DESTINY

Buried somewhere in the pages of my journal is a quote that reads something like this: never was a man so unafraid of his own destiny.  I don’t know if I can fully describe the incredible impact those few words had on me.  At the time I was struggling with depression, confronting a growing force pulling my life into a new and totally unexpected and frightening direction.

Until that moment I had always considered destiny to be the purview of great historical figures accomplishing grand deeds, real or fictional.  Destiny was reserved for these men and women, and not intended for those of us living our mundane lives far from the spotlight of such greatness.  I suddenly realized that notion was wrong; we all have our own personal destiny, and seeing my struggle in that light enabled me to move forward.  It validated the feelings and desires that were causing so much stress and tension in my life and affirmed my commitment to the journey that lie ahead.  I had my own destiny to claim.

I believe that somewhere, deep in our conscious and unconscious mind, there exists a “center” that defines who we are.  It provides the basic material from which we create ourselves and to a large extent determines our personality traits and basic psychological temperament that direct our behavior.  This center contains the seeds of what we can become, depending on the circumstances of our life.  I think of it as the soul, a mystical entity detached from anything physical, in spite of the arguments from the neuroscientists.  It is a concept that helps me to understand my life and guides my behavior.  This is where my destiny was born, and once recognized and acknowledged, I had the opportunity to act on it or ignore it.

If you are uncomfortable with the idea of a soul, think of this “place” as our psyche, or center, or perhaps the human spirit.  Theists can insert God somewhere in this process.  It doesn’t matter what it is called or why or how it exists.  That basic core of our humanness is there for each of us.

MEDICINE & ART

More than once in a quiet moment (and in some not so quiet moments) I’ve found myself wondering how I’ve managed to end up so far from where I started.  What is the connection between medicine and art that has allowed me to pursue both with dogged determination? After fourteen years of preparation, I spent 10 years in private practice, twelve years focused primarily on art while working part time in emergency medicine, and nine years back in private practice, before leaving medicine completely for art. Thinking about how I’ve divided my life between these two callings, I’m convinced they must share a common bond of some sort that has competed for my attention, powerful enough to evoke a major disruption in what was once a rather ordered and fulfilling life.

Their differences are easy to identify.  Art is a solitary endeavor. Most of my days are spent alone in the studio where I have complete control over the pace and tenor of my work. I have the luxury of designing each day to fit my mood and ambition.   This is in stark contrast to medicine where there is little to no control over the tone and pace of days that are subject to the demands of the patient schedule and the unpredictability of medical emergencies.  My work in the studio is done in solitude.  In the medical office and the Emergency room, the “work” of the physician is more public, done in the presence of others, often under quiet, but intense observation (the patient, patient’s family, and often medical staff).

Another difference relates to the focus and tone of the work.  The physician’s work is primarily mental, evaluating the patient’s symptoms, assessing their emotional status, and recommending a plan of treatment.  All of the effort is directed externally, to the problem at hand.  The primary focus is the patient.  The artist’s work is basically in direct opposition.  While there is a cerebral component to the work – knowledge of basic tenants of composition, color, etc. – the artist’s work is generated from within, in response to creative impulses that cannot always be understood, or controlled.  His only responsibility is to himself and his work. Unlike the physician, the artist’s work is entirely self-centered.

It was only after my work in the Emergency Room that I appreciated still another significant difference between the two professions.  The constant exposure to the pain, suffering, and fears of patients and family, especially in an Emergency Room setting, requires the staff of providers to become emotionally hardened to protect their psyche and allow them to function amidst so much unpleasantness.  It becomes necessary to close out the world, while still maintaining a deep measure of compassion.  This is in stark contrast to the artist, who strives to remain open to ideas, inspiration, and imagination as catalysts to his work.

So what do medicine and art share?  The artist and the physician each work alone.  The artist labors in the studio, directed by subjective, creative forces arising from within.  Only she can decide on the composition, the mood, and the intent of the work in progress.  No one else can do that for her.  Similarly, the physician is equally alone in the work he must do.  Although it may be in a more public setting with patients, family, and staff present, the real work is done alone, assessing the patient’s complaint, initiating a treatment plan and counseling the patient. Although consultation with colleagues is common, it remains an individual enterprise.  I remember the words of Dr. Leonard Lang, the chairman of the Department of Medicine during my residency.  He would remind us, “You can’t practice medicine by committee”.  The same can be said for creating art.

