Abbiamo studiato insieme tre foto della serie “La tavola di cucina” di Carrie Mae Weems (allegato al termine di questa pagina)ย ย
In seguito, abbiamo usato il prompt “Alla mia tavola…”.
Condivideremo ulteriori dettagli della sessione nei prossimi giorni; vi invitiamo a rivisitare questa pagina nei prossimi giorni!
Invitiamo i partecipanti del laboratorio a condividere i propri scritti nella parte “blog” dedicata alla fine della presente pagina (“Leave a Reply”). Speriamo di creare, attraverso questo forum di condivisione, uno spazio in cui continuare la nostra conversazione!
We welcomed 22 people from U.S. states including New York, New Jersey, and California and other countries including India, Bahrain and Canada. Together, we watched โThe Last Performance,โ a one-minute film written and directed by Reza Moayedi (2013, Iran).ย
After two viewings of the film, we opened the discussion by asking what we knew about people in the film — the musician, his companion, the person in the control room. Hands were โraisedโ immediately, and participants shared aspects of the film that resonated personally for them. We wondered if the two people on stage were a father and daughter, or perhaps a patient and caretaker. We also thought about how the story might have changed with different casting — for example, what if the director had chosen actors with other apparent ages or genders, or if the musical instrument had been a piano or electric guitar? One participant drew a parallel to two plays by Eugene Ionesco: โThe Chairsโ and โThe Lesson.โ We explored how the filmโs title shaped our ideas about what we saw, especially because it came at the end of the work rather than at the beginning.
Our prompt was โWrite about a space youโd like to return to,โ which opened up the many ways that we can think about space. One writer discussed the architecture of space and the difference between public and private spaces. Another spoke from the personal perspective, thinking about conscious and unconscious spaces, and the way we lose ourselves to become part of the larger world.ย We also thought about the spaces that weโd like to go back to that no longer exist, such as spaces where our parents were still young and healthy, or spaces of innocence before we knew things we wished we did not. Our final two readers used sensory details to populate their spaces. For one, that was the French Alps, a place dotted with red poppies and โpeppered by hamlets,โ and open to freedom, and for the other, Hanging Basket Lake, with water so ice-cold that the narrator shivers just to look at it. That latter piece ended with a tumble, and we noticed how the earlier details let us feel the impact of the fall in our own bodies.ย ย ย ย ย ย
Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โLeave a Replyโ), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.
Please join us for our next session Sunday, June 14th at 3pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.
We look forward to seeing you again soon!
THE LAST PERFORMANCE Reza Moayedi DIRECTOR , WRITER & PRODUCER โ Reza Moayedi / DIRECTOR OF PHOTOGRAPHY โ Nima Daneshmand / EDITOR โ Saeed Hemati / SOUND โ Maziar Hajati / ASSISTANT DIRECTOR โ Haleh Alizadeh / ASSITANT CAMERA โ Masoud Ramezanpour / CAST โ Gholamreza Amani , Mona Sayad , Manouchehr Atashak
Dziฤkujemy wszystkim, ktรณrzy wziฤli udziaล w dzisiejszej grupie narracyjnej!
Wspรณlnie przeczytaliลmy, zamieszczony poniลผej, wiersz Rona Padgetta โRyzykoโ w przekลadzie Andrzeja Szuby.
Inspiracja do kreatywnego pisania brzmiaลa: โOpowieลฤ w uลamku sekundyโ.
Dynamika pracy dzisiejszej grupy odzwierciedlaลa szczegรณlnฤ relacjฤ, jaka wiฤ ลผe mรณwiฤ cego i sลuchajฤ cego. Z jednej strony bardzo wyraลบnie daลa o sobie znaฤ potrzeba wypowiedzi i posiadania gลosu, a z drugiej koniecznoลฤ czasu i przestrzeni, aby mรณc jak najpeลniej przyjฤ ฤ to, co ma zostaฤ ujawnione. Od samego poczฤ tku liczba osรณb zgลaszajฤ cych siฤ do wypowiedzi znaczฤ co przewyลผszaลa czasoprzestrzennฤ pojemnoลฤ (wirtualnej) rzeczywistoลci. Moลผna w tym byลo dostrzec podobieลstwo do relacji, jaka istnieje miฤdzy synem a matkฤ w dzisiejszym tekลcie. Dostrzeลผono znaczฤ cฤ dysproporcjฤ pomiฤdzy dลugim, wielokrotnie zลoลผonym zdaniem opisujฤ cym to, co syn chciaลby wypowiedzieฤ, a nawet wykrzyczeฤ, a przestrzeniฤ zagarniฤtฤ przez rรณลผne ograniczenia i zakลรณcenia, w tym dลบwiฤk telewizora. Wypowiedzi uczestnikรณw byลy bardzo obszerne, posiadaลy wiele wzajemnych nawiฤ zaล i odniesieล, rozciฤ gajฤ c w wielu kierunkach pole interpretacji. Ta wieloลฤ treลci do wypowiedzenia, w powiฤ zaniu z koniecznoลciฤ poczekania na swojฤ kolej, byลa ลบrรณdลem rรณลผnorodnych emocji, ktรณre zdawaลy siฤ ukrywaฤ pod stwardniaลฤ warstwฤ wypowiadanych sลรณw. Sลowa o uczuciach czฤsto stwarzaลy niespodziewanฤ barierฤ dla ich bezpoลredniego wyraลผenia. W zwiฤ zku z tym inspiracja wywoลaลa swego rodzaju sprzeciw. W swoich tekstach uczestnicy, jakby jednym gลosem, dopominali siฤ o bycie w peลni i z uwaลผnoลciฤ wysลuchanymi, tak jak i รณw syn. Opisywali niemoลผliwoลฤ opowieลci w uลamku sekundy, jednoczeลnie chฤtnie posลugujฤ c siฤ zwartฤ , kilkuwyrazowฤ formฤ . Doลwiadczenie tej grupy pozostawiลo w nas pytanie, czy potrafimy stwarzaฤ dla siebie nawzajem przestrzeล, w ktรณrej czujemy siฤ wystarczajฤ co wysลuchani.
