Oboe-ing in Rural France

I haven't entirely abandoned my trusty little oboe. I'm so glad it's so portable! There was plenty of room in my carry-on bag for other stuff next to my little oboe case. I wish I could have taken a picture of the security guy's face when he paused the conveyor belt to scrutinize the x-ray image of my hand luggage inside the machine. His eyes got more and more scrunched up and finally he put his hand over his brow, leaned on the screen, and looked at my bag intently. I wanted to speak up and say it was just an oboe, but I thought better of it.

I've realized that I love a lot of things whose origin is (as far as I know) French. Crêpes, croissants, and opera gateau. Ballet. Oboes. The French language. Lots of great saints. Gothic cathedrals. My husband. Maybe I had a past life in France or something! :)

Practiced in our cozy country home with the windows open and a breeze blowing in from the fields, while my kids and their cousins were clomping up and down the wooden stairs and raucously practicing a play my daughter had written, partly in French. It was a brief practice session, especially because I really don't feel comfortable playing when other people are around. 'Twas in the Moon of Wintertime (a.k.a. the Huron Carol), in honor of René and his fellow-Jesuit missionaries. The opening passage of Swan Lake. Scales. Gabriel's Oboe. Some exercises from the method book. They are getting easier, but it's tought to practice consistently on vacation!

We're off to Paris tomorrow for a couple of days. Not sure if I'll be able to keep writing, but I have no doubt I'll be hungering to catch up either from there or when we get back. If anyone has suggestions for where we should go to eat, let me know!

à la Recherche de Saint René

We started our day yesterday at a lovely outdoor mass in Montreuil-sur-Maine, on the banks of the Mayenne river, at a place known as La Grotte, meant to be a replica of the grotto of Massabielle in Lourdes. The gospel reading was the passage containing the Magnificat, probably more beautiful in French than in most languages:

Mon âme exalte le Seigneur, mon esprit exulte en Dieu mon Sauveur. Il s'est penché sur son humble servante; désormais tous les âges me diront bienheureuse. Le Puissant fit pour moi des merveilles; Saint est son nom!

All the towns we drove through appeared abandoned - shut down for the Feast Day of the Assumption of Mary. It was like driving through a U.S. town on Thanksgiving Day or Christmas morning. Restaurants were open, though, and we were able to enjoy a delicious lunch of prosciutto with melon and spinach cannelloni at La Fleur du Maquis just outside Saint-Martin-du-Bois.

After lunch we drove into Saint-Martin to see if we could get a look at the baptismal font in the church where René Goupil, patron saint of anesthetists, had been baptized on May 15, 1608. To our great surprise, despite the fact that there was not a soul visible on the streets (I did see a little girl poke her head out the door of a café called, fortuitously, Le Goupil), the church door was ajar as if waiting for us to enter (the mairie, on the other hand, was locked). There was no one around. At the back of the church we found a plaque commemorating René's baptism as well the 400-year-old baptismal font beneath it. This had at one time been in a park outside a restaurant in Angers, according to the book A Ghost in the Mohawk Valley by William Breault, S.J., but comparing pictures of it there and our own pictures from the church yesterday confirmed that it had been transported back to its original place in Saint-Martin-du-Bois.

After this satisfying visit we made our way back to the Chateau du Plessis via the village of La Jaille-Yvon, which is up on a hill and has a 12th-century church as well as a breathtaking view of the rolling countryside below. Dinner was another gourmet masterpiece from Valerie, a terrine or little charlotte of fromage de chevre with chives and a salmon purée, with a sweet cherry tomato on top, followed by a succulent quail in a coq au vin type of sauce with the tiniest little onions I have ever seen. Dessert was a dense chocolate fondant with orange sorbet.

The best part of dinner was the after-dinner conversation, which went till midnight. Among the eight of us there were six countries represented (Romania, England, Ireland, Denmark, the U.S., and the Philippines). A couple from Manchester, England, who were Seventh Day Adventists; the Englishman's Anglican parents; a couple from Ireland who were atheist humanists; and my husband and I, fairly moderate Catholics, all got into a spirited and good-humored discussion about faith. From this lively, intellectually stimulating, and enjoyable conversation I relearned about myself that my journey in faith has been largely one of hope rather than arrogant certainty, and that if I believe anything, it's that it's just as erroneous to believe in God because good things happen as it is to disbelieve in God because bad things happen. The question is, how does each person's faith take the path it takes, and why?

