New Mexico first piqued my interest when Natalie Goldberg referred to it so fondly in her book “Writing Down the Bones.” I try to piggyback medical conferences onto travel destinations, and alternate evidence-based review conferences with those exploring the art of medicine. I was due for some humanities, so when I learned of the Taos retreat last summer, I registered. A dozen medical professionals gathered for a week to write at the historic home of art patron Mabel Dodge Luhan, in a small town north of Santa Fe? This was my tribe. 

And they were. There was a urologist turned novelist from the Midwest, a San Francisco-based hematologist from the biotech industry, and a medical anthropologist nearing retirement. There was a soft-spoken neonatologist that I’d met at a writing course in Iowa the year before, and a witty radiologist from Michigan that I hoped to meet again (and who returned this year!). We were a diverse group, but our pleasure in gathering to read and discuss Donald Hall’s poem  "The Ship Pounding" was the same.

We spent mornings in the classroom, and had the option to meet individually with faculty in the afternoon to discuss writing, wellness and/or career. The rest of the time we were free to write and explore.

Most of us last year were at a career transition point. Several wanted to reduce their clinical load, some were planning retirement, and one was about to start a position in Alaska. I’d resigned from the refugee clinic months earlier. I was professionally disoriented, with plenty of ideas but no direction. I had written a book proposal but was second-guessing it. I left the retreat last August with a much clearer idea of professional and creative next steps.

I decided impulsively two weeks ago to attend the Taos retreat again. It seemed like a meaningful way to bookend the last twelve months. I flew out with my almost completed book manuscript in my carry-on, and five weeks remaining before the start of a residency in Public Health at UBC. I wanted one last vacation and some peace in which to finish the book.

I holed up in a hotel in Santa Fe for four days first, with chapters spread out over the tiled floor and visits to museums, galleries and historic sites when I needed to fill the well. I spent every meal with a novel. 

Then I headed to the Taos retreat for the week. The faculty, food and lodging were top-notch, again, and It was another great group. Of the fourteen attendees, three were men, thirteen were American but didn't want to talk politics, nine were physicians, one was a CEO and three knew what a Calvinette was. Want a group to cohese rapidly? Give them a safe place to write and share their work with each other.

I didn't get DH Lawrence's bathtub, but I did get Mabel Dodge Luhan's bed. I woke to sunshine every morning. There were afternoon thundershowers and pre-dinner drinks. I wasn't looking for career direction, but I got some. And on the morning of my last day, I emailed my agent my manuscript: 47,292 words. 

Elizabeth Zimmermann has revolutionized my knitting. In Knitting Without Tears she provides a sweater template, giving the ratios of sleeve to body to collar. You measure your subject (newborn to grown man), select your yarn (fine to bulky), determine your gauge, and knit the sweater. You can do the band, cuffs and collar however you prefer: ribbed, hemmed, rolled. You can stripe it, or work it in monochrome, or, as I did here, use colourblocking. It's very freeing. 

This is the seamless saddle shoulder pullover, with a hemmed band and collar in contrasting yarn, and ribbed cuffs:

The yarn is Brooklyn Tweed's Shelter, worsted weight wool grown in the USA. I used hayloft, almanac and sweatshirt. The colours are rich, it's perfectly textured - highly recommend.

Leif could never disguise his pleasure when he'd find me working on this; he'd do a little hum and come over to put his arm in a sleeve and to remind me about the rabbit fur. He wears it very enthusiastically. Testing-the-seams enthusiastically. He pulls it over his head in such an inefficient way that I'm always reminded of a fetal face presentation.

And I finished it just in time. The weather's turned; our front walk is covered in wet cedar leaves, the winds are blowing down Indian Arm and we've just turned on the furnace. 

Project details on my Ravelry page. 

That used up exactly three skeins of Noro Kochoran striped with Cascade Yarns Ecological Wool. (The exactly part was no accident. I love the calculating part of knitting.) The colours and texture of Noro yarn are simply gorgeous. Look at these and tell me you don't want to knit:

As I was paying for the wool the cashier asked chattily what I was planning to make with it.

"A baby blanket." 

