It all begins when the gates open.

Sodium ions flood into the single brain cell through the gates of channels linking the exterior and interior of the neuron. Other channels along the length of the cell follow suit, opening more gates to allow more sodium ions in. A deluge of positively-charged atoms overtakes the single cell.

Other channels follow the precedence, though they selectively permit calcium, not sodium, ions to join the influx. The excess positive charge soon beckons the potassium channels to open and, with gusto, potassium ions flee from the interior of the cell.

There is only so much room on the train. Some people have just got to go.

All of this ion exchange has produced an electrical current that races along the membrane of this single brain cell. The spark soon hits the end of the neuron and induces the cell to release little packets of chemicals. The little packets had previously sat unperturbed within the cell; now, they hasten to merge with the membrane and dump their contents into the space just outside of the brain cell. These chemicals—neurotransmitters—float across the space and settle into receptors located on neighboring brain cells.

Once these chemicals have latched onto the waiting receptors on the neighboring cells, these brain cells in turn open gates so sodium ions can rush in.

Soon, many neurons are alive with electricity, rapidly exchanging the currency of sodium, calcium, and potassium with the surrounding fluid environment.

An entire section of the thin layer of gray matter (called the “cortex”) that sits on the surface of the left part of the brain soon alights with electricity. Without conscious awareness, the collection of brain cells connects words with their meanings. The sparks within this collection in the cortex then transforms these unspoken words into sounds and ensures that these sounds are actually words. Finally, the electricity spreads to the cortex located in the front of the brain to trigger the production of these individual sounds.

She’s not fully attending to the perfect coordination of the muscles controlling her lips, tongue, and throat that has resulted from all of this electrical activity surging through her head.

She only opens her mouth and sings, “He’s a cold hearted snake, look into his eyes….”

There is a waiting room adjacent to the intensive care unit (ICU), though most people don’t actually wait there. People pull chairs out of the waiting room and line them against the walls of the hallway. They all seem to prefer to wait there.

On weekends, the hallway is usually crowded. Often, three or four families are loitering outside of the waiting room. Parents have toddlers on their laps, bobbing them up and down with their knees while they make conversation with the people around them. Older children poke and prod at each other before giving chase down the length of the hallway. The young men stand and the older women sit. Empty bottles of soda and water collect underneath the chairs. Sometimes people are laughing, enjoying a joke or a light anecdote. Sometimes everyone is silent, staring at the tiles of the floor, and only the whoosh of the ICU doors disturbs the peace.

What they all share in common they wish they didn’t: Someone they care about is in the intensive care unit.

A main stairway empties out into that hallway. Naturally, everyone seated in the hallway looks up to see who is exiting the stairwell. The interruption breaks the monotony, the boredom that comes with waiting for someone to heal. Because visitors take the elevator and staff take the stairs, the result is an intermittent parade of white coats, blue scrubs, and conservative dressers. And, like a parade, the spectators look at the participants, while the participants look past and through the spectators, only acknowledging the bodies, but not the faces.

One afternoon, only two women were seated in the hallway. There was evidence that other people had sat there previously; empty bottles of water and near empty styrofoam cups of coffee sat at the feet of the chairs. The trash can was brimming with crinkled bags of chips and candy wrappers. Some of the remaining chairs were arranged in a slight semi-circle, suggesting a clique had collected outside of the ICU.

One woman was frowning. Her eyes were ringed with thick lines of black ocher and her cheeks featured asymmetrical patches of rouge. Her legs were crossed and her fingers loosely held a can of soda.

The woman seated next to her was knitting. Her needles were made of wood and the yarn was blue-gray. A strand of her dark hair was caught between her lips. It didn’t seem to bother her.

“No, I’m going to wait here until he wakes up,” Frowning Woman said with restrained anger. Knitting Woman paused, looking up to nod. “He needs to see what he’s done to us.”

The intermittent clacking of the knitting needles faded quickly in the hallway.

I had noticed the ring on his hand while he was talking. The thin band probably boasted a warm, golden hue at one time, though now it had only a yellow pallor under the fluorescent lights of the hospital ward. It seemed too small for his finger; the flesh of the fourth digit of his left hand bunched over both sides of the metal hoop. I wondered if he could physically remove the ring from his pudgy hand.

I stood up from my chair and extended my right hand.

“It was very nice to meet you,” I said. “Take care of yourself.”

It wasn’t merely a polite pleasantry; it was a gentle reminder. The use of cocaine has its short-term benefits, of course, though the long-term consequences can be disastrous. In his case, he was now reclining in a hospital bed and attached through an intravenous line to a metal pole from which dangled five fluid-filled bags.

He stretched out his right hand—thick, fat, and warm—and grasped mine firmly.

“Thank you,” he said, parting his lips in a smile that revealed a few broken teeth. “It was very nice to meet you, too.”

We released our hands simultaneously and, as I was turning away, he offered his own gentle reminder: “You remember to take time for yourself, too, okay? I didn’t see a ring on your finger….”

He saw the expression on my face shift. I felt it. He laughed—maybe with a little discomfort, though perhaps he was merely detecting my own.

Good Lord! I thought. Even patients are getting on my case now!

“Good-bye, Mr. Smith,” I said firmly, hoping to terminate the conversation as quickly and cleanly as possible.

“Good-bye,” he said playfully, waving at me.

We both snickered.

… and the new year has already accumulated remarkable speed and strength, and I be the surfer, trying to stay on top of the wave…!

Usually I can stay on top of my RSS reading, but it’s only January 3rd and I engaged in more skimming today than actual reading.

I secured one textbook related to Milton Erickson and hypnosis… and then acquired Jane Austen’s Letters… and then received a copy of The Gift (thanks, Andrea!). All in the span of less than one week. (What am I thinking?!)

2008 already promises to be an ambitious year! And, in those years in which I indulge my optimism and idealism, I formally mull over, assess, reassess, tailor, and commit to goals that hopefully have relevance to the quality of my life. The list currently includes things like

• Run 1000 kilometers by December 31st, 2008.
• Eat more vegetables.
• Write and send more hand-written letters.

(Note that I have yet to more concretely quantify some of the goals. What exactly does “more” mean? How will I know that I’ve done “more”? What feedback shall I solicit from myself or from others to confirm that I have done “more”? etc.)

One tactic that I have employed is nicely summarized in Steve Pavlina’s 30 Days to Success. Yes, it may seem a bit hokey, but for those of us who are more comfortable with finalized decisions (versus unresolved situations), 30 day commitments work nicely. (It’s only thirty days. Most of us can do most things for thirty days.)

I’m well into week 2 of eating one salad per day every day for thirty days. (That’s the definition of “more”.) I anticipate that it shall be easier to cut back on eating salads after doing so on a daily basis.

I am hoping to write more stories in 2008; I enjoy storytelling. However, I remain uncertain as to how to quantify this. Inspiration does not come as easily as salad preparation; some days, the Muse is away, presumably preparing her own salads in her distant kitchen. Or something. Furthermore, some of the finer details in life (e.g. work, eating salads, dancing, running, etc.) get in the way of this pursuit. And how I dislike first drafts. We all dislike first drafts.

And, now that the year has officially turned over, I am acutely aware of my waning days in Seattle. Next year, I shan’t see the Christmas tree of lights on top of the Space Needle (indeed, it is already gone—the “12″ flag for the Seahawks now sits atop the point). New York rapidly approaches.

Increased productivity may accompany increased activity, though I have yet to master the art of remaining mindful throughout all of the bustle. And that is also a goal I find difficult to concretely quantify.