I have about six drafts that will never get read by anyone else. I think I'm ok with that.

As for medical school...still surviving. Sunday time moves at the pace of an elderly snail--trying to keep up with everything I need to learn is about like running from a lava flow wearing a snorkle and fins. Imagine that elderly snail in swim fins. Welcome to my life. But I'm having a lot of fun.

Lens

Last night was hard.

Refocusing priorities has always been super difficult for me, at least when choosing between learning people and learning facts. See, I know, intellectually, that I'm here to inundate myself with knowledge--like forging a weapon, one I want, one I'm going to need. It's not the purpose, this learning, but entirely necessary. Important. Essential. It's why I'm here.

But I've always been so much more interested in people. How they work, how they think, who they are. Fascinating. I'd so much rather sneak midnight Starbucks runs with her, or watch stars with him, or cook with them. I've been trying to keep those areas separate, but I realized as I brushed my teeth last night that I've been failing. My priorities got switched somewhere along the way, and if it happens much more, I'll be in trouble. I got afraid, and fear makes me angry...and I can do things with anger.

So. Last night was exhausting because I spent a good portion of it staring at my ceiling, reworking my thoughts, reprioritizing, refocusing. Determining.

If doing well here means I block everything else out...well then. I have to try, don't I?

I hope it's not as bad as all of this. I tend to try extremes. I hope it gets better. And if not, there are the weekends.

Quickness

I shouldn't be this happy. I'm pretty sure that there's a law somewhere forbidding human beings to be so perfectly content with where they are, and what they're doing, and who they're with. Which makes me illegal in at least 17 official countries.

In other news, there is a large black cat with glowing green eyes that hangs out around my apartment at night. I rather like it, simply because the creeptastic factor is so high. Friday night, for example, it crossed my path at least three times (before disappearing into thin air), which (barring thirteen times, or 666) is an unlucky number (if I believed in luck). And yet, the weekend was perfectly grand. Maybe I should leave food out for it. People used to leave food out for elves, you know, so that they wouldn't wreck havoc while the humans slept. I suppose I could just name it Albert, thereby stripping it of all malicious intent. I mean, how could you be jinxed by something named Albert?

Another random thing that happened was being accosted at my own front door by two large hulking teenagers intent on selling me magazine subscriptions, so that they could win some contest. They probably didn't realize they were looming, but it's kind of hard not to tower over a surprised midget slouching in her doorway. Anyway, they had their whole patter memorized, but it was too "delivered"--no natural pauses, no time to laugh at their jokes--just lines to be gotten out. I was so interested in how fake it sounded that I completely missed the whole point of their delivery and had to go back and ask why they were there. And after all that, I didn't subscribe to a single thing. When I did door-to-door, I hated people like me.

Polish

You wouldn't think nail polish would make anyone cry.

(Well, maybe a fashionista editor in a glass-plated office on a high rise in a bustling city where fashions are born, bred, and eaten,  because the color was just so off [not because it hadn't been applied with care, because it had, you could tell that right away, even after everything else], but a cold lab filled with formaldehyde and death is the last place you could find a person like that. Definitely not the student in scrubs beside the chilly steel table. So the bright red polish on the tagged toe shouldn't have made a difference.)

But it did.

Places

I found it.

In every single place I've ever lived, I've looked for it. Sometimes it's obvious, sometimes accidental, and other times takes a long, determined search. Once in a while, the timing is a perfect surprise.

Like last night. I was sick this weekend, you know. I blame the exposure to this awful California climate. Not only does it cause hypertension by making me angry whenever I step out into the blistering heat, but when cool weather actually does decide to roll up, all of my immunity is shot. Two days of rain and 55 degree temps, and I was done for.

Luckily, it was on a weekend. I did nothing but alternately sleep on my couch or floor the entirety of saturday, pulling myself into vertical to stumble to the kitchen and get some food before sinking back down. It was super lonely, but I figured I needed all of my energy to focus on getting well. And it worked. By sundown, I was feeling good enough to leave the house and take a walk through the neighborhood.