"You can't use this yarn for a baby blanket. It has angora in it! If the fibres go up your baby's nose while she's sleeping, she'll suffocate. You'll want to use something different." Said decisively while setting the yarn back down and nodding at the the wall of wool at the back of the shop. 

A brief and awkard pause, and I said, "I'm going to use this anyway." She rang through my purchase in silence.

I cast on 173 stitches on a 24 inch 5.5 mm circular needle. The entire blanket is worked in 1x1 rib, two rows of Noro (which self stripes) alternating with two rows of the cream-coloured Cascade wool. I made a tidy selvedge edge by holding the yarn as if to purl and then slipping purlwise the first and last stitch of the second row of every stripe. 

A couple of months' worth of mindless knitting later, it was done. By that point I despised it and hid it away in the baby's wardrobe. Eventually I rediscovered it and decided it was tolerable. (A common sequence for projects, I find.)

And Ilia's been sleeping with it for months now without incident, airway-threatening angora fibres and all: 

Initially there was a stretchiness to the blanket that I disliked; maybe the weight of the blanket as it hung from the needles distended it? When I washed it (fingers crossed) on cold, gentle and hung it to dry, it came out a little more compact and dense than it went in: just perfect. 

On Ravelry here. 

Vicarious traumatization is a term coined by McCann and Pearlman in 1990 to describe the psychological response of those who work with victims of trauma, including "long-term alteration in the therapist's own cognitive schemas, or beliefs, expectations and assumptions about self and others." And this from Wikipedia: "Its hallmark is disrupted spirituality, or a disruption in the trauma workers' perceived meaning and hope."

I've noticed lately that it's less the details of the trauma, and more the trajectory of the overarching patient story that affects me most. As per Kurt Vonnegut's graph below, good stories end with an upswing. It's the curves that angle downward, with no hint at even a modest recovery, that get me. 

Taking architecture seriously . . . requires that we open ourselves to the idea that we are affected by our surroundings even when they are made of vinyl and would be expensive and time-consuming to ameliorate. It means conceding that we are inconveniently vulnerable to the colour of our wallpaper and that our sense of purpose may be derailed by an unfortunate bedspread.

I just finished The Architecture of Happiness by Alain de Botton. It's a short, essayistic book examining how we determine which architecture is beautiful, and why aesthetic preferences vary between people and over time.

Buildings interest me, as does happiness, plus I wanted something to back up my request for an office with windows at work. So when I came across this title a year or two ago, I included it in my annual Amazon book spree. I can't remember any more who to thank for the recommendation, although for the first third of the book I was looking for someone to blame.

The book is not a light read. It's packed with ideas, it makes you think, and if you want to unwind after a day of challenging patients or children, pass this one over. I wondered a few times if English was de Botton's first language, because at times he uses it in such a wordy, complicated way that I had to reread the sentence three times to grasp the concept. Of course, the problem could be mine.

But if you pick up the book when you are feeling fresh and focused, and work on getting through it over the course of a week, it's a great read. What I loved about The Architecture of Happiness was that it is full of fascinating concepts applicable to our daily interactions with buildings.

De Botton explains the sadness we often feel when presented with beauty as an innate recognition that life is flawed, and ideals rarely recognized: "The flawless object throws into perspective the mediocrity that surrounds it. We are reminded of the way we would wish things always to be and of how incomplete our lives remain."

He suggests that we long to surround ourselves with objects that hold qualities we consider ideal, so that we might more purposefully pursue those qualities in ourselves. "A feeling of beauty is a sign that we have come upon a material articulation of certain of our ideas of a good life," explains de Botton. "We need our rooms to align us to desirable versions of ourselves and to keep alive the important, evanescent sides of us." This might be my favourite quote from the book:

Endeavoring to purchase something we think beautiful may in fact be the most unimaginative way of dealing with the longing it excites in us, just as trying to sleep with someone may be the bluntest response to a feeling of love. What we seek, at the deepest level, is inwardly to resemble, rather than physically to possess, the objects and places that touch us through their beauty.