Zapraszamy do udziaลu w kolejnych sesjach, ktรณrych terminy podane sฤ na polskiej podstronie Wirtualnych Grup Narracyjnych. Najbliลผsza grupa odbฤdzie siฤ 18 czerwca (czwartek) o godzinie 18:00 โ zarejestruj siฤ juลผ dziล.
Ron Padgett
Ryzyko
Czasem, gdy oddzwaniaลem
do matki w Tulsa, sลyszaลem:
โChwileczkฤ, Ron, tylko
to ลciszฤโ. To, czyli
telewizor. I zaczynaลo siฤ
szukanie pilota, potem zabawa
z przyciskami, a we mnie rosลa
irytacja i zniecierpliwienie,
i miaลem ochotฤ wykrzyczeฤ: โOglฤ dasz
za duลผo, i jest za gลoลno, i dlaczego
nie wyjdziesz z domu!โ, poniewaลผ
nie radziลem sobie z lฤkiem przed
jej staroลciฤ , a moje serce stwardniaลo,
bo jฤ kochaลem, choฤ przecieลผ nie chciaลem
rezygnowaฤ z wลasnego ลผycia i mieszkaฤ
gdzieล w pobliลผu, ลผeby mnie mogลa
codziennie widzieฤ, a nie tylko sลyszeฤ,
i dlatego ลciszaลa telewizor i mรณwiลa:
โNo, teraz lepiejโ, a pรณลบniej, czasami,
zdawaลa szczegรณลowe sprawozdanie z jakiegoล
koszmarnego, wลaลnie oglฤ danego programu.
przeล. Andrzej Szuba
(Wiersz pochodzi z tomu โBezczynnoลฤ butรณwโ, Instytut Mikoลowski, Mikoลรณw 2018.)
***
Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!
Together we read โJeopardyโ, a poem by Ron Padgett, translated to Polish by Andrzej Szuba (posted below).
Our prompt for today was: โA story in a split secondโ.
The dynamics of today’s group session reflected a special relationship between the speakers and listeners. The need to speak and to have a voice on one hand, and the need for time and space necessary to be able to accept what will be revealed on the other, were all clearly visible. From the very beginning, the number of people raising their hands and wanting to speak significantly exceeded the spatiotemporal capacity of the (virtual) reality, similar to the relationship that exists between the son and the mother in the poem. The participants saw a significant contrast between the long, compound, complex sentence describing what the son would like to say and shout out, and the space taken by limitations and interferences, including the sound of the TV. Participants’ statements were extensive and had many perspectives, extending the field of interpretation in many different directions. The great amount of thoughts that people wanted to share, combined with the necessity to wait for their turn, was a source of a variety of emotions that seemed to be hidden under a hardened layer of spoken words. Words describing feelings sometimes created an unexpected barrier which limited their direct expression. Therefore, the writing prompt caused some kind of an opposition. The characters in their writing, as if in one voice, demanded to be fully and attentively heard just like the son in the poem. They described the impossibility of a story by writing in a similar form as the poem, using several words and shortened lines. The experience of this group has left us with the question of whether we can create for each other a space in which we feel heard well enough.
Please join us for our next sessions: Wednesday June 10th, 12pm EDT (in English) and Sunday June 14th, 3pm EDT (in English), with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.
If you have questions, or would like to schedule a personalized narrative medicine session for your organization or team, email us at narrativemedicine@cumc.columbia.edu.
We look forward to seeing you again soon!
