Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EDT August 6th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

Our text for this session was the poemย One Artย byย Elizabeth Bishop,ย available here.

Our prompt for this session was: โ€œWrite about lost and found.โ€

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

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 sessionย Monday August 9th atย 6pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.



Live Virtual Group Session: 6PM EDT August 2nd 2021(Our 150th Session in English!)

29 participants joined for our 150th VGS session in English. This was the first session for five people and the second for five more. It is always wonderful to have our core group and new participants mix! After reviewing the technical aspects of participating via Zoom and our shared values of confidentiality and approaching texts with narrative humility, we listened to two readers voice poet laureate (2013) Ted Kooserโ€™s โ€œTattoo,โ€ posted below.ย 

We were immediately struck by the lines โ€œwhere vanity once punched him hardโ€ and โ€œthe sleeves of his tight black T-shirt rolled up to show who he wasโ€ – prompting us to think about the ways we present ourselves. In the case of the man described by the narrator: Who was he andwho is he now? What may have changed internally as well as externally? What has stayed the same? We considered the manโ€™s choice of T-shirt and the gesture attributed to him–that of rolling his shirt sleeve and exposing the daggered heart–before going to the yard sale. A man still expressing himself in the theatre of the body. โ€œLife has happened,โ€ offered one participant, who noted not only the โ€œbony shoulderโ€ but also the โ€œshuddering heartโ€ calling our attention to aging and to the housing of fears now or then. 

We had fun imagining various narrative viewpoints. Was the narrator a young man observing an older man while denying that his body would age and grow softer like the man he observed? Or was the narrator a woman drawn to the description of a one-time โ€œstallionโ€ wearing his tight T-shirt with bravado? Was the observer another older man who had known, or not known, the man in younger days? And what were the authorโ€™s, the narratorโ€™s, and our own identifications with//projections onto the character portrayed?  

After writing 4 minutes to the prompt โ€œDraw or describe the shoulder tattooโ€ we heard 3 writers read aloud.

The first combined a physical/clinical description of a physically โ€œdepletedโ€ human heart  with a verso to the heart as a holder of emotion and its metaphorical demise from โ€œthe excessesโ€ of too many tears. One person was reminded of โ€œThe Chartโ€ by Dr. Rafael Campo–to which the writer signaled that Campoโ€™s work had served as inspiration for tonightโ€™s prompted writing.

We listened to another piece, which began with a reference to a โ€œglowโ€ of iodine painted on the skin before surgery and an imposed and lasting โ€œbruising.โ€ Participants were quick to hear the echoing of this writing with โ€œThe Tattooโ€ and to see in our mindsโ€™ eye the image of marks created with words. 

The third piece began with an image of the tattoo โ€œdancingโ€ and โ€œflexingโ€ on the shoulder and concluded with impressions of the manโ€™s spirit very much alive. 

These shared writings, like the text by Kooser, elicited many thoughts and responses, which were shared both orally and via the chat. These included attention to tattoos as forms of โ€œwhat our skin tellsโ€ and how tattoos, at one time were โ€œmarkers of gender and classโ€ and now are much more prevalent. The color โ€œblueโ€ evoked the possible use of the word to convey physical โ€œheart failureโ€ and de-oxygenation of blood and/or โ€œa failed heart.โ€ One comment suggested that we are โ€œhuman billboardsโ€ and asked if the โ€œdaggered heartโ€ represents not a warning or a murder but lost love.

Near the end of another session-that, in a way, are endless sessions of meaningful exchanges-a participant dropped into the chat, โ€œAre we bodies that have souls or souls that have bodies?โ€

Thank you everyone for all your Monday evening contributions and for your contributions here in the narrative blog.

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 August 6th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.