Put another way, what we find attractive tends to reflect our own deficiencies. "[W]e are drawn to call something beautiful whenever we detect that it contains in a concentrated form those qualities in which we personally, or our societies more generally, are deficient." This helps explain my own juxtaposing predilections for the spare, light, small space and the worn, dark, cluttered room. The first preference reflects my resistance to complicated areas of my life, and the second my longing for history and family. On a cultural scale, De Botton might suggest that the current preoccupation with natural colours and textures (wood, stone) in Vancouver homes reflects society's loss of nature in day to day life.

The book is liberally dotted with photos to illustrate de Botton's analyses of good and poor architecture. We drove by VGH yesterday and it was quite satisfying to be able to articulate to Pete one reason why the buildings are unattractive: they're conflicted, focusing on the horizontal axis rather than their height.

De Botton has written on a wide range of topics, including travel, falling in love, anxiety and philosophy. I'm going to put a couple of those on my 'To Read' list. But first, some fiction is in order.

- William Osler (1849-1919), renowned Canadian physician

I turned thirty-five last month, and what struck me most was how odd it is that it's been thirteen years since I was twenty-two. But apparently what I should have been impressed by is the five short years remaining in which to make a significant professional contribution to the world. I find this idea disconcerting, as I'm waist-deep in raising kids and was banking on my next decade to make some strides career-wise.

More here at Mothers in Medicine.

I just finished Morehouse Farm's Child's Tunic, in their merino worsted weight natural brown heather with white trim. Merino wool is lovely because it's not itchy. I love Morehouse Farm's undyed wool: this brown heather is 65% white wool blended with 35% brown, which is black wool bleached chocolate by the New York State sun.

After placing my order in October, I waited impatiently for it to arrive. I could track its progress online, and it sat at Customs in Montreal for weeks. It didn't seem right that a small box of wool could be regarded as possible contraband, and I was so annoyed with the wait that I decided I didn't want to knit this season after all. But when the parcel arrived on my doorstep one grey, wet afternoon I forgot my resolution and cast on the first stitches before the cardboard was even in the recycling.

I so enjoy that knitting is portable, and that little bits of my travels get worked into the garment. The cast on was done while Pete's mom was visiting; the stitches were divided for the front and back while waiting for the ferry in Tsawwassen; the back was knit in the atrium of the Empress Hotel; a perfect three needle shoulder bind-off was executed in Parksville one evening while deer grazed outside the cabin; and the sleeve cuffs were finished on a Sunday afternoon at home in front of the fire.

No part of this sweater was knit at a medical conference.

Morehouse included a postcard with my order, and Ariana was enchanted when I explained the link between the sheep and her sweater. She carries the card when she wears the sweater, and it's worn and bent with her two-year-old affection. "Wool! Sheep! Sweater!"

This was an easy, beginner-level project. As always, I tweaked it a bit. I knit buttonholes and sewed on some sweet wooden apple buttons, but disliked the cluttered end result and went for a clean crocheted finish instead. I also lengthened the sleeves.

Now, Saskia wants a toque and Leif has requested a vest, scarf and slippers. I'm happy to oblige.

When I picked up a few hundred bulbs last week, I decided to get some hyacinths and paperwhites (white daffodils) to force indoors this year. The idea of tricking bulbs into thinking it was time to bloom captivated the kids.

For the paperwhites, we put some pebbles in the bottom of a glass (with much analysis of the merits of each stone as it was carefully placed by little fingers), set the bulb on the rocks and added water until it was just touching the bottom of the bulb.

That was Thursday night. On Saturday morning Saskia and Leif literally screamed with excitement when they noticed the hundreds of little roots budding from each bulb. I have to admit, I was pretty impressed myself. And at a dollar a pop, this is the most affordable fun we've had in a while.

For the hyacinths, we set the bulbs in hyacinth glasses, added water, and set them in a dark cupboard in the cellar. They need an eight to ten week chilling period before they can come upstairs to bloom. I'm limiting check-ins on those ones to once a week. 

I do find the term 'forcing' bulbs a little off-putting. It sounds so unnatural. And when I read that a forced bulb will not usually bloom again because of the tremendous amount of energy required, I felt a little pang of guilt.