Ron Padgett
Jeopardy
Sometimes when I phoned
my mother back in Tulsa, she would
say, โHold on a minute, Ron, let me
turn this thing down,โ the thing
her TV, and she would look
around for the remote and then fumble
with its little buttons as an irritation
mounted in me and an impatience
and I felt like blurting out โYou watch TV
too much and itโs too loud and why
donโt you go outsideโ because I was
unable to face my dread of her aging
and my heart made cold toward her
by loving her though not wanting to give up
my life and live near her so she
could see me every day and not
just hear me, which is why she
turned the TV down and said,
โOkay, thatโs better,โ then sometimes
launched into a detailed account
of whatever awful show she was watching.
(Form R. Padgett, โCollected Poemsโ, Minneapolis: Coffee House Press, 2013.)
Al workshop del 9 giugno 2020 si รจ percepito un clima di grande partecipazione e di calore emotivo. Abbiamo lavorato sul alcune pagine tratte dal libro di Lev Tolstoj โLa morte di Ivan Ilโicโ, un testo del 1886 che ha evocato molte riflessioni sul tema della cura e del prendersi cura. In particolare, le voci di tre lettori ci hanno portano nella scena in cui avviene una conversazione tra Ivan, malato e sofferente e il giovane e forte Gerasim, che mentre accudisce il suo padrone lo conforta con gesti di semplicitร , sinceritร e leggerezza. ย Lโinvito alla scrittura รจ stato โScrivi una lettera al tuo Gerasimโ.
La lettura accurata del testo ha portato i partecipanti ad evidenziare alcuni elementi chiave del racconto: lโincontro fra due corpi fra loro molto diversi (salute/malattia, forza/fragilitร , baldanza/debolezza) che apre ad una relazione che progredisce da semplici gesti di accudimento ad una condivisione potente sul piano umano fra i due protagonisti. Questo avviene grazie alla straordinaria naturalezza con cui Gerasim si approccia ad Ivan, senza pietismo nรฉ commiserazione e anche contenendo la propria gioia di vivere per non mortificarlo. Egli fa tutto โvolentieriโ, con leggerezza e delicatezza e questo atteggiamento conforta il malato. Una partecipante ha detto che รจ come se โil tempo si fosse fermato e lo spazio dilatatoโ in questa scena di cura, dove tutto diventa โrelazioneโ, ma anche incontro fra generazioni, scambio tra chi cura e chi viene curato, riconoscimento reciproco.
Ecco gli ingredienti della cura che i partecipanti hanno scritto nella chat al termine della close reading del testo:
Per passare subito dopo allโattivitร di scrittura a partire dallโinvito dei facilitatori e alla lettura di molti testi, che hanno richiamato e amplificato con parole, emozioni e significati il brano di Tolstoj da cui eravamo partiti. Ascoltare attentamente e rispondere ai testi dei partecipanti ci ha portati a riflettere su come ogni persona abbia aperto un nuovo puto di vista e nuove possibilitร di interpretare la cura, che รจ cura dellโaltro ma anche di sรฉ e del contesto. Il tempo della relazione รจ stato indicato come un tempo donato, di conforto, โoro e balsamoโ per chi soffre ma anche per chi sta accanto alla sofferenza dellโaltro. La cura richiede preparazione e generositร e genera gratitudine e riconoscimento reciproco. Lโinsieme delle scritture e delle risposte agli scritti ha costruito una sorta di racconto sulle pratiche di cura. In chiusura abbiamo ascoltato lโaudio di una poesia di Mariangela Gualtieri โSii dolce con meโ, il cui testo vogliamo qui riportare, in quanto ricco di parole che hanno rimbalzato e risuonato nei lavori della sessione:
Sii dolce con me. Sii gentile. ร breve il tempo che resta. Poi saremo scie luminosissime. E quanta nostalgia avremo dellโumano. Come ora ne abbiamo dellโinfinitร . Ma non avremo le mani. Non potremo fare carezze con le mani. E nemmeno guance da sfiorare leggere.
Una nostalgia dโimperfetto ci gonfierร i fotoni lucenti. Sii dolce con me. Maneggiami con cura. Abbi la cautela dei cristalli con me e anche con te. Quello che siamo รจ prezioso piรบ dellโopera blindata nei sotterranei e affettivo e fragile. La vita ha bisogno di un corpo per essere e tu sii dolce con ogni corpo. Tocca leggermente leggermente poggia il tuo piede e abbi cura di ogni meccanismo di volo di ogni guizzo e volteggio e maturazione e radice e scorrere dโacqua e scatto e becchettio e schiudersi o svanire di foglie fino al fenomeno della fioritura, fino al pezzo di carne sulla tavola che รจ corpo mangiabile per il mio ardore dโessere qui. Ringraziamo. Ogni tanto. Sia placido questo nostro esserci โ questo essere corpi scelti per lโincastro dei compagni dโamore.
