Stag

In the wintertime, it stays dark out late into the mornings. On long workdays, it feels like a never-ending darkness, as one day moves into the next without the sun on your face nor its warmth on your body. It often makes me feel entrenched in work—especially when the darkness I see outside matches the darkness befalling my patients.

Last week, in the middle of January, six children died. I knew them all in one way or another. A child at home with a terrible brain tumor. A baby whose parents felt she had been through too much for her congenital heart disease and it was time to stop. A young man with a hard life that made dying from cancer just another thing to deal with. The list goes on.

It's weeks such as these when the depth of the darkness can feel overwhelming and it's easy to settle into a type of self-protecting withdrawal. Getting up in the morning—no startle from the alarm. Hearing about the day's plans on rounds—robotic and routine. Seeing patients—present in the room but with little left over for debriefing and synthesis. Seeing my own children when I get home—quickly shuttling them through their bedtime routines and goodnight kisses. Spending time with my husband—no longer having space to supportively think about his problems.

In these times, I start to cherish my moments alone. I retreat into them. They become the times that I am most present with myself and what grounds me. They become the places where I find quiet solitude and peace. I seek out their safety and spend more and more time gratefully in their midst. Silent mornings sipping on hot coffee, quietly folding the laundry after midnight, the office after everyone else has gone home, autopilot on my commute home.

And then, last night driving in the darkness, there he was. One block from my house on a typical residential street, where everyone else was already tucked into bed and the lights were out. There he appeared out of nowhere. A stag. Strong, calm, and staring at me. A moment of nature's mystery illuminated so close to home in the still darkness. I glanced side to side in disbelief—did anyone else see this? Was he alone? This beautiful creature stared at me in this dark silent moment to tell me of the unexpected and the sacred. With his huge antlers and deep brown eyes, he beckoned me to remember to stay connected. Seconds passed, and his random occurrence gave me the chance to see his beauty and to remind me of the importance of being open to it.

As the moments passed, he waited for me to drive on, promising me that he would be there again the next time I needed him. And I knew he would be, because I had been through this many times before. Feeling safety in the retreat to isolation and quiet—only to be given the precious gift of a jolt that renewed my sense of connection, presence, and purpose. This time, that jolt was a stag. And with that emerging thought, a deep rejuvenated smile and chuckle followed, along with the acknowledgment that I had reunited with my intention to be a connected part of the everyday magic. And when I looked back from my driveway a few moments later to thank him, he was gone.