Month: December 2018

I’d like to know. I also would like to know the birthdays of others we might know in common.

Why? Because I’m on a quest. It’s not a journey to remake myself; I’ve learned enough since my own birth year of 1959 to realize that December 31st resolutions should focus on more achievable tasks than a new “me”. Consequently, 2019 is a year when I hope to be able to do something a bit more prosaic. Rather than a grand self-improvement project, 2019 will be a year when I fill a single calendar with the names of people I know who were born on all 365 days of the year.

My quest shouldn’t be too epic or difficult. There are, after all, over 7 billion people alive on this planet. Surely, out of that large number, I know at least 365 people with different birthdates! And yet, earlier this week, when I began filling in dates on the tracking calendar (a free one that my wife received in the mail), some months had no entries. And then, when I started to get serious about the project after seeing so much blank space, most months still had plenty of empty dates. One month persisted with no entries. Zero.

Do I really know no one born in March? Or am I biased against those 31 days, either because no one in my immediate family was born in March or because March otherwise holds nothing special for me and hence I don’t pay attention to birth dates in that late wintry time?

It is striking to see how many gaps my calendar has. Regardless of the season in which the blank entries occur, the empty dates feel cold, like frosted, impenetrable windows standing as barriers to my probing eyes and heart. You would think that I’ve met enough people in my almost 60 years to fill out a calendar with only 365 days. No doubt I have. Maybe it’s just that I haven’t paid enough attention to all those people to learn – and remember – the date of their birth.

Have I been that self-centered?

I could make excuses. You might even make some for me. Don’t bother though: I’m actually invigorated to have the opportunity to make amends. It’s as if I’ve got a treasure map and the clues to complete it are out there, in the world, held by people like you. It’s a bit exciting to take the calendar in hand and carry it with me, in my car and in my briefcase, to try to be able to fill in one more name each day throughout the year. Will I make it? Will I have the nerve to ask people about their birthdays? Will I need to explain my interest in the subject or will I instead learn how to slip it naturally into a conversation?

By the way, when is your birthday?

Already, rule clarifications have arisen. How well should I know someone before deciding that she or he gets included in my calendar? Strangers shouldn’t count, that I’m clear about; I should have some sort of relationship with a person before listing them. Is there an amount of time though that qualifies a relationship as valid? No. I think if someone is interesting to me, if someone inspires me to want to stay in touch with him or her, even if only once a year, that person should be included.

What about people who have died? I can’t send those people a birthday card, or call them on the phone. But I can still think about them – and smile. Sure, I’d prefer to keep an active listing of 365 people who are alive, people whom I can communicate with. For my starter year, however, I’ve elected to make it easier on myself and to count those who have passed. Besides, it just doesn’t seem right not to have Mom, Dad, and various others on the calendar. So dead people are in.

How about famous people, or those in the public eye? Nope. That doesn’t work. If I don’t know someone – more accurately if someone doesn’t know me – then they should have no place in my quest.

When I leaf through my calendar, it’s a bit embarrassing to admit how many dates I still have to fill it. So I won’t. Until I’m closing in on completion, I won’t count the empty date spaces, hence sparing myself the embarrassment of telling you that, at the start, I still have at least 300 people to find. (It’s in fact a lot more than that.)

Never mind! What good is a quest if it is easy? This one, I’m quickly learning, is more challenging than I might have expected. But not to worry: I have 365 days to go. And approximately 20 million possibilities on the planet for each day of the year.

