The Puzzled Self, by Elon Richman

I saw a movie recently called The Night Train To Lisbon. In it there was a powerful line:

"When we visit a place or we're with someone, we leave a piece of ourselves that can always be returned to and rediscovered."

Keeping that in mind.

Jonah and I walk home from an enticing and satisfying dinner at Big Kahuna Burger and look up at the Soroka skyline beside us.



“And there’s Soroka looking as beautiful as ever,” he says.

I laugh and turn to him “Beautiful? I mean the lights make it look impressive but I don’t think beautiful is the right descriptor.”

He replies, “I think it’s beautiful that human beings would invest that [gestures toward the hospital] much energy, time and resources into the health and well being of each other.”

I hope I never forget that.

I hope I never forget that there is an everlasting balance between the soul and brain of medicine. That at times we view the body as a machine and at times as a person. At times it is a vessel of knowledge, and at times it is a knowledgeable vessel.

But it is always both.

And I hope I remember that I’m leaving pieces of myself wherever I go. They’re reminders of who I once was as well as gifts for those who will carry me with them.

We’ve spoken recently of class trust and bonding, the idea that within all of us lies the capability to receive a piece of another and hold it forever. It’s up to the individual to decide how much responsibility to accept. We’ve even acted on that trust with poking and maneuvering of sharp needles in the dermis of our neighbors.

           

         

                                     

Yet receiving another is just a step closer to self-realization. What is the process by which we accept others? How do we reflect another’s piece back to them? How do we see ourselves in another?

Through self-reflection and self-observation we can begin the undertaking of amending the mental framework by which we give and receive. Not that any person is faulted in their judgment, but acceptance is a lifelong journey that those of us studying global health have the privilege to explore more deeply. It’s the vast diversity of human existence that makes us hungry.

And acceptance IS important; it’s impossible to know one’s self without knowing and exploring others. The doctor is a teacher, and by this very notion should understand more than any not just the fundamental machinery of the body, but the additional enigma that is the human experience.

Time is infinite, but it allows for specificity, and now is as good a time as any for us to begin realizing what it means to give, accept and trust.

I continue walking home after marinating on Jonah’s insight and stand before the expansive skies of Abraham’s Negev. It’s dark, and a feeling of semi-fiction makes me question the brilliant stars, “What will I remember? What will I forget? How can I be the man, the doctor, that needs to assist in repairing the world?”

Funny, they say there’s no sea in Be’er Sheva, yet the winds echo the crashing of ocean waves. And with them comes an answer:

Try your best.

-Elon Richman, August blogger of the month

A Day Twice Reflected, by blogger of the month Elon Richman

Today was long.

I woke up at 7:30 am to attend three and a half hours of intensive Hebrew language where our teacher drills us and drills us with verb conjugations and nouns. Its a steady barrage of “what the are you saying” and “will I ever really be able to have a conversation with someone in this bizarre language without sounding like a child.”

After a short lunch, I am warmly greeted by five hours of “this is how you treat the absolute worst case scenario that ever could possibly happen to a human being” and a repetitive series of mouth to mouth resuscitation with age old alcohol wiped plastic dolls.

When I think about the work that awaits me over the next four years of medical school, I begin to tremble.

I’m walking home from yet another ten-hour day and look up at a fiery bright orange sky remembering that momma said there’d be days like this. Days of stress and uncertainty. Days when I didn’t wake up on the right side of the bed or I’m just having trouble seeing the big picture.

So I think I’ll try today again.

I wake up to a cool morning. The light is shining gently on yet another peaceful Be’er Sheva dawn as the city churns and people leave for work. I sip green tea, eat fresh bread and look off my balcony at the doors of Soroka who readily await my arrival.

On my way in, I take a detour towards Coffee Time where the barista knows me and doesn’t need to ask my order. We smile and greet each other with a cheerful boker tov and I’m off with my warm coffee. That first cup of muddy black Turkish brew hits my lips and blesses me with the gift of God’s strength and energy.

I’m ready.

It’s now Ulpan time and Nava, our charismatic and oddly humorous teacher, gives us the tools to describe our world around us (both in the streets and behind hospital doors).  I notice my language progress from the last few weeks and smile at the entirely wide and new array of people I can communicate with because of this tongue.

During lunch I talk with my classmates and we laugh over food and more coffee. Conversations vary and I’m thankful to rest my mind for an hour and change before going to the next series of lessons. As we walk to Emergency Medicine at around 1 o’clock, it’s hot, but my body thanks me for the warmth after being inside for so long.

