Michael Palmer. Any Age is Far Too Young

 
For years I'd entertained the fantasy of crossing the Colorado state line from wherever I happened to be, with the windows rolled all the way down and Rocky Mountain High blasting on the stereo. It was going to be my fanfare, like the opening bars of the Star Wars theme or Superman, announcing to the world I was home at last. 

On a warm Indian Summer day in October, 1997, I did that very thing, driving my Ford pickup truck across the invisible boundary between Wyoming and Colorado, leaving the East Coast behind, little knowing in a few years I'd find myself on the same highway, retracing the miles back. Also little knowing that in forty eight hours, I'd be awakened by a story on NPR's Morning Edition with news I never wanted to hear. John Denver had been killed in a plane crash. I felt like I'd crashed with him. 

It was the same autumn I met author Michael Palmer in print. Michael and I never met in the same way John and I had, but we corresponded briefly, discovering how our experiences dovetailed by email. He'd been involved in the Massachusetts Physician's Health Program, working with physicians, like himself, whose lives had been affected by psychiatric illness and/or substance abuse. As a psychotherapist, prior to medical school, I also worked with doctors enrolled in the Colorado Physician's Health Program. Michael was in recovery, as he revealed years earlier, and I was attempting to recover a life I'd never known. Michael was a writer, I was trying to become one, and he offered me generous encouragement.

I found his books while prowling the Boulder Public Library, looking to feed a growing interest in medical fiction. At the time, I wasn't convinced it was even remotely possible to include medical school in my future, though I wanted to, quite badly. Reading about medicine was becoming a kind of therapy, much as writing had been for Michael, and his books helped overcome my fear that, not only had I missed the bus marked "medical school," it was gone for good. I had yet to learn there is no optimal time for going after what matters most to us, there's only now and what we do with it.

Michael was my companion during the months preceding premed coursework, when I hung onto to the ridiculous fantasy that a doctorate in clinical psychology would be enough. He helped me face the inevitable truth that nothing would ever substitute for my becoming a psychiatrist and I'd best get on with it. I learned from him how recovering a life is just as grueling and just as rewarding as what he'd gone through himself.

I'm glad I shared some of these things with him, especially now. We never know how tenuous life is, not really. We go through the daily grind with the unconscious assumption time is on our side. We do this a lot when we're younger or at least I did. We think only older people die, whatever "older" means, and if it happens to a peer, unless we know them personally, we conveniently overlook the obvious fact it could easily have been us, had the cosmic tumblers turned up our numbers instead of theirs.

The reason I'm glad I shared those things with Michael is this afternoon I learned he passed away, quite suddenly, a few months ago. He'd been in Africa, on safari, and had barely gotten back to the States when he experienced a heart attack. I can't help but think how appropriate it was for him to have been on safari; for reasons I don't quite fathom, I've always associated him with Hemingway. Michael was 71 and far too young. I feel certain he would agree, any age is far too young.

(Obituaries for Michael Palmer, MD, may be found here: New York Times and Boston Globe. Michael's final novel, Resistant, can be accessed via michaelpalmerbooks.com)

(Creative Commons image by cdrummbks via Flickr)

Like Apples off the Tree

 
I was reading an older post this morning, in which I mentioned hearing the sound of apples falling onto the garage roof from the Black Oxford tree that stands next to it. They've been doing it again lately, dropping like fist-sized bombs and sending my youngest dog running for the window to see what or who's threatening his territory. He's a sensitive little guy, though little is not the best word to use, I suppose. He's almost the height of the big dog, a 90 pound yellow Lab, but half his weight and twice his nerve. I won't say he's fearless, but he does his best to act like it. 

I have four apple trees growing on this parcel of heaven, fifteen or so miles west of the Maine coast. All of them are ancient varieties, the offspring of seeds brought to the Colonies by European immigrants, as are most native Maine apples. You can go to commercial orchards and pick ancients as well as the familiar red and golden delicious and Macintosh. How these four came to be planted here, I have no idea, but I'd wager the largest, the Black Oxford, has been around at least a hundred years, from the diameter of its trunk.

