purple

Anne Lamott writes, "It's funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox, full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up i found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools-friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty-and said, Do the best you can with these, they will have to do. And mostly, against all odds, they're enough."

I have to say a hearty amen to that. Tomorrow I attend my last day of graduate school. I cannot believe how long and how short this process has been. I remember filling out the dreaded applications, I remember getting the envelope that was too big to be a rejection letter, I remember my first day of orientation, I remember looking around at my insightful new friends and wondering when the friendship process had actually happened, I remember writing more BS for papers than some people could shake a stick at, I remember surviving four hellacious months at Cooper Green (something I am truly proud of), I remember the first time I closed the door and sat with a patient wondering what on earth we were going to talk about for the next fifty minutes, I remember when suddenly that fifty minute period became far too short and I, surprisingly, wanted more time with my patients, I remember the first time a patient cried in my presence and I wasn't sure I was ready to go there, I remember, I remember, I remember.

As I was walking this evening, the world seemed sharp to me. Sharp as in painfully, wonderfully clear. Spring to me is like looking at God pop up everywhere. I feel like I can see him and smell him and taste him. I like to believe that God is in everything. So, it is not simply a far-off relationship, but one that is all around me. I am filled with the most bittersweet emotions lately. I am coming to the end of something truly remarkable. My time in Birmingham, Alabama has been the most life-transforming, wonderful seven years of my life. I don't know why I need to leave. I can't explain it, even to myself, except to say that I would regret it if I didn't go to Utah, at least for one year. And so, I have made my plans, yet it is not without sadness. The pit-in-your-stomach kind of sadness that makes me wonder if I am doing the right thing. Yet, one of the greatest talents is knowing when to arrive and when to leave and when to return. Perhaps I am learning.

Ah, yes, on to remembering. It is strange to me that my life, my memories are of hundreds of thousands of millions of little moments. Some moments I tell others about. Some I keep to myself. Some of the memories are sharply defined in my memory, others are blurry. Some memories I'm not even sure if they're real or just made up of the stories I've heard my parents tell me over the years. My memories are truly my own. Sometimes that makes me happy: to have this world that only I know up in my brain. And sometimes it makes me sad: because I've had such a wonderful life, I want to share it with others.

So, even though the importance may not translate, I'd like to share a memory. When I was in treatment, art therapy was of great importance to me. It was ever healing and still is. So, I got on this kick of painting irises. I loved them. Painted them everywhere. Still do sometimes. Well, my art therapist told me one day that irises represent healing. (Side note: the literal meaning of the iris is related to the rainbow. I like to think that she was saying the iris represents healing for me as an individual.) Today as I was walking, I came upon the biggest, most beautiful irises I have ever seen. I wanted to weep they were so gorgeous. And that, is one of my memories.