Slow It Down

In his first summer in the Sierra, John Muir was hired to help shepherd a flock of sheep up into the mountains. He mused about the rocks and the trees, the clouds, and the majesty of Yosemite.

 There are many reasons I enjoy reading Muir, but perhaps more than anything else, it is because he serves to remind me of pace. More specifically, to slow...it...down.

 A slower pace allows us to draw focus to the present, to identify certain patterns and habits that are done unconsciously, and to highlight areas of strength or deficit. I believe this applies across all spectra - everything from clinical practice, to yoga, to a walk in the woods.

It can be challenging to be more deliberate in thought and action. There is often an inverse relationship between doing things well and doing them quickly. This does not mean we need to become like the tortoise all of the time (although there is case to be made for why he wins), but rather to practice taking a page out of John Muir’s book once in a while:

"Life seems neither long nor short, and we take no more heed to save time or make haste than do the trees and stars. This is true freedom, a good practical sort of immortality."

Behold, The Sea

I prefer to consult the ocean in the early morning or at the close of day. Having grown up along the sandy shores of New Jersey, the rumbling of the Atlantic is sometimes more familiar than my own voice. It has been the canvas against which much of my life has been painted. It was the standard against which I measured depth and I challenged Fear.

I have borne witness to its most peaceful stillness and its most apocalyptic rage. It has taught harsh lessons and served as quiet counsel. Emerson has described the sea as “the nourisher of kinds, purger of earth, and medicine of men,” and I am inclined to agree with him.

 The Oregon coast is colder, more rugged, and its shores far greener.  As yet, I’ve had little experience with the Pacific. Beneath the differences, the smell of the salt air and the sound of the waves has the same power to “wash out harms and griefs from memory.”

 In a time where a sense of uncertainty, turmoil, and unbridled hate saturates our news and our discourse, it is more important than ever to come into the peace of wild things.

Portland: Year One

One year ago I left my home, my family, my friends, and my job. I went West with little more than some books, some camping equipment, and the prospect of opportunity.

 I arrived in Portland in time to enjoy the second half of summer, a beautiful autumn, and a terrible winter. The first six months were challenging. I had moved to a place where I did not know anyone and couldn’t depend on the traditional networks of family, school, or work. Adding to the strain, the expectations and the reality of the job position that encouraged me to move never quite matched up.

 By the end of 2016, I knew a choice needed to be made. I could abandon the safety net and assume the risk I had always been reluctant to take, or I could concede defeat and return to the sandy beaches and the pine barrens of the Jersey shore. I stayed for two reasons.

 The first was a growing sense that the main thing preventing me from doing what I knew was necessary was Fear. As McCoy might say, I’m a doctor, not a businessman! I had up until this point worked under the umbrella of other people. I was beginning to not only understand, but to know, that the practice and the experience I wanted to offer was not something I could obtain from someone else. It was something I had to create.   

 The second reason I stayed was the same reason I was drawn to Portland. In early 2015, I was in Denver, CO. I had been revisiting a question I had asked myself since I was 14 years old: “where do I want to be?” I had grown to hate that question. The answer was never apparent and although I have been fortunate to explore some good places, at no point had I ever felt I was where I was supposed to be. While in Colorado I was turned on to the idea and the practice of asking better questions - better as in questions with more energy, more complexity, and more depth. “Where do I want to be?” is inherently a simple, selfish, vague, and rather uninteresting question. Why should I expect a profound answer? As I was watching the sunset over the Rockies, I revised my question:

 “Where am I called to  facilitate the advancement of the human condition in myself and others?”

 I had a dream that night in which I saw a tall, white, angled peak rising from a sea of green trees. I had a suspicion it was Mt. Hood, but wasn’t sure. The next day I began planning a trip to visit the Pacific Northwest.

 Mt. Hood has been and continues to serve as my anchor. There is a groundedness and a certainty that this place, at least for now, is where I am called to be.

 It has been five months since I cast aside the safety net, opened my own practice, and started to create the opportunity to do the work I am meant to do. Stay tuned.