I am, in a word, overwhelmed. This graduating and moving across the country bit came sooner than I expected. As Gretchen Rubin in her Happiness Project blog often states: “the years are long but the days are short,” and how true that has been. The list of stuff I have to figure out before moving seems to grow exponentially every day: endless paperwork for privileges, billing, licensing, etc, decisions about renting versus selling my house (which could be paragraphs, so I’ll spare you the drama. Tonight.), finishing this poster for the presentation in May, Grand Rounds on April 22 and I just barely decided on a topic, but I’m still trying to narrow it down: Music and the brain, which is fascinating but too broad. Do I talk about disorders affecting music appreciation? Perception? Rhythm? How about the recent discoveries of the neurophysiology of music and the particular brain cortices and pathways involved? Or maybe music therapy for stroke and Alzheimer’s patients? Obviously, I have no clue. Add in daily studies for Medicine Boards – I’m behind again on my schedule *sigh*. And did I mention that I’m on pediatric neurology this month, on-call every third night, which means fragmented sleep and long hours. Lastly, I’ve decided that I *must* get reasonably back into shape before starting fellowship, so I’ve been getting up at 4 bloody o’clock to exercise for the past two weeks (honest prevails me to mention that I’ve only made it half the time. But still!) – this morning, I was so exhausted and tired that I could barely stay up straight on the machine. Keep reminding me that it’s good for me, okay?

It’s National Poetry Month. I’m going to attempt, like every year, to post a poem a day. Anybody want to take bets how long I’ll last? I just discovered this one and I love the imagery.

Evening
By Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell

The sky puts on the darkening blue coat
held for it by a row of ancient trees;
you watch: and the lands grow distant in your sight,
one journeying to heaven, one that falls;

and leave you, not at home in either one,
not quite so still and dark as the darkened houses,
not calling to eternity with the passion
of what becomes a star each night, and rises;

and leave you (inexpressibly to unravel)
your life, with its immensity and fear,
so that, now bounded, now immeasurable,
it is alternately stone in you and star.