The next largest is a Moses Wood, named for a Winthrop, Maine, farmer who was an early grafter of the tree, and the others are either Summer Sweet or Winter Sweet -- I don't know for sure what they are, to tell the truth -- and produce yellowish-green fruit that are better for cooking than eating from the tree. The Oxfords are a winter apple and really need a frost to bring out the flavor. The Moses Wood, if I've identified it correctly, that is, has had a difficult few years, but it bounced back this month as though trying to make up for lost time. It's been so prolific, I've had to give bags of tangy-sweet apples to my neighbors before they went bad. The apples, not my neighbors.

The little yellow trees are full this year, too, but the fruit are so small that by the time they're pealed, there's little left but the core. They're better for throwing, anyway, or so I imagine a younger version of myself thinking and then doing, trying to see how far he could launch them down the long grassy slope that leads to the hayfield. Much to the delight of the deer that have been feeding there in the evenings.

My tenant, Freddy the Porcupine, who lives under the barn. has taken to munching apples in front of the garage at night. Most mornings I'll find the evidence of his nocturnal snacking inches from the door -- a half-chewed apple -- as though he feels he should leave it for me to finish. I guess it's his way of paying rent. Two years ago, when he moved in, he had the habit of snoozing in the flowerbeds, snuggled up against the house in the afternoon sun. I saw him the other night and he's no more afraid of me now than he was then.

I've been like the little apple trees, it seems, for a long time. Ideas a plenty but none juicy enough to write about. Now, I feel more like the Moses Wood, if not prolific, at least more productive. Pink Hats has been on my mind and like Freddy's apple, "someone" needs to finish it off. Reading over the chapters, a couple of things have caught my attention. We've never really gotten a glimpse of Jessie's inner process, how she got to the place in her life where marrying Bob and becoming an adoptive mother straight off was doable. I've been working on that as well as a post about the conversation between Bob and her father in Untarnished and in Uncharted Territory. I hope, like apples off the tree, they're worth sitting down and biting into. In the meantime, have a wonderful Labor Day weekend.


(Creative Commons image of ancient apple trees by gemteck1 via Flickr)

The Price of Dawdling

Ordinarily, I write on a laptop, but for the next few days, I'll be paying the price for dawdling. You see, my power cord has been leaving yellow post-it notes on the computer screen for the past few weeks, informing me that it won't last forever. I've read them, dutifully, and even stacked them neatly like pages in a book in plain sight to further remind me to get a new cord. Well, yesterday the inevitable happened and all my efforts to convince my cord to last another day fell on deaf ears. Instead of powering up the laptop, it just laid there, with blank, unseeing eyes fixed on a final note of farewell which read, "I told you so."

In terms of writing, this means resorting to the table-top model in the upstairs bedroom with its now alien Microsoft ergonomic keyboard. A gift of the gods while writing the final draft of our book, I loved this thing. I'm a big guy with proportionately large hands and months of late nights in its company convinced me I'd never adapt to the comparatively tiny geography of a laptop. Man, was I ever wrong. Now here I am, fumbling around doing a virtual hunt and peck because my fingers seem to have forgotten what to do with the equivalent of West Texas beneath them. If you've never driven across West Texas, think "vast expanse" and you'll get the idea.

Anyhow, that's how this keyboard feels. I've alternated between laying it on my lap, hoping familiarity will overcome awkwardness, and using the desk top, and either way, the keys don't seem to get any closer together. Not that I expected it to morph into the neat shape that nestles tidily onto my lap, but a little approximation would have been welcome. I suppose you could equate it with the resumption of dating after a long relationship. It's unfair to expect someone new to feel quite as comfortable as did Ms. What-was-her-name-again?, but you'd at least like them both to be the same species.

I know, computers are computers, and it could be worse, I might still be hammering away at the manual Smith Corona typewriter I had in college, the keys of which I pounded nearly into oblivion. So, yes, I am grateful for what I have, especially since errors like the thousand or so I've made since starting this post, are corrected so easily. I mean, it really would be inconvenient if I had to clean the White Out off the screen before beginning each day, wouldn't it?


(Creative Commons image by canuckshutterer via Flikr)

Getting Past the Cover Art

If I was inclined take advice offered by the professionals, I'd entitle this piece "How to create a good title." That's where I'd have to stop, however, because the hardest thing for me about writing is coming up with an interesting title in the first place. Ordinarily, you'd think the topic would be the determining factor, but not necessarily. In the book publishing business, with the exception of academic works like mine, author titles are rarely seen in print. Usually the publisher makes the final decision.