Hopefully that will abate when I have a windowsill full of narcissi blooming in December.

For more information, HGTV has a good article on forcing bulbs.

I'd been keeping an eye out for something along these lines (vintage, handmade, multi-coloured on a white background) for Saskia for years, and given up on thrifting anything remotely similar.

This is a blanket I would have loved as a kid. I would have spent hours dreamily acquainting myself with all 780 coloured windows. And when it arrived from Texas, folded neatly in a slender box, Saskia loved it instantly. She picks out her favourite fabrics, and the ones she thinks others are most likely to appreciate (her choice of red gingham for my mom was spot on). She sets up game pieces in the squares, tucks her stuffed animals into it, and reads with it draped around her shoulders.

I'm no quilter, but I'm fascinated by the construction of this thing. I can't quite figure out all the loops and folds. The fabrics are beautiful, and I love to wonder what their origins were. When it passed inspection by my visiting mother-in-law last week, I was almost as proud as if I'd quilted it myself.

Now I need to stop putting together Saskia's room and focus some energy on the rest of the house. Believe it or not, Pete and I just ended a year of sleeping on mismatched single mattresses pushed together on the floor. And we weren't sharing any nice vintage bed linens, either.

He was born in Bond Head, Ontario and studied medicine at the University of Toronto and McGill, where he later taught. He went on to become the first head of medicine at Johns Hopkins Hospital and medical school in Baltimore in 1889. And in 1905, he was appointed Regius Professor of Medicine at Oxford University. 

Besides being a brilliant physician, much-loved teacher and enthusiastic medical historian, he was a prolific and articulate writer. I find his quotes on the practice of medicine quite wonderful, and this is one of my favourites:

Things cannot always go your way. Learn to accept in silence the minor aggravations, cultivate the gift of taciturnity and consume your own smoke with an extra draught of hard work, so that those about you may not be annoyed with the dust and soot of your complaint.

I briefly considered printing that off and hanging it in my clinic office as a reminder to myself and my colleagues, but quickly realized that patients might think the advice intended for them. While I wouldn't mind the list of complaints per visit being reduced from eight to two, the promotion of suffering in silence is the last message I want to convey to my refugee patients.

Better keep it in the home office, then. Or in the kitchen, where any whining children will be reminded to consume their own smoke.

Clockwise from top left: Autumn, Meeting Point, Soft and Solid and Sweet Dreams.

The mossy boulders, groves of trees and rich, natural colours remind me of life right outside our windows in Deep Cove.

I purchased Autumn months ago, and finally got around to getting it framed and hung. The matting and framing is always the rate-determining step for me; I have stacks of prints languishing in a cardboard box in my study, waiting to be put behind glass.

Saskia's room is the best decorated in the house, as Autumn joins Green Girl and some of Cicely Mary Barker's flower fairies.

Bast's work is available for purchase through her website, in her Etsy shop and through various vendors.

Lessing, who was born of British parents in Persia, raised in Southern Rhodesia and has lived in England since 1949, won the Nobel Prize in Literature last year. At eighty-eight, she's the oldest winner, and one of only a handful of women.

The Golden Notebook, published in 1962, is considered her most important work. The novel addresses such themes as women's experiences, being an artist, communism and mental illness.

Time interviewed Lessing this week, and it's worth checking out. I find her frankness refreshing.

The Nobel committee described you as the "epicist of the female experience." Do you agree with that?

Well, they had to say something.

But do you agree with it?

No. I can just see somebody sitting there thinking, "What the hell are we going to say about this one? She doesn't like being called a feminist so what'll we say?" So they scribbled that.

Watch this little video of Lessing's reaction to news of her Nobel Prize win and tell me you don't love her.

The scores on the Amazon reviews are scattered almost evenly from one to five stars. The unimpressed reviewers describe The Golden Notebook as a boring, self-indulgent, depressing and extremely long read. Those who gave it four or five stars hailed it as brilliant and life-changing.

When I pick up the book while sitting down for lunch with the kids, I'm too engrossed to refill the milk glasses the first time I'm asked, but it's not exactly lazy beach reading. I plan to finish and review the (635-page) book in about four weeks.

