bringing God back

I grew up in a religious family, attending church every Sunday morning and saying a prayer before every meal and at bedtime every night. I learned the most popular bible verses and could recite the Lord’s prayer by the time I was seven. And I even went through a time period in my preadolescence when religious activities were the essence of my existence. Friendships were based on a common belief in God. Weekend excursions were opportunities to serve God and share in fellowship with those around me. But by the time I was in high school, my beliefs had begun to fade to the background and I found myself lost in a maze of confusion and doubts and rebellion. My parents still insisted I go to church every Sunday, but my appropriate church attire was quickly replaced with bohemian skirts and combat boots. I took the liberty of engaging in fantasies throughout the sermons and wrote dark poetry on the backs of bulletins. When I moved away from home to attend college at the age of 17, I was relieved to be able to make my own decisions about church and God. The problem resided in the fact that I didn’t know how to make my own decisions and consequently lived an internal battle of guilt and pleasure. With the exception of holidays at home with my family, I stopped going to church. In fact, I didn’t go to church for the next four to five years. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in God during those years. My belief has always been there; it was just hidden deep inside, an inconspicuous fragment of a life from which I was running away. Even when I would get a momentary burst of inspiration and periodically arrive at a random church on Sunday morning, I still did not feel the depth of what I was searching for in the realm of spirituality. I never stopped praying; prayer was the one aspect of my faith to which I clung through all the years. But prayer was not enough, and somewhere deep inside, I knew that. I’ve never been the type of person to believe that people must attend church in order to be a good Christian. I still do not ascribe to those “rules”. However, spirituality is essentially the essence of life and love and goodness. And so, as I continued my lost wanderings down paths of destruction and ambivalence, I realized somewhere along the way that the void inside, the intrusive negativity, the utter misery, were all simply manifestations of a life without God as my center.

It’s hard to explain the change I have begun to witness within myself over the past week. It’s strange to think that in such a short time period, my beliefs and values and whole perspective on life have been reevaluated and clarified so intensely. I could tell you the story of a conversation that set the process in motion. I could tell you how I’ve witnessed the pure goodness of humanity and how I’ve been reminded of the importance of love and faith. I could tell you how I felt as I sat in a church for the first time in years this past Sunday. I could tell you how the tears of awe welled and then fell with an overwhelming sense of internal peace. But telling you these stories, telling you about these moments, could never truly explain the transitions occurring within my spirit. What I can tell you is this…the sun is shining brighter than ever, the beauty of the world is greeting me in each moment, and for the first time in a very long time, I have faith that I am exactly who and where I am meant to be.

Sunday Scribblings...bedtime stories

Flickering candlelight in the darkness, the musky scent of patchouli and oriental spices wafting gently through the air, the comfort of worn cotton sheets and the warmth of plush corduroy wrapped loosely around my bare shoulders A voice, deep and rich, whispers to me a love story like those of days long past. A love story imbued with the essence of passion and happiness, comfort and security. A love story like all love stories were meant to be.

His voice, the way the words naturally flow, the way the story threads together piece by piece, effortlessly, like it is the story he has always known. I am blanketed in a cocoon of safety and solace, peace filling within me, faith reaffirmed. Eyelids heavy, sleep tiptoeing forward, and I am taken back to a time when innocence encircled fantasies of happily-ever-after. For a moment, I believe in fairy tales. I believe in magic and flowing white dresses and the sound of tiny footsteps echoing down a hallway, each step bringing angels closer to snuggle in the warmth with me.

It is not the beginning of the story or the end that matters to me. It is the middle, the journey, and the strength of the voice that knows this story. Just before his voice fades and dreams arrive, I open my eyes and I know that this story is the story I am meant to live. A sleepy smile, a gentle kiss, goodnight my love…I will see you in my dreams.

carried by mountain memories...and missing you all bunches

It’s cold outside, barely above freezing temperatures, and I am loving the unseasonable chill in the air. Memories of cold mountain air and dancing autumn leaves are carrying me through the days. After a delicious weekend in the Blue Ridge mountains, I returned to the “real world” with a newfound sense of aliveness. Even ten hour work days followed by long nights of studying cannot ruin the vitality I experienced hiking through hills covered in falling leaves. Standing on the path, the leaves pirouetting about my head, the rush of colors overtaking my senses, I was filled with life. Moments when the black and white and gray of daily life was overwhelmed by blood red and punchy melon and yellow, gold, ember leaves swirling and leaping and tumbling in ecstasy. Moments when the icy air was awakening rather than biting, the view of blue mountain tops gracing my horizon bringing solace to a withered spirit.
And this afternoon, sitting fireside, feeling the warmth of the flames heat my skin, I cannot help but think of the goodness in this life. The simple things that bring such pleasure. Once again, I am reminded that I must allow myself these tiny pleasures. I must stop getting lost in the maze of obligations and revel in these days when I find myself surrounded by beauty and in awe of the moments. So while I should be studying now, I am taking a break to rest, to rejuvenate, to remind myself that life’s little beauties are all around me.

(Another reminder…I wish I had more time these days to come here and let the words flow, to release the feelings, to bring my presence to this wonderful circle of beautiful women whom I cherish so deeply…please know that despite my absence, you are all in my heart every day and I am sending lots of love to you all:)

Sunday Scribblings...when time stands still

My best friend and I have a habit of referring to the best moments in life as those “when time stands still”. Of course time does not technically stop; it never does. But in our lives, in those moments, the rest of the world fades away and the moment, the experience is all that matters. That is our definition of time standing still, and the moments are few and far between these days. I can look back a few years and tell you stories of moments when time stood still. A Caribbean beach, white sand, blue sky, our hands clasped together as we reveled in the last days of reckless and carefree youth…time definitely stood still that day. Nights when we laid in bed, snuggled together under plush covers, reading the beauty of poetry or talking until daylight…those were moments when time stood still. And even amidst the chaos of this week…there was a moment when time stood still. If I had the ability to stop time, I would go back in that moment and just stay there for a while.

