Nebulous

It's coming up very quickly to November, and as I've slumped in the writing department again, with little to no chance of a sojourn off on a sunny writer's jaunt to get back in the groove, it's about time for me to sign up for NaBloPoMo again. Last year I managed to do it, just. And it was very good for me. I miss writing. I love writing. When I write regularly I finish a post, press send, and exhale. It's like All that urge that's inside me to commit *something* is satiated. Even if all I've done is post a picture. Or a brief whinge. That very *somethingness*; that urge to link myself with the ability to put words together and make them mine (even, or perhaps especially, if they're not meaningful or interesting) is so important to me.

I'm sitting here at work at the moment, sitting Indian fashion on an uncomfortable chair and surfing the internet. Tired from a long shift and a long week. Looking forward to a full weekend off to be with my family. Sitting next to me here however is a photocopied piece of paper to add to my mental file of reasons why I am here. My report card from this term, looking awfully similar to the report cards I had in primary school. Columns of tick boxes with lots of different categories.

Clinical skills, Knowledge Base, Clinical Judgement, Communication, Personal and Professional Skills, Teaching, Time Management... It goes on. Usually my reports are very good. I have had one singular report that barely passed and it dented my ego and sense of self right down to the core. But in the main I have had veyr complimentary reports, the last one, for Surgery was so complimentary that I actually received a letter for my resume from the director of clinical training here. Which swelled my head and reminded me of a tiny 11 year old girl with waist length black hair who bounced home with her report and the knowledge that she could do *anything*.

But today's report is perfect. It could not be any better unless it came with diamond encrusted tickets to Paris. I am slightly embarrassed by it, thinking of the times when I know I could have done better, or worked harder. But I'm a tiny bit proud too, because I enjoy my work and I'm passionate about my work and about the patients I look after. The comments in the "free text" bit made me blush, but they're about me, and recognition of me and I find that hard to not knock down.

I am not perfect, I have so many areas to improve on, and I know that the path ahead is not going to always be easy. But right now there is a little fire inside of me, that burns so brightly and with so much heat that I can feel the flames lick along my veins. I feel irridescent, hopeful and so excited for what lays ahead of me. And if you could see my eyes you'd see the flames too, as the golden tongue of the Gleam sings.