It was a chance decision to take that one road up into the foothills. I got higher and realized how hungry I was for that kind of view, the bigger picture. But I couldn't see much--too many rich, fancy houses, you know. I was getting frustrated.

But...but. I found it in an empty lot, perched on the edge of a hill, facing the sunset. Safe, quiet, high above everything else. "It"--a place to go when I need to think, when I need to remember that there are bigger things than I, a place nobody else comes. It was perfect.

I never realize how much I need places like this until I find them.

baby, it's cold outside

We sat at the table and laughed and laughed, so hard, like life (and our place in it) was the funniest joke in the world. Free merriment, no reservations. She pulled her hoodie up over her cheeks and splayed her fingers out from her face, grinning as he gestured with his iPad, as I walked to the stove and laughed back at them both, content.

The house was lit and cozy, the screen open so the cool air poured in, carrying rain and sirens and fresh basil with it. I stirred soup while Alex played Christmas music and Steph made nachos, and I thought, Hey. Hey. I like this.

Bloodlines

She didn't get angry often, but when she did, it was very quiet. Her lips compressed, eyes dilated, nostrils flared. It was like all the rage in the world was held back behind those eyes. When she did speak, the words bit, like ice scalds on bare skin. It was frightening, that fury. She just walked into a room and it felt as if the entire world was burning.

Afterwards, she was fragile, like fine gray ash barely held together after a fire sweeps through.

I used to stare at her in the mirror and not recognize a thing.

Bec used to describe me this way when I was angry. Got to thinking about it the other night. So, I haven't lost my temper in a long, long time; it's just my creative writing bit for the day.

Also, this picture has nothing to do with it, but I was searching for some kind of illustration and this is sort of cool, even if it doesn't quite work.

It would be fun to write a story from this picture.

Puddle

Blurred reflection trapped between
The fragments of an azure sky,
The world without is caught within
A worldless question, soundless sigh
Where sidwalk ends and dreams begin
I cannot tell, and will not try.

I'm going to develop this more, I think. I was walking and talking on the phone, and came across this puddle that perfectly reflected everything. Puddles are fascinating. I was like a five-year-old kid who wanted nothing more than a pair of rainboots so I could jump in it.

Coyote hills

There were city lights spread out at their feet like stolen stars, lights they owned and named and watched under a backlit night sky. They sat high, these two, careless of time, sharing words, stealing moments. She watched his calloused hands tracing fine lines on her palm and wondered how she had ever not been right there, right then. He watched the curve of her fingers over his knuckles and wondered if she would disappear with the sun. And it was easy, there on the edge of so many things, and they wondered why.

When the coyotes began their weird yelping song in the empty hills just behind, she twisted in his arms to look over their shoulders. It shouldn't have been exciting--she should have been afraid of the shadows and the night and the unknown, like she usually was--but with him there, everything changed. Her heart lifted, and she rested her chin on his shoulder, staring into the dark hills, and she was content.

jump and skip

So far, all of my med school professors have agreed on one thing--that the heart is regulated by the autonomic nervous system. Specifically, that your heart rate and rhythm are not under voluntary control. No questions asked.

Except, that they're wrong.

Or, maybe my dad and I are mutants.

See, there's this thing we can do. We can create a heart arrhythmia just by thinking.

Freaky, huh? Dad tells me that in his later years of medical school, the professors used to use him to demonstrate this particular talent to the first year students. I can imagine them all crowding around this blackhaired boy with their stethoscopes, listening to his heart skip and jump erratically as his face frowned in concentration. He shouldn't have been able to do that.

I don't remember what happened first, for me. It might have been that I asked him, one day, why my heart fluttered sometimes. Maybe I tried it after I heard what he could do. At any rate, as a young kid, the first time I sat and thought about how my heart was beating, and tried to feel the rhythm, and then tried to think it differently...it worked.