Noi facilitatori ed organizzatori ringraziamo tutti i partecipanti della loro presenza attenta, sensibile, profondamente umana.
Da โLa morte di Ivan Ilโiฤโ di Lev Tolstoj, 1886
Gerasim era un giovane contadino, pulito, fresco, bene in polpa dai cibi cittadini. Sempre allegro, sereno. Sulle prime la vista di quellโuomo vestito alla russa, sempre lindo, che faceva una tale ingrata operazione, turbava Ivan Ilโiฤ. Una volta questi, alzatosi dalla seggetta senza la forza di tirarsi su i pantaloni, si lasciรฒ cadere in una poltrona, e si guardava con terrore le cosce nude, fiacche, dai muscoli crudamente rilevati.
Entrรฒ con i suoi grossi stivali – recando un gradevole odore di catrame, da questi stivali e la freschezza dellโaria invernale- a passo leggero e forte Gerasim, col suo lindo grembiule di canapa e una linda camicia dโindiana dalle maniche rimboccate sulle braccia giovani e forti. Senza guardare Ivan Ilโiฤ โ evidentemente contenendo, per non mortificare il malato, la gioia di vivere che gli traspariva dal volto, sโavvicinรฒ alla seggetta.
โ Gerasim โ disse Ivan Ilโiฤ con voce debole. Gerasim trasalรฌ, temendo dโaver fatto male qualcosa, e con un rapido movimento volse verso il malato il suo giovane viso, fresco, buono, semplice, appena ombreggiato dalla barba che cominciava a crescere.
โ Che cosa comandate?
โ Eโ seccante fare questo, no? Mi devi scusare. Io non posso.
โ Macchรจโ E Gerasim fece vedere i suoi giovani bianchi denti e gli occhi gli brillarono.
โ Perchรฉ non dovrei farlo? Voi siete malato.
E con mano accorta e vigorosa fece quello che doveva e uscรฌ a passo leggero. E dopo cinque minuti tornรฒ, con lo stesso passo leggero.
Ivan Ilโiฤ stava ancora lรฌ sulla poltrona.
โ Gerasim โ disse, quando costui ebbe rimesso a posto il vaso pulito, lavato โ ti prego, aiutami, vieni qui โ. Gerasim si avvicinรฒ. โ Sollevami. Mi รจ penoso farlo da solo, e Dmitrij lโho mandato fuori.
Gerasim si avvicinรฒ ancora di piรน; colle robuste braccia, leggero come camminava, lโabbracciรฒ, lo sollevรฒ delicatamente e lo sostenne, con una mano gli tirรฒ su i pantaloni e voleva metterlo a sedere. Ma Ivan Ilโiฤ lo pregรฒ di accompagnarlo al divano. Gerasim, senza sforzo e come se non lo toccasse neppure, lo menรฒ, quasi portandolo di peso, al divano e lo mise a sedere.
โ Grazie. Come sei bravo… come fai bene tutto…
Gerasim sorrise di nuovo e fece per andarsene. Ma Ivan Ilโiฤ si trovava cosรฌ bene con lui che lo trattenne.
โ Ecco, avvicinami, ti prego, quella sedia. No, quella lร . Mettimela sotto le gambe. Sto meglio quando ho i piedi in alto.
Gerasim portรฒ la sedia, la posรฒ senza fare rumore, abbassandola a terra e vi stese su le gambe di Ivan Ilโiฤ. A questi pareva di stare meglio, mentre Gerasim gli teneva alti i piedi.
โ Sto meglio quando ho i piedi alzati โ disse Ivan Ilโiฤ โ. Mettimi qui sotto quel cuscino.
Gerasim obbedรฌ. Di nuovo gli sollevรฒ i piedi e li posรฒ sul cuscino. Di nuovo a Ivan Ilโiฤ parve di star meglio mentre Gerasim gli sollevava i piedi. Quando li riabbassรฒ gli parve di star peggio.
โ Gerasim, disse, hai da fare, adesso?
โ Per nulla โ disse Gerasim, che aveva imparato dai domestici cittadini a parlar coi padroni.
โ Che cosa ti rimane da fare?
โ Che mi rimane? Niente, ho finito tutto: solo spaccar la legna per domani.
โ Allora tienimi un poco su le gambe… puoi?
โ Ma certo che posso โ Gerasim alzรฒ le gambe di Ivan Ilโiฤ al quale parve di non sentir piรน il dolore in quella posizione.
โ E la legna?
โ Non abbiate pensiero. Avrรฒ sempre tempo.
Ivan Ilโiฤ disse a Gerasim di mettersi a sedere mentre gli teneva le gambe, e intanto discorreva con lui. E, strana cosa, gli pareva di sentirsi davvero meglio quando Gerasim gli teneva le gambe.
Da quel momento Ivan Ilโiฤ cominciรฒ a chiamare di tanto in tanto Gerasim, e gli appoggiava i piedi sulle spalle, e amava discorrere con lui. Gerasim gli rendeva quel servizio senza difficoltร , volentieri, con una semplicitร e una bontร che lo commovevano. La salute, la forza, la baldanza vitale di chiunque altro offendevano Ivan Ilโiฤ; soltanto la forza e la baldanza di Gerasim non gli facevano male, anzi lo calmavano.
Da โLa morte di Ivan Ilโiฤโ di Lev Tolstoj, 1886
Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!
Together, we read the poem โThe Explorerโ by Gwendolyn Brooks (posted below). This text stimulated many questions about the spaces we exist in and the โquiet placesโ we search for, particularly in the context of our current national and international events. โWe are all looking for a quiet place,โ observed one of our participants, as this poem highlighted for them the interplay between the personal private to a larger, broader social context. โItโs a poem that sends the reader into spirals,โ commented another participant, highlighting the mental and sensory โworkโ the poem requires us readers to do, as explorers โsifting throughโ โthe fabric of lifeโ and โthe general confusionโ that comes with it. Together, we explored the โcomplicated connotationsโ of the word โnoisesโ in the first line: what kind of noises is the explorer moving through? We noted how โnoise can be subjectiveโ: what someone hears as noise could be, โmusicโ, โdissentโ, or โneutral soundsโ for someone else. We experienced comfort in the โvelvet peaceโ, and someone commented how this made us aware of the โtexture of the things around usโ. We found ourselves wondering about the different dimensions in which peace can be achieved, both in the exterior and the interior realms. Many of our participants were drawn to the end of this poem, โfearing the choices that cried to be takenโ; as someone observed, choices are โmadeโ, rather than โtakenโ. In the eyes of some of our participants, the explorer in the poem unites people to make choices togetherโฆ only to find no peace and no quiet rooms to negotiate and decide the next steps of the journey.
For our writing activity, we dove further into the โchoicesโ the poem raised for us. We wrote to the prompt โwrite about the choices crying to be taken.โ Our readers reminded us of the feeling of smallness we may feel in front of the insurmountable height of some choices, whether in the past, in the present or the in future. โHow do I move forward from this virtual time?โ asked one of our readers. Throughout our dialogue, some participants shared a sense of relief at the thought that โwe are not the only โonesโ that have choicesโ, as well as the strong sense of responsibility that comes with knowing that โchoices impact those around usโ. At the end of our conversation, we returned to the image of the explorer, moving through the world one step and one choice at a time. In the words of our participants, we left each other having โawakened the explorer in [us], especially after spending more than 75 days in lockdownโ and reminded that โwe are always exploringโ.
Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โLeave a Replyโ), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.
Please join us for our next session Wednesday, June 10th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.
We look forward to seeing you again soon!
THE EXPLORER - Gwendolyn Brooks (1959)
Somehow to find a still spot in the noise
Was the frayed inner want, the winding, the frayed hope
Whose tatters he kept hunting through the din.
A velvet peace somewhere.
A room of wily hush somewhere within.
So tipping down the scrambled halls he set
Vague hands on throbbing knobs. There were behind
Only spiraling, high human voices,
The scream of nervous affairs,
Wee griefs,
Grand griefs. And choices.
He feared most of all the choices, that cried to be taken.
There were no bourns.
There were no quiet rooms.
Published Harpers Magazine, September, 1959
Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!
Our text was “Caged Bird” by Maya Angelou, posted below.
Our prompt was “Write about a time you either sang or heard the caged bird’s song.”
More details on this session will be posted soon, so check back!
Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โLeave a Replyโ), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.
Please join us for our next sessionย Monday, June 8thย at 6pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.
We look forward to seeing you again soon!
Caged Bird
By Maya Angelou
A free bird leaps
on the back of the windย ย ย
and floats downstreamย ย ย
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped andย ย ย
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird singsย ย ย
with a fearful trillย ย ย
of things unknownย ย ย
but longed for stillย ย ย
and his tune is heardย ย ย
on the distant hillย ย ย
for the caged birdย ย ย
sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
and he names the sky his own
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreamsย ย ย
his shadow shouts on a nightmare screamย ย ย
his wings are clipped and his feet are tiedย ย ย
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird singsย ย ย
with a fearful trillย ย ย
of things unknownย ย ย
but longed for stillย ย ย
and his tune is heardย ย ย
on the distant hillย ย ย
for the caged birdย ย ย
sings of freedom.
Maya Angelou, โCaged Birdโ from Shaker, Why Don't You Sing?
Copyright ยฉ 1983 by Maya Angelou.
