12: Break

Too long I've dwelt in my own silence,

listening to the thoughts of those around.

Too long I've kept my opinions to myself,

never quite letting my voice to sound.

But all that is now going to change,

as I'm on the very edge of breaking . . .

I've heard the views of the world,

but it does not seem quite right.

It resonates stupidity, going in circles;

fragments missing, hidden from sight.

Are you blind to the truths I see?

Or am I the one who's blind to all?

I implore you to please listen to me,

before it's too late - before we all break.

It has already begun deep inside,

a crack venting words at every chance.

Soon my thoughts I cannot hide,

but perhaps some wisdom I may share:

Everything is now going to change,

As I'm on the very edge of breaking . . .

11: Lament

Everyday old memories cease and fade,
their creators slow to forget and pass away.
Generations of wisdom are daily unmade
as I lament for our dying elders.

It's sad how a spirit dulls with age,
a life's flame cooling to solemn dignity.
Time and experiences produce a sage,
yet in the end the reward is death.

Many secrets are taken to the grave,
our ancestors' knowledge buried in oblivion.
Too little can we preserve and save,
too much lore never to be remembered.

Dim lights are snuffed out by darkness,
their true sparks forever lost to history.
Whispers echo not in a silent abyss,
past thoughts are now but dreams.

Yet hope remains in futures still to be,
they shall listen and learn from their seniors.
Whispers become voices resounding in eternity,
past thoughts become dreams made real.

Everyday old memories cease and fade,
their creators slow to forget and pass away.
Generations of wisdom are daily unmade
as I lament for our dying elders.

10: Odyssey of Friends

What a fickle world we all live in,

never quite constant from day to day.

But between you and I, we change not within,

for friendship is unbroken till the end of time.

But now we come to where our paths diverge;

one leads to my future and one to yours.

I know not if our futures converge,

so let us linger a while and dwell on our past.

For years we've walked this road side by side,

never fully knowing where it would lead.

We thought not of the destination, only the ride,

and looking back, our memories were rich and deep.

You were my partner, competitor, and enemy,

and we lost sight of our bond along the way.

Yet still you were always there for me,

as I will always be there for you.

You were my eyes when I refused to see,

and I was your ears when you wouldn't listen.

I was your complement as you were to me,

helping each other reach the end of our own paths.

Yet our true odyssey begins here,

where we must go our separate ways.

But in my heart I'll keep you near,

hoping to see you again before the end.

09: Of Music

Part I

I know not whether it's only me

or others feel what I must say:

My mind is lost to sweet oblivion

when my cello's music begins to play.

All doubt, all worry, all pressure leaves

like a burden lifted from my soul.

The cello's resonance engulfs my senses

and its soothing melody makes me whole.

The strings vibrate beneath my fingers

like delicate ripples on a still pond.

Each note echoes in my empty self;

such is the nature of music's bond.

A reserved strength flows into every bow

like a calm breeze before the coming storm.

Every thread of sound is woven with control,

all harmonies waltzing with perfect form.

Within my ear each tone is clear,

scintillating upon my mind like light.

Strange how contrary is a cello's song,

so low and dark yet true and bright.

Fleeting all peace seems at music's end,

each second like ephemeral sands of time.

Yet when one song concludes another's born;

eternal dreams of serenity infinitely sublime.

-----

Part II

I know not whether it's only me

or others feel what I must say:

My heart recalls the somber past

when my piano's music begins to play.

Smells, sounds, and sights creep on back,

slowly weaving a loom of memory.

Things that were and things that are

merge into the piano's own melody.

The keys dance beneath my hands,

the notes binding me like a spell.

Then I hear a light rustling wind,

and sweet flowers I somehow smell.

I hear a steady nearby creek

and I see green grass and trees.

The sky is clear, the sun is bright,

and a breeze flows through the leaves.

Each note, every song, all music

has a life, a story, a history.

They tell tales and endure time,

living within my piano and me.

What happens now, the piano stops

and the memory drifts away.

There's a silence as the music ends,

only to be summoned another day.

08: Of Nature

The willow weeps, its droopy leaves become

cascading waterfalls of slow, sorrowful tears.

It stands rooted magnificent yet wizened and old,

its wisdom passed beyond the measure of time.

