Horses and water

The cafeteria on Friday was unusually rambunctious. Chair legs scraped lino like angry geese, the ladles and lids on the steam table were cymbals, and the tables were elbow to elbow with chatter, clatter, and trays. I usually come to this particular hospital on Mondays and my lunches are peaceful and mostly solitary. This was an unusual treat.

My lunch partner and I shouted into each others ears in an attempt to visit, but eventually resorted to gestures and silent eating. You can imagine my surprise when above the ruckus, I heard a woman introducing herself and asking if us in the back could hear her. I could. Barely. I had to turn my head to face her so that my large ears could catch as much of her signal as possible. Her voice had to travel through the ongoing conversations of 3 rows of tables and then compete with the noise encroaching me from behind. All of this sound bounced around like the beautiful chaos of popcorn in a kettle.

Brenda Robertson was invited to the hospital to give a motivational speech on how we are responsible for our own morale. She is a terrific speaker. No notes, great charisma, and she communicated her message through honest, funny stories. The gist of her talk was about how we can sabotage our relations with our co-workers, family, and friends with complaining and that if we could be a little more mindful about what we say, our work could be much more satisfying. Or something like that. It was really noisy. She spoke for 30 minutes, accepted some polite applause and sat down.

Later, I was upstairs on the acute care ward charting my recommendations for the patients I had assessed in the morning. I charted and I listened to a few people complain about the presentation.

"I just wish she had gone to the chapel to do her talk."

"So annoying."

"I know. Honestly. I didn't want a lecture. I just wanted to eat my lunch."

"Me too!"

The chaplain was there. He asked, "what did you think of her message?"

"It was fine," said one of the nurses, "but I didn't need to hear it. I learned all those lessons in kindergarten."

The chaplain didn't respond (wisely), but I could sense his rue. The complainer continued complaining for a while and then stopped when she ran out of steam.

Brenda's message was solid. It was presented with top notch professional zeal, yet for what I would assume to be at least half of the audience (only 25% were even looking at the speaker) the idea that we are each of us responsible for how we feel and how we connect with those around us fell flat on the floor like a piece of pie elbowed off a crowded table. The water was there, but the horses weren't drinking.

No matter. Floor pie is cleaned up in a jiffy with a broom or a rag and many of us still have the will to approach life with mindfulness and joy. It is possible to be calm in a storm and like moths to a summer porch light, those who are lost in the dark delusion of isolation and sourness may eventually see that there is a more satisfying way to live and feel compelled to approach.

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