My problem is complicated by the fact that I tend to write using the Nike philosophy, i.e. just do it, and then try to figure out what to call an essay after it's finished. Interestingly, even in a small venue such as this, a well-crafted title is more important than content, when it comes to attracting readers. Good content keeps them coming back, but they won't stop by at all if the title doesn't grab their attention. Ironically, some days I think I've got a winner and my visitors counter indicates everyone is at the beach, reading Michael Palmer's new novel (The Last Surgeon). Other days I think I've blown it completely and readers are lined out the door.

Ideally, blog post titles incorporate key words or a phrase within the body of the essay so web search engines can pick them up more easily. I don't understand how that works, but it's what the Google people tell me, so I assume they know what they're talking about. Suiting the needs of the techno geeks, however, doesn't necessarily mean a title will be intriguing, particularly when content leans more toward the creative side of the spectrum. So, this explains why, every now and then, you may expect one thing from me and get another.

People are like that, too. Men with names like John and Bill, we're told by those who know such things, are considered solid, grounded, and dependable. If there's any truth in that, John Denver and I lucked out, big time. Then again, there's John Wilkes Booth and William Bonnie (Billy the Kid), so names guarantee nothing. What ultimately counts is content, and with people as well as literature, that means getting past the cover art, however appealing it may be.


(Public Domain image of Billy the Kid via Wikipedia)

The Unseen Pages

Once again, I'm indebted to a fellow student who's called my attention to the obvious. Two days ago, when I excused myself from writing due to sickness, it's treatment, or both, he suggested I have another essay or two in the bag for just such an occasion.

I've been reflecting on his comment and the amount of material that never makes it onto the finished page every day, and a quote from Elie Wiesel that I keep in my journal came to mind: "There is a difference between a book of two hundred pages from the beginning and a book of two hundred pages which results from an original eight hundred pages. The six hundred pages are there. Only you don't see them." I feel certain this is something with which my friends and fellow writers Crystal Mary Lindsey and Garnet of Maine can easily identify.

My mind is like sheep -- if I don't keep an eye on it, next thing you know, it's wandered off. In the course of settling on five or six paragraphs each day, there are another ten or twelve that never find their way onto "paper." Sometimes they look very good in themselves but within the context of wherever it is you think you're trying to go, they're inconvenient distractions.

When putting our book together, Lynn and I went through this process hundreds of times, asking whether we'd covered a topic adequately or if there was "one more thing" we could say only to find we'd already said it elsewhere. So, at some point, you say to yourself, this is as good as it's going to get. Additions and deletions aside, you imagine yourself like a skydiver, standing in the doorway of the plane, hoping you land on soft turf -- or at least something vaguely intelligible.

The Risks You Take

Image via Wikipedia

The first time I saw Back to the Future, when George McFly opened a box filled with copies of his new book, I wondered what that must be like. Now I know. Yesterday morning I was about to take my dog for his morning you-know-what, when I noticed a package. Too large to fit in the mailbox, it was sitting face up on the open lid like hors d'oeuvres on a serving platter. With butterflies in my stomach, I searched the address label for the tell-tale sign this was the one I'd been waiting for.

Sure enough, it read Rowman & Littlefield, Publishers. I rushed back in the house, my dog no doubt wondering why his walk had been cut short, and with gloved hands, fumbled for the scissors. Someone packed it well because it took a few minutes to break through the layers of tape and cardboard. Once I had laid it open, inside were two copies of a cobalt blue, hard bound book with my name on the cover, along with those of my very good friends.

At first I was reticent to pick one up, fearful of getting fingerprints on it (I'd removed my gloves by this time). Then I couldn't resist touching it, turning it over to read the back cover, and carefully stroking the porous surface of the first few pages. I was surprised that it didn't have a paper dust jacket like novels in a bookstore. Instead, the cover was slick, glossy, and reflected light readily, like those you see on textbooks. Books that teach, guide, instruct, and make you want to keep them for reference long after final exams have come and gone.

While George McFly seemed accustomed to all of this, I'm a novice. I've tried to imagine what my reaction would be and joked with friends about breaking out the champagne. Now that the moment had arrived, I wasn't sure what I felt, so I took the dog out a second time (to his relief), shoveled the remaining snow from the walk, and tried to let it all sink in.