Dark and ominous clouds obfuscate the sky,

making the air tense and heavy in the gloom.

An eerie calm engulfs all tangible senses,

futilely shrouding the imminent storm.

The scent of fall enchants the autumn air

as the wind sweeps away summer's verdancy.

A collage of polychromatic hues burst forth,

painting a kaleidoscopic season of transitions.

Dawn arrives yet the world slumbers on,

no one awake to witness the beauty of morn.

The early sun drenches all in its orange-crimson light,

bidding everything to arise from night's oblivion.

Music is the expression of the immortal soul,

its harmonies woven from that inner note.

All melodies resound to that internal flame

as delicate tones echo forever in eternity.

Poetry is the language of the sapient mind,

the flux of words completing that urbane thought.

This humble voice will not be placid and still

so long as we are the dreamers of dreams.

Inspiration is like a pool of scintillating energy,

the source and wellspring of every contemplation.

For some it's ever-flowing, for others it's capricious -

here at present but gone with a whimsical air.

Like angels from heaven the crystal flakes descend,

drifting slowly to earth like fairies in the wind.

Thy pure white form gleams with cold sparkling beauty,

thy nature is to blanket all in a wintry vision.

The silver moon is full on this somber night,

its cool light washing over the dark scenery.

Shadows creep beneath its pale radiance

as the moon guards the entrance of dreams.

Nature stirs again at the threshold of spring.

Snow melts to green while the cold air thaws.

Young flowers bloom as birds serenade the sky,

all life awakens as the seasons start anew.

07: Breeze

The gentle breeze has a scent . . .

of grass, of trees, of the evening sky.

The gentle breeze carries a chorus . . .

of children laughing and birds passing by.

The flowing air encompasses me,

moving in and out and all around.

It releases my soul from its flesh;

no longer are my emotions bound.

The neighboring houses fade from sight

though in my memory there they'll be.

The wind tempts me away yet begs me to stay,

keeping me here yet making me free.

The gentle breeze brings me nostalgia . . .

though my home is still here.

The gentle breeze is my reminder . . .

of a place that's both near and dear.

06: Cold Beauty

Winter yields not, even to Spring's domain;

it lingers yet, though its powers wane.

The air is chilled in one last breath.

What irony! as cold meets its death.

Winter cries tears of icy rain;

its sorrow clings to roofs in vain,

its mark binds to branch and tree -

what now remains is cold beauty.

The world is frozen once more,

and all is crystal ice like before.

It blooms white like flowers of cold,

alive but not, delicate yet bold.

The winds make it crackle and chime,

succumbing it at least to the cycles of time.

Spring gains strength while Winter has none.

Ice flowers melt as cold beauty is undone.

Four Plus

Doctor by ~OdayObaid on deviantART

"Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts."

- Charles Dickens

There have been many books written on medical residency and being a physician; one of the most notable is The House of God by Samuel Shem. It's interesting to see how things have changed since the 1970s when The House of God was written. That book, probably in no small way, played a great part in initiating that change in medical residency training. Other books, such as The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down by Anne Fadiman (who I have had the pleasure of meeting in person), have changed how physicians deal with patients from diverse cultural backgrounds. Each of these books depict medicine in the United States as it was at the time they were written. Through these books, the general public, who previously weren't privy to the culture of medicine, were able to glimpse through a window into medicine's secret workings - it's horrors, it's failings, it's triumphs, and it's wonders.

But I have yet to come across a book dedicated to that nebulous journey before doctor-hood: medical school. Perhaps it's a story that can't compare to the highs and the lows of medical residency and beyond. Perhaps it's a story that doesn't lend itself well to being told. Perhaps it's a story not worth telling. But it is a story that, for better or worse, is lived out each day by tens of thousands of medical students across the United States.

Four Plus will thus be one account out of those tens of thousands. In the United States, medical school is a minimum of 4 years barring time off or completion of another degree (usually a Master's in something like business or public health). In these four plus years, medical students will discover who they are, what they value, and the paths their future will take.

So please tag along and be a passenger along the journey towards doctor-hood. Let Charles Dickens' words above ring true and, at the end, let some clarity pierce through this nebulous four plus years.