But I hated the feeling. I hate the instant moment of bodily panic where your entire system is suddenly and loudly screaming that something is very, very wrong. It twitches me, somehow. I don't know how dad could stand to do it for sustained periods of time. I can't stand it when mine acts up on its own, if I'm stressed or hungry, or afraid. It just feels dangerous.

I do know that I won't be volunteering to the professors anytime soon. I just like to sit back, and listen to them discuss what the heart can and cannot do, and I smile.

Because they're wrong.

Craaaaa what?

There is something wrong in our raising of men when the word "cramps" sends them into a shocked state of paralysis.

I don't know how I went from being the most shy person ever, in high school, to someone with a significant disregard for political correctness and a love of the joys of shock and awe. Can't account for it at all. But, there it is.

I suppose the boys are funny about it. I place them in two categories, neither better or worse, just different.

I walked into class late this morning, shaking from the overload of caffeine and lack of food in my system, and feeling like I'd been trampled by an overweight fleet of water buffalo. I'm pretty sure I look like death warmed over, too. Anyway, I had three different boys ask if I was sick.

In a past life, I would have nodded and said my stomach hurt, or that I was ill. They would have nodded and thought they were empathizing, as if they had the faintest idea how much life sucked at that very moment. But I, I am a whiner. When I feel awful, I want sympathy, and lots of it.

This is where I get a little sadistic. I know that, most of the time, I am not going to get empathy from a guy. How can I? So, I take my enjoyment where I can get it. I tell the truth matter-of-factly ("Cramps, you know") and watch their reactions.

The first category of boys will literally freeze. Most of the time, they'll turn about 15 degrees away, lifting the shoulder nearest to you. There may be some clearing of the throat. Some will say something utterly incomprehensible. I think it's funny, but also sad. Our society is so repressed and uneducated. There are significant brownie points to be earned in the guy response to feminine issues, and yet this part of their learning is neglected.

The second category do much better. There is no loss of eye contact, no deer-in-the-headlights, what-do-I-possibly-say-to-this fear. Most of these people have had sisters before. Not all. So they nod, and say they're sorry, and some ask if there's anything they can do. Usually, there isn't, but girls appreciate the offer.

These categories are somewhat vague, and there's no reflection of worth in how boys react to statements of honesty. It's interesting to me, that's all. And when one feels like they have been trampled by water buffalo, you have to take all the enjoyment of life that you can get.

On another random note (because being moody and hormonal makes me significantly ADHD), I really don't like the fact that blogger lets followers hide behind their anonymity. I've got this raging curiosity, see, and those two shadow people are killing me. Absolutely killing me.

Who are you?

Star rambles

I thought they were leading us out into the desert to die.

I was right.

Except that I'm obviously still alive and well, which means that you should probably ignore those first two lines. In fact, I highly recommend making good use of that red X in the corner of your screen, and saving yourself a very confusing five minutes. Because I am so far out of the range of reality and into the hyperbole part of my mind, at this moment, that it could get pretty incomprehensible very quickly.

The desert, by the way, was incredible. It was so cold that I got to wear my heinous massive fluffy green sweatshirt, courtesy of Camp Mohaven and the poor color choices of the staffers. I look like a giant seasick marshmallow in that sucker, and I love it. The thing is like a hug that never lets you go, and I was so happy to be in the cold, and marshmallowed up, that I might have danced a little bit in the dark, hoping nobody would notice. Because let's face it, white girl got no moves. No real moves. Oh, I'm a lot of fun on a dance floor, with some swing music kickin' in the background, but freestyle? So white.