I also already know my goal for the year 2020. That’s the year when everyone on my 2019 calendar gets a birthday card.

the things i’d like to teach you
are so many, and yet so few of
them make sense to me still 
as i search and seek for 
insights, for peacefulness, 
for the thrill of
understanding,
wisdom,
balance in walking this world
but then sometimes,
ah, yes, those special sometimes,
i unexpectedly touch the tapestry
of harmony and 
the majesty of life’s grandness, 
unfurled like a banner, a flag, a huge sign
for all to see
that brush with wonder is indescribable
the sense of being so deep, so full
it’s easy to doubt it happened
it’s hard to prove it was there
a joy forever imprinted within me
an awareness too difficult to share 
this, the whole, any or all
of it directly
these things
they cannot be transferred
they are things that must be found
by each of us
along and with the rest, 
they are things that cannot be placed inside you, 
except through your own feeble and 
best steps
and missteps
your own journey
on a path carved out by you alone 
and
the universe, the Creator, and
the bonds you make with life's 
simple lessons
the small number of learnings
the most basic of 
discoveries, the essence 
of why you are here.
i dare not presume to uncover them
for i know not how to bare the
heart of the cosmos so it is
visible
tangible
sensed solely by you, or by anyone,
for it is not my place, it is not my time
it is wholely yours, 
it is uniquely the rhyme that you 
write in your own, your 
beautiful, your
marvelous, your
magically wondrous
 story.


know though
please know 
 this one thing - 


you travel not alone, for
you are held by
you are embraced inside
you are bathed with
you are the embodiment of


 love

I hope I got your name right. There are so many choices, from so many traditions. During my upbringing, I learned to use God. I’ve tried other honorifics over the years but God is the one that I keep coming back to. It probably doesn’t matter to you what name is used when someone communicates with you. You probably only care about the act of communication itself.

Which is why I’m writing. It’s been a while, yeah. It’s been even longer if you characterize my communications as public versus private. Usually I’m not up for the public sort of spiritual salutation; most of the time I prefer to keep my feelings and beliefs to myself. In fact, I bet the last time I reached out to you publicly was during some sort of elementary school event or class. I can’t remember anything specific but, if you are really what I was taught during my youth, you do. It would be a kindness to me though not to be reminded about that last socially-exposed greeting. I was much more sincere during those days.

Oh, I’m still sincere now – just in a different way. And with a different frequency. I have lots of genuine emotions, really. There are plenty of core values and beliefs. They just sometimes get all jumbled about, if I’m being honest. Like a ball of tangled yarn, it feels too intimidating to take hold of the one frayed end poking out from the messy snarl and tug. My pull could only just make the ball condense into a tighter mass. It’s not very likely that everything will simply relax open.

Except – I’ve been having these experiences. With you. Life isn’t always smooth, for anyone, including me. I’m luckier than most, I see that, but I still find myself in situations of late that I’d prefer not to sort out alone. And so I’ve been asking you for help, either directly or, more frequently, through some people who hopefully have your ear: my parents and other deceased family members and friends. Funny how comfortable it feels to ask Mom to help me out. Less funny – actually downright unnerving – how she sometimes is able to do that. The signs are so very clear. I say a prayer. I ask Mom, Dad, Uncle Mike, Aunt Daisy, or any of a host of memorable people who I figure have earned the right to ask for a favor or two and, more often than I deserve, I get a reply.

Not everything gets fixed, no. But help, or sometimes simply comfort, is extended.

I’m too private a person to share many examples; it would be too humiliating to admit to all the things that I find myself praying for. Which is why I should admit to them. And why I think I should write to you now and share a note of thanks for at least one. I’m not a very humble person: the ego, the thing that Mom once told me was a human being’s greatest challenge, it whispers inside me that I am humble, a gathering wellspring of grounded diffidence, respect, and (dare I acknowledge it) wisdom. It tells me that I have a voice that should be shared. It makes me feel important to write this blog.

You and I know otherwise. I’m neither humble, wise, or respectful. I’m just a sometimes frightened almost sixty year-old man who wants to feel part of something outside himself, a man who often confuses experiences of the whole as successes of the self.

My soul was bare the other day though. Perhaps in consideration of the urging from some angelic assistants, you had helped my family during a difficult time. With a true desire to say ‘thank you’, I stepped into a non-denominational chapel, sat in the front row, and silently opened my heart. Surrounded by diverse symbols of religious faith and spiritual life, I focused on one that I’ve not given much attention to in years: the cross. My mind turned off. My spirit reached out. My lips formed the words “I believe”.