Siamo stati molto lieti di avervi qui con noi! Abbiamo studiato insieme un estratto dal romanzo autobiografico โCronaca familiareโ (1947) di Vasco Pratolini (riportato al termine di questa pagina). I partecipanti hanno parlato del danno come elemento inevitabile della vita, e del bisogno di riconoscere e superare quel danno, se possibile, per affrontare la vita che cโรจ davanti. Hanno considerato il danno provocato dalla malattia, che entrambi i protagonisti (i due fratelli, Vasco e Ferruccio) hanno vissuto, e il danno della seconda guerra mondiale che li circondava. Sono rimasti colpiti dalla frase โIo pedalavo e tu mi guidaviโ, che richiama la reciprocitร nella relazione tra i due fratelli, la dipendenza dellโuno dallโaltro, la fiducia e lโamore familiare lโuno per lโaltro. Qualche partecipante ha commentato come i due fratelli siano diventati un insieme talmente affiatato โda percorrere allo stesso modo, con le stesse forze e con gli stessi obiettivi la stessa stradaโ. Altri partecipanti hanno fatto notare come la fratellanza rappresentasse in sรฉ una relazione di cura per i protagonisti.ย
In seguito, abbiamo usato il prompt โDescrivi lโentrare in un nuovo mondoโ. I partecipanti hanno sottolineato come i commenti e gli interventi di tutti dessero una โvita veraโ al testo e come, attraverso lโascolto degli scritti e dei commenti degli altri, si acquisti una nuova lettura delle relazioni. Alcuni partecipanti hanno scritto sulla vicinanza che si desidera ritrovare in questa nuova realtร a cui siamo confrontati, la consapevolezza del mondo attorno, la speranza e la presenza dellโio, di un io che si presenta qui, alla soglia di un nuovo mondo.ย
Invitiamo i partecipanti del laboratorio a condividere i propri scritti nella parte โblogโ dedicata alla fine di questa pagina (โLeave a Replyโ).
โCronaca familiareโ (1947)
Vasco Pratolini
BUR Biblioteca Univerzale Rizzoli
A Roma, una sera sulla fine del 1944, fui chiamato al telefono. Udii la tua voce nellโorecchio. <<Sono appena arrivato. Mi trovo in piazza Risorgimento.>>
<<Come stai?>>
<<Cosรฌ e cosรฌ. Ma sono in grado di camminare; non preoccuparti. Ti aspetto nel bar.>>
Non ci vedevamo dal settembre dellโanno prima; ero stato costretto a partire precipitosamente, senza nemmeno salutarti. Ti avevo lasciato gravemente ammalato, infermo tu ora, e per diversi mesi ero rimasto senza tue notizie. Dopo la liberazione di Firenze, una tua lettera mi diceva che avevi trascorso quellโanno quasi sempre in ospedale.
Inforcai la bicicletta per raggiungerti. Era giร sera e le strade erano buie ed affollate, ma lโaria era ancora tiepida e il vento che mi batteva sul volto mi rallegrava. ร lโultima ora di contentezza che ricordo, non troverรฒ mai piรน la felice disposizione di spirito che allietรฒ quella sera. Ci si puรฒ assuefare alle persecuzioni, alle fucilazioni, alle stragi; lโuomo รจ come un albero e in ogni suo inverno levita la primavera che reca nuove foglie e nuovo vigore. Il cuore dellโuomo รจ un meccanismo di precisione, completo di poche leve essenziali che resistono al freddo, alla fame, allโingiustizia, alle sevizie, al tradimento, ma che il destino puรฒ vulnerare come il fanciullo lโala della farfalla. Il cuore ne esce con il battito stanco; da quel momento lโuomo diventerร forse piรน buono, forse piรน forte, e forse anche piรน deciso o cosciente nella sua opera, ma non troverร piรน nel suo spirito quella pienezza di vita e di umori in cui ogni volta egli sfiora la felicitร . Era, quella sera, il 18 dicembre 1944.
Il bar era deserto. Sedevi a un tavolo dietro la vetrata; in un angolo stavano abbracciati un soldato straniero e una ragazza. Ti alzasti quando io entrai. Eri altro, diafano, la barba bionda, lunga di due giorni ti ombrava il volto come una luce appena diffusa. Il tuo sguardo era dolce, incerto, quasi velato. <<Fatti vedere>> ti dissi, e fissai i tuoi occhi chโerano, come in ogni innocente, il tuo specchio. Vโera, in essi, il segno di una dura lotta, e nellโintensitร della loro acquamarina, una irreducibilitร piรน forte del male.