After struggling through this narrative, am I any closer to finding the link between two seemingly conflicting calls?  Perhaps I am.  The first half of my life was dominated by the reason and logic of science, and the second half by intuition and imagination.  Thus I have had the good fortune to be able to exercise both sides of my brain.  But the real link that enabled me to answer both calls was the opportunity for independence provided by both professions.  Although only art allowed me to design my own days, both allowed me to design my own life.

I Called His Name

The following is an excerpt from my book TRANSITIONS, available at the Artist Guild of Paducah's gallery at 115 Market Square in Paducah.

I looked,

I called His name, again and again, I called,

I talked to others

I read, I listened.

And I called His name, alone, and I called with others.

I called in darkness and in stillness

I called in celebration, with noise and music.

I read, I reasoned, I argued.

I was angry, I was lazy, I was frustrated.

I pleaded with Him, I derided Him.

I refused to give in,

and I called his name still.

I called from a small room.

a crowded church,

a personal retreat.

I called him through four seasons.

Once He answered.

MATERIALIZATION?

  

I don’t know what else to call it.

 

Why it has taken me this long – 74 years – to see myself so clearly is beyond comprehension.  While most of my “ah ha moments” occur in the proximity of my morning shower, I can’t recall when this one poked me in the head. It happened about a week ago.

I cannot let things simply be what they are.  I have this unrelenting need to act on things, to make them more than an experience or knowledge.

Ideas, thoughts, or feelings must be put into words, spoken, written, or both, and more often than not, they must be shared, quietly and personally through conversation, or publicly through writing (blogs, social media, etc.).

In my encounters with the world around me the same phenomenon occurs.  When a particular scene, natural or man made, inspires me, I am driven to re-create it on paper or canvas, directly or via a photograph.  Living with the experience and memory is not enough for me.  I have to make it into something tangible that I can see on demand, and, as is usually the case, share with others.

This is what has been driving me for the second half of my life.

PATIENCE MEETS MY PARENTS

Love can slap your head and knock you silly when you least expect it, and it does so at a time of its own choosing, regardless of your personal circumstances.  It certainly did so with me when I met a young nursing student named Patience during one of my shifts in the ER.  My life at that time was dark, and her radiance gave it light and hope.  After a very short courtship – phone calls, one day-long date, and a walk in the park – I knew we would be spending the rest of our lives together.  So it was only a matter of time that we would be driving the 30 miles from Wilmington Delaware to Landisville New Jersey for her to meet my parents.

When my father’s health prevented him from working, my parents decided to sell the farm and build a small home on a nearby wooded property they owned.  It was perfect for them. It had a large basement where my mother could cook and can (Italian-Americans often had a second kitchen in the basement.), and my father could make his wine, and with enough cleared land for a garden.  My father had two passions, wine making and gardening, both of which he pursued until one year before his death at age 82.

On the day of the big meet we pulled into their drive in my wild and wooly ’65 Mustang hardtop, stopping just short of the garage, which was always open.

Family and friends usually entered through the garage because it opened into the kitchen-dining area, where all the entertaining took place.  This day would be no exception.

Patience, whose 8^th great grandfather was Miles Standish, was a stranger to Italian-American culture and understandably was slightly apprehensive.  The first thing she noticed as we entered the garage were large, dark, moldy pieces of something…resembling hams… hanging from the garage beams.  I’m not sure she was reassured when I told her that was prosciutto my father was making.  It looked like nothing she had seen before, and certainly not something meant to be eaten. We did not have prosciutto that day, but we were having manicotti, one of my mom’s specialties, She asked Patience if she ever had “mana gought”, which is the way we pronounced manicotti.  Of course Patience said no, she had never had mana gought; when the food arrived at the table she immediately said, “oh, you mean manicotti” which sounded strange to our ears and brought polite smiles to our faces.

It did not take very long for the unfamiliar to become familiar, and Patience immediately became family.  Years later, when my parents died, mom in 1992 and dad in 1995, Patience was with me at the bedside holding their hands.  I cannot imagine getting through their respective illnesses without her and I thank God for her presence in our lives.