***

This morning we contacted the cattle farmer who owns Le Grand Oncheray to see if we could visit the place. Le Grand Oncheray was discovered to be René's home relatively recently, in the 1970's. We had made contact with the owner through the mairie in Saint-Martin-du-Bois a couple of times before and explained my interest in visiting René's place of birth. He was a shy and taciturn but gracious man who met us at the farm and, over an hour or so of conversation while we were there, warmed gradually, especially after his girlfriend, an equally gracious woman, arrived. He showed us a plaque he had made himself to commemorate the homestead's history as René's family home, now a rather ramshackle but still charming farmhouse. He also pulled out a folder of articles about the place written by various people with an interest in René Goupil. We were thankful for his willingness to welcome strangers from the U.S. on an unusual mission to track down a fairly obscure and rather elusive saint.

Valerie's husband's property was right next door, and we had been given leave to drive in and see it. This chateau, too, was a gorgeous one, and a tenant on the property had reindeer, a yurt, and a large, very affectionate camel who enchanted our children. After this pleasant stop we drove through Saint-Martin-du-Bois with a mind to pick up a picnic lunch in Segré, just beyond, but before continuing on I asked my husband to stop to see if we could sneak a peek at the ancient baptismal records which, I had read in Breault's book, could be found in the mairie. The mairie doors were locked, still on holiday from yesterday, but through a wide open window we saw two women inside discussing something.

"Excuse me, is the mairie open today?" my husband asked in French.

"No, we're closed, but do you need something?" came the reply.

"Well...we're retracing the footsteps of Saint René, on a pilgrimage of sorts, and we heard his baptismal registry could be found here..."

"Ah, oui! Bien sûr!" said one of the women. "Come, we'll open the door back here for you...You know, you're lucky to find me here today; usually I'm not here on holidays...Now what year was it, his baptism? 1608? Hmm..." She opened a closet door in the office. "Let's see...1800's...1700's...ah, here we are, 1575 to 1630's."

We leafed carefully through the slim, bound volume with its beautifully penned record in old French, came across his older brother Claude's bapistmal record from 1607, our excitement mounting, then finally found his, at the bottom of a page, faded but still legible. The lovely woman made an enlarged photocopy of it for us to take home. When we left the mairie, out of curiosity I crossed the street to the church to see if it was open. This time it was locked.

We got our picnic lunch and spent the early part of the afternoon at a place called Le Domaine de la Petite Couère, a large estate where various animals such as alpacas, watusi, black swans, emus, mountain goats, pigs, cattle, and water fowl are kept. There is also a period "village" containing a blacksmith's shop, saboterie, school room, general store with artifacts from the 19th and early 20th centuries, replicas of cottages and depictions of village life, and collections of old tools, vehicles, costumes, toys, and the like. Here and there there were witty literary quotes tacked up to the walls, which were entertaining. The place reminded me of the Shelburne Museum in Vermont or the Adirondack Museum, but smaller in scale, and very interesting.

After this we headed home, a three-hour drive. I have been very impressed with the French highway and road system. We have managed to find every town without a map, simply because directions are so well-marked on the road. Essentially all we had to do was find our way from one church steeple to another. There have been a couple of more humorous reminders that we are in France: the roadside coffee shops serve quiche and crêpes, and even the toll collectors look like fashion models. Vive la France!

We're now back at La Morinière after a fruitful pilgrimage in the steps of Saint René. Making the journey, even in reverse - from his place of death to his place of birth, over the last couple of months - has given us an idea of the scale of this journey, especially when one considers what was available to travelers (or not) in the 1630's. He had to leave Anjou, a region which reminds me so much of the Champlain Valley in Vermont and the Mohawk Valley in New York, where he died. I had to wonder the other night, while driving down, if it had been similar back then, too, in the 1600's, and if being in New France had made him homesick for the landscape of his birthplace. He traveled overland probably to Paris and then to Dieppe, then boarded a ship bound for the New World, then somehow managed within a couple of years to get from Quebec to what is now Auriesville, NY, only to die there after weeks of torture. His brief life was a pilgrimage in and of itself, with a long, lonely trek in its final years. I can't explain why his life means such a great deal to me, but I'm glad to have traced its outline, knowing of course that we'll probably never be able to describe fully its depth and its meaning.