Non cโerano tram nรฉ auto per cui salisti sulla canna della bicicletta; bilanciavamo la valigia sul manubrio, lentamente entrammo in cittร . Tutto, adesso, puรฒ diventare un simbolo. Alto comโeri, mi proibivi lโorizzonte; io pedalavo e tu mi guidavi. Pedalavo piano, appena da mantenere lโequilibrio, per evitarti le scosse. A ruota libera infilammo via Tomacelli ove il traffico divenne piรน intenso, ti divertivi a scampanellare, a dare sulla voce ai passanti; mi chiedevi il nome delle strade, le notizie dellโanno trascorso, dicevi: <<Mi sembra di entrare in un nuovo mondo>>. E poi: <<Speriamo che Roma mi porti fortuna>>.
Ci coricammo nello stesso letto, come tanti anni prima. Parlammo fino allโalba. Tu dicesti:
<<Ti ricordi? Dieci anni fa eri tu il malato e io il sano>>.
<<Anche tu guarirai>> ti risposi.
<<Quante cose sono successe in questi dieci anni!>>
Eravamo in letto, la camera dava sul cortile; si udiva scalpicciare dal piano di sopra e ogni tanto, di lontano, proveniva lโeco di uno sparo. Ti voltasti verso di me, sul fianco, dicesti: <<Siamo cambiati molto in questi dieci anni. Io in specie, ma anche tu>>. Ti sporgesti sul mio viso e mi baciasti.
Ricordammo i dieci anni durante i quali avevamo imparato a volerci bene.
Dear NM Book Club members: This week, in solidarity with the ongoing protests around the country, we have decided to take a pause on our reading of The Magic Mountain in order to give space and time to those voices. We will resume next week (and will send next assignment then), and our zoom meeting previously scheduled for this Sunday at noonย will be moved to next Sunday (June 14th) at 11 AMย (if you already registered, the event has been updated and therefore thereโs nothing you need to do, and for anyone not registered yet, the link can be found as always at narrativemedicine.blog). In the meantime, we urge you to engage with and support the fight for racial justice in whatever way makes the most sense for you: donate, protest, call your elected officials, and, of course, read and talk with others. Here is an anti-racist reading list from Ibram X. Kendi, author of How to be an Anti-Racist, as well as a list of black-owned bookstores to support:
We welcomed participants from Chile, Morocco, India, the UK, the Netherlands, and all over the U.S. for this session, during which we shared the poem โPossibilities,โ by the Nobel Prize-winning Polish writer Waclava Szymborska as translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh, posted below. As an exercise in approaching the poem with an open mind, we began with just the poem itself, without a title or author name, and we invited two volunteers to read the poem aloud.
Discussants recognized the poemโs form (a list, like a multiple-choice test, a comforting coping mechanism or uncannily settling, open to vagaries, as a reader I sought order, seems based on contingency, a mix of thoughts without coherence, reflects what we choose to carry and bear) and debated whether the poem belied a lack or excess of agency. One participant said she loved the way the narratorโs specificity suggested self-knowledge; another abhorred the poemโs insistent centering of the self. The proliferation of Iโs was noted in contrast to the single line describing the narratorโs eyes.
After disclosing the poemโs title and thinking about whether it changed our reading, we offered as a prompt an invitation to โwrite about a possibility.โ Five participants read their writing. The range of responses was — as always — inspiring. One writer shared a fully formed piece that wrote of not one possibility but many, including the possibility of loving. Another writer balanced the possibility of bad outcomes against good, and wondered if the pain of our world in this moment can end.ย
Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โLeave a Replyโ), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.
Please join us for our next session Saturday, June 6th at 2pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.
We look forward to seeing you again soon!
Possibilities
By Wisลawa Szymborska
I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where loveโs concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimmsโ fairy tales to the newspapersโ front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I havenโt mentioned here
to many things Iโve also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.
From Nothing Twice, 1997. Wydawnctwo Literackie.
Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh. Copyright ยฉ Wislawa Szymborska, S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh
Dziฤkujemy wszystkim, ktรณrzy wziฤli udziaล w dzisiejszej grupie narracyjnej!
Wspรณlnie uwaลผnie wsลuchaliลmy siฤ w utwรณr Roberta Schumanna โZart und singend (Delikatnie i ลpiewajฤ co)โ, naleลผฤ cy do cyklu โDavidsbรผndlertรคnze (Taลce Zwiฤ zku Dawida)โ, Op. 6 No. 14, w interpretacji Langa Langa z pลyty โLang Lang at the Royal Albert Hallโ โ dostฤpny tutaj.
Inspiracja do kreatywnego pisania brzmiaลa: โKiedy nie pamiฤtam o swoim cieleโ.
