Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EST February 23rd 2024

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read We Are All in the Dumps with Jack and Guy: Two Nursery Rhymes with Pictures” by Maurice Sendak, posted below.

Our prompt was: โ€œ Write about a home without walls.โ€

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave 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.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™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 February 26th at 6pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.


We Are All in the Dumps with Jack and Guy: Two Nursery Rhymes with Pictures” by Maurice Sendak

Credit: Maurice Sendak


Live Virtual Group Session: 6PM EST February 12th 2024

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “By the Boulder Cluster the Wind” by A. R. Ammons, posted below.

Our prompt was: โ€œI am shaped byโ€ฆโ€

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave 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.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™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 February 23rd at 12pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.


By the Boulder Cluster the Wind by A. R. Ammons

By the boulder cluster the wind
struck up a dust-ghost,
A brothering shade and shadow,
And oh I said
that I could live lively as you
and have
no more to die

and the ghost tore
into a shackling shrub
and failed like sleet,
returning
shapeโ€™s interference
to clearing


The dust rearranging
to a new breeze
I gave up
the intermediate
paradise
and said so
all things do misty arisings
mistily depart,
shingling down
the rills and ruffles
of nothing-in-between.

Ammons, A. R. โ€œBy the Boulder Cluster the Wind.โ€
The Hudson Review, vol. 30, no. 3, 1977, pp. 371โ€“371.


Encuentros virtuales en vivo: Sรกbado 10 de febrero 2024, 13:00 EST

SESIร“N MEDICINA NARRATIVA 10 de febrero de 2024

Asistimos 7 personas, de Nueva York, California, Mississippi, Tenerife (Espaรฑa), Argentina, y Mississippi. 

Trabajamos la pintura โ€œEducaciรณn Medicaโ€, del Dr. David Pizzimenti

El primer comentario fue que era hermosa y compleja. Se noto el sรญmbolo de la medicina, los moribundos, las factorรญas (sรญmbolos de industria), el libro a donde esta las respuestas de todo (de pronto). Entra a la ciencia, la salud, la financia, y comercio. Tambiรฉn hay un cristo crucificado. Se recuerda a murales mexicanos. 

Otra participante comento que la pintura es muy compleja. Encontramos un โ€œ100โ€, el sรญmbolo de dinero, un feto, un recordatorio/el ciclo de la vida y la muerta (los puntos de la vida), el caballo, la condiciรณn primitiva, la condiciรณn fabril, el Don Quijote, la cruz es como la salvaciรณn. Los que tienen caras son los sufrientes. Se ve la lucha sobre la vida humana.

A otra persona le recordรณ al cuadro de Guernica de Picasso. Se lee diferente si uno lo lee de arriba a abajo o de la izquierda a la derecha. Y dependiendo de quรฉ lado lo miras, toma notar el embudo. Aรบn otra participante pregunto quรฉ significa las letras en los tornillos. 

Le dimos la sorpresa de tener el pintor del cuadro en el taller. ร‰l nos contestรณ las preguntas y explicรณ su inspiraciรณn detrรกs de la pintura. Fue un placer especial tener al autor del texto con nosotros.

Escribimos con la propuesta: โ€œEscribe sobre un encuentro con un extraรฑo. En nuestros textos se hablรณ de cuando uno se vuelve un extraรฑo a uno mismo; de tratar a los extraรฑos como si no lo fueranโ€”el reconocimiento del otro; de un reconocido que se volviรณ extraรฑo; de conocer al mรฉdico que salvo la vida de una paciente desconocida; de (re)conocer a alguien extraรฑo pero vestido igual.

Aquรญ, ahora alentamos a los participantes que, si asรญ lo desean, compartan lo que escribieron a continuaciรณn. Deja tu respuesta aquรญ, si deseas continuar la conversaciรณn sobre la pintura โ€œEducaciรณn Mรฉdicaโ€, de Dr. David Pizzimenti. Pero antes, les recomendamos tener en cuenta que el blog es un espacio pรบblico donde, por supuesto, no se garantiza la confidencialidad.

Por favor, รบnase a nosotros en nuestra prรณxima sesiรณn en espaรฑol: El sรกbado 9 marzo a las 13 hrs. o a la 1 pm EST. Tambiรฉn, ofrecemos sesiones en inglรฉs. Ve a nuestra pรกgina de sesiones grupales virtuales.

ยกEsperamos verte pronto!


“Educaciรณn Mรฉdica por David Pizzimenti, MD.

Credit: David Pizzimenti


Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EST February 9th 2024

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a book chapter titled “I’m Losing My Patients ” by Hilton Koppe from One Curious Doctor, posted below.

Our prompt was: โ€œWrite about the gift of knowing we are mortal.โ€

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave 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.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™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 February 12th at 6pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.