It's sobering, getting a first book in the mail. I thought about Lynn and all we'd gone through in the course of six years -- the long hours of writing, editing, the rejection letters and the waiting. Writing partnerships can be hard on a friendship but it solidified ours. I thought about what it means to have ideas you believe in, and the risks you take putting them on paper. The risks you take if you don't.
In the film, The Rookie (2002), Dennis Quaid portrays real-life Texas high school chemistry teacher Jim Morris, who has dreamed since childhood of being a big league pitcher. To the surprise of everyone, he is recruited by a minor league team because, rather than his pitching slowing down with age, it's gotten faster and he's gotten better. Eventually he finds himself in the majors and you realize it's only too late to achieve a dream when you stop trying. That image came to mind yesterday. We're in the big leagues, now, I said to my absent friend, and there's no turning back.

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Until the Cows Come Home

If there's a book you want to read but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it. ~ Toni Morrison

Every now and then someone asks me why Lynn Smith and I wrote a book in the first place, and it really comes down to a desire to read. In his own way, each of us had thought about how mind and body interact to produce illness, but neither had discovered an explanation that was really satisfying.

Now that we're getting down to the wire and I'll actually hold a copy in my hands fairly soon, it's all starting to sink in. We really accomplished something, but why this particular thing? Well, for years, Lynn had done research, asking why some people recover from surgery rather easily and others, having had the same procedure, experienced ongoing difficulty. Sure, we're talking about people, not Chevys, but there's enough similarity under the skin that we don't have to rewrite the text on anatomy every time we do surgery.

For my part, I was fascinated by the ways in which the body served as a metaphor for what was going on in the mind. A therapy patient complaining of tension headaches, for example, might describe their boss as a "pain in the neck." There wasn't always a direct correlation between psychology and physiology, but the concept was intriguing and I felt something was afoot.

A chef knows the best recipes may result from accidents in the kitchen. As much as science likes to present itself as a deliberate, linear process, it can be just as unpredictable. You never know what's going to come out of the oven.

And that's what happened with us. We were two guys bouncing ideas off each other like pasta thrown against a wall to see if anything would stick. Our shared experiences told us something was happening that didn't fit neatly within the usual disease classifications and clinicians were forced to treat symptoms instead of the underlying cause. If we wanted to read the book on mind-body illness, we had to do more than talk about it.

The truth is, all of this makes me want to blush and cover my face, it really does. Describing the mechanics of writing and the quality of the friendship between Lynn and I is one thing. Give me an opportunity and I'll bend your ear about him, especially, until the cows come home. But the rest of it reminds me of a scene from the film Chariots of Fire. Harold Abrams has just won the 100 meter sprint in the 1924 Olympics and his closest friend wants to toast his victory. Another character restrains him, saying, "Listen, Aubrey, one of these day's you're going to 'win,' and you'll find it's pretty difficult to take." I think I'm figuring out just what he meant.
(Creative Commons image bye r j k p r u n c z y k via Flickr)

One Year Later

I thought today was the day but it's really Sunday. I could save this post until then, but it's like going out for some late night pie and coffee. Your taste buds are prepared for apple only to discover all the restaurant has left is cherry. If you're feeling really assertive, you go somewhere else instead of making do. I've been thinking about this post off and on for the past week, my fingers have their heart set on writing it, and I'm feeling assertive, so here we go.

It was November 22, 2008 when I sat down and composed the first entry in The Beggar's Blog. At the time, I wasn't sure anyone would want to read it, but one year later, the number of times someone has done so leaves me speechless. I can't hardly believe it.

At first, it was very much like Field of Dreams. Ray Kinsella builds a

baseball field in response to the urging of an unnamed and previously unheard Voice, then waits all winter long waiting for something to happen. The phrase, "If you build it, he will come," has become part of our national vocabulary. But that's precisely what I was doing, writing occasionally, then daily, in the hope that someone was out there and might be interested.

For a couple of months, only close friends visited and I'll be eternally grateful for their confidence; they kept me going. Eventually, more and more began to appear out of the cornfield and instead of "Shoeless Joe" and I playing catch, we had a team. I don't know if they're drawn by a title, first line, or they're merely prowling the web and looking for something to read. Whatever the reason, I'm always glad they come here.

The idea that one writes because of an inner compulsion is quite true, yet writers need readers. You want to communicate and without someone on the other side of the page, you may as well be talking to yourself. As a child I thought about writing, along with a few hundred other things, as children should. Dreaming is the stuff of childhood and God help us if we lose that capacity. As adults we need it as much if not more. It's what brought me to medical school and the joy of my life. But as a child it was hard to imagine translating dreams into words. Now it happens every day, usually first thing in the morning though not always, in large measure thanks to you, whoever and wherever you are.


(Image of Field of Dreams filming site via Wikipedia)

Imitating John Elway

A few weeks ago I wrote about reviewing the initial proof copies of our book and this morning I've just finished doing similarly with the final ones. The production editor will combine my corrections with hers and send them to the typesetter who revises the text and delivers it to the printer.

In my imagination, I see this process unfold like the last seconds of a tight fourth quarter. John Elway is scrambling in the backfield (as usual) and does a quick hand off to a running back who fakes left and then passes to a wide receiver. With the defense closing in, he tosses the ball to another player who makes the scoring run. The Denver fans are going crazy while Coach Shanahan has begun to wonder whether his team would prefer to be the Harlem Globetrotters.

From John's perspective, it's about getting the ball over the goal line, but once it leaves his hands, all he can do is watch, hope, and trust the other players. That's where I'm at. Everything I've been expected to do, finish up the last chapter, edit the proofs, write an index, and review the proofs again, is done. The ball's in play and there's nothing left for me to do except await the outcome.

It's kind of odd, really. For the last three years, my friend Lynn and I have pursued, courted, and complied with one publisher after another. And because of medical school, it's been a part-time activity on my part. Then Lynn and Jonathan both passed away, as you know, and I felt like John must have felt all those times when a mammoth-sized linebacker was bearing down on him and he hadn't yet gotten rid of the ball.

Thankfully, that scenario has been resolved, but I'm still a little wistful and at a bit of a loss. All the detail work has kept me in the game and though I haven't been sidelined, it's time to rely on the rest of the team to get the job done. And that's a good feeling. But one thing is definitely certain, this is the closest I'll ever get to imitating John Elway.

She Had Me From Hello

 
(What follows is a writing exercise I gave myself recently. Having come across a wonderful song title, You Had Me From Hello by Kenny Chesney, I couldn't help but wonder where it would take my imagination. So, I began to write, incorporated an element from my youth, took some creative license with it, and this is what came out of the blender. I hope you enjoy it! )

I'd seen her around, of course, but her boyfriend was as omnipresent as ants at a picnic and his smokescreen was impenetrable. Every time I thought my moment had come at last, there he was, running interference. I don't think he was possessive, but he sure wasn't taking any chances, either. Then one afternoon, as fortune or fate would have it, he was drawn aside the very instant I was walking past. I stopped in mid-stride, looked at her, and in what seemed like slow motion, my hand reached out and I introduced myself. She didn't say a word -- she didn't have to -- she just smiled and her eyes sparkled like none I'd ever seen.

I don't know what she felt; my feet didn't touch the ground for hours after. I've always wondered what she thought. Surely she knew, she must have known, she had to. I couldn't have hid what I felt if my life depended on it. Still, it's hard to tell about these things, especially if you're a guy. I suppose it's hard for girls, too, but never having been one I can't say first-hand.

All I know is, she had me from hello. It might have been love at first sight -- it does sound that way from here. But it was a long time before I could say it. I'd fooled myself before and there was something about her that made me more serious, deliberate, even careful than I'd ever been. It was as though she was so flesh and blood nothing short of absolutely certain would do.

I think that's why I knew, eventually. Because I didn't want to rush it. Because I was willing to wait. Take a step, or two steps or even ten, backwards -- "it will either grow or die," my father used to say, "and if it grows, it was meant to," and he'd smile. Neither of us was going anywhere (nor was her boyfriend, for that matter). What harm could it do?

I feel like I'm writing the final climactic scene of the season's hottest new show and making you sit on the edge of your seat until next September to find out what happened next. The truth is, I don't know myself. Sometimes even the main character is in the dark until the final curtain falls.
(Image of Cupid by Sylvanfeather via Flickr)

The Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

You might wonder what it's like, doing a daily blog. I'm not certain I can answer that question as easily as I can ask it. What comes to mind is having something to write about in the first place. Some days it's almost humorous how easy it can be and when it's like that, I quickly forget or conveniently ignore, the other days -- the ones when the computer screen and I are locked in a stare-down match, daring each other to blink.