I absolutely admit to having felt a bit ashamed. It’s easy to believe when things turn out well. Nonetheless, I still felt thankful, and hopeful, and filling with belief. I told you. And then I asked for help getting past myself. I asked for faith to trust in your will, the will of the whole, the will of what would be and not at what I might want to be. And I smiled at one of my recent conceits – my role and responsibility concerning a potentially large work-related project. I’ll accept your guidance, I mentally murmured.

There was one person you could have placed in my life path at that moment to tell me your will about that project. That person was not in my mind whatsoever when I left the chapel. That person had no reason to be anywhere near the exit from the chapel. That person was suddenly standing in front of me when I turned from closing the chapel door.

Hello, God. Thanks for letting me write. Thanks for always listening. I’ll try to become a better communicator.

3AM. Night 8 of my daughter’s hospitalization for new onset headache. Status migrainosus, by its official name.

“Here’s a summary of all the doses she’s had so far.” 

I accepted the blue sticky note from the nursing student with a groggy thank you. Sometime earlier in the night – was it only just an hour before? – I had wondered aloud with her and my daughter’s night nurse if the dosing already given of an intravenous medication was sufficient. The side effects were nasty. Maybe it was time to stop the brutal med. Had she reached the maximum of 12mg? A short time later I was presented with a gift in response to my informal query: a three inch square of information. 

No, there was more to this gift than information. There was the timeliness of  its delivery, the caring and quiet manner in which the young nurse had tracked down what I needed and handed it to me. There was kindness. The young woman knew this data was important to me. She understood, without my saying so, that I had no chance of sleep, despite my feigned effort of closed eyes. In the dim light of the heart monitor, she handed me the sticky note with a certain reverence.

We all know that health care is not just expertise and efficiency. Those characteristics of care are important, to be sure. But they are insufficient – at least from the perspective of the person and family receiving the care. The simplicity of basic human interaction and the gentleness associated with gestures of thoughtful kindness are as much a part of healing as the decision-making behind and promptness of the medical interventions.

Intentionality is key. It is spontaneous, natural. It helps a person feel witnessed, seen.

Hospitals are busy places. Gone are the days when people stay long enough in them to recover strength, energy, and purpose.  Patients are hospitalized just enough days for diagnosis and stabilization. The goal is discharge, from the moment of admission. This isn’t necessarily bad; hospitals are places where drug-resistant bacteria loiter and medication mistakes may manifest. Improvement systems and safety checks are implemented to minimize risks. But the risks are there because the acuity of patient conditions is significantly higher than in years past. Hospitals are to be avoided, if possible. Once in one, a person and family do well to seek the sanctity of home.

It’s been years, decades even, since I’ve spent so much time in a busy hospital. Sure, when I was a hospital administrator, I walked the halls of a different hospital daily, visiting the inpatient units as much as possible. Not since my residency training, however, have I spent so many continuous hours inside one of those units. Never have I spent so many continuous hours inside a single patient room. 

And never have I been so reminded of the crucial importance of the kindness of strangers. 

It was all around us. The nurses were busy; that didn’t stop them from showing an interest in my daughter, my wife, and me. The support staff on the unit, the people working at the various administrative desks, the physician staff, the residents, even employees working in food service and the lobby Starbucks – they made a difference through the smallest of smiles, hellos, nods, and recognitions. They all made an invaluable contribution to my daughter’s treatment and our family’s recovery.

“You’re here all the time!” I said to the young barista at the hospital lobby Starbucks. A string of unlit holiday lights was wrapped about her hair.

“It’s fun!” she replied.

“Well, we’re getting out of here today,” I quietly shared. “I hope I don’t have to see you again.”

“Come on by when you’re next here,” she said. “Visiting. As part of the follow-up.”

We definitely will. We may even stop by to say hello and thank you to that nursing student and some of the other people who gave more of themselves than protocols and best practices demand. They saw us when we needed to be seen. We saw them too. 

Small acts of kindness. Intentionally offered. They can change the world.