Praca grupy przebiegaลa tym razem โ tak jak utwรณr โ dolce e cantando. Pierwszej czฤลci spotkania towarzyszyลy, niewypowiedziane jeszcze wtedy wprost, sลowa Agnรจs Vardy: โGdybyลmy otworzyli ludzi, zobaczylibyลmy krajobrazyโ. Uczestnicy opisujฤ c swoje pierwsze wraลผenie po wysลuchaniu utworu przywoลywali pewne symboliczne przestrzenie, takie jak plaลผa czy ลฤ ka. Wskazywali na ich rozlegลoลฤ, ktรณra momentami zdawaลa siฤ byฤ pusta. Dynamika spotkania zmieniลa siฤ, kiedy wspomniane zostaลy rรณลผne odgลosy pochodzฤ ce z sali koncertowej: kaszlniฤcia, westchnienia, chrzฤ kniฤcia, bฤdฤ ce subtelnymi oznakami obecnoลci ciaล. Uczestnicy zaczฤli opowiadaฤ o tym, jak doลwiadczyli โ lub nie โ utworu w swoich ciaลach. Niektรณrzy mรณwili o ruchu, niektรณrzy o jego braku, a inni jeszcze o caลkowicie odcieleลnionym doลwiadczeniu utworu, o wraลผeniu przebywania poza ciaลem. Po drugim wysลuchaniu opowiadali jak ich doลwiadczenie zmieniลo siฤ, kiedy zachowywali uwaลผnoลฤ na sลuchajฤ ce ciaลo. Dominowaล gลos, ktรณry nie dostrzegaล ciaลa. Z tego teลผ wyลoniลa siฤ powyลผsza inspiracja. Treลฤ tekstรณw czฤsto nawiฤ zywaลa do obawy przed ujawnianiem siฤ ciaลa, co miaลoby siฤ wiฤ zaฤ z jakฤ ล jego dysfunkcjฤ , chorobฤ . Wskazywano rรณwnieลผ na doลwiadczenie rozdzielnoลci siebie i ciaลa. Jednak ponad wyraลผonym na poziomie treลci dualizmem daลo siฤ odczuฤ przenikajฤ cฤ wszystkie teksty jednoลฤ formy. Uczestnicy, jeden po drugim, jakby ลpiewnie, rytmicznie odczytywali swoje teksty i wypowiadali komentarze, uzupeลniajฤ c siฤ i splatajฤ c nawzajem. Nawet pojedyncze gลosy, ktรณre mogลyby siฤ zdawaฤ odrฤbne, reprezentowaลy melodiฤ caลego nagrania. Wskazanie tego byลo jakby punktem kulminacyjnym utworu, sprawiajฤ c ลผe caลa grupa zanurzyลa siฤ w emocjach przypominajฤ cych te, ktรณre towarzyszฤ finaลowi koncertu.
Zapraszamy do udziaลu w kolejnych sesjach, ktรณrych terminy podane sฤ na polskiej podstronie Wirtualnych Grup Narracyjnych. Najbliลผsza grupa odbฤdzie siฤ 9 czerwca (wtorek) o godzinie 18:00 โ zarejestruj siฤ juลผ dziล.
Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!
Together we listened closely to Robert Schumannโs โZart und singend (Tender and singingโ, a piece belonging to the โDavidsbรผndlertรคnze (Dances of the League of David)โ cycle, Op. 6 No. 14, performed by Lang Lang โ available here.
Our prompt for today was: โWhen I donโt remember about my body.โ
This time the group’s work went on โ just like the song โ dolce e cantando. The first part of the session was accompanied by words of Agnรจs Varda, unspoken at the time: โIf we opened people up, we’d find landscapes.โ Participants describing their first impressions after listening to the piece described some symbolic spaces, such as beach and meadow. They pointed out the spacesโ openness, that at times seemed empty. The dynamics of the session changed when various sounds from the concert hall were mentioned: coughing, sighing, grunting, which are all subtle signs of a presence of bodies. Participants began to talk about how they experienced โ or not โ the piece of music in their bodies. Some of them were talking about movement, some about its absence, and others about a completely disembodied experience of the piece, about the sensation of being out of the body. After the second listening, they spoke about how their experience had changed when they were attentive to the listening body. A voice that didn’t notice the body was predominant. The prompt also emerged from this. The content of the texts often referred to the fear of revealing the body, which would be associated with some kind of its dysfunction or illness. The experience of a rupture between the body and the self was also pointed out. However, beyond the dualism expressed at the content level, one could feel the unity of the form permeating all texts. The participants, one by one, almost liltingly, rhythmically read their texts and commented them, complementing and intertwining with each other. Even the individual voices that might have seemed distinct represented the melody of the entire recording. Realizing this was like a climax of the piece, causing the whole group to immerse themselves in emotions reminiscent of those that accompany a final of a concert.
Please join us for our next sessions: Wednesday June 3rd, 12pm EDT (in English) and Saturday June 6th, 2pm EDT (in English), with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.
If you have questions, or would like to schedule a personalized narrative medicine session for your organization or team, email us at narrativemedicine@cumc.columbia.edu.
Connections in Narrative Medicine 