From Flowers to Dostoyevsky and the Road In-between

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I am sitting in the parking lot, waiting for the local bookstore, The Book Bin, to open. I am here because of a flower. And a pear tree turned maple. And a sense of time and space. And the writer Dostoyevsky.

Sipping my morning coffee, with the Jeep’s soft top down, I feel the heat and humidity of the day gaining momentum. I have ten minutes to kill, but there is no rush. I am in no hurry.

I am not a particular admirer of flowers or plants, nor fond of gardening. You will find no green in my thumb. I struggle to tell the difference between tulips and roses or what qualifies as a annual versus a perennial. Becky is both president and vice-president of landscaping and curb appeal for our home. But every year, after Chicago thaws out from another nasty winter, there is one pink plant I notice from July to the frost.

The routine is one I have done a thousand times. A long day of work followed by a quick drive home. I turn into my driveway, stopping short of the messy garage. I grab my evening Starbucks and step out of the car, making a bee-line for the front door. Just to the left of the brick paver walkway, pink flowers bloom on the tall arching hibiscus plant. Ten year ago, Madison and Maya won an Earth day contest resulting in a hibiscus plant in the front yard and a Pear tree in the back. Now, every time I see the pink flowers, a Pavlovian response follows. See hibiscus; think of Madison. The pink flowers stand out as the summer days get longer. But the reflexive thought is usually fleeting. I have a narrow two-hour window to play catch-up with the family, eat some food, and take care of some odds and ends before getting ready for evening water polo practice.

But this has been a year of change. More weeks off of work than on. Days slower, pressure lower. Options greater. Headspace clearer.

Yesterday, I got out of the car and looked just to the left of the brick paver walkway; pink flowers bloom on the tall arching Hibiscus plant.

I paused.

I deviated from pattern and routine. I literally stepped off the brick pavers and walked through the dirt. I kneeled, and for the first time in ten years, I looked. Not rushed and fatigued, but with the unassuming eyes of a child.

Was it the way the day’s light caught the blooming flower? Or its movement, as it swayed back and forth in the afternoon breeze? I stopped. I looked. Differently. Not with an expectation of confirming what I knew to be true. Not reflexive with a programmed response. But with eyes and mind open in a way they often are not.

Not a simple single color, but pink and dynamic, with pattern and texture. Not just petals, but a flower with a complex architecture that I forgot existed. I am mesmerized. I focus. I take pictures, trying to capture or preserve what my eyes see. There literally is a world of things present that I have not noticed previously, all backlit by light emanating from small slits in the petals left open at the base.

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I have written, in the abstract, about increased time and space since going part-time. But it’s concrete and tangible right here in this flower. My mind is unencumbered by the weight of a twelve-hour work day or a week’s accumulation of fatigue. There is no pressure of a two-hour window closing in on me as I stop to smell the roses; or in this case, the Hibiscus. I walk around to the backyard. A few years ago, we identified the pear tree correctly as a maple. I look up at what was once a six-foot tree which, to my surprise, towers overs me by at least thirty feet. Thick branches, once thin and pliable, have weathered quite a few storms over the years. Despite viewing the tree daily through the kitchen window, I have missed this transformation.

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Patterns and behaviors. Expectations and assumptions. Tools often necessary to get thru challenging days. They consume less energy, tapping less into one’s reserve, to operate more on auto-pilot or cruise control. But that path foreword is limited and constricted. One where the hibiscus remains just a pretty pink flower, and the maple six feet tall.

Time and space. Look left and right. Stop assuming. Be more curious, and have fewer expectations. Break patterns and rethink behaviors.

I didn’t read Crime and Punishment in high school or college. Over the years, when I came across references to the book and its protagonist Raskolnikov, I made mental notes to buy and read the book, but never followed thru. Too little time. Never made it high enough on the to do list. In a few minutes that will change. I am waiting for Book Bin to open and I am going to buy that book.

Time and space. Break Patterns. Rethink behaviors.

Madison comes home soon to visit for a week. He’s about to move into his own apartment in Oregon. Maya’s about to start her senior year, with quite of few colleges on her mind. Becky is gearing up to offer tutoring services in a more formal fashion. We are a family with quite a bit of transformation ahead. But despite the potential and promise of the upcoming year, I am in no hurry to launch myself forward.

