Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a passage from “Life as a Brain Surgeon” by Henry Marsh, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about being hardwired or soft wired.”

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Friday April 4th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

 Life as a Brain Surgeon by Henry Marsh

Life by its very nature, is reluctant to end. It is as though we are hardwired for hope, to always feel that 
we have a future. The most convincing explanation for the rise of brains in evolution is that brains 
permit movement. To move, we must predict what lies ahead of us. Our brains are devices - for want of 
a better word - for predicting the future. They make a model of the world and of our body, and this 
enables us to navigate the world outside. Perception is expectation. When we see, or feel, or taste or 
hear, our brains, it is thought, only use the information from our eyes, mouth, skin and ears for 
comparison with the model it has already made of the world outside when we were young. If, when 
walking down a staircase, there is one more or less step than we expect, we are momentarily thrown off 
balance. The famous sea squirt, beloved of  popular neuroscience lectures, in its larval stage is motile 
and has a primitive nervous system (called a notochord) so it can navigate the sea - at least, its own very 
corner of it. In its adult stage it fastens limpet-like to a rock and feeds passively, simply depending on 
the influx of seawater through its tubes. It then reabsorbs its nervous system - it is no longer needed 
since the creature no longer needs to move. My wife Kate put this into verse.
          I wish I were a sea squirt,
          If life became a strain,
          I'd veg out on the nearest rock
          And reabsorb my brain.

Credit: Henry Marsh

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we took a close look at the painting “Hospital” by Maria Lassnig, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about navigating an unfamiliar place.”

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Monday March 31st at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Credit: Maria Lassnig

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read an excerpt from the novel “Autumn” by Ali Smith, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about comforting a child.”

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Friday March 28th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

 Excerpt from Autumn by Ali Smith

Elisabeth strapped her rollerblades on, laced them up and went round to Daniel's house. Daniel was in the back garden. Elisabeth rollerbladed down the path.
    Oh hello, Daniel said. It's you. What you reading?
    I couldn't get to sleep last night, she said.
    Wait, Daniel said. First of all, tell me. What are you reading?
    Clockwork, she said. It's really good. I told you about it yesterday. The 
one about people making up the story but then the story becomes true and starts to happen and is really terrible.
    I remember, Daniel said. They stop the bad thing happening by singing a song.
    Yes, Elisabeth said.
    If only life were so simple, Daniel said.
    That's what I'm saying, Elisabeth said. I couldn't sleep.
    Because of the book? Daniel said.
    Elisabeth told him about the pavement, her feet, her father's face. Daniel looked grave. He sat down on the lawn. He patted the place on the grass next to him.
    It's all right to forget, you know, he said. It's good to. In fact, we have to forget things sometimes. Forgetting it is important. We do it on purpose. It means we get a bit of a rest. Are you listening? We have to forget. Or we'd never sleep ever again.
    Elisabeth was crying now like a much younger child cries. Crying came 
out of her like weather.
    Daniel put his hand flat against her back.
    What I do when it distresses me that there's something I can't remember, is. Are you listening?
    Yes, Elisabeth said through the crying.
    I imagine that whatever it is I've forgotten is folded close to me, like a sleeping bird.
    What kind of bird? Elisabeth said.
    A wild bird, Daniel said. Any kind. You'll know what kind when it hap-pens. Then, what I do is, I just hold it there, without holding it too tight, and I let it sleep. And that's that.
    Then he asked her if it was true that the rollerskates with the lights on the backs of them only worked on roads, and if it was true that the lights in the backs of them didn't come on at all if you rollerskated on grass.
    Elisabeth stopped crying.
    They're called rollerblades, she said.
    Rollerblades, Daniel said. Right. Well?
    And you can't rollerblade on grass, she said.
    Can't you? Daniel said. How very disappointing truth is sometimes. Can't we try?
    There'd be no point, she said.
    Can't we try anyway? he said. We might disprove the general consensus.
    Okay, Elisabeth said.
    She got up. She wiped her face on her sleeve.

Credit: Ali Smith 

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read an excerpt from “In the Distance ” by Hernan Diaz, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about what is under the surface.”

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Friday March 21st at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Excerpt from In the Distance by Hernan Diaz p 84.

Häkan's memory of what followed that first operation was obscured by thick smudges of blood, but behind the crimson-black swirls, his recollections had the surgical precision of a picture painted with a single-hair brush. Until sunset, they extracted pellets buried in the deepest fibers of the flesh, fitted the serrated edges of broken bones into one another, reset viscera and stitched abdomens shut, cauterized wounds with white-hot irons, sawed off arms and feet, and sewed flaps of skin around muscle and fat and bone into rounded stumps. As he became absorbed by the work, Hakan discovered a form of impassive care completely new to him. His detachment, he felt, was the only proper approach to tending to the wounded. Anything else, beginning with compassion and commiseration, could only degrade the sufferers' pain by likening it to a merely imaginary agony. And he had learned that pity was insatiable—a false virtue that always craved more suffering to show how limitless and magnificent it could be. This sense of responsibility exposed a fundamental disagreement with Lorimer's doctrines. The naturalist claimed that all life was the same and, ultimately, one. We come from other bodies and are destined to become other bodies. In a universe made of universes, he would often say, rank becomes meaningless. But Häkan now sensed the sanctity of the human body and considered every glimpse underneath the skin a profanation. These were not prairie hens.

Credit: Hernan Diaz 

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “Death Comes to Me Again, a Girl” by Dorianne Laux, posted below.

Our prompt was:“What death comes to you today?”

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Monday March 10th at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Death Comes to Me Again, a Girl by Dorianne Laux

Death comes to me again, a girl
in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling.
It’s not so terrible she tells me,
not like you think, all darkness
and silence. There are windchimes
and the smell of lemons, some days
it rains, but more often the air is dry
and sweet. I sit beneath the staircase
built from hair and bone and listen
to the voices of the living. I like it,
she says, shaking the dust from her hair,
especially when they fight, and when they sing.

Credit: Dorianne Laux