Thanks, I'd Really Prefer to Fall on My Own Ass

The wine: Sagelands Cabernet Sauvignon, 2008. Nice little Washington State red, with good depth and blackberry/dark chocolate notes I absolutely adore. Never underestimate an $8 Fred Meyer wine.

The music: Hard Way Every Time, by Jim Croce, the first man I ever fell in love with. Sadly he was dead, and I was 10, at the time, so it had very little chance of working out. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bP5lymQugXI

Well Readers, you didn't really think I could stop writing for any length of time, did you? A writer writes. It is not a choice, anymore than breathing is a choice. The written word is my oxygen. And so, longing to breathe deeply and freely, here I am. Talking, which I do all day, everyday while treating patients, leaves me parched and tired. Writing, with good music and a good wine, is the ultimate restorative. And tonight, writing is about...getting back on the horse.

I've been thinking a lot this week about how I learn, as I stumble around like an idiot in a thorn bush through all kinds of new experiences. My new workplace is a large campus of buildings, and rather resembles a rabbit warren. I routinely get lost, and today, my first round of Well Senior screening visits took me twice as long as it really should have, because I kept getting lost. Yes, lost. Damned lost. Sweaty, clutching my clipboard, squinting into the distance, cannot-find-my-own-car-in-the-parking-lot, single tear lost.

I know you, Dear Reader, will not laugh at me when I tell you that I have had tours of these places not once, but three times now. And yet, I am still lost. This I admit only to you. Because here's the thing: when you are given a tour, your guide is talking to you. Out loud. The whole time. And you are expected to talk back. Out loud. The whole time. This helps me not at all. Because unfortunately, when I am talking, I am not touching, feeling, smelling, seeing and absorbing deeply my surroundings, what I need to do to develop that instinctual sense of place, that internal compass, that despite appearances, I am actually very good at. I learn by Braille.

And people, god bless them, WILL try to help you. Around every corner, some cheerful face asking you if you need directions, more well-intentioned yet distracting auditory input. I try to gently convey that I am not technically lost; I am wandering, exploring, and only by doing so can I find my own way. They seem hurt, even though I am kind. I can only really learn by doing it myself, by failing, by making wrong turns, by running blindly into walls. The only way to get really good at something is by being really bad at it for a long time.

My father likes to tell stories of the extremely independent five year old I used to be. According to him, I never wanted any help to do anything, and he still mocks me by repeating my favorite phrases: "DAD, I can do it! DAD, I can handle it. DAD, I can handle this job ALL BY MYSELF." The last one he sings, as he complains that my visit is too short, and I give him hugs for his "hug pocket" and call him a "Poor, neglected Senior!" We are, once again and always, Dad and Daughter, sitting on the riverbank, fishing as the sun comes up.

Tomorrow I will be less lost, better at whatever I am doing, because today I fell on my own ass and struggled back up, and so will my patients. The only way to get stronger is to lift more, run faster, breathe harder, face more than you think you can. You have to be willing to fall on your own ass, and struggle back up on your own, learn the hard way every time, to really get anywhere.