Chartres Cathedral: a pilgrimage begins

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

« Un vaisseau de pierre et de lumières sur l’océan des blés. » Charles Peguy's description of Chartres Cathedral captures the moving experience of catching sight of it above the wheat fields from afar, a sign of strength, community, artistic outpouring, and faith, at once ethereal and solid. I was surprised by the emotions that arose when we first caught sight of the cathedral from the highway. When we entered the town of Chartres and arrived on foot before the massive facade, I was overcome with feeling once again - perhaps because of its great beauty, or the sheer scale of it, or the amazement of coming upon it after weeks of anticipation, or the subconscious knowledge of countless lives over hundreds of years that had worked to build and preserve this sanctuary. How to describe such a place, where human works and divine mystery meet in stone? I won't even try.

My husband and I were deeply thankful that our children are now at an age when they can reflect on and appreciate the history of places like Chartres. I related to them the story / legend of the holy relic kept within, the Sancta Camisia believed to have been a garment of the Virgin Mary, which was a sign of hope for the townspeople for centuries and which survived a devastating fire. I tried to point out details in the stained glass and stonework and asked them to think of the craftsmen who took such care over them, some never to see the final outcome of their labor, some losing their lives in the process. We climbed up 289 steps of one of the towers to marvel (and tremble) over the view from the windy heights above the green-tinged copper roof. All in all a visit that reminded us of the true meaning of the word awe.

***

We are on pilgrimage, mostly for my sake. Last July I wrote about our visit to the place where my favorite saint, René Goupil, was martyred. For a long time I've also wanted to visit his place of birth. Our visit to Chartres was part of our way down to the Anjou region, to the villages around Saint Martin du Bois, his home town. We found a gorgeous bed and breakfast, the Chateau du Plessis, in La Jaille-Yvon, where a talented woman named Valérie Renoul welcomed us tonight and served us a fabulous table d'hôte of prosciutto and stuffed grape leaves, filet mignon with a mild sauce of green olives and onions, and a grand marnier chocolate mousse that rivaled any 5-star restaurant dessert. Sixteen of us fit around the dinner table! Tomorrow, Assumption Day, we begin our "search for Saint René" in earnest.





We found out tonight that Valerie's husband, Laurent, happens to own a chateau property that abuts Le Grand Oncheray, the farm where René Goupil was born. A nice coincidence.

Codes

Code #1: Rondeau's Journal


One of my favorite books when I was in grade school was a book about secret codes and ciphers called How to Keep a Secret. Not only the act but also the idea of writing fascinated me - that our thoughts could be made visible on the page, with symbols. Ciphers had special allure because you could put those thoughts out into the world, then conceal them again - how intriguing!

The reason I mention this is because codes and ciphers came up in conversation during our visit to the wonderful Adirondack Museum, probably one of the nicest museum experiences we've had as a family. It's a bit like the Shelburne Museum in Vermont, with lots of historic memorabilia and artifacts related to human labor and achievement, beautifully displayed, but more compactly laid out than at Shelburne, with more focused exhibits.

There was an interesting replica of pages from the journal of Adirondack hermit Noah John Rondeau, who wrote his journal in cipher, sparking a conversation between my family and me about writing for oneself only, and why someone might do that. Ultimately we may write most genuinely when we write for no audience other than ourselves...but to block access so actively seems to counteract the sharing process I associate with writing, although of course I've also discussed writing as tilling the garden of one's own mind, a way to shape and develop one's thought processes...

Code #2: The "Sliver" (a true medical code situation, potentially, if I ever saw one!)

Elsewhere at the museum I was amused to find a charming cottage that had been the dwelling of the doctor "on-call" at a place called Camp Cedars. If only all call-rooms could be so quaintly appointed! Other highlights included a walk-through rail car, the carriage Theodore Roosevelt rode at breakneck speed after McKinley was shot and Roosevelt got the news he was president, a picnic lunch with a view of Blue Mountain Lake, and an exhibit on loggers, which being a fan of log homes I found especially valuable. I was startled by this depiction of an injured logger receiving general anesthesia to remove a "sliver":

Not something I want to see rolling into my O.R.!

Code #3: Oral History, Unspoken History, and Codes of Conduct

After visiting the Martyrs' Shrine yesterday we spent the night at the Mohawk Indian Bed and Breakfast, also known as Kanatsiohareke ("ga-NAH-jo-ha-LAY-gay"), meaning "place of the clean pot" after a basin formation in a nearby stream. The lovely Mohawk woman who runs the place, Emily Tarbell, is the seventh of seventeen children (!), and a great story-teller. She cooked us a hearty country breakfast during which a man named Rob stopped by just to tell a delightful story about a runaway 800-lb bull he was trying to transport. It was beautiful to hear little bits and pieces of the Mohawk language in the conversation, and luxurious to be able to talk and eat without watching the clock. I would so love this slower pace, rich in human contact and story-telling.

