Not unlike many of my physician colleagues , I was a relatively good student . However , my actual enthusiasm for learning emerged a bit later in adolescence imitating , it seemed , the seasons of my social blossoming . Preceding this emergence of my academic maturity , I , out of necessity , mastered memorization and the following of directions . While rote memorization and coloring inside the lines robs the artistic mind of the fuel needed to flourish , it proves remarkably useful in high school anatomy . As such , I found myself as a standout anatomy and physiology student , and this seemed an obvious stepping stone to a career in medicine . In mid to late 20th-century America , few career paths garnered more prestige and mystique than “ becoming a doctor .” To this end , I suspect , I received much praise from my teachers and parents . I again found myself smitten , though this time for realized success , and , just like that , architecture became the one that got away .
Now years into my medical practice , the singular focus and intensity required to practice medicine is evident . While singular focus may create an inferno in some parts of the mind , this intensity reduces other neural flames to smoldering embers . My medical training tells me that the human brain , unless terminally suffocated with the body or ravaged by a dreaded neurodegenerative disease , will still nurture the embers of the mind . My lived experience tells me the nurtured embers will eventually demand the air to again combust .
Over the years , without the training to design and build buildings , I taught myself to build landscapes . I take immense pride in those landscapes that come to fruition , borne of the botanical kiln in my head . I can get lost in the yard or the local nursery supply house for hours , emerging with a sense of fulfillment and joy . Those closest to me , able to see and enjoy the fruits of my labor , know the fires of my mind . attuned reader can feel the sting , as did I , in the unanimous use of the adjective “ happy .”
My children ’ s responses gave me pause . While creative types often effuse a carefree spirit , the stereotype can also embody a notorious moodiness . Acknowledging that my children often encounter me exasperated at the end of long office days , rushing in the door always later than I intend , I feared I had allowed my own moody nature too much latitude . However , I suspected that in my hypothetical architectural career , they may well see my joy and , too , my moodiness , nurturing my designs , much as I do my patients now , until creatively spent . Further , while I more readily display joy in my creative work , I do , in my real life , often rush in the door from my botanical nirvana , later than I intend , covered head to toe in dirt . In this reality , though , I am physically and creatively exhausted but with readily apparent pride in the manifestations of my labor in the out of doors . In this , I understand , I convey a more palpable sense of joy to my children : truly , life imitating art imitating life .
Ultimately , my children called it right the first time : If I weren ’ t a doctor , I indeed would be an architect , designing my world . However , if I weren ’ t a doctor , I would still be me . Bound by the ingrained desires of my heart , I could not extinguish the fires in my mind as an architect any more than I can now as a doctor . The same flames and flickers of my mind would burn , but I would be left to tend to them in a different balance . Answering the hypothetical posed for this essay is not a question to be repeatedly asked solely in search of ulterior realities . The question is an invitation to envision what else I can be while being , who I am now , a doctor . The answer has no limits , which is truly the nature of the man to which I strive .
Dr . Kolter is a practicing internist at Baptist Health .
In this knowledge , I asked my family to answer for me , in their opinion , the question posed for this essay . Unsurprisingly , though unprompted , all answered “ landscape architect ” except one , who , possibly , was too inert at the moment of my request to bother writing the word “ landscape .” She answered , simply , “ architect .” Proud as I was that my reputation preceded me , but ever true to the ethos within me , I protested at my family ’ s own lack of imagination . Could none of my offspring , or my creative consort , generate a more imaginative answer ?
All agreed to dig a little further and give their answers deeper roots . The subsequent response from my spouse , well aware of my constant list of projects and varied interests that far outstrips my available time , was somewhat predictable , “ house husband .” However , my children ’ s succeeding responses came with a sting : “ happy little garden gnome ”, “ happy part time landscape architect ” and , positively searing , “ happier , more carefree person .” The
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