Action and Inaction

It has been a year since my last post.  Since the Shangri-la of Burma, my travels took me to to witness the fragile humanity of India, up to the highest elevations of the world in Nepal and then to the lowest points on earth at the Dead sea in Jordan; I walked the paths of Jesus, Mohammad, and Abraham from Israel to Egypt; re-enacted the Mediterranean sea journeys of Odysseus, Achilles, and Helen that initially made its way into my mind from college Latin courses; satisfied and refined my gastronomic tastes in Paris, reflected on the "re-awakening" and enlightenment of man in the grand cathedrals and art museums of Europe and finally ended my journey on my parents deck in Michigan over tea with mom and dad, reflecting on the previous 6 months and expressing to them the comfort and security of being with family.

In the middle of August, I started Harvard Medical School.  I came to school with many fears: fears of being able to handle the course work, fears of adjusting back to a routine and schedule, but most of all, fears of making friends and close relationships.  If I learned anything from graduate school, I needed to form a community--a support network--in order to survive.  My strong desire to form relationships with classmates manifested itself into a deep fear of judgment from my peers; insecurities re-emerged, and I felt that I was regressing back to freshman year of high school.  Self doubt about my abilities and intelligence, questions regarding my acceptance and worthiness, deep fears about being likable and wanted--all of these thoughts crept out of the wood-work, and for months, I felt that I was engulfed by them, constantly thinking about them, and trying to control them.  Reflecting back on the last 8 months, it amazes me to realize how ridiculous my thought-processes were, and yet I am comforted by the fact that many in my class had the same thoughts permeating their minds.  Perhaps it is human nature to have these emotions when entering a new social environment, and that these processes are normal, even innate.  Therefore, next time, maybe it would be better to embrace these feelings rather than fear them.

Fast forward 8 months, and I find myself quite settled into a routine with school, and finding the group of friends that I let myself worry about?  I definitely have that.  It is interesting that I have known these friends for less than a year, but it feels that through our collective shared experience of medical school--cutting the cadaver, interviewing patients, witnessing someone at the end of their life, and the hundreds of hours spent together in lecture, lab, and studying--I feel like these friends have witness a change in me and I in them, and because of that, it feels like we have known each other for more than the 8 months that we have been together.

With spring finally here, I feel the itch to re-new myself, to re-awaken, and to re-vitalize my monotonous routine.  An unsettling feeling weighs at the pit of my stomach and at times paralyzes my movements, making each morning a physical and mental struggle to get out from under the covers.  I desire inspiration, but sense that I am looking in the wrong places.  What then, I ask, should be done?  Perhaps the act of inaction is the action itself.  The urge to "be on the move" both physically and mentally is being repressed by a deeper desire to be sit, contemplate and reflect.  Such contrast from this time last year when "being on the move" was both a necessity and my modus operandi.