Lessons from Liz and Martha

perhaps we can best tell ourselves what we most need to hear

I don’t know about you, but things feel intense right now. In this intensity, I’ve needed more space, stillness, and less doing.

To honor this, I’m writing a short post this week, sharing some lessons from the last few weeks, and the Liz/Martha workshop Shandra and I recently attended.

Toward the end, Liz invited us to look through our notes from the weekend, noting which parts stood out. My logical brain wondered, ‘is she just killing time?’ but I did it anyway. Next, we picked five lines/phrases and wrote them down on a fresh page. I found myself synthesizing the themes that felt important as I wrote my five phrases, each line written almost like a mini-message to myself. Then, she invited us to find one more line that stood out, and put it at the top. Finally, she had congratulated us on writing a poem.

After the workshop, many participants shared their poems on social media. It was fascinating to see the variety of lines and lessons brought into the poems. It was as if we each held onto the parts of the week we most needed to hear, and then brought them together to remind us of something. As I’ve reflected on my initial skepticism about this activity, I laugh at remembering how often the practices and activities that help us get closer to our inner selves and our creativity can feel pointless at first. The many times I’ve sabotaged my inner desire to be still, creative, reflective, in order to be productivity and task-oriented. But I keep remembering that when we can let go of that logical, productivity oriented thinking for even a short while, we may find the lessons we are seeking.

I love the sound of leaves blowing in the wind

What brings presence?

You don’t need

to earn your place

in the human family.

There is more to reality

than what we see.

Truth feels like freedom

what wants to come next?

(my poem)

In what felt serendipitous, the week after this workshop was our annual Story Slam where I work. During this event, one of my colleagues leads fellow clinicians and parents of patients to write stories based on a theme. The goal of the event is to remind us of our humanity in medicine and use the power of story-telling to connect us to our humanity and to each other.

At the end of the event, I asked the story tellers what they would do to increase humanity within medical practice. A colleague of mine followed up my question with a text message “what would your answer to this question be?” I barely had time to think before my fingers responded: “Slow down. Humanity does not exist in urgency”.

I wish you moments stillness and presence this week.

Love, Sarah