I couldn't help but wonder, all these centuries later, if there is still some tension and pain between the Mohawk and other area residents. As much as I cherish the life of René Goupil and his companions, and admire how they demonstrate real growth in their anthropological understanding (as shown in the writings of Jean de Brebeuf for the Jesuit Relations), I am not oblivious to the fact that they came as outsiders, albeit with good but in many ways misguided intentions, and basically contributed to the loss of a native culture and people, the Huron. Nor do I have any romantic, uni-dimensional notions of native tribes in the 17th century as placid tree-huggers; from what I've read and heard, they had deep spirituality and reverence for their world, but they were also plenty violent with prisoners of war and committed atrocities that might turn the stomachs of the most battle-scarred warriors today. Nothing is simple, and over 350 years later this holds true. There was plenty of both heroism and guilt to go around. But the fact is, Europeans and their descendants claimed for themselves an unjust portion and are still enjoying the fruits of that claim today.

I find myself caught between two sympathies - my admiration for Jesuit faith and work ethic, with special affection for René, and my admiration for native peoples and desire to learn from their wisdom. Meeting Emily was a real blessing, a bridge. I cherish the connections we've made, in our minds and hearts and with others, stemming from our encounter.

Music and Silence

Monday, July 25, 2007:

We’re on VACATION!!!

We set off westward found ourselves near the Massachusetts-New York border by lunch time, so we had a home-packed lunch of sandwiches and strawberries at Tanglewood, right in front of the Hawthorne Cottage. What a great start – a picnic in a place permeated with music and literature, my favorites!

***

In the car on the way to New York I was so pleased when my daughter asked, “Is this Holst?” and started humming along to Jupiter. I also played a mix of violin selections, some of which included Joshua Bell in belated honor of his busking experience.

I always think of Perlman when I hear the Mendelssohn concerto and of Gil Shaham when I hear Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen. Thoughts of Perlman made me recall Youtube footage of a master class he taught in Russia. What a great “bedside manner!” He was supportive of his students, acknowledged them as musicians without being condescending, and offered corrections in a way that was so clearly meant to help the musician be the best he or she could be. Watching one of Heifetz’s master classes (the clip I saw is no longer up) gave me a totally different feeling – intimidated, threatened, disdained, like my hard work and efforts would cause the guy nothing but exasperation. It was like reliving residency all over again. He’s such an unbelievable technical wonder, though.

I believe teaching should come from a love of what is being taught and a desire to transmit that love to one’s students, and with it the commitment to strive for excellence. I believe in respecting students, whatever their abilities or background, and in approaching them with an attitude that says, “I believe you can learn this, and it’s my job to help you do that, and it’s okay if you have a hard time with it at first.” No condescension, put-downs, scorn, resentment, or rage when something is not known or understood or immediately done well by the student. In other words, the opposite of most medical education, at least in my experience.

I hope when I teach I come across more like Perlman.

***

We spent the afternoon at the Shrine of the North American Martyrs in Auriesville, NY – a peaceful place with a gigantic round church surrounded by meadows and trees. It was a personal pilgrimage of sorts for me – the patron saint of anesthetists, St. René Goupil, died there after being tortured for weeks with his fellow-captives. I was surprised that a place with such a sad and violent history should have such tranquility about it. My husband and children were very supportive of my desire to visit this place, “where Mommy’s special saint died.” Our favorite part of the visit as a family walking down the ravine where René was killed by two natives and later buried, in an unknown location, by his friend St. Isaac Jogues. Posted for visitors to read on the trail down were excerpts of Jogues’s first-hand account of René’s death. It was an indescribably peaceful walk, despite the tragic story, and at the bottom the trail suddenly opened up into a beautiful clearing, where we spent several minutes just enjoying the sacred atmosphere of the place. It was strange to think part of him was still physically there, somewhere in that clearing, and wonderful to enjoy the silence of the place. It’s not often any of us has a chance to enter into some quiet contemplation on our own, much less as a family, so this moment of tranquility and renewal was like a drink of water in the desert.

___________________________________________________________

Addendum, July 11, 2007:

Found this description from a reflection by William McNichols, S.J.: "Walking down the pathway into the ravine at Auriesville where it is said René was murdered, one knows why pilgrims come especially to the ravine, and will always come there. For it is in the ravine that one senses something of God - some touch, some peace, some blessing. This place does not attract the sensation seeker, looking for the morbid or the macabre. Rather, one finds that the earth there, sown in red seeds, has brought forth a verdant, shimmering landscape Pope Pius XII called 'Nature's Reliquary.' " Jesuit Bulletin. Fall 1984. p.12-14.