On those days, you scour for an idea, looking at what you've done lately a

nd hoping you're not repeating yourself. The last thing you want is for an essay to be like a wolf in sheep's clothing -- pull back the wool and it's what you said two weeks ago. So, you prowl your favorite inspirational hangouts for an idea or maybe you just say the heck with it and begin writing. It's like priming an old hand-powered water pump: you have to add some water to start the flow.

Once the words have your attention, then you've got to follow where they lead, even if it looks like nowhere you've ever been. Stick with them long enough and even when you're thinking, this is awful, reading back over it, you can be surprised. Then again, it may be the kind of writing that makes you think the author should be prohibited by law from ever getting near a keyboard, and you start over from the beginning or the middle or wherever things turned sour.

When you've gotten near the end, you start wondering what's the point and will it mean anything to someone else. True, sometimes it doesn't matter all that much because the readers are going to take away whatever works for them anyway. But the goal is to try to make that process easier if you can. Then you edit, do a spell check, make sure the photo fits neatly, and hope someone stays on the page long enough to get to the last word.

But what's it like? It's like taking hold of something that's never been outside the confines of yourself, holding it by your fingers, and seeing it for the first time. It's revelation and incarnation all at once. It's like encountering someone you've known for years but never actually met. It's really pretty remarkable. And it never gets old.


(Public domain image via Wikipedia)

For the Two of Us

Just when all the fun was about to start. Well, maybe this will make more sense if I take you back a bit. I mentioned a close friend yesterday and how we had written a book together. It was more than that; we sweated through hours of research, late evenings writing and editing, for nearly four years. At one point, we thought we were done at last, got reviews from a potential publisher, and ended up rewriting nearly the entire book.

On a typical day I'd get a late night call and my friend would have an idea. He talked while I took notes and then put them into something readable. The next day we'd meet, revise what I'd written, and add more. I'd always wondered how anyone could fill two hundred plus pages. Now I found myself essentially writing twenty or thirty page term papers, week after week, each one becoming a new chapter. I'll tell you this, it gave the phrase "step by step" a whole new meaning.

In the beginning we were just two guys tackling a project. By the time we'd gotten through the second rewrite, we thought so much alike it was difficult to know who had said what first. Half the time one of us started a thought and the other finished it. And now, I'm the one who will really finish it. Not the book itself; I mean the fun stuff.

You see, I get to do things like choose cover art and read proofs of the final draft that will go to press. The kinds of things my friend anticipated with relish. For the past three years, while I was "up to my neck" in medical school, he and I burned up the telephone lines several times a week. His plans, my schoolwork, progress with the book, how are my dogs, how we miss the conversations over coffee -- we drank enough to retire a Starbucks CEO. This morning I'll obtain permission to use an illustration, talk to our editor about one thing and another, and do my best to enjoy the process -- for the two of us.

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Life by the Numbers

I was prowling one of my favorite web sites this morning and a comment caught my eye: "Age is but a number." I guess it depends on the number and whose it is. One of the best friends I've ever had was a guy who was in his 80s. When we met he was 78, looked 68, acted 48, and I had to push it, most days, to keep up with him.

He'd been a writer, psychologist, and musician. He drove his Camry like a Jaguar while listening to jazz with the volume way up (no, he wasn't hard of hearing, he just liked the beat). And yes, he flirted, and far more successfully than me.

We wrote a book together that will be in print early next year. About mind-body relationships and the nature of illness, it was his last and it's my first. When he passed away last year, he was getting ready to embark on a second career consulting in pain management.

The most important thing I learned from him was life shouldn't be lived by the numbers. They really don't matter nearly as much as some seem to think they do. It's more important what you do, how you treat other people, and whether you're enjoying yourself. He certainly did, enjoy himself that is, and he treated everyone like they had value. He taught me it's better to outlive your body than to outlive your usefulness. Or your ambition. Or your dreams.


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Pure Dumb Luck

My mother used to say, "Beggar, you never know what a day will bring forth," and today is a case in point. It began with a cloud bank over the hayfield and proceeded to an experience editing HTML. Now, for readers who are familiar with web development, computer language, and all that good stuff, this sounds like ABC. For me, it was about as simple as doing neurosurgery on a flea.

I started out following the directions and that got me absolutely nowhere. For one thing, manuals are written by people who know what they're doing for other people who know what they're doing. I'm not any of those people. So, I did the next best thing and asked for an explanation of the directions. This in itself is miraculous because, as women everywhere attest, guys can be lost in the equivalent of Dante's nine circles of hell for the better part of eternity before throwing in the towel. I'm no exception.

