Mending 7: resilience
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 7: resilience
what if?
by Becky Hemsley
what if the mermaids
are all of the women
cast overboard
'cause of old superstition
drowning beneath the waves
gasping for breath
then forging a tail
with the strength they have left?
and what if the dragons
with their breath ablaze
were once little lizards
all thrown to the flames
that choked on the smoke
but then swallowed the flares
and then rose up claiming
that fire as theirs?
and maybe the vampires
favour the night
'cause they've been kept in the dark
most of their lives
starved of companions
affection and love
'til they have no choice
but to feed on our blood
yes, what if these creatures
of magic and myth
are those who've known darkness
but chosen to live
chosen to breathe
and to rise and survive
to harness adversity
hoping they'll thrive?
and what if you too
have been thrown to the waves
befriended the night
and encountered the flames
and so you've assumed
that you're destined to burn
to drown in the darkness
but what if you learned
that maybe your story
is not over yet that
there are still pages
that need to be read?
pages of oceans
that you're yet to swim
fiery chapters
for you to breathe in
lines built on words
that are so full of light
of such warmth and hope
they inspire you to write
so what if you choose now
to pick up a pen
and write through the night
'til you come to the end?
and what if you read it back?
well, then you'll find
your story will always
hold magic inside
Question: What strikes you most about this poem?
Contributor Answer: What strikes me is the contrasting fall and rise of each character, how each of them is from the earth—mermaids, dragons and vampires. All beings—all filled with humanity—all outcast by society, all told they don’t fit, aren’t enough, are too much. But they all yearn for the same thing, this aliveness…this breaking through the frozen ice and yearning for air, for a gasp of aliveness to fill their lungs, remind them of their being.
And a story that is yet to be finished.
How many times we thought our stories were done, finished or too dark to continue. I remember when a depression lifted, I thought, “my god…there was a small chance I wasn’t going to ever experience this relief.” And then a wave of sadness took over. How could I have been so dark, so sad, so lost…I was scraping the sides of the tunnel, clawing my way up, resting on cliffs and hoping the trance would lift. And when it did, relief…and then sadness, and then a wave of “oh god, this can happen.” This ever present fear or “oh, this is what it means to be human.” Humans do what humans do.
Reader: What lines in the poem resonate with you most when you read this poem? Why?
Writing Prompt: Write about strength that came from pain.
Contributor Response: It’s 2010, and I am tucked away at a monastery in the countryside of Taiwan. Four days into our ten day journey of silence and still meditation, we hear only Goenka’s voice as we sit, and observe the thoughts that rise up and fall away. Noticing aversion and noticing the craving…there is a middle way they say. It’s the afternoon and as we walk back into the meditation center after lunch, our bellies filled with congee and fresh fruit, we are challenged to do a one hour seated meditation, but this time, no movement at all is the goal. Not one finger is to move, not one adjustment to be made…blink as infrequently as you possibly can they say. Step deeper and deeper into the stillness, train the mind to observe the sensations and let them go. To indulge in the adjustment or the itch is to weaken the mind, the body can’t win. My god, my body is aching, my nose is itching and my belly, bloated. Stay still…observe. I protest in silence, ”ugh..fuck this”. I breathe deeply and the ache subsides a little. Mind over matter, peace is found in observing.
Years before I took that flight to Taiwan, my body was rocked and my brain concussed when I was hit by a car in my hometown. For the first time ever at age 22, I came face to face with depression and anxiety. I woke up in the ER with that heavy veil of depression weighing my whole body down and suicidal thoughts whirling and looping in my mind. It was a perfect storm of head trauma, life transition and the inevitable and god awful fear of stepping into my sexuality by coming out of the closet. Three days after I woke up in the ER, my body couldn’t hold that secret anymore and on Fathers Day, while chewing on a medium rare steak and steamed broccoli, I couldn’t stop sobbing. Dazed and confused, my Mom asked, “Elisa, are you okay?” I took a deep breath, looked at my siblings and said, “Mom, I’m heartbroken. I loved her.” The air looked like it was taken from her lungs and confusion hung in the air as we finished the meal in silence.
I’ve trained this face into stoicism. No one should know what I feel, think or want. My wants and desires are too alive to share, too dangerous. I morphed myself into the crowd, blending and numbing my desires and wants away for years. My god I missed so many years…so many conversations just out of my reach. So many people misunderstood me. I misunderstood myself. Underneath my stillness, I longed for love, connection and expression. The longing was pulsing, warming and aching and all the while, I mislabeled it as fear of being alone. For years, I sat still, observed and thought my way through depression until one day my body cracked open and ached so badly, I had no choice but to feel and move again.
The sun is rising in Brooklyn and I’m awake at an uncharacteristically early time. It's 5:30am and I’m standing near my favorite window. My two feet are planted on the floor, beneath the floor lies the earth, sturdy and rich with life-force. I am finally being held in my longing. My shoulders expand to find their width, so much space this body takes up. How delightful. I find my length in the way my head rises to meet the ceiling and the sky above me, where I imagine birds soaring, people flying and clouds passing on by. I don’t need to observe the clouds inside my mind anymore—just knowing they are there, coming and going is enough. There is a more intriguing story brewing in my animal body. One where thoughts are transient and sensations are ever present. My pelvic region lights up, warming and buzzing sensations of aliveness run through me. The tightness in my chest and back loosens as my fascia releases from my bones with each long and juicy exhale. I adjust my arms as I need. I am free to move now. I have always been free. The door has always been open. My face lights up, a smile spreads across my face, my eyes glimmer and I feel big again.
“Reader: Now it’s your turn! Write to the prompt: write about strength that came from pain.”
Reader: Reader: Now it’s your turn! Feel free to hit ‘reply’, set your timer for 5 minutes, and write to the prompt: write about strength that came from pain.
You can also send your responses and feedback to scribe@andreanakayama.com
Guest contributor: Elisa Haggarty is a Conscious Leadership Coach and Somatic Coach based in Brooklyn, New York. Elisa empowers leaders all over the world to step into more attunement to their communication, emotional intelligence and curiosity. Elisa also runs a podcast called, “The School of Unlearning” and when not coaching, can be found forest bathing and spending time with friends. You can connect with her at www.elisamaryhaggarty.com and find her on Instagram @elisamaryhaggarty