Iโ€™m Losing My Patients by Hiltonย Koppe from One Curious Doctor

The blank death certificate sits in front of me. No matter where a life starts, where it ventures,
the Medical Certificate of Death is the concluding punctuation mark on a personโ€™s medical
narrative.
I approach the completion of the death certificate with reverence. My final task in the care of
a patient. A moment to pause. Reflect. Say goodbye. To honour their life within the rigid confines
of a bureaucratic document.
This ritual is becoming increasingly frequent.
My patients have been growing older with me. Despite medicineโ€™s advances and my best
efforts, they are dying. It is their time. Iโ€™m losing my patients.
Just last month, I lost three. Lilly, my oldest patient, was an elegant matriarch. Each of her
frequent visits ended with her gently touching my arm and saying, โ€œBless you, Hiltonโ€. I had cared
for her husband Don before his death. Now it was Lillyโ€™s turn. Her heart was failing. โ€œI hope that
one night I will go to sleep and wake up dead. Just like Don did.โ€ Her wish came true a few days
ago. Whoโ€™s going to bless me now?
Len had been a child throughout Germanyโ€™s bombing of London. I had once ruined his
Christmas by sending him to hospital to have a heart pacemaker inserted. He would have died
without it. He wasnโ€™t ready for that. The pacemaker kept him going for another decade. Not
always easy years. But โ€œbetter than the alternativeโ€, as he often said. Len was a poet. Each visit
to me was accompanied by the gift of a poem, โ€œFrom when the muse was upon meโ€. The last
time I saw him he told me he was feeling better than he had for years. Another gift. He woke up
dead the following week.
Joe had been a postman during the times when delivering the mail included many a garden
path conversation. Even as his dementia progressed, Joe still enjoyed animated conversations. I
loved how his disconnection with the present transported us to a simpler time. Until that gift too
was snuffed out by dementiaโ€™s relentless march.
I finish writing the death certificate. I pause and offer gratitude for the blessings, the poems,
the conversations and all the other gifts my patients have shared with me, and I walk out to greet
my next patient. The waiting room is full. Many familiar faces look my way.
I am troubled by a nagging thought, a persistent pestering question. Who will be next?


Credit: Hilton Koppe

Live Virtual Group Session: 6PM EST February 5th 2024

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “I See My Bones In No Other ” by Liz Quirke from The Road, Slowly, posted below.

Our prompt was: โ€œWrite about your people.โ€

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave 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.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™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 February 9th at 12pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.


Iย Seeย My Bones In No Other by Liz Quirke from The Road, Slowly

Credit: Liz Quirke


Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EST February 2nd 2024

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem Destruction” by Joanne Kyger from A Book of Luminous Things, Czeslaw Milosz, Editor, posted below.

Our prompt was: โ€œWrite about going through it.โ€

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave 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.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™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 February 5th at 6pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

"Destruction" by Joanneย Kyger from A Book of Luminous Things, Czeslawย Milosz, Editor

First of all do you remember the way a bear goes through
a cabin when nobody is home? He goes through
the front door. I mean he really goes through it. Then
he takes the cupboard off the wall and eats a can of lard.

He eats all the apples, limes, dates, bottled decaffeinated
coffee, and 35 pounds of granola. The asparagus soup cans
fall to the floor. Yum! He chomps up Norwegian crackers
stashed for the winter. And the bouillon, salt, pepper,
paprika, garlic, onions, potatoes.

โ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒHe rips the Green Tara
poster from the wall. Tries the Coleman Mustard. Spillsย 
the ink, tracks in the flour. Goes up stairs and takes
a shit. Rips open the water bed, eats the incense and
drinks the perfume. Knocks over the Japanese tansu
and the Persian miniature of a man on horseback watching
a woman bathing.

โ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒKnocks Shelter, Whole Earth Catalouge,
Planet Drum, Northern Mists, Truck Tracks, and
Womenโ€™s Sports into the oozing water bed mess.
โ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€ƒโ€‚He goes
down stairs and out the back wall. He keeps on going
for a long way and finds a good cave to sleep it all off.
Luckily he ate the whole medicine cabinet, including stash
of LSD, Peyote, Psilocybin, Amanita, Benzedrine, Valium
and aspirin.

Credit: Milosz, Czeslaw, ed. A Book of Luminous Things (1997). Harcourt, Brace & Company.

Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EST January 26th 2024

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “The Earth” by Sheila Black, posted below.

Our prompt was:ย โ€œWrite aboutย a momentย of unexpectedย connection.โ€

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave 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.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™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 February 2nd at 12pm EST, with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessions.


"The Earth" by Sheila Black

What can I tell her over breakfast when she says
her son suffers from madness, and because there
is no mental health, he has ended up in jail,
and she is relieved, because at least he might
be safe there or he might get to see the doctor.
We are eating egg-white omelets; we are counting
carbs. We are buttoning ourselves in our clean dresses
and high-heeled shoes in order to bring home the bacon,
doing what we need to do and โ€œIt is what it is.โ€
Her granddaughter and daughter are living with her
in the one bedroom. Nights, the daughter lounges by
the pool, looking at her phone, while she teaches the child
to plant seeds in a flower bed she feels bad she does not own.
She tells she cried in the car coming here; she did not know
me then. She thought we would be talking to each other
the whole time about what we are selling, what
the other might buy, but somehow we left that behind
over the toast with the tiny pots of strawberry jam.
Who can explain all this luxury, all this despair?
Or how we all hold our secret shames so close
and gloss our lips with โ€œCinnamon Fireโ€ as if that were
some legitimate form of protection. Cinnamon Fire!
She just turned fifty. I tell her wait ten yearsโ€”you
wonโ€™t know more, but you will get closer to forgiving,
because it is all happening on a wheel that spins
so fast. Why not stop to look at the pink flowers
youโ€™ve planted with your granddaughter? Why not feel
your bare toes in the good wet earth? We play with the crusts
on our plates. The waitress takes the coffee away. We
are strangers again, each carrying our lonely fear
our children wonโ€™t find their way, wishing for them
some inner logicโ€”sacred trust of earth and self, that exists
for each of us so far within, so far under the skin, we
canโ€™t even begin to say what it is made of; it merely is,
poised between love and grief: the blue space we call wonder,
which is merely the dew on the grass, the shadow the sun
makes as it rolls over the vast skin of the Earth.

Copyright ยฉ 2023 by Sheila Black. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 28, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.

Encuentros virtuales en vivo: Sรกbado 20 de enero 2024, 13:00 EST

Asistimos 6 personas, de Nueva York, California, Tenerife (Espaรฑa) y Argentina. 

Leรญmos y trabajamos โ€œEl Marโ€, de Ana Marรญa Matute del libro Los niรฑos tontos

Se comentรณ sobre el cambio de la perspectiva del narrador, que al principio juzga al protagonista (externo) y luego se pone dentro del niรฑo (interno). Al principio tiene pena del niรฑo y al final parece tener pena de los adultos. Uno de los participantes vio en el texto una gran metรกfora sobre la muerte. Otra participante notรณ que se repiten imรกgenes: las orejas al principio estรกn de espaldas a la ventana, el niรฑo no estรก pendiente del exterior.  Y luego vuelven a aparecer las orejas. Tambiรฉn se habla dos veces de la caracola, el sonido. Y al final oye voces lejanas.

Es un texto complejo, que deja mucho para pensar. Se sugiriรณ que si cambiamos la palabra โ€œmarโ€ por โ€œmuerteโ€ el texto cobra mucho mรกs sentido. Comentamos cรณmo la visiรณn de los demรกs nos ayuda a comprender el texto de una forma diferente. 

Otro asistente mencionรณ que las โ€œorejas grandesโ€ podrรญan significar un niรฑo con una gran curiosidad, sin miedo a la vida y no la perspectiva de solamente un defecto fรญsico.

Escribimos con la propuesta: โ€œEscribe sobre un momento en el que tu perspectiva cambiรณโ€. En nuestros textos se hablรณ de momentos en que cambiamos de ser (de mรฉdico a paciente) y como eso permitiรณ aceptar que cada uno ve la vida de una manera diferente. Tambiรฉn el modo en que los cambios de perspectiva permiten engrandecer nuestra visiรณn del mundo. Se comentรณ la ventaja de hablar de ampliar la perspectiva en lugar de cambiarla. Tambiรฉn se cuestionรณ el propio tรฉrmino de perspectiva desde una perspectiva ampliada. Se escribiรณ bajo la sombra del texto sobre el miedo, el mar como anhelo y la niรฑez. Escribimos sobre las personas que nos han hecho pensar diferente. Escribimos sobre esos momentos en que la vida cambia y entonces cambia toda la visiรณn sobre la vida. Una compaรฑera nos recordรณ que todo texto es autobiogrรกfico, parafraseando a Borges.

Aquรญ, ahora alentamos a los participantes que, si asรญ lo desean, compartan lo que escribieron a continuaciรณn. Deja tu respuesta aquรญ, si deseas continuar la conversaciรณn sobre el cuento โ€œEl Marโ€, de Ana Marรญa Matute. Pero antes, les recomendamos tener en cuenta que el blog es un espacio pรบblico donde, por supuesto, no se garantiza la confidencialidad.

Por favor, รบnase a nosotros en nuestra prรณxima sesiรณn en espaรฑol: El sรกbado 10 febrero a las 13 hrs. o a la 1 pm EST. Tambiรฉn, ofrecemos sesiones en inglรฉs. Ve a nuestra pรกgina de sesiones grupales virtuales.