STANDING ON THEIR SHOULDERS

They had little to give but themselves, which they gave freely and abundantly.  Josephine, who never knew her father, at age eleven had to leave her home, quit school, and move into an apartment with three older brothers to assume all household duties.  Spartaco, known to all as Duke, lost his mother when he was eight years old. The youngest of four brothers, he left school after the eighth grade to work on the family farm, while his brothers and 3 older sisters completed high school and college or business school.  Life on the small farm for my parents was defined by unrelenting hard work, financial insecurity, and more than their share of  personal disappointments and illnesses.  Comfort and happiness were found in their large, extended family and friends.

It took forty years of living for me to fully appreciate all that these two remarkable people have given to me.

 Not a day goes by that I don’t think of my parents.  (My mother died in December, 1991, and my father in the autumn of 1995.)  I don’t know if this is unusual for someone my age, if it is because I was an only child, or if it’s because I am such a sentimental softy.  I suspect the real reason is because they were remarkable people, and that they gave me so much.  Ironically, in spite of all the writing I do, writing about them is very difficult for me.  Perhaps because I’m afraid I will not do them the justice they deserve.

I believe that I am the person I am because of my parents. Whatever I have accomplished of worth, and may yet accomplish, is the result of their gifts to me. 

The greatest of these gifts was a sense of self worth and self-esteem, which have allowed me to choose some of the difficult paths I have followed in my life.  I believe there is no greater gift parents can give to their children than a strong sense of their own self worth.

My parents taught me about love; they taught me about tolerance and forgiveness, and they taught me about humility.  They showed me that a person of worth treats everyone with the same respect and warmth, and that behavior toward others is determined by their humanity and not by their social position or importance.

They never spoke about these beliefs; they simply lived them because that is who they were.  Pretension was foreign to them.

I believe my life is a reflection of these two remarkable people, and I want it to be worthy of them.  My greatest responsibilities have been to live a life honoring their gifts and to pass these gifts on to my children and loved ones. 

After 78 years I’m still standing on their shoulders.

IT IS WHAT IT IS

Writing about the presence of so much pain and suffering in the world, a friend asked in his blog post, “… what the hell do we do with REALITY?  What do we do with these Job-like questions and this Job-like anguish we feel in the midst of this REALITY? Like Rilke, I live these questions awaiting the answers that do not readily come.” 

The anguish and the questions are timeless, weighing on the human mind since its emergence into its present level of consciousness. From the very beginning man has turned to God in an attempt to find purpose and meaning in the world and in their lives. Beliefs in an “Almighty” have evolved along with the rest of civilization, but the basic tenets of a transcendent deity has persisted, and today millions of men and women believe in the presence of a loving God in their attempt to understand why there is so much pain and suffering in the world.

Nature has no purpose; it is morally neutral.  Ours is a world of beautiful vistas and exquisite sunsets, as well as swamps, deadly diseases, and natural catastrophes.   Life has no divine purpose other than the instinct for survival.  All life fulfills a role determined by evolution.  Human beings, sitting at the pinnacle of biological evolution, are complex creatures, capable of love and hate, generosity and greed, and good and evil.  History reveals the incredible range of human behavior.

But, humans have the distinct capacity to question, to think abstractly, and to imagine.  We can imagine a world without pain, a world filled with love and not evil, and a world where justice prevails. We are cursed with the ability to imagine a better world, one that does not exist.  We recognize our frailties and helplessness in the face of this world and turn to a loving God for comfort and answers.  We look to Him for the justice that we so desperately need.  But for many, this very belief raises questions and anguish – how to reconcile the pain and suffering in a world created by a loving deity.

We cannot change the ways of the world, and I don’t know how much we can change human behavior. I think the best we can do is to live our lives encouraging, loving, and teaching one another to the extent we can, using whatever skills and/or resources we have.  History tells us we have made some progress, but there is so much further to go. 

I have faith in man’s potential for goodness.  I have faith in people like my friend who has prompted this narrative with his own questions and anguish.  The anguish never goes away, but the questions become how do we make the world better, rather than why is it the way it is.