Consider picking it up yourself, and sharing your thoughts when I post on it next month. A sort of FreshMD book club.

There are some great posts up already, and I'll be making my first contribution this weekend.

Thank you to KC of Where's My Cape? for initiating this project, and for inviting me to be part of it.

There's a family of owls that have been living in the park for years, and everyone I've met in Deep Cove knows about them. I headed out with my camera, followed the sound of the screeching, and found them in their usual spot near the bridge.

Pete's been chased by them as he runs along the trail. My fear of having those talons aimed at me kept in check the extremes to which I was willing to go to get a good shot. 

We've seen the three owls working together to corner a squirrel. Once one flew over the trail clutching a rat.

Another evening one was perched on a low branch in a tree just outside the park. All the neighbours were milling about, coffees in hand, admiring it. The owl never took its eyes off a cat that was lounging at the side of the road.

I believe these are barred owls. The fluffiness makes me wonder if this one is a juvenile, but I'm no ornithologist.

Somehow seeing these creatures in the forest puts everything in perspective, and I trotted out of the woods refreshed, having only overstayed my allotted time by twenty minutes. 

YWCA Thrift Shop

4399 Main Street at 28th Avenue

Last year I ordered RYC Classic Weekend by Rowan. The book is gorgeous, practically a coffee table book, packed with photos of women in ponchos meeting at abandoned bus stations, and picnicking on tea and pears on windswept beaches bundled in Fair Isle cardigans.

I picked the Nessie vest. The model in the pattern book is wearing her vest over her pajamas. She is playing Scrabble on a Saturday morning in her weekend getaway cabin with her girlfriend, who is similarly dressed in a knit garment over pajamas. They look happy and refreshed. The scene is not one with which I am personally familiar.

I used Mission Falls 1824 wool in Oatmeal, which I ordered from Camilla Valley Farm. I started this vest when I was still nursing Ariana, so I had to estimate my post-lactating bust size. I realize now that I was optimistic. Other than that, I enjoyed the project. 

I finished the vest last month, and promptly wore it five days in a row. It's versatile - I've paired it with a t-shirt and jeans, and a blouse and dress pants. I have yet to wear it with pajamas.

MK Carroll designed and photographed this uterus. She explains, "It's not completely anatomically accurate. I've taken a few liberties with the general shape and scale, as well as leaving out the ligaments connected to the ovaries. And, of course, the human uterus is not normally bubblegum pink."

Is it just me, or does that uterus look gravid? Maybe there's a little knit fetus in there, with a cabled umbilical cord.

That's a beginner project. Here's the entire digestive system:

This was designed and photographed by arrmatie.

What do you do with that? Give it to your gastroenterologist for Christmas? Let your kids cuddle with it? Set it out on your coffee table for a conversation starter?

Thanks to the Internet, there's a pattern out there for every, and I do mean every, piece of human anatomy. I can't be more specific or I'll attract the wrong kind of traffic.

Maybe I'll do up some angora CD4 cells to go with that HIV Plushie. 

It's the Berkshire pullover from Melanie Falick's book Weekend Knitting: 50 Unique Projects and Ideas. I'm guessing the "weekend" in the title refers to pre-children weekends, the ones where you can sleep until ten, meet friends for brunch at Sophie's Cosmic Cafe, spend the afternoon reading the paper, and then do dinner and a show. You could use one of those weekends of leisure to be productive and make turtleneck egg cozies or a lap blanket. If you have children, disregard the "weekend" part of the title.

The wool is Morehouse merino, bulky weight. It's undyed, from black sheep grazing in the Hudson River Valley of New York state, faded to a chocolate brown by the sun. There are bits of straw stuck to the fibres, and it smells like farm country in all the right ways.

I usually knit for my kids, who are very forgiving of imperfect fit. Unfortunately, an ill-fitting hand knitted garment on a grown man does not look charming, it looks pathetic. So I had to custom size this sweater, and ended up rewriting the entire pattern.

I'm pleased with the end result. And equally pleased to be done with it.