EL MAR (Libro: Los niรฑos tontos) por Ana Marรญa Matute

Pobre niรฑo. Tenรญa las orejas muy grandes, y, cuando se ponรญa de espaldas a la ventana, se volvรญan encarnadas. Pobre niรฑo, estaba doblado, amarillo. Vino el hombre que curaba, detrรกs de sus gafas. ยซEl mar -dijo-; el mar, el marยป. Todo el mundo empezรณ a hacer maletas y a hablar del mar. Tenรญan una prisa muy grande. El niรฑo se figurรณ que el mar era como estar dentro de una caracola grandรญsima, llena de rumores, cรกnticos, voces que gritaban muy lejos, con un largo eco. Creรญa que el mar era alto y verde.

Pero cuando llegรณ al mar se quedรณ parado. Su piel, ยกquรฉ extraรฑa era allรญ! ยซMadre -dijo, porque sentรญa vergรผenza-, quiero ver hasta dรณnde me llega el marยป.

ร‰l, que creyรณ el mar alto y verde, lo veรญa blanco, como el borde de la cerveza, cosquilleรกndole, frรญo, la punta de los pies.

ยซยกVoy a ver hasta dรณnde me llega el mar!ยป. Y anduvo, anduvo, anduvo. El mar, ยกquรฉ cosa rara!, crecรญa, se volvรญa azul, violeta. Le llegรณ a las rodillas. Luego, a la cintura, al pecho, a los labios, a los ojos. Entonces, le entrรณ en las orejas el eco largo, las voces que llaman lejos. Y en los ojos, todo el color. ยกAh, sรญ, por fin, el mar era de verdad! Era una grande, inmensa caracola. El mar, verdaderamente, era alto y verde.

Pero los de la orilla no entendรญan nada de nada. Encima, se ponรญan a llorar a gritos, y decรญan: ยซยกQuรฉ desgracia! ยกSeรฑor, quรฉ gran desgracia!ยป.

Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EST January 19th 2024

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we took a close look at Never One Thing ” by May Erlewine, posted below.

Our prompt was: โ€œStart with โ€˜I am…โ€™โ€

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave 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.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™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 January 26th at 12pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.


Lyrics : Never One Thing. By May Erlewine


I'm the underbelly, I am the claw
Never one thing no, not one thing at all
I'm a street fighter, I'm a prayer for peace
I'm a holy roller, I'm a honey bee

I am the truth, I am a lie
I am the ground, I am the sky
I am the silence, I am the call
Never one thing no, not one thing at all

I'm the underbelly, I am the claw
Never one thing no, not one thing at all
I'm a street fighter, I'm a prayer for peace
I'm a holy roller, I'm a honey bee

I am hope, I am defeat
I am broken, I am complete
I am the grace, I am the fall
Never one thing no, not one thing at all

I'm the underbelly, I am the claw
Never one thing no, not one thing at all
I'm a street fighter, I'm a prayer for peace
I'm a holy roller, I'm a honey bee

I am the beggar, I am the queen
I am the end, I am the means
I am the hammer, I am the wall
Never one thing no, not one thing at all

I'm the underbelly, I am the claw
Never one thing no, not one thing at all
I'm a street fighter, I'm a prayer for peace
I'm a holy roller, I'm a honey bee

I am a victor, I am the loss
I am a profit, I am the cost
I am the salve, I am the sting
Never, no never, no never one thing

I'm the underbelly, I am the claw
Never one thing no, not one thing at all
I'm a street fighter, I'm a prayer for peace
I'm a holy roller, I'm a honey bee

I am a mother, I am the child
I am the meek, I am the wild
I am the witch, I am the saint
I am alive, never one thing

I'm the underbelly, I am the claw
Never one thing no, not one thing at all
I'm a street fighter, I'm a prayer for peace
I'm a holy roller, I'm a honey bee

I am the lion, I am the swan
I am the bull, I am the fawn
I am a woman, I am the ring
I am my own, never one thing

I'm the underbelly, I am the claw
Never one thing no, not one thing at all
I'm a street fighter, I'm a prayer for peace
I'm a holy roller, I'm a honey bee

Source: Musixmatch
Songwriters: Tyler Andrew Duncan

Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EST January 12th 2024

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we took a close look at the painting Resurgence of the People” by Kent Monkman, posted below.

Our prompt was: โ€œStart with ‘A community is..’โ€

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave 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.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™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 January 19th at 12pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.


Resurgence of the People” by Kent Monkman

Kent Monkman (Cree, b. 1965). Resurgence of the People, 2019. Acrylic on canvas, 132 x 264 in. (335.28 x 670.6 cm).

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Purchase, Donald R. Sobey Foundation CAF Canada Project Gift, 2020. Image courtesy of the artist