Truth

you asked me what to be 

of course I think 

something that will make me oooohhhhh ooooh yeah

you get it

I stood up against the face of buddha 

rainbow colors in front 

and behind

the sign said

love for now

later we don’t know what will happen

and so I did 

maybe even Picasso would say

that old chestnut music was so loud he could not hear 

the good 

the bad 

the stuff planted in brain 

sleeping next to walls that sheltered like cotton

buddha

stillness

you were something more than nothing

than fog dancing near your heart 

all I said 

is be what I can see

two for tea

How true are we to ourselves is the ultimate question, remember? As humans, we know who we are, we sleep with our breaths tucked into our souls, we see with vision penetrating the dark. Yesterday I walked the hospital hallways, looking into the eyes of innocent souls, at the mercy of others for help, searching for their inner truths.

It was like when I went up to see Mr. More, my patient from the U.S. who lived six months overseas as a diplomat. He was helping refugees via the UN for the past twenty plus years, and was medically evacuated from Kosovo to Boston for a triple bypass.  Mr. More came in alone.  Alone for a major procedure.  I had never seen this before.  Most International or VIP patients came in for treatment with an entourage, family or friends.  He had elderly parents who lived in Virginia and after we contacted them, it was clear they would have difficulty getting to the hospital anytime soon. 

            Mr. More was a man true to himself.  He gave all he could and lived each day surrendering his soul to a universe that dished out whatever he wanted from it.  Maybe that’s why I became extra particular making sure he got the New York Times every morning to read the sports section. 

“I just love sports, this makes me so happy.  Do you think it would be any trouble?”

I’d walk out of his room, wondering how he spent so many years alone.  Now, lying in a hospital not knowing anyone, tubes running in and out from all over his body, blood circulating via machines.  Peach tulips from the International Patient office sat on the windowsill by his bed, sucking every drop of Atlantic sun in the middle of January winter.  On behalf of the International Patient office we wish you a speedy recovery.  Please let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable.

Did Mr. More fumble along the way and forget to take care of himself after helping so many people?  I know he said he smoked heavily… surrounding him like Vegas smog.  Casting over the Peach tulips, the loneliness, the sports, the humility, generosity, and being free from illness. 

When are we truly satisfied? Is it when our truths leak out?  And when the truth comes out, is it deliberate like ordering one’s favorite macchacino-frappa-pucci? Or does it lightly seep out like C4H8Cl2S mustard gas during a long, traffic jam.  Or does it come out in a deep chuckle over small elevator talk with a neighbor your only closeness with is distance in living space?