Tattoo by Ted Kooser

What once was meant to be a statementโ€”
a dripping dagger held in the fist
of a shuddering heartโ€”is now just a bruise
on a bony old shoulder, the spot
where vanity once punched him hard
and the ache lingered on. He looks like
someone you had to reckon with,
strong as a stallion, fast and ornery,
but on this chilly morning, as he walks
between the tables at a yard sale
with the sleeves of his tight black T-shirt
rolled up to show us who he was,
he is only another old man, picking up
broken tools and putting them back,
his heart gone soft and blue with stories.



from Delights & Shadows, 
Copper Canyon Press, Port Townsend, WA 2004


Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EDT July 30th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

Our text for this session was the poem Obligations 2 by Layli Long Soldier, posted below.

Our prompt for this session was: โ€œAs we embrace” or “As we resistโ€

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

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 August 2nd at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.


 Obligations 2 by Layli Long Soldier


Live Virtual Group Session: 6PM EDT July 26th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

Our text for this session was the poemย Dead Starsย byย Ada Limรณn,ย posted below.

Our prompt for this session was: โ€œWrite/list demands to launch into the sky.โ€

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

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 sessionย Friday July 30th atย 12pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.


Dead Starsย byย Ada Limรณn

Out here, thereโ€™s a bowing even the trees are doing.
                 Winterโ€™s icy hand at the back of all of us.
Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels
so mute itโ€™s almost in another year.

I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.

We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out
       the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder.

Itโ€™s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue
       recycling bin until you say, Man, we should really learn
some new constellations.

And itโ€™s true. We keep forgetting about Antlia, Centaurus,
       Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.

But mostly weโ€™re forgetting weโ€™re dead stars too, my mouth is full
       of dust and I wish to reclaim the risingโ€”

to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward
       whatโ€™s larger within us, toward how we were born.

Look, we are not unspectacular things.
       Weโ€™ve come this far, survived this much. What

would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?

What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.
     No, to the rising tides.

Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?

What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain

for the safety of others, for earth,
                 if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified,

if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big
people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,

rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?

Encuentros virtuales en vivo: Sรกbado 24 de Julio, 13:00 EST (17:00 UTC)

Asistieron 5 participantes representando a los paรญses de Argentina, Colombia, Espaรฑa, Estados Unidos y Uruguay. El texto elegido fue โ€œSรฉ todos los cuentosโ€ del poeta espaรฑol Leรณn Felipe.ย 

La discusiรณn se centrรณ en el significado de la palabra โ€œcuentoโ€. En espaรฑol, la palabra โ€œcuentoโ€ se puede entender en el sentido de narrativa y discurso social por un lado y en el sentido cultural de โ€œembusteโ€ o โ€œengaรฑoโ€ por otro. Al principio, la mayorรญa de los participantes le dieron este รบltimo sentido, como si el poeta se quejara de haber sido โ€œengaรฑadoโ€ toda su vida con los cuentos y retรณrica de la sociedad. En esta interpretaciรณn, la palabra โ€œcuentosโ€ tenรญa la funciรณn de โ€œcontrolarโ€ o โ€œreprimir una rebeliรณn socialโ€ dijo una participante. Los participantes que hicieron esta observaciรณn se basaron en el contexto histรณrico en que fue escrito el poema. 

Sin embargo, otra participante nos dio una perspectiva diferente. Ella notรณ que para desmentir el impacto del engaรฑo social de los โ€œcuentosโ€, el poeta escribe su propia narrativa de vida donde lo mรกs valorado es su experiencia de vida. De esta manera, el poeta afirma su experiencia subjetiva como fuente de conocimiento. Pero, paradรณjicamente, para establecer su  valoraciรณn subjetiva, el poeta necesita hacerlo  escribiendo su propio cuento, es decir su propia narrativa de vida: โ€œYo no sรฉ muchas cosas es verdad. Digo tan sรณlo lo que he visto. Y he visto que โ€ฆโ€  La nueva interpretaciรณn de esta participante nos enriqueciรณ a todos, ya que no habรญamos pensado antes que el poema estuviera construido como un cuento dentro de otro cuento, como un mandala, o como  las famosas โ€œmuรฑecas rusasโ€ (en dรณnde una muรฑeca contiene a la otra),  segรบn observรณ otra participante.