Days slower. Headspace clearer.

I drive away from the Book Bin, Crime and Punishment in hand. I am ready to read it. With more time and space. With more curiosity and fewer expectations. And with unassuming eyes and a mind wide open.

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The pace and path to mindfulness

Fast

I eat. Fast. Often, I consume the food I place on my plate before I even make it to the kitchen table. It’s as if I grew up during times of famine, desperate for each and every morsel. On the rare night my family has dinner together, I am usually finishing just as they are starting, and by doing so, send a not-so-subtle message that I value family time together less than just eating.

I drink. Fast. That first beer stands no chance. After my first “sip”, I look sheepishly at my near empty bottle, while others are still using the bottle opener. The joy and satisfaction of a cold beer on a hot day is made all too brief.

I read. Fast. If I like a book, I will devour it in hours. I will keep turning pages until the first light of day sneaks in under the bedroom blinds, signaling me to stop reading and start getting ready for work. The more gripping the book, the quicker my pace and ironically less time to enjoy my escape.

I see patients. Fast. A necessary skill when the hospital is bursting with influenza, the ICU’s are buzzing with patients on ventilators, and my afternoon office is bustling with overbooked patients. I am relieved when I make it through the day without the weight of unfinished charting and unreturned patient phone calls still to be made. But back home, my escape is not without consequence. I feel a gnawing, growing internal uneasiness at the lack of depth and breadth of my numerous interactions.

Slow

I write. Slowly. Frustratingly so for someone trying to create content and build a platform. But I love to labor over sentence structure and word choice. Although slow, it is not painful. When I am able to put to paper the perfect sentence that captures what I see and feel in my head, it generates a soothing and intoxicating internal harmony.

I listen to music. When I do, time slows, regardless of its fast or slow beat. In my car or at a concert. The chords, notes and riffs are felt more than heard, resonating within. Sometimes I get lost within a space that only exists for a brief moment in time.

I cook. Measured and deliberate. I prefer the feel of certain knives in my hand. Cast iron more than non-stick and the warmth of the oven pre-heating behind me. Whether it’s making homemade pizza dough, baking gluten free muffins or smoking a brisket for the better part of a day, I don’t feel that time has been wasted.

I run. Sometimes for hours. Disconnected and separated from phone and home, my foot cadence becomes my mantra as I let go of the competing forces of work, family and social media. I dive deeper into unresolved thoughts and emotions.

Pace

I first learned about the concept of pacing in high school.  Figuring out a “steady” versus “race” pace was a skill needed to survive swimming thousands of yards day after day. I apply the same concept when training for and competing in Iron-distance triathlons. How fast can I push before burning out too quickly? How do I not leave anything in the tank as I cross the finish line? When I think about the activities and actions that bring me the most meaning and happiness, pace is a dominant factor.

Mindfulness often evokes images of yoga, crystals, incense and oils. But the truth is, when the pace is right, mindfulness comes into play without the need for any new age music in the background. Just as I appreciate the cadence of my breathing on a run or the layering of different tracks on a particular piece of music, mealtime can be transformed from mindless to mindful. Tasting the food and enjoying conversation, while being present and in the moment with my family around the table, becomes so much more than quickly ingesting empty calories.

Applying pacing and mindfulness to an otherwise generic patient encounter opens up opportunities to create a more qualitative interaction. Picking up on verbal and non-verbal cues. Recognizing that what is not being said may be more important than what is. Filling in and clicking on all of the blanks and boxes in the EMR might facilitate an orderly collection of important health data points, but it does not facilitate a natural exchange of information, nor does it create a comfortable space that promotes openness and candor.

We make thousands of conscious decisions every day. What should I eat for breakfast? What shirt will I wear? Do I go for a run or a long bike ride?  What will I write for a new blog post? But we rarely pay explicit attention to the pace of our actions. I have lived most of my adult life moving at a fast clip. Transitioning to part-time gives me the opportunity to slow down and be more cognizant about the pace I choose moving forward. By doing so, I hope to reclaim in my work world the quality that has been absent in some of my recent patient encounters. And when outside the walls of the hospital, I hope to capture more often, that internal harmony or resonance that is waiting for me.  If I can just find the right pace.