We arrive. It’s time to start pumping adrenaline as information is hurdled at us and we’re encouraged to think on our toes.

“Head trauma? Infant Foreign Body Obstructions? Safety first!”

I arm myself with knowledge. What pleasure it is to feel readiness and confidence as I imagine jumping at the chance of aiding those in distress. Bring it on.

6:00 rolls around and I’m off school. I swing by the pool and lunge head first into the engulfing waters. The intensity of my workouts keeps me alive, pulling at the water and pushing the limits of my body slightly further every time. I sense the resistance against me as I glide through. Even better is the clear mind and feeling of euphoria after a full hour of intense swimming. It’s like meditation, concentrating so fiercely on my activity until the release, when tension is put to rest.

I’m walking home now against a fantastically beautiful Be’er Sheva sunset. I smell the plants. I touch things. I feel my feet steadily kiss the sidewalk as I walk home with a clear mind.

I reflect on my accomplishments from today and excite my nerves with tomorrow’s prospects. What new Hebrew words will I learn? What new restaurant should I try?

I think about this weekend. What will I do? Who will I see? What new place can I discover?

There are so many ways we can view our day to day lives in medical school. It can be a stressful rush of chores and appointments, or a beautiful array of sensation and life. It’s easy to lose sight of why we’re here.

My advice? Smell more plants, touch more things, talk to more people. When you find your balance starting to sway in the wrong direction, take notice and readjust. Bring everything back to the present time.

Don’t dissolve the day’s powder in a glass and drink. Instead, let her breathe. Smell the essence, taste the bitter and sweet, and live forever in the infinitesimal granules of every moment.

The late Israeli comedian Talia Shapira once said wisely:

.התחילה כבר החיים ,לב שמת לא אם

If you haven’t noticed, life has already begun.  -Elon Richman, August blogger of the month

Homebody, by blogger of the month Elon Richman

So its like this.

People have noticed that I regularly draw a house on my ankle. It’s simple: a square frame, triangular roof, a doorway and a rectangular chimney with smoke from the top (its lived in).

I don’t draw on myself because I’m bored in class. Its a meaningful reaffirmation and a statement of my self respect and self love.

Wait, what?

While working at a coffee house in Tel Aviv I decided to come up with ideas for tattoos. Something basic, not too crazy, and preferably a picture that I could design and even tattoo onto myself with household materials (that last part was / still is very questionable).

So I drew. First it was Mr. Peanut, then a bear with a cigarette in its mouth (morning shifts are long) and finally a house.

Why did I draw this simple house?

At first the house reminded me of my home in Miami, a beautiful 1920’s, Mediterranean style abode where I spent my childhood and fondest memories. It made me homesick. 

But then I remembered that I came to Israel to see if I could actually feel at home in what I’ve always considered my second country.

Finally I asked myself: What is home?

Is it where you grew up? Where you’ve lived most of your life? Where people know you? Is it where your friends are? Your family? Is it the place where your dogs are? 

What does it feel like to be at home?

I concluded that the home is not necessarily a specific place. It is where one feels complete and whole, a place from where warmth and comfort generate. 

Where do those feelings come from?

When faced with these kinds of existential questions I tend to turn toward my learnings in meditation and Buddhist philosophy. From that perspective, it seems to me that warmth and completeness arise from within.

Warmth and completeness from within.

That means it doesn’t really matter in what specific location you put yourself. Home is a mindset and can be created in any Bedouin capital in which you may happen to be. All you need are the right tools to build it. Personally, I build with friends, love, routine, a good mind and a sweet patio. 

But everyone has different specifications.

Now, I’m not saying I’ve never felt “homesick”, but feelings are transient. Missing a place means its special, but it doesn’t mean that you must be there or that it is the only place you belong. If one can feel truly present, other homes will have less of a grasp (by present I mean feeling in touch with both the outer and inner environments. Its hard).

We’re all building houses in Israel. So as you continue to form the structure of your life here, think about the roof that’ll protect you from hard times, think about the walls that will keep in the warmth and think about the windows of perspective from which you would like to look. 

And make sure your door is open for guests.

So now, every time I sit down and put my feet up, I see the house and remember that my body is my home and the vessel by which I experience it. I redraw it every day and reaffirm this message to myself: 

Home is wherever I am. 

Home is wherever you are.  - blogger of the month, Elon Richman