Mending 11: boundaries
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 11: boundaries with Asha Dornfest
Maps
by Yesenia Montilla
for Marcelo
Some maps have blue borders
like the blue of your name
or the tributary lacing of
veins running through your
father’s hands. & how the last
time I saw you, you held
me for so long I saw whole
lifetimes flooding by me
small tentacles reaching
for both our faces. I wish
maps would be without
borders & that we belonged
to no one & to everyone
at once, what a world that
would be. Or not a world
maybe we would call it
something more intrinsic
like forgiving or something
simplistic like river or dirt.
& if I were to see you
tomorrow & everyone you
came from had disappeared
I would weep with you & drown
out any black lines that this
earth allowed us to give it—
because what is a map but
a useless prison? We are all
so lost & no naming of blank
spaces can save us. & what
is a map but the delusion of
safety? The line drawn is always
in the sand & folds on itself
before we’re done making it.
& that line, there, south of
el rio, how it dares to cover
up the bodies, as though we
would forget who died there
& for what? As if we could
forget that if you spin a globe
& stop it with your finger
you’ll land it on top of someone
living, someone who was not
expecting to be crushed by thirst—
Copyright © 2017 by Yesenia Montilla. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 28, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.
Question: What word or phrase in the poem lingers for you, and why?
Contributor Answer: “I wish
maps would be without
borders & that we belonged
to no one & to everyone
at once…”
This line gets at my deep longing for… unity? integration? healing? …it’s hard to name because each term comes with its own implicit baggage. (I no longer wonder at the irony of being a writer who’s at a loss for words.)
I appreciate the imagery of a map, with its hard lines and human consequences. I love maps, especially paper roadmaps; they ignite my curiosity with their whispered promises of exploration (where does this highway go? who is that park named for?). But they also tell a story of land divided and sold, land cleared and carved up for industry, land processed for human consumption. “Good” and “bad” neighborhoods, “wrong” sides of tracks, all delineated and color-coded.
We need maps. Without them, we’d be lost. But the clarity a map provides requires blindness to other ways of seeing.
Reader: Where does this poem take you, and why?
Writing Prompt: Write about an artificial boundary.
Contributor Response: Twice – once during meditation and once in nature – I experienced moments of oneness in which boundaries dissolved. There was no bright line separating me and everything. ”Peace” wasn’t a concept or a feeling or anything to attain; it was simply the quiet state of things, a wholeness I’ve never forgotten.
Did these moments change my life? Yes and no. Day-to-day, the me line looks pretty solid. I’m as busy and distracted as ever, focused on my wants and fears and judgments, with a tight grip on the steering wheel of my life.
I’ve never again felt the wholeness I described earlier, but the memory of it lives in my body. When that memory gets close to the surface, the boundary between the world and me softens. I’m reminded that I don’t control the conditions of my life, no matter how tightly I grip the wheel.
I’m not a fan of uncertainty (who is?). But when I can let myself sit with the plain reality of it, just allow it, sometimes, not always, something shifts. I feel my grip loosen just a bit. It feels something like freedom.
“Reader: Now it’s your turn! Write about an artificial boundary. (Set your timer for 5 minutes and write from the heart.)”
Reader: Write about an artificial boundary. (Set your timer for 5 minutes and write from the heart.)
You can also send your responses and feedback to scribe@andreanakayama.com
Guest contributor: Asha Dornfest is a Portland, Oregon-based author and the parent of two young adults. She writes a weekly-ish newsletter called Parent of Adults, in which she invites readers to compare notes on life beyond the empty nest. Learn more or subscribe for free at ashadornfest.substack.com.