"Oboeitis enthusiasticus"

First I want to say <<Bon anniversaire, Maman!>> to my wonderful mother-in-law, whose boundless spirituality and generous heart are daily gifts to our family and to all the kids tutored through the Earthen Vessels program. I am so blessed to have such a kind and caring mother-in-law.

Thanks too to Bob Heineman for coining a name for our affliction. You're right, Bob - it's INCURABLE!

Yesterday when my teacher & I did those little duets together it brought back memories of the times when piano "wasn't so bad." I took piano from age 5 to age 12, and though I am grateful for the musical education I got taking it, I have to admit piano brought me a LOT of anxiety, especially piano recitals. I still get sick to my stomach before my daughter's recitals - whereas she loves performing! The two times I recall specifically ENJOYING piano were the times when I didn't have to play alone. One time I played a Telemann piece with an accomplished young flutist. I especially loved not being the soloist, but rather the background person, the accompanist. Another time I was accompanied for the 1st movement of Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 17 by a fantastic adult pianist whose presence made the harrowing recital for that piece a little less agonizing. Otherwise, though, the study of piano was a morass of dread for me, probably because of my tendency toward stage fright.

Playing music WITH others is a great pleasure, though. I would have loved to play in an orchestra, to make music with others but also remain anonymous, not in the spotlight. Anesthesia's like that too - our work is so essential to what's going on, and so important, yet so anonymous and under-acknowledged. My favorite musical moments are when my husband pulls out his guitar and we sit down as a family to sing together, or when my daughter and I sit down at the piano to play together.

I got more daring during Indulgence Time at the end of my practice period and tried an arrangement of the Huron Carol / 'Twas in the Moon of Wintertime. I've always liked this carol but when I learned the words were written by Jean de Brebeuf, a Jesuit missionary to the Huron and contemporary of René Goupil, the carol acquired special meaning for me.

I've read and heard many times that oboists are (and need to be) a little obsessed. If I'm this preoccupied now, wait till I start making reeds...

Gabriel's Oboe / The Mission Revisited

Watched most of The Mission again last night just to revisit the film and the roots of my oboe longings. I remember seeing this movie in the theaters when I was in middle school and being incredibly affected by it. Seeing it as an adult has just added more layers of association and meaning to the experience. Wow. I thought it was amazing back then, young as I was, but now I can really appreciate what Robert Bolt as a writer, Roland Joffé as director, and Jeremy Irons as an actor did to bring the story to life. Irons really co-created the character of Gabriel, who became my ideal for The Guy to Look For (sans the vow of celibacy, of course). (Actually, I wanted a combination of Gabriel and Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird, with maybe a little Russell Quinn from The Seventh Sign thrown in - and I gotta say, I found a guy who fit the bill pretty well!). Gabriel has it all - he is strong but gentle, quiet but courageous, deep-thinking but with a capacity for humor and playfulness, a man with intelligence and faith and who fights passionately for the rights of children and disadvantaged human beings. Plus he's cute, multilingual, and has musical talent. Take out the name Gabriel and insert my husband's name, and it's all still true. Wow.

There's a great chapter in The Oboe by Geoffrey Burgess and Bruce Haynes about that powerful scene in which Gabriel keeps playing his oboe despite the Guarani spears pointed in his direction. The authors write about the symbolic power of the oboe, of its music representing the penetration of Gabriel's message into the Guarani spirit. My 6-year-old happened to be watching with me, and he was completely riveted (just for that scene - then I tucked him into bed before watching the rest of the film). What is it about a scene that is compelling to a viewer whether he's 6 or 60? Well, here, first of all, the hero scaled a rocky cliff with an oboe strapped to his back. Okay, that got my attention. Then, later on in the scene, it was the music that mesmerized us, and Gabriel's courage in the face of life-threatening danger, his dignity, his faith, his creativity, and his respect for the Guarani.

There are so many other treasures in this movie for me. I've always had a special affection for the Jesuit order. I love how the Jesuits value education and the intellect, and actually put some THOUGHT into their faith. Ignatian spirituality, too, is full of gifts - reminders to see God in all things, to do things for the greater glory of God, to reflect on moments in which God's presence is palpable, to labor out of love "and not count the cost." And, speaking of Jesuits, I got such an insight into what my beloved saint, René Goupil, must have gone through as a missionary to the natives of Canada, traversing rough terrain and encountering all sorts of perils, hostility, and suffering. I also appreciated the glimpse into colonial life - the societal norms, the architecture, the religious customs - having come from a country which was a colony of Spain for hundreds of years.