Image via Wikipedia

But, hey, what did I have to lose, right? And after listening to designers speaking what I'm sure must been English -- at first I thought "Klingon" -- I figured out how to insert a tiny bit of code into my website. Amazing. I feel like a programmer! I know, don't get carried away -- the truth is, it was a case of pure dumb luck.

Sometimes that's what it takes -- a happenstance mixture of need and desire, coupled with hard work and the next thing you know, voila! The question now is, will it work? That's when I'll really get lucky.

Author Stephen White

Several years ago a friend of mine handed me a book entitled, Privileged Information by a new author, Stephen White. The plot revolved around a clinical psychologist named Alan Gregory who lived and practiced in Boulder, Colorado. It was a murder mystery and the truth is, the only mysteries I'd read with any frequency were those of Sherlock Holmes. Some people consume mysteries like holiday peanut M & Ms; while I enjoyed them on film, I rarely read the book afterwards.

Privileged Information was different. For one thing, with the exception of the fictional house that Alan and his partner had converted into office space, Boulder was accurate down to the detail. For another, Stephen allowed the reader to experience the therapist's inner process; fact overlay fiction creating an introduction to clinical psychology in story form. That in itself was unusual -- so many novels with medical or psychological themes treat the science so superficially, you come away no wiser for having read them.

Not so Privileged Information. Its clinical and geographic reliability reflects not only extensive research, but the fact that Stephen practiced as a clinical psychologist in Boulder for several years. He obtained his PhD from the University of Colorado just down the street from Alan's "office." I've had the pleasure of getting to know Stephen a little bit and he's really a fine guy.

Privileged Information was his first book but now there are many others. The newest, The Siege, is due for release on August 4 and I'm looking forward to it. On his website, www.authorstephenwhite.com, you can read an excerpt. And no, this is not a paid advertisement - Stephen has no idea I'm writing about him this morning.

In fact, I'm bringing him up because some readers of this blog are medical students. It's true, medical students scarcely feel they have time to breath much less read a work of fiction. But there are vacations and I can hardly think of a writer who would appeal to medical students more. Partly because his work is refreshingly clinically-relevant, partly because he's been a clinician -- one of us -- and Alan's encounters with patients are proof of it.

For readers who aren't medical students, you'll enjoy Stephen's work because frankly, he's a darned good writer. He doesn't over-simplify the psychology but neither do you need a graduate degree to understand it. His style is intelligent and engaging, his characters human and humane. Stephen doesn't follow a formula, though, so no matter how many of his books you've read, you never, ever, know "who done it" until the final chapter.

(Update: Stephen White has announced the final two novels in the Alan Gregory series, the first, Line of Fire, to be released in August, 2012.)

(Creative Commons image of Kill Me by Stephen White by sweet mustache via Flickr)

Children's Books

I'm an unabashed lover of children's books. No kidding. Many times I'd much rather wander through the young readers section of the bookstore than prowl the stacks of current adult fiction. As a result, I made friends with Madeleine L'Engle's work years ago and discovered Kate DiCamillo (The Tiger Rising) one Colorado Christmas. Sadly, Madeleine passed away in 2007, but her books are consistently timely.

I've always been something of a late bloomer and when it comes to children's books, I think I'm a reverse bloomer. My mother taught me to read before kindergarten and by the time I was in elementary school, I wanted to read books that much older students found interesting. As a result, I somehow by-passed the stage where The Chronicles of Narnia or Madeleine's A Wind in the Door might have been just the thing. I was in graduate school when I picked up The Hobbit for the first time.

There are distinct advantages to reading children's literature as an adult. For one thing, we're able to understand metaphor and symbol in ways that simply escape us as children. The average person is unable to think in terms of abstractions until at least age 12 and frequently 13 or older. Even in adulthood, some individuals tend to think "concretely," demonstrated by their inability to interpret simple proverbs like, "people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones." A concrete thinker will say, "If you throw rocks in the house, you'll break the windows."

Sometimes parents can become impatient with younger children who don't seem to understand what we're saying. It's not because they're recalcitrant or spoiled, it's simply because they haven't matured sufficiently, in terms of plain old brain cells, to follow our meaning. Concrete thinking, however, is a core element in comedy and the classic duo, Abbott and Costello, were its masters. Do a web search sometime for the YouTube clip of their famous sketch, "Who's On First," and you'll see what I mean.