But anyway, I was talking about the desert, before I sidetracked myself with my hoodie that I love so very very much (this is really turning out to be a random post), but seriously--the stars were so bright. I've only seen them that way once before, that road trip my freshman year where we camped in the desert on the coldest night I've ever known, when I realized that yes, the stars actually twinkle. It was a revelation, it was--I'd always thought the twinkle was an artistic exaggeration. But anyway, Friday night, the stars were so present. The Milky Way, the trail of the gods, was so bright, and I laid on my back, wishing I could follow it forever.

I love moments like that, ones where I realize all over again just how big the universe it, and how small I am. That all the things I take so seriously, like my grades, my future, my choices, are really so insignificant. But once, a human just like me made a choice that affected every single one of those bright points of light. There's that connect between myself and all the rest of the galaxies out there, and I love the moments where I can feel it.

I could feel the granite under my fingertips, lying there. I love touch--I'll be walking along, and run my hand over a tree trunk, or rap my knuckles against a post, wall, or door--I stop and actually smell the roses. Life is so full when you use every single sense. This is perfect, Abi, I whispered. Thank you. He might or might not have sent a wink into my heart, but I rather think he did.

I missed all of you. I can stumble through a desert at night, and fend off ferocious maurading bats, and listen to awesome guitar music, and watch the sky forever alone--but I wish you were all here. That seems like a pretty good way to end this post that has made me seem more ADHD than I should ever feel.

Mine.

Annalisa came to see me this weekend. Not exclusively, of course, although that would have been lovely--but I kept my eyes cracked open long enough to pick her up from the airport last night and get her back to my apartment in one piece. I got to keep her until church was over. It was lovely.

Then, of course, I had to give her up. It was not so lovely. I might have smeared my makeup somewhat.

This morning, as we're crowding in my little bathroom and doing hair and makeup, she said, "It's so hard not having you around to talk to. I mean, it's not like I can just call you up and say, 'Hi. I just saw a turtle.'"

Except, in all actuality, I would LOVE to hear that she just saw a turtle. I would want a full description of said turtle. I would encourage her to touch the turtle, salmonella and all. So we decided that, next time she sees a turtle, she will call me. I may send her texts of turtles as a reminder.

I can't tell you how good she was for my soul. Having one of my people around is always like a drug in my veins, and she's especially fabulous. Especially her hair. I mean, if I had hair like that, I wouldn't even worry about going to college, or graduate school. I would just walk around with that hair and say, Yes, this is my life. And the world would worship me.

For those of you who don't know her, she's spontaneous and bubbly. She says the most outrageous things, and she has this purr to her voice. If she tells you that there's a carton of milk in the fridge, suddenly it sounds like the sexiest carton of milk in the world. In the universe. You would totally date that carton of milk. And you should hear her when we're talking about men. Rrrrrrr.

So, thinking about her visit, and missing her even though I know she's still about 10 miles away, I started thinking about ALL of you. My people. The ones I let inside my shell, the ones that love me, the ones I would do anything for, anytime, anywhere. Including kill. I don't know how many bodies I've seriously offered to dispose of for Becca alone. Yes, you know who I'm talking about.

We aren't afraid to get close. We're on a free-space recycling mission to save the world, one heap of people at a time. I haven't found that here, yet. It always sounds too much like an ulterior motive. "Hi. Hug me, please? Love me?" My courage isn't quite that high. I'm not good at reaching out to people.  

But, I love people. My people. This thing we have. I need to remember how I broke out of my bubble and let them in when we all first met. It was so worth it. I'm still working on that.

We all look so young, here. That was such a hard night, for me. But look at them. They're not all here, of course, but this was the start of a circle that literally saved me. It was also the first night I stood on that balcony overlooking the river. Now, we're all danced there countless times--amazingly good memories to be had.

Oh, and they taught me to climb. Which is even better.

Some of the best Sabbaths I've ever spent were at Foster, with them. Especially when the boys brought dried Ramen. And we tried to start a campfire but all of the lighters mysteriously ran out of fluid, and we nearly froze to death. Or like the time we were camping, and...you get the picture.

