Winning the Homecoming Game

Oh, the after party...

I think I had a little trepidation sitting down in the cockpit for this one…

Maybe alot.

To those of you who are new subscribers, thank you, and…well…this will be an experience.

If you opened the email link, and are reading these words, I doubt you will have expected what comes next.

This last weekend, I took another leap off the cliff of “control” into the wild blue and orange yonder of my College of Medicine 25 year reunion.

Blown away by the winds of change that had distorted my remembered university town into an episode of the Twilight Zone - fragments of familiarity stuck against a backdrop of comforting live oaks draped with spanish moss, and too many new sights to take in with any rational framework of meaning….

The only thing more overwhelming was the ground I fell into. A sea of instant-heart-recognition faces worn by souls that had shared some of my rockiest paths…through the torment of inhumanity and truth of humanity during four years of “am I going to make it?” “Can I really be what I dream of becoming?” “A doctor?”

Holy imposter syndrome, Batman!!

I have ridiculously few memories of feeling like I knew which end was up during the relentless studies, practices, tests, drilling, flogging, and gut-punching.

Thank the heavens for the many memories of us. Laughing, crying, confetti-paper melena throwing, seventies-partying, pranking, skitting, drinking, drinking, US.

By now, dear reader, you have deeply sensed my love of hyperbole. And disregard for the sentence structure we learned in third grade. You have yet to encounter my appreciation for the richness of expletives.

I digress…back to the step away from the control tower of my previous existence….

The “Reunion”.

When I met a physician colleague, and they asked “what are you doing now?” (translation: “what medical-career-goal have you achieved to make your time in the trenches with us worth it?”), for the first time…I told the truth.

“I quit.”

“I’m doing music.” Or, “I’m a jazz pianist and singer.” I might have mumbled something about songwriting….

After a few go rounds of this I smoothed out the delivery to, “I retired.”

That got a few more raised eyebrows, presumably because the receivers of the information assumed I left doctoring after making so much moolah I could comfortably do a silly thing like throw a medical career away to play around making music.

Well…there’s a previous post or two about how the whole “play around making music” thing doused the fire of passion I had carried for Emergency Medicine, and lit the path forward to choose again and again without regard to “safety” and “control”…or an offshore bank account and 401K.

Yes, more than any surreal setting, or special welcome packet with Fast Pass/name badge, what impacted me last weekend was…my family.

Like watching one of my children grow from teeter-toddling to their first real barrista job, but ninety-seven shades of the rainbow more beautiful.

Every single classmate I was blessed enough to encounter shared warm stories of who they are now, and like those rings of a tree marking years of living I could feel the strength they had then - back when we all felt like little saplings in a hurricane.

What astounded me was the gorgeous people giving me updates were still the ones I remember from so long ago…beautiful, cute, quirky, solid, graceful, witty, engaging, empathic, articulate…real.

Yes, you, if you are reading this, you were real. You showed up, and shared yourself - your life, your family, your hugs and open hearts.

Whoa.

As the weekend meandered through well-planned and executed events, I felt the intention and effort of the folks that brought us all together. Gratitude beyond anything I had the capacity to feel 25 years ago came in layer after layer of realization - how special it was that I had the opportunity to be a part of my classmates’ lives, that we were together now, that we shared at the same time commonality in our chosen profession, AND fantastic diversity.

Each story unfolded variations on a theme of life as one of “us”, and I saw the dazzling splay of colors thrown by the solid prism of our alma mater.

Breathtaking.

I had no real set expectations for the weekend, short of reconnecting with my med school bestie (not enough time or sangria for us, sad to say) and ?maybe making it to the water…(thank you paddle-boat Goddess!!!)

I wish I could name each one of you and the way you made me more complete by sharing time together. I can’t remember the last time I walked with a group of women who were physicians and friends, and that trek to the stadium to watch our homecoming football game filled a part of my heart I didn’t know was empty.

So I found a more expansive meaning in “homecoming”, since this “reunion” brought parts of me back together by bringing us all to the same place and time.

And the cliff-jumping, control-dumping “practice” of my life, in contrast to my medical practice, has been all about homecoming.

Growing in awareness of the deepest parts of myself - sometimes left out in the woodshed for far too long - and curiously holding those fragments long enough to let the withered vines leading from them to my heart gain vitality.

Letting go of who I thought I was, to gather all that I am living right now.

Watching in amusement - ok, sometimes horror - as the experiment in honoring my deepest longings bubbles and pops like a beaker full of unknown chemicals on the verge of explosion.

And it may very well explode.

Leaving the “stability” of a medical career (read paycheck, legitimacy to normie onlookers, semi-predictable calendar) for the unknown trails through the forest of creativity and expression is probably going to take me into land-mine territory.

But after the solid walls I so painstakingly laid, brick by brick, for decades, came crumbling down, I found I rather liked the view of open sky.

Maybe not at first, when I was filling sand bags desperately working to fortify the structures…and certainly not while the stormwaters raged and threw me around like a styrofoam cup.

After the flood of my tears receded, and the sun came out…after I surveyed the wreckage, and accepted my starring role in creating the mess…after I felt what was left of me, gingerly peering inside to see what still rang true….

That’s when I realized the gift of the unforeseen, the unpredictable, the uncontrolled, the uncomfortable.

And, I realized how uncomfortable I had been as the old me. Not always, certainly not fully aware, but like a COVID-times schoolkid who gets to finally leave the mask home, there was no denying the contrast in breathing room I felt when I let go for good.

So when a classmate asked me questions about the change, about how I became a “musician”, I tried to assemble pieces of the story that would make sense - overexplaining as usual - and then, let go.

When classmates asked for links to music, or shared kind words of support for my projects, I felt honored, humbled, grateful…and then a little scared - “what if they don’t like my writing?”… “what if they think I’m a loon?”… “what if they think it’s not really jazz?”

Ha! Imposter syndrome, my old friend…. I like my writing. Yes, I am a loon. Who knows what “real jazz” is anyway?

I hereby give every reader and listener permission to think and feel whatever comes up - as if you need permission - and to stick around if you want.

If you think sharing stories, and brushing off the dust to see our connection and community more vibrantly is worthwhile, drop a note.

Since my path is mine alone, and I celebrate the infinite varieties of life roads we all choose, I see beauty in every story.

The couple that met in high school and remain sweethearts through raising three amazing kids; the meth addict leaving 3D safety for a darker journey; the top-notch legislator who rails against bureaucracy; the forty-something clown who just won his first rodeo….

To the extent we know ourselves, and are aware of our potential for growth, I think we choose - and choose again - a dizzying number of forks in the road.

And like the board game of life, maybe all the highways and gravel paths lead us eventually to the same destination - together, as one body of humanity.

Maybe, there really is no away team.

Maybe no matter how long we have to play, or get to play, we always win our homecoming game.