So, now as an adult, it's possible to read the classics of childhood as well as those destined to become classics, and see ourselves in new ways. A favorite author has written, "I am frequently blind to the very things that make for my own peace." Under pressure to "hurry up and relax" we miss the whole point. Visiting the writers of childhood takes us out of the world as we know it and allows us to see it with younger eyes. Seeing life with younger eyes...I hope we never outgrow it.

Does Anything Ever Change?

My apologies for not writing the past few days -- one of the liabilities of being a student, there are such things as exams and I find the older I get, the more intent I am on passing them. As a result, some things go by the wayside during the days before an exam. Nothing important really: eating, sleeping, bathing, or truly listening to my wife when she's talking to me instead of thinking about how to tell angina from a heart attack by an electrocardiogram. Life as usual, right?

Anyway, that's my excuse, for better or worse, but it's the truth in any case. As it turns out, though, I'm taking a moment to write today because exams have been postponed due to an impending snow storm. Twelve to eighteen inches out here in the country and that, on top of the good foot that's left over from previous storms. I understand we've already had nearly five feet of snow this year and the season is far from over. Still, I wouldn't change it. Snow in Maine is picturesque and evocative -- that is, as long as the power stays on and you don't have to travel.

It occurs to me that I must be learning to delay gratification as an older student. When I was younger, a snow day meant sleeping late. Now, it means a chance to hit the books for a few more hours and I'm grateful even if the price is a close encounter with the snow shovel. To borrow a line from Dances With Wolves, it's a "good trade."

What does it matter?

 
The title of this blog derives from a metaphor a friend once shared with me. He said, "Christianity is like one beggar telling another beggar where to find bread." I've always liked that because it highlights one of the key facts of life, i.e. that we are all indebted to someone. None of us has all the answers and the truth be told, maybe there are very few to be had afterall -- at least on this side of eternity. So, we turn to each other and ask our questions.

There was a time when I thought mine had changed, depending on time, place, and situation. Now I'm coming to realize I ask the same questions again and again, hopefully getting better each time with their framing. Ultimately, I think that's critical because the answer we derive depends on the character of the question, not to mention that of the questioner. It isn't enough, for example, to simply ask if life has any meaning at all. That's far too general. The real issue is, does my presence on earth render life more significant. How do I meaningfully contribute to life?

I'm reminded of a wonderful tale about a businessman who decided to go on a long journey. Maybe it was one to find himself -- who knows? In any case, he left his resources in the hands of three trusted individuals. To one he left a great deal of money, to another he left property, and to the last, he left his collection of art and antiques. To each he said, "Increase my value. Invest, develop, sell -- do whatever seems best to you. Whenever I return, if you have done well, I will repay you in ways you cannot imagine."

Years past and with them any expectation that the businessman would return. Then one day, to the surprise of everyone, he reappeared looking hale and hearty. He called his friends together and asked for their reports. The first said, "I invested all you gave me in stocks, bonds, and new business ventures. You were wealthy when you left but now you are exceedingly so." The businessman praised his ingenuity and resourcefulness and gave him authority, second only to his own, in his organization.

The second reported, "I took your real estate and divided it into portions. In your name I built housing for the poor, set up hospitals for the underprivileged, and created open space for all to love and enjoy. Your reputation as a humanitarian in this country has grown beyond all expectations." Overjoyed, the businessman made his friend chairman of his foundation promoting humanitarian causes throughout the world.

The third, however, seemed less than enthusiastic. "I knew you were a self-made man and took advantage of whatever opportunities you had in life. But I decided worked that if I sold your property and invested the proceeds, I could have made a mistake and lost it all. So, I locked them up in a vault and waited for you to come back." To this man the businessman said, "I gave you complete freedom with my resources -- you could have done incredible things. Instead, you've done virtually nothing because you were afraid to try."

The moral of the story is, it's not so much what we have as what we do with it that counts. Meaning is not so much discovered as it is created. The question of life's significance is best answered by acting significantly. On January 20, 2009, we will inaugurate President who has challenged us to do just that. Everything we do, from the smallest daily task to saving a life, is filled with potential. One might seem more dramatic than the other, but it all matters.

(Creative Commons image by Moyan Brenn via Fkickr)