Of course, we morphed a little over the years. Schreven was already gone for this part of college. I miss that boy. Some lucky girl someday...oh, that boy.

And gradually, our group shrank until it was only Gardner and the girls...*laughs* just kidding! I love this picture. You can tell he's thrilled that we're all so close to him. :-D

Some of my girls. We're outrageous. And nobody can make facial expressions like 'Riah.

And this is the most astoundingly beautiful, witty, scandalous sister who ever made the boys sit up and say, "Wow. There goes the most amazing thing I've ever laid eyes on." But while the boys may come and boys may go, she's stuck with me forever.

And of course Frank, who's been my friend ever since those turbulent academy days. This was at his baptism a few years ago. He got both sisters at once. :-D 

My family, back in the days of the matching pajama bottoms (which I made out of Alex's old curtains, and he wore to make me happy). This was one of our last days in the old house. I miss them terribly.

Sometimes it's not about the picture. Sometimes it's just about having your arms around the most incredible people in the world, and having them hold back so hard.

I hope you guys didn't mind indulging me in a little bit of remembering. It was theraputic for me.

Nightwalk

Last night was time take the chance--
(Avoiding the glance of any passerby)
To wait in shadows that the moon cast deep
While the waiting world considered sleep,
And the bats traced paths through the darkened sky.

Not finding the elusive thing I sought--
(Although the thought did cross my mind)
It's true, I guess, in retrospect,
That I may never, I suspect,
Come across what I wished to find.

The thing I dislike most about medical school is that I have no time to write anything and make it good. Or long. Test week starts in four days, one hours, and forty-one minutes.

Currents

It didn't look like this. I wish.

She inhaled. The breath was sharp and deep, salt-laced, tingling in her lungs. She barely noticed the sting.

The sun burned, sulking in the sky and pulling the skin of her cheekbones tight, but she ignored it. Her attention was caught in the pull of the rip against her legs and the wall of water rising in front of her. She reveled in the hiss of the foam, the smell of the land that embraces the sea, the dull roar of the surf on the beach behind--but it was just background. Every active scrap of attention focused on the building wave, calculating height and pushing back the tinge of fear as it built and began to break, so far above her head.

She dove deep, slicing the base of the falling wave as tiny particles of sand laced her outstretched arms, gritting under her nails as she sank her finger in and stretched out on the bottom, clinging. The sea crashed down with the low-liquid growl of a waking mountain.

But this wave was different. Usually, they roared overhead, grasping currents lifting her feet gently before moving on. This one, however, forced liquid fingers between her and the sand, yanking her upside down and sending her careening into the rip.

Gravity didn't exist in this tumbling, seething world. She only struggled briefly before relaxing, letting the water drag her where it would as she waited, counting her heartbeats. It felt strange, oddly peaceful in the midst of chaos. Time may as well have stopped, except for the dull thud against her ribs that marked the passing seconds.

The surge gave her one last spin before it slowed, the angry tugging turning curious, ruffling her hair and playing with the edges of her skin. It released her at the edge of the breakers.

She opened her eyes, searching for the surface through strands of floating hair. She wasn't desperate. There was still air in her lungs, driving her thoughts as she drifted, suspended, quiet. The waves grumbled dully at her back. In front of her, when she opened her eyes, the dark expanse of open sea stretched on forever.

Her lungs should have been burning. She wondered at it, briefly, but mentally shrugged--why question a good thing? The surface above her head began to fall away from her as it rose and built, and on impulse she kicked up into the body of the wave. It pulled her up and into the surge, and she broke up and out of it just as it crested and fell. The currents dragged her under again, this time spitting her out and sending her tumbling into a friend. They came up laughing.

It was a beautiful day.

borrowed from frost

I don't have time to write tonight. But this was my favorite Frost piece of the day. I wish I'd written it myself.