It was Tuesday night, nothing special about the particular day or time. But it was not just a regular night for me, consumed by studying and reports and desperate attempts to fall asleep before the alarms rang their buzzing salutations. It was a special night, one of the very rare ones when my best friend was in town visiting her mom. My only opportunity to see her since July and an opportunity to once again feel the unbreakable bond of her love, the strength of her hugs, the understanding that needs no words. The last time I had seen her, she was not even five months pregnant, her belly only slightly swollen with the miracle inside. When I saw her Tuesday night, her beauty once again left me in awe. She has always been beautiful; she will always be beautiful. But her beauty left me breathless that night, the gentle curve of her belly expanding ever more with life. As we laid in her bed that night, I felt baby girl kick for the first time. With both our hands resting on her tummy, that precious baby girl reminded us that she was now a part of our time together. As I whispered words of love to her, as her tiny foot propelled against her mommy’s belly…time stood still. In that moment, sickness and stress faded away. In that moment, no one else existed…just my best friend, her miracle daughter, and me. In that moment…love was the only thing that existed in this world.

So if I had the power to stop time, I would go back to Tuesday night and stop time in that moment. To feel that love, to give that love, to know that intensity of love…that is the true essence of life. And to be reminded of that, to physically feel that reminder…that is what I would choose to hold on to forever.

reminding myself

Sometimes life moves too fast. We get caught up in the whirlwind of productivity and the necessary “to-do’s” and we end up lost somewhere in the process. We forget to stop and revel in the beauty of a painted sky. We catch only the momentary glimpse of emerald leaves turning crimson and gold. We stop feeling the rush of air against our skin and hurry through the day, our shoulders heavy with obligations and responsibilities.

And then somewhere down the path, we are reminded. We are reminded of all that lies before us, the world as our canvas. We are reminded that the essence of our lives is not about meeting deadlines or reaching goals; it is about living our lives, fully breathing in the beauty of the moments. And yet how often do these reminders bypass our streamlined vision and leave us standing on the edge, wondering what happened to the truly memorable moments of life.

I’ve been needing a reminder these past few weeks. Needing a reminder that my life is not all about memorizing the anatomy of the brain or writing reports and treatment recommendations for my patients. I’ve been needing a reminder to step back and breathe, to feel the rush of air against my skin, to succumb to the laughter that leaves me doubled over on the floor. I’ve been needing a reminder to just live.

So today, I’m reminding myself of the obligations and responsibilities…the ones that lie within me rather than the ones I owe to the world. The ones to nurture my soul, to embrace my spirit, to let the passion in my heart burst forth into each moment. I am reminding myself today what it feels like to stop worrying for a moment, to let the stress fade to the background, and to just BE.

Sunday Scribblings...Skin

Skin…taut, pulled firm against bone and failing muscles. Skin…padded, cushioned, protection against the world and the self. Skin…scarred and bruised, covered in shame, bared in pride.

For the past month, the skin of these women stares back at me, forcing me to evaluate my own skin, forcing me to cast my eyes downward on the skin that is the doorway to my world. And as I catch sight of my reflection, my world begins spinning as I reminisce and acknowledge the hunger of my own skin. As I doubt the thickness of this layer that stands between my heart and reality. As I am questioned by others about the competency, the strength, of my skin.

It is uncomfortable these days. My skin does not feel like my own, too much questioning resulting in attempts to expand the layers that lie beneath my skin. I walk through the door and eyes are cast doubtfully in my direction. Are my bones visible? Does my profile reveal enough depth to warrant relief? And consequently, I come home to feast upon protein and more protein, healthy fats, and an array of junk food…anything to put the weight on. But it is uncomfortable to live this way. My body is protesting that health does not come with more weight beneath my skin. And the end result is punishment for the body that God gave me. No clinical work unless I can alter the natural form of my body, unless my clothes reveal a tag stating size “5” instead of “0”.

Sometimes skin is just skin. But most often, our skin is simply the message we carry to the world of what lies underneath. Where I work, our skin carries the message of health versus sickness, strength versus weakness, trust versus mistrust. Each day that I walk into the office, my body, my skin, is scrutinized. Am I too thin? Is the weight gain enough? Can I carry the pain and anger that will be thrown at me from my patients? Each day, I walk in with my sole focus to help my patients, and each day the focus is turned back upon me, my body, my skin.

It is a dangerous way to live, an environment that threatens the durability and acceptance of my own skin on a daily basis. Food, weight, the bodies covered by skin…these are the essence, the center of the world beyond those doors. Not enough? Too much? Are there compensatory behaviors? Does guilt follow the last bite of supper? Dieticians and scales and a kitchen stocked with an endless supply of nutrients. Doctors and tests, diagnosis and prognosis…will this one survive? Will she be able to tolerate one, two, three more pounds on her skeletal frame? Will that one stop running to the bathroom after each morsel of food that enters her mouth? Will the repulsive scent of vomit linger until death knocks on her door? Yes, it is dangerous and frightening and exhausting. But these are my patients, not me.

And so somehow in the midst of these women, in the midst of a world that focuses far too much on body size and dimensions, I must find a way to live comfortably within my skin. And in this skin, I must find a bridge to reach these women, these patients. I must find a way to help them reach a place where they can find the courage to love themselves. Anything, everything…not just skin.