Despuรฉs de este intercambio productivo, escribimos por cinco minutos segรบn la consigna en base al poema. La consigna fue โ€œEscribe sobre ese cuento o historia que tรบ creรญas o pretendรญas conocer.โ€ Luego, invitamos a los participantes  a leer exactamente lo que habรญan escrito sin preocuparse de tener que producir un texto literario. Como metodologรญa de la medicina narrativa, el comentario sobre los textos de los participantes se enfoca no sรณlo en el contenido sino especialmente en la forma y estilo de los textos. La consigna motivรณ a los participantes a hacer asociaciones tanto sobre sus vidas personales como sus vidas profesionales. De los textos escritos por los participantes surgieron reflexiones acerca de cรณmo los cuentos, en el sentido de prejuicios sociales, pueden comprometer la asistencia de salud a ciertas personas a quienes se estigmatiza por su apariencia fรญsica o su comportamiento. Finalmente los participantes reflexionaron sobre el hecho de que los textos siempre estรกn abiertos a nuevas interpretaciones porque es imposible cubrir todas las interpretaciones. Por eso es necesario estar conscientes de que al hacer una interpretaciรณn, si bien estamos favoreciendo una idea tambiรฉn estamos oscureciendo otra. 

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 poema de Leรณn Felipe. 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 14 de agosto a las 13 hrs. o a la 1 pm EST. Tambiรฉn, ofrecemos sesiones en inglรฉs. Ve aย  nuestra pรกgina de sesiones grupales virtuales en vivo.

ยกEsperamos verte pronto!


Sรฉ todos los cuentos, por Leรณn Felipe

Yo no sรฉ muchas cosas, es verdad.
Digo tan sรณlo lo que he visto.
Y he visto:
Que la cuna del hombre la mecen con cuentos,
que los gritos de angustia del hombre los ahogan
con cuentos,
que el llanto del hombre lo taponan con cuentos,
que los huesos del hombre los entierran con 
cuentos,
y que el miedo del hombre...
ha inventado los cuentos.
Yo no sรฉ muchas cosas, es verdad,
pero me han dormido con todos los cuentos...
y sรฉ todos los cuentos. 

Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EDT July 21st 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

Our text for this session was the poemย Everything We Left Behind by Manasi Garg,ย posted below.

Our prompt for this session was: โ€œWrite about shedding the years”

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

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 sessionย Monday July 26th atย 6pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.


Everything We Left Behind by Manasi Garg

In my dreams, my grandmother and I are 
bodies of fat and light and we clasp our hands so 
tightly that even God knows to cry. I am in love
with her and her marbled flesh. We walk through her first home.
Cursed city. I watch her shed the years, watch them whisper into the clouds 
like linens drying under the hot sun. Here is her house that burned down. 
Here is the temple next to the fruit orchard. Here is where the 
neighbors threw rocks. She was only 11 when 
the world ended. Pakistan, 1947. She tells me the men would rather
drown their daughters than let them be taken. 
I picture a thousand Ophelias: the white dresses billowing,
the river water scything their breathless skin in rivulets, their heads
bobbing up and down Ravi River like a string of pearls. 
I wonder if they filled their pockets with stones or if they just accepted
the darkness, the finality of it all: if they wanted it, if it felt like a
motherโ€™s womb, if they were aching to return home. 

Live Virtual Group Session: 6PM EDT July 19th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

For this session we watched an excerpt from the stand-up comedy specialย Douglasย by Hannah Gadsby,ย posted below.

Our prompt for this session was a choice between: โ€œWrite about your relationship to the boxโ€ OR “Write about missing the memo.”

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

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 sessionย Wednesday July 21st at 12pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.



Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EDT July 16th 2021

Thanks to the returning and new members of our Friday session. The prose text today, an excerpt from the novel Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace (pg 175-176, posted below), generated broad then deep discussion beginning with the voice/tone/identity of the speaker. On one hand, the imperative voice sounded like a metaphorical primer for living, but beneath the words we identified a resigned, disillusioned, weary, and conflicted voice that reflected oppositional forces at work (playing The Game while not being played by the players of The Game). This notion of โ€œaware but fatedโ€ seemed relevant to current events: the Olympics, amateur athletes seeking fair compensation, and professional athletes seeking a balance between performance and mental health.

Although one clear narratorial identity did not emerge, the discussion did evoke for us the platitudes of Max Ehrmannโ€™s poem Desiderata and the authoritarian voice in Jamaica Kincaidโ€™s story, Girl. We recognized the inherent conflict of individuality vs. group dynamics, and how within The Game participants may be made to feel interchangeable or even dehumanized.

After an insightful discussion of the text, we moved on to our writing prompt: This can be trickyโ€ฆ Participants shared their writing on topics as wide ranging as growing up in the 21st century, caring for a dying loved one, and finding a kind and thorough doctor. Some of these meditations focused on โ€œfiguring out who you areโ€ throughout childhood and adolescence, which we cited as an incredibly formative time in our lives as we navigate the world โ€œwithout life experience to act as a sign post.โ€ One participant wrote the encouragement โ€œLetโ€™s all give it our best shot.โ€ The collective effort of this sentiment felt like a welcome relief from the trickiness of going it alone.ย 

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 July 19th at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions page.


Excerpt from Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace

Here is how to schnell.

Here is how to go through your normal adolescent growth spurt and have every limb in your body ache like a migraine because selected groups of muscles have been worked until thick and intensile, and they resist as the sudden growth of bone tries to stretch them, and they ache all the time. There is medication for this condition.

If you are an adolescent, here is the trick to being neither quite a nerd nor quite a jock: be no one.

It is easier than you think.

Here is how to read the monthly E.T.A. and U.S.T.A. and O.N.A.N.T.A. rankings the way Himself read scholarsโ€™ reviews of his multiple-exposure melodramas. Learn to care and not to care. They mean the rankings to help you determine where you are, not who you are. Memorize your monthly rankings, and forget them. Here is how: never tell anyone where you are.

This is also how not to fear sleep or dreams. Never tell anyone where you are. Please learn the pragmatics of expressing fear: sometimes words that seem to express really invoke.

This can be tricky.

Here is how to get free sticks and strings and clothes and gear from Dunlop, Inc. as long as you let them spraypaint the distinctive Dunlop logo on your sticksโ€™ strings and sew logos on your shoulder and the left pocket of your shorts and use a Dunlop gear-bag, and you become a walking lunging sweating advertisement for Dunlop, Inc.; this is all as long as you keep justifying your seed and preserving your rank; the Dunlop, Inc. New New England Regional Athletic Rep will address you as โ€˜Our gray swanโ€™; he wears designer slacks and choking cologne and about twice a year wants to help you dress and has to be slapped like a gnat.

Be a Student of the Game. Like most clichรฉs of sport, this is profound. You can be shaped, or you can be broken. There is not much in between. Try to learn. Be coachable. Try to learn from everybody, especially those who fail. This is hard. Peers who fizzle or blow up or fall down, run away, disappear from the monthly rankings, drop off the circuit. E.T.A. peers waiting for deLint to knock quietly at their door and ask to chat. Opponents. Itโ€™s all educational. How promising you are as a Student of the Game is a function of what you can pay attention to without running away. Nets and fences can be mirrors. And between the nets and fences, opponents are also mirrors. This is why the whole thing is scary. This is why all opponents are scary and weaker opponents are especially scary.

See yourself in your opponents. They will bring you to understand the Game. To accept the fact that the Game is about managed fear. That its object is to send from yourself what you hope will not return.

This is your body. They want you to know. You will have it with you always.

