SIGNS, SIGNS, EVERYWHERE SIGNS

Do you realize that no matter where we are, we are surrounded by signs….man-made or in nature.  Quite often, we are oblivious to them, walking right by, paying no attention.  That’s how we are, always in a hurry to the next event, even though we have a million and one ways of saying we should stop and smell the coffee.

We rush on by  not wanting to be left behind, not wanting to miss something important.  But we miss the sign to paradise.

And it is so for myself, too.  I am also guilty of being blind to the many signs around me.  It is difficult sometimes to finally see and admit that a change is necessary.  And so we delay and delay and justify and justify….afraid to let go.

I am seeing so clearly now.  There are so many signs to show me the way…. that    work is not fulfilling me, that it is not healthy for me to continue at the present mode.  I see that in the patients that we have been getting in the last few weeks.  They are truck drivers even younger than myself.  They all present the similar symptoms – overweight, diabetic, poor circulatory systems…in short – heart attacks on wheels.  And there are good reasons for their conditions…long hours behind the wheel, eating to keep awake, eating at truck stops, etc., etc. They have to make a living.

All those things are applicable to my profession, too.  I am often too tired from 12 hour shifts, from night shifts.  I am often too stressed to do even necessary things or things for enjoyment.  At other times, I’m so used to be stressed and tired, I’m uncomfortable being rested and not stressed.  Try to understand that!  And lately, I’m coming home angry.  Sometimes I need a big fat example of what I could become to get the message.  There’s a life outside hospital corridors.  There’s a whole wide world out there.  There’s other ways of serving.  Thirty plus years are enough.

WORDS FOR MYSELF

It is August 3, day 2 post work syndrome.  I’m sitting here with my tea and the lyrics of Simon and Garfunkle’s Dangling Conversation are running through my head.  And the conversation does describe how I am feeling off and on, dangling on the edge of my consciousness.

The morning is grey.  I am feeling the greyness around me.  I suppose our profession can be a hazard for the soul if one is not careful.  I can and have gotten lost in thinking it is my responsibility in caring and saving, not only our patients but family, friends and coworkers.  You know what?  I am not all that powerful!  I have to tell myself many times I am just human.  It is okay to be flawed, to be selfish and weak as long as I’m not in that slot all the time.   Sometimes I am my worse enemy.

The sun is trying to rise above the clouds.  I feel its ray dispelling the greyness.  I am proud of myself.  I am not staying in my slot.  There’s a hazard in living alone, but it offers you the comfort and safety of just being.  You don’t have to try so hard.  You can stay down, safe in your cocoon.  When you live with someone, you have to try a little harder not to shed your greyness to them.  And so I try a little harder to rise above the grey.  I watch and learn from my partner on how he is and does.

The morning is progressing and I will have to put away my words for the day.  There’s the hard reality that goes into everyday living…things like dishes, laundry, cooking, paying bills.  But there is poetry in doing these things, too.  I have felt it at times when I put my mind there.  It feels like music….the times I’m baking bread, ironing.  The rhythm of my movement in kneading the dough and seeing the iron smoothing out the wrinkles eases the crinkles in my mind and body.

I think we put too much emphasis on salaried work.  All I hear these days is overtime, overtime.  Somewhere along the way I think we have lost our souls.  Patients are now clients, and we are healthcare providers. I remember once a doctor bellowing about the only professions he knew having clients are lawyers and prostitutes!

These are my thoughts only, my dangling words….no dangling judgements made.

It’s a still life water color,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
The borders of our lives.
And you read your Emily Dickinson,
And I my Robert Frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we’ve lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
“Can analysis be worthwhile?”
“Is the theater really dead?”
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
You’re a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.