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

a weapon in the hand of God

I've complained about the religion class here at Loma Linda. The testimonies are too long, the discussions too short, and what I have to say is usually different enough from everyone else to cause a small ripple of discord. I've grumbled to myself about the group mediators and their questions. Once they have a specific answer in mind, it doesn't matter what you have to say--right or wrong, they are hellbent on taking the train to a certain, predrawn conclusion. (Is predrawn even a word? It feels like a word. I may be the only person on earth who uses certain phrases because "They just feel right." Except for Becca. :))

Anyway, we were talking about prayer this week, and I knew exactly where the conversation was headed. I used to think about prayer in much the same way. But it was such a shallow point of view--such a beginning sentiment. I was irked enough that I thought I should try and make the conversation a little deeper, maybe open something up that most people didn't usually consider when talking about prayer. (In retrospect, I should have remembered that perhaps not everyone there is Christian, and that's why everything seems so basic. Sometimes I just don't think. Sorry, mama.)

So, I briefly reiterated some of the ideas I'd discussed in my paper. It was, in part, identical to something I'd said the week before (which I forgot until I was halfway through it), but it was true--and yet, the mediator immediately veered the conversation back to the "predestined conclusion."

I'm starting to realize that I sound egotistical. That's not where this was supposed to be going, but I'm about to back up the impression and sound really narcissistic. Anyway, one of the things I said really stuck in my head all week. I don't even know where it came from--I'd never heard it before. It's funny how things come out of your mouth with no rhyme or reason. But it was this--that prayer is a weapon in the hand of God.

Simple idea. Maybe. Not anything I've grown up hearing.

Still, so many implications. I can't go through them here, but I just keep finding them, piled up behind physio facts and anatomy lectures. It is an idea that has no base until you can actually see God--even if just through that glass, darkly--and suddenly that's becoming so important. I think that's why I was so irked with the mediator. Because nothing you say about what prayer is, and how it is to be used, matters at all until you understand some very basic things that, frankly, I don't think many people do, starting with what God is really like. I didn't see it before, and I was raised Adventist.

But the phrase keeps sticking with me. A weapon in the hand of God. Prayer, a weapon in God's hand. Me, a weapon in God's hand. Safe in the hand of God. 

Suddenly, it doesn't make the relationship seem so one-sided.

Jon, I wrote this with you in mind. Not because you agree with me, although you probably do, but because this stuff is what you write about, and for today, I'm joining the club. Tell me what you think and we should continue this conversation somewhere else, because I really miss Friday nights and bible studies and just talking things out.

the demon in the pipes

Showers are deceptive.

In a perfect world, there would be no showers. When the urge struck, I would frolic under picturesque cascades of clear water, in a pristine and private pool surrounded by a friendly jungle. The monkeys would be my friends and drop fruit down to me, and the birds would sing like birds do--or something of the sort. And there would be no nasty crawling things under the rocks. (Actually, on second thought, this precise scenario would freak me out. Monkeys are scary little gits.)

In a slightly-less-utopian-but-still-wonderful world where showers are normal, they would adjust to my every whim. Hot would actually mean hot, and cold water would be more than wistful thinking. Some of my friends claim that we're now living in the armpit of hell, here in socal. I don't know about that, but it is not a perfect world or even a semi-perfect world, and therefore, my shower is a deceitful evil deity out to kill me.

There is an approximately 1 inch area on the full circle of adjustment in my shower that qualifies as hot. Everything else ranges from Scalding to These Temperatures May Rival Your Average Volcanic Lava. Want cold water? Sorry. California doesn't know what that is.

I try and keep it adjusted to that particular safe zone, but it's elusive--it wanders like a drunk Gypsy. One morning I may get lukewarm water at a particular place--the next, I'll turn the water on, not having adjusted the temperature from the previous day, and the water sizzles acid-hot as it leaves the pipes.

This morning was a prime example. I'd managed to find the perfect position for optimum "cool" water delivery, and it had worked for several days, lulling me into a false sense of security. The shower brooded in the corner as I stumbled in, still trying to convince myself that I should be vertical so early in the morning. I didn't notice. (Reference the false sense of security above).

I should have known. The water made a weird sound as it kicked on. At the time I ascribed it to air in the pipes, but in retrospect it sounded like a tiny demon wheezing with laughter. But I didn't pay attention until it hit my face.

One moment, I'm standing in a relatively quiet house, dark and sleeping. The next, I'm shrieking like a little girl and dancing around the end of the shower, alternating feet as I try and escape the hellaciously hot deluge that is melting small holes in the plastic matting.

I tried reaching through the water to turn it off. No use. My nervous system kicked in, and my hand jerked back so fast that I hit my chest and nearly broke my collarbone. Injured, I cowered in the corner, cut off from both the exit and the controls as the water finished melting the matting and began to steam its way through the foundations and back to the center of the earth, to join the eternal fires that had spawned it in the first place.

There was no way around it, unless I wanted to end my life at the cruel whim of a sadistic shower...

...

This is the point where I stop typing and look back at what I've written. I'm trying to decide where this story ended off being real, and where the hyperbole started. Unless it's escaped your attention so far, I began making up wild stuff about the time the hypothetical demon entered the picture. My bath matting is very much intact, and there are no bruises or burns on my arms. There might have been some screaming, but it was brief, and while I still think there might be a demon living in the water system, he may or may not be laughing.

I'd continue on with the wild conjecture, but my study break is almost up--so suffice to say, I did actually have to go around the other side of the doors to cut the water off, and the new place I found to adjust it to was 130 degrees from the last one. So the basic premise is still the same.

My shower is evil.

"No" means "yes," and "get lost" means "take me, I'm yours!"

This just made my day.

It also made me think of the quote from Hercules, when Meg is trying to explain to Hercules her world view of men.

Other than that, I'm tired and I'm afraid, because this teacher just said that he's going to make the exam questions as hard as he possibly can. I know he's being serious, and I want to do well so bad. But I don't know if what I'm doing is enough.

Maybe it is. Maybe not.

one meal too many

Why is it so...hard?
Keeping on track
On rhythm...usually
Isn't this difficult
Steady does the trick
Not...skipping
Not like this
Hearts aren't meant...
To do this.

The many-faceted moor

I met Death on the lonely moor
That circles the restless sea
I met Death, and he paused apace,
And bowing with old-fashioned grace,
He tipped his hat to me.

I spoke to Death on the darkened moor
And asked if he'd come for me
He shook his head with a merry glance,
And asked if I would take the chance
To look away from him to the sea.

I turned from Death on the highland moor
Looked out from the cliffs to the sea
As he bent to speak in my ear and show
Where the crippled ship sailed listing and slow
To the rocks that boomed below me.

I argued with Death on the shivering moor
As he shook his head at me
And my brother's ship sailed in closer still
To the rocks below, which wreck and kill,
And I begged Death for mercy.

I bargained with Death on the desperate moor
A life for a life, you see--
At last prevailed, won over Death
And watched the ship with baited breath,
Until it sailed to a quiet lee.

I parted with Death on the silver moor
At he left for the western sea
I raised my hand as I watched him go,
Knowing someday I'll follow him there,
Glad of his company.

It's been a long day. I had something else entirely in mind for a post tonight. I was halfway through it before I stopped and said, holy shnikes, what the heck am I writing? I mean, Death? Really? It's generic and predictable; I'm tired, my head aches, and I'm too lazy to fix the last verse.

Pray for me, guys. Pray real hard. I mean it. Don't just nod to yourself and then forget. I know human nature, and I'm telling you, this med school thing is impossible for me to do by myself. I can't. I simply can't. I'm not even two weeks in, and I know that.

Any confidence I have is based entirely on the fact that I know I'm not alone in this. And I know that our decisions change things. But I also know that when you pray, you enable God to help you change things. I need that. So pray.