On this issue there is no counsel; you must make your best guess. For myself, I do not expect ever really to know.

But in the interval, if it is an interval: here is Motrin for your joints, Noxzema for your burn, Lemon Pledge if you prefer nausea to burn, Contracol for your back, benzoin for your hands, Epsom salt and anti-inflammatories for your ankle, and extracurriculars for your folks, who just wanted to make sure you didnโ€™t miss anything they got.


Live Virtual Group Session: 6PM EDT July 14th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

Our text for this session wasย the poem Men at My Fatherโ€™s Funeral by William Matthews,ย posted below.

Our prompt for this session was: โ€œWrite an elegy about someone lost.โ€

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

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 sessionย Friday July 16th at 12pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.


Men at My Fatherโ€™s Funeral
By William Matthews

The ones his age who shook my hand
on their way out sent fear along
my arm like heroin. These werenโ€™t
men mute about their feelings,
or whatโ€™s a body language for?
ย 
And I, the glib one, whoโ€™d stood
with my back to my fatherโ€™s body
and praised the heart that attacked him?
Iโ€™d made my stab at elegy,
the flesh made word: the very spit
ย 
in my mouth was sour with ruth
and eloquence. What could be worse?
Silence, the anthem of my fatherโ€™s
new country. And thus this babble,
like a dial tone, from our bodies.


William Matthews, โ€œMen at My Fatherโ€™s Funeralโ€ 
from Time and Money: New Poems. 
Copyright ยฉ 1995 by William Matthews.

Live Virtual Group Session: 6PM EDT July 12th 2021

Thank you to everyone who joined for this session!

Our text for this session wasย The Nobodies by Eduardo Galeano (translated by Cedric Belfrage),ย posted below.

Our prompt for this session was: โ€œWrite about the dreams of the nobodies.โ€

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

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 sessionย Wednesday July 14th at 6pm EDT,ย with more times listed on ourย Live Virtual Group Sessionsย page.


Los Nadies (Eduardo Galeano)
Sueรฑan las pulgas con comprarse un perro
y sueรฑan los nadies con salir de pobre,
que algรบn mรกgico dรญa llueva de pronto la buena suerte,
que llueva a cรกntaros la buena suerte:
pero la buena suerte no llueve ayer,
ni hoy ni maรฑana ni nunca,
ni en llovizna cae del cielo la buena suerte,
por mucho que los nadies la llamen y aunque les pique
la mano izquierda,
o se levanten con el pie derecho,
o empiecen el aรฑo cambiando de escoba.
Los nadies:
los hijos de nadie, los dueรฑos de nada.
Los nadies,
los ningunos, los ninguneados.
Corriendo las liebres, muriendo la vida, jodidos,
rejodidos:
Que no son, aunque sean.
Que no hablan idiomas sino dialectos.
Que no profesan religiones, sino supersticiones.
Que no hacen arte, sino artesanรญa.
Que no practican cultura, sino folclore.
Que no son seres humanos, sino recursos humanos.
Que no tienen cara, sino brazos.
Que no tienen nombre, sino nรบmero.
Que no figuran en la historia universal.
Sino en las pรกginas rojas de la prensa local.
Los nadies.
Que cuestan menos que la bala que los mata.


The Nobodies by Eduardo Galeano (translated by Cedric Belfrage)
Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping poverty: that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down on themโ€“will rain down in buckets. But good luck doesnโ€™t rain down yesterday, today, tomorrow, or ever. Good luck doesnโ€™t even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms.

The nobodies: nobodyโ€™s children, owners of nothing.
The nobodies: the no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way.

Who are not, but could be.
Who donโ€™t speak languages, but dialects.
Who donโ€™t have religions, but superstitions.
Who donโ€™t create art, but handicrafts.
Who donโ€™t have culture, but folklore.
Who are not human beings, but human resources.
Who do not have faces, but arms.
Who do not have names, but numbers.
Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the police blotter of the local paper.
The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.