People eagerly criticize institutional religion so much, and I would be the first to admit that I have dealt with many, intense frustrations with regard to the deep wounds it can inflict. But this movie shows the precious heart of religious faith as I think its founders would have wished it to continue. It's at the grassroots level, with remarkable individuals like Gabriel - with the "little" people - that religious faith can shake off all the encumbrances and formalities that weigh it down, and the things that really matter can shine through. Love always, do not pass judgment or count yourself above another, show mercy, abhor violence, take care of each other...these are the "laws" that govern the truest followers of Jesus exemplified in the fictional character of Gabriel.

I was so exhausted from work yesterday that I didn't get to practice (I was kind of using The Mission as my vicarious oboe dose for the day). Today I tried a long F and got a renewed appreciation for the purity of that adagio in Albinoni's concerto in D. I doubt I could ever be advanced enough to play anything like that, but a girl can have SOME goals and dreams, right? So my little goals are to get some good basics down this year. Already I think I figured out how to make my starting notes a little better (I was able to do that tonguing thing, albeit inconsistently, better on notes that were in the middle of a measure, but initial notes - the "attack"- had always been a problem). It does work to think of saying "Tu." I confess after exercises I indulged again and sight-read the first half of O Come O Come Emmanuel just to see if I could do it. Can't wait till I can do it smoothly and make it SOUND like it's coming from an oboe!

I found a video clip on Youtube of Ennio Morricone conducting an orchestral version of Gabriel's Oboe. *sigh* Like I've said, a girl can dream, right?

Faith, Children, & Some Big Questions

A couple of nights ago at the end of our usual bedtime prayers my kids gave thanks "that Mommy had a good oboe lesson." Warm fuzzies! I thought this was one of the cutest moments of the week. It's so touching to receive from support from one's own kids, who have nothing additional to gain from their show of affection and give so openly from their hearts.

Last Tuesday we shared one of those "Catholic childhood moments" talking about patron saints. My daughter was laughing at the dinner table at the thought that of all the different types of doctors out there, it's anesthesiologists who have a patron saint, René Goupil, a humble, sweet Jesuit missionary & surgeon who was martyred in Canada in 1642. I could write a whole post just on my admiration for this almost-anonymous guy, whose compassion for the sick and "patience in adversity" were so awe-inspiring to his peers.

So many people misunderstand about saints. I was explaining to our kids that people often seem to confuse talking to the departed with worship of the divine. I told them we can only worship God, but if the spirits of those who have passed from this life can live on and help us by praying for us, then we can certainly TALK to any of them, be they parents or friends or canonized saints. Then of course we had to browse the internet for various professions and situations that might have their own patron saints, and as I remember feeling as a child, they seemed quite captivated by the many stories of individuals we found. My son exclaimed, half in delight, half in dismay, "But now we'll have even MORE questions!" Last night my son continued with his exploration of the lives of the saints by reading part of Robert Kennedy's children's book on Saint Francis, which in one instance describes Francis of Assisi's kindness to lepers. Leprosy held a certain morbid fascination for my science-oriented little boy, and I was touched when he felt very sad to learn that lepers used to have to wear a bell to warn people of their coming so people could "run for their lives" in the opposite direction. I believe reading stories about people who have learned how to love better, show more kindness and compassion, and be more present to others, helps teach these values and virtues.

It's not always easy to choose faith in a world and culture in which rational empiricism is so exalted. I'm talking about the medical world, of course, though there are certainly many people of faith who work in the world of medicine. I've often struggled with this dialectical tension. Very often it seems words like "spirit" and "faith" are so highly disdained by many of my colleagues (disdain being the opposite of compassion, ironically, though compassion is supposed to be the quality that DEFINES us as a profession). If only they could answer my son's question, "But what CAUSED the Big Bang?" or explain to me why sound waves from a wooden tube stimulating cells in the cochlea and causing chain reactions of neurotransmitters in the brain can produce the transcendent experience we know as MUSIC, or solve the mystery of what life is and when it begins and ends and why. I've had to pronounce the end of life on a couple of occasions, and I struggle with it, because I know not every cell in the person's body has undergone cell death, yet I also know the person is dead. Or do I?

Most people don't realize anesthesiologists are in the business of RESUSCITATION rather than "putting to sleep." Consciousness, life, and death are always on our minds somehow or another.