Mending 1: not giving up
Welcome to mending, a monthly haven where words meet inner wisdom, and stories intertwine with the art of health and healing.
At the heart of Narrative Medicine is a belief in the power of the human story. Words, among other human expressions, have the ability to enlighten and connect us to our most vulnerable or even seemingly insignificant moments in life.
These moments speak volumes to the richness of our humanity. And in sharing your words you support the production of neurochemicals like dopamine and oxytocin that activate your body’s healing potential and your brain’s capacities to overcome challenges in ways that cannot be understated.
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Your expression is where we find the intersection of Narrative Medicine and Functional Nutrition: in the recognition that everything is connected, we are all unique, and all things matter.
Each monthly issue of mending is a journey into a landscape of words, healing, and personal interpretation. They will be inspired by the gentle wisdom of poets and artists and the reflective insights of our guest contributors.
Why does this matter? Because in the riddle of healthcare, amidst the supposed precision of diagnoses and treatments, the human story often whispers, seeking to be heard. mending leans in and listens to these whispers. It invites you to do the same for yourself.
It’s time to explore the depths of your own narrative and the fabric of your human condition, beyond your signs and symptoms, or maybe in concert with them. Join me as we weave together threads of empathy, inquiry, and understanding. mending is more than a newsletter— it’s a dialogue, and initiation, and a celebration of the stories that make us human, illuminating their integral role in our paths toward healing.
Mending 1: not giving up
Instructions on Not Giving Up
by Ada Limón
More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.
Question: What do you think of the poem’s title?
Answer: What a good question! This reminds me of my teaching which I always say is a "framework, not a protocol". We often want the protocol - the top tips, the diet, the prescription. But those rarely work (even when they come with a new piece of unassembled IKEA furniture.) So what are the instructions? They come from witnessing, from exposure. In the context of "Instructions on Not Giving Up," the title itself serves as an entry point into understanding the poem's essence. It suggests a guidance or a subtle set of directions for enduring through life's challenges, yet it does so without prescribing a one-size-fits-all solution. Instead, it invites readers into a contemplative space where the 'instructions' are not explicit commands but insights gleaned from the world's rhythms and cycles of renewal and resilience.
Reader: What do you think of the poem’s title?
Prompt: Write about not giving up. (5 minutes of writing)
Eating French fries is not an act of giving up. Eating French fries from the place we used to go before this all happened, specifically to get those French fries, driving up to the top of the mountain peak to watch the sunset and munch on our take-out tots, is not an act of giving up. But in the moment, it felt to your brother and I like you, had given up. We had flown back to San Francisco to see your neuro-oncologist. To get your monthly brain scan. The scan showed new growth. And by then we knew, nearly two years into this diagnosis, that what was seen on a scan is only the tip of the iceberg. Glial cells are so tiny. Smaller than a fleck of fine sea salt. You also suspected a shift. There were moments where you bent down to pick up one of our baby’s toys from the floor and your head would spin as you righted yourself. Dizziness was a new symptom and sensation. And while our food had become as “clean” as it could be (and I do not prefer that term for food) to support us through these trials, you still, in that moment, went for the French fries. Recalling your taste buds. Not giving up on your savored memories. Your brother and I moped. Fearing this was an act of surrender. But you enjoyed your fries anyway. We walked from the restaurant to the park with your grease stained bag, took the baby out of his carrier to crawl in the grass, somber on our end while you licked your fingers, relishing every morsel. Certainly not giving up.
“Reader: Now it’s your turn! Write to the prompt: write about not giving up”
Reader: Now it’s your turn! Feel free to hit ‘reply’, set your timer for 5 minutes, and write to the prompt: write about not giving up
You can also send your responses and feedback to scribe@andreanakayama.com
Guest contributor: The contributor for this first issue is me! I want to kickoff the project using myself as an example. If you’d like to learn more about me, you can do so here. And a special thanks to my Narrative Medicine colleague, Vivé Griffith, who first introduced me to this particular poem, question, and prompt.
