Mending 3: longing
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.
Light
Dark
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 3: longing
[guest: Donna Jackson Nakazawa]
Prayer for 2018
by Cecilia Woloch
Surely there was a river, once, but there is no river here. Only a sound of drowning in the dark between the trees. The sound of wet, and only that. Surely there was a country that I called my country, once. Before the thief who would be king made other countries of us all. Before the bright screens everywhere in which another country lives. But what is it, anyway, to live—to breathe, to act, to love, to eat? Surely there was a real earth, wild and green, here, blossoming. Land of milk and honey, once. Land of wind-swept plains and blood, then of shackles and of iron. And then the black smoke of its cities and the laying down of laws. Under which some flourished—if you call that flourishing—and from which others would have fled had there been anywhere to flee. My country, which is cruel, and which is beautiful and lost. Surely, there were notes that made a song, a pledge of birds. And not a child in any cage, no man or woman in a ditch. Surely, what we meant was to anoint some other god. One made of wind and starlight, pulsing, heart that matched the human heart. Surely that god watches us, now, one eye in the river, one eye where the river was.
Question: What emotions are evoked for you when you read this poem?
Contributor Answer: I felt the loss. The longing. The loss of our connection to – and the longing to reconnect with – the rhythm of nature, to each other, and to our own internal rhythms. I felt the grief that this world which was once beautiful is no longer beautiful. I felt the violence and sadness of Woloch’s world, which is our world. The world we’ve made, full of cruelty and environmental degradation and humans turning against humans and against the earth itself. The world we re-make each day – unless we choose otherwise. I felt my own deep longing to find that lost world – where surely “there was a river, once” – and make it new again.
Reader: What emotions arise for you as you read this poem?
Writing Prompt: Write into: ‘surely there was…’ (5 minutes of writing)
Contributor Response: Surely there was a time when we could all hear and see that river, the river that once was. I think of this river as the river of love that connects us, no matter what country or place we come from, no matter what story or suffering we carry within us.
Surely that river can still be found. Surely it still exists and if we listen, very closely, we can hear it, feel it, coursing through every ocean tide and inland waterway, even trickling through the earth's underground aquifers beneath our feet, connecting every continent and people. Surely that river of love still travels, pounding, coursing, turning, twisting, gently streaming, until it finds its way over and under the earth in the same way our heart pulses forth our own blood through every capillary of our bodies to nourish us.
That river of love which connects us to one another also gives us life. We cannot draw breath without it.
To be in this world so often means silencing our longing to feel connected to ourselves. We silence our longing to offer solace to each other, too. We look away from the “black smoke” of our cities. We look away from the “man or woman in a ditch.”
But surely we can still find and reinhabit ourselves – remake this earth – stand beneath the budding trees “wild and green, here, blossoming”, watch the flight of birds score the sky, and turn toward each other to offer and receive the soothing for our suffering that we all long for.
Surely we are meant to listen to that rhythm which matches that of our own hearts, that whoosh of blood and earth, of something elemental and eternal: love for ourselves and for each other. That which is eternal in the earth below, in the sky above, and in each moment in which we connect with one another, and say, “I see you. I am here. You are not alone.” In which we know we, too, are not alone.
Surely that is the god we are meant to anoint, the one who hears and can answer our longing to be of that which is life-giving, nourishing. Surely we are meant to answer that calling, to enter that river, the great, eternal river of our human love. It’s calling us all. It’s calling me. It’s calling you. Don’t turn away. It’s right here, in front of us.
Here, we can sit, together, by that river and listen to the sound of its water as it courses over the rocks, our face turned up to the gentle wind, and to the starlight.
“Reader: Now it’s your turn! Write to the prompt: write into ‘surely there was…”
Reader: Reader: Now it’s your turn! Feel free to hit ‘reply’, set your timer for 5 minutes, and write to the prompt: write into ‘surely there was…’
You can also send your responses and feedback to scribe@andreanakayama.com
Guest contributor: Our contributor this month is Donna Jackson Nakazawa. Donna Jackson Nakazawa is an award-winning science journalist and author who delves into the intersection of neurobiology and human emotion. Her latest acclaimed book, Girls on the Brink, navigates many of today's challenges for young women. Named among the best health books of 2022 by The Washington Post and Mashable, it sheds light on anxiety and depression in the age of social media. Donna's upcoming release, The Adverse Childhood Experiences Guided Journal, due out this summer, offers a narrative writing journey and is available for preorder now. She’s also published The Angel and the Assassin, hailed by Wired magazine, and Childhood Disrupted, a Books for a Better Life Award finalist. Donna's insights have graced Wired, The Boston Globe, and NPR. A sought-after speaker, she engages audiences at esteemed venues like the Child Mind Institute and UCLA Open Mind Speaker Series. Founder of narrative writing-to-heal programs and a parenting initiative, Donna's impact resonates nationwide. Be sure to explore her work at donnajacksonnakazawa.com and connect on Instagram @DonnaJacksonNakazawa
