Kitchen Table Wisdom

I'm reading a book called Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal by Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D. In the introduction, Dean Ornish, M.D. says, "Telling stories can be healing. We all have within us access to a greater wisdom, and we may not even know that until we speak out loud." A statement he makes later also rings true for me: "During the times that we feel most vulnerable, that which is invulnerable within us becomes uncovered, becomes more apparent." I also love that the book is dedicated To everyone who has never told their story.

I'm glad that Peter and I could tell our stories, and that people so lovingly listened. It made all the difference. It still does. The