Mending 9: thresholds
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 9: thresholds with Meghan O’Rourke
The Houseguest
by Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello
Forgiveness was sitting in your kitchen when you got home, and now rests elbows on the table to watch you reach for a knife. You scrape the papery skin from a ginger root and slice it into thin coins. You think too hard about which mugs to pull from your cupboard: you might reveal too much; should you offer the one with the uncomfortable handle? Water boils. You divide the ginger evenly into both cups and pour. Spoonful of honey. You stir slowly, eyes down as though you might be able to forget. You stir too long. Forgiveness coughs politely, so you turn, place both mugs on the table, sit. Forgiveness leans forward. You lean back. You have forgotten what it is like to live with someone who eats all your cut watermelon, picks clean the skeletal vine of red grapes, shakes water spots onto your bathroom mirror without wiping them away. What thresholds of welcome have you crossed and recrossed? Most mornings, you listen for the body to move through your house and out the door before leaving your bedroom. Most nights, you ghost around each other without speaking. But now, as the rain drizzles into gloaming, you settle into your chairs, inevitable, a cupful of hesitation finally beginning to loosen your tongues.
Question: What image or moment in the poem lingered for you, and why?
Contributor Answer: I admire the poem’s project of grounding emotion in concrete objects and images. I love the sliced ginger root, the papery skin of it. And I think the real heart (and heat) of the poem comes from the collision of two solitudes; it’s about the core tension of self vs other: “You have forgotten what it is like to live with someone who eats all your cut watermelon, picks clean the skeletal vine of red grapes, shakes water spots onto your bathroom mirror without wiping them away.” But as the poem reminds us, when we forget the reality of others, something in us is lost, too. A human’s otherness–the reality of intimacy–can be so hard to contend with; how do we welcome the other back in, the poem asks?
Reader: What image or moment in the poem lingered for you, and why?
Writing Prompt: Write about a threshold of welcome.
Contributor Response: I’m writing these answers during an icy February snowstorm; a white blanket mantles the world, and little dots of snow thrash in the air, then quiet as the wind dampens. There is something so cleansing and sublime–and also breath-catching–about the world covered in snow; it reminds me of how pausing, even the pause engendered by loss, brings space for quiet renewal. Outside my window the tree’s smallest, most intricate branches are encased in the snow’s embrace; the blanketing of buildings, roads, cars, lost objects–it creates a threshold of welcome, a space for joy, childishness, play. It also makes space for mourning to enter; it invites us to feel what we have resisted feeling. And of course snow is also cold and burdensome. In the snowstorm’s delicate, faint passage, the tree branches knocking on the window in the wind there is an invitation to choose which aspect of the storm we focus on: The transformation of our the world (which brings obstacles with it; nothing, not even love, is without cost), or the obstacles themselves.
“Reader: Now it’s your turn! Write about a threshold of welcome. (Set your timer for 5 minutes and write from the heart.)”
Reader: Write about a threshold of welcome. (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: Meghan O'Rourke is the author of the New York Times Bestseller The Invisible Kingdom: Reimagining Chronic Illness (2022), which was a finalist for the National Book Award in Nonfiction, as well as the memoir The Long Goodbye and three books of poetry. A recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, a Radcliffe Fellowship, a Front Page award for cultural criticism, and other honors, she writes often for The Atlantic, The New Yorker, and other venues. She is a professor of creative writing at Yale University, and editor of The Yale Review.
