The Island

I came across "The Island" the other day, written by Dr. Peter Selwyn of Montefiore Medical Center. It touched me profoundly, as I was struck by the similarities in our constant interactions with strangers whose paths we cross. The following sums it up perfectly:

"Each time I sit with a patient, it is as if everything in both of our lives has brought us to this exact moment, which can be an opportunity for the mundane or, at times, the almost sacred. Sometimes we connect only briefly, or perhaps miss each other’s meaning, and continue superficially through our daily routine. But sometimes, when a certain question, phrase, or gesture opens a door, we may have a glimpse into a whole new room that is suddenly open to light and understanding. Like a glance in a crowd between strangers, sometimes everything aligns, the extraneous is stripped away, and we can look deeply into someone’s soul. Random yet precise, a series of interactions, of fleeting moments that occasionally verge on timelessness. These moments can’t be forced or created; the best we can do is to learn to witness, patiently, with humility, and not let ourselves or our judgments get in the way of the process—to learn to be present, attentive, and open to the story that is waiting to be told."

Revisiting

It has been a while since I visited hospitals and played for patients. In fact, I spent the past two months being a patient myself--having had a few adventures "unit-hopping". It was an educational experience; one often learns double portion when taking a refresher course. I am now back on my feet, eyes forward, heart filled with thanksgiving for each new day given to make more music.

I visited a rehabilitation unit last night at a hospital that looked more like an airport than a health care facility. As my guide and I roamed through the lobby that resembled a long terminal, surrounded by glass panes and stepping on soft carpet with endless repetition of the same patterns, I tried to recall the feelings when I last found myself in a rehab hospital, recovering from complete paralysis. Surprisingly, the effort was not very fruitful. Time may not heal completely, as it is often said, but it does have a way of softening the edges of those memories that were once imprinted on every fiber of one's being.

As I left at the end of the night, I found a strange sense of dissatisfaction in my heart. It wasn't anything I did, but something I didn't or couldn't do--something I could not quite put my finger on. I pray that the comfort these strangers found in the music would last longer than one night, but more than that, I pray that they would be back on their feet soon, and that their dreams would still be waiting for them outside of the hospital doors.