For a year in California, I rented a casita in a family’s backyard. Upsides: fifty-foot pine tree right outside my door, listening to the kids practice piano, only five minutes from the hospital. Downsides: minimal privacy, listening to the kids practice piano, only five minutes from the hospital.
As a habit, one I still practice and will likely continue to practice in the face of judgment from friends, family, and neighbors, I would drink my coffee barefoot outside. I did it then to “ground the ambient electricity” from my body. I do it now because sometimes, I can’t find my shoes.
“Dr. Ryan,” called my landlord one morning. He was on his porch, ten yards from mine, waiving me over.
“I see you like to walk barefoot,” he said.
I nodded. My feet were bare before us.
“I’ve been thinking: should you step on a nail, my home insurance policy won’t cover your emergency visit. Please wear shoes on the property from now on.”
I laughed. He did not.
“I see what you’re getting at, I do,” I said, trying to squelch frustration. I was in my seventh consecutive year of medical training. I couldn’t get an email from a supervisor without wanting to slash their tires. “But I don’t see anything sharp around here and I’d never sue you. I assume responsibility for my footwear choices. You want me to sign an addendum to the lease or something?”
“Too big a risk Dr. Ryan,” he said. “Please wear shoes on the property from now on.”
Out of respect, I stopped walking barefoot. Where he could see me.
My landlord was a risk manager for a major car manufacturer. Though tedious at times, I cherished the man and enjoyed that year in the casita. He and I still keep in touch, sending Christmas cards and texts every few months. I stop by to say hi to the family when I’m in town. Our bond’s unique, we endured 2020 together.
I thought about that chapter of life this week when I read a passage from Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott:
“As soon as you start protecting your characters… your story will feel flat and pointless, just like in real life. Get to know your characters as well as you can, let there be something at stake, and then let the chips fall where they may.”
My story, then, was flat and pointless. Externally, the stakes looked high—I was caring for psychiatric patients—but internally, my chips were stuffed in my pockets. It wasn’t until I started taking real risks with substantive stakes, like seeing a therapist and planning my exit from medicine, that my life regained the depth, texture, and vitality that I’d been seeking.
“I noticed the pine tree’s gone,” I said to my landlord when visiting last year. “What happened?”
“Too big of a risk to the house, Dr. Ryan. Should the Santa Ana’s blow too hard, who knows what might’ve happened.”
Everyone’s tolerance is different and worth respecting, but for that kinda tree, I’d have run the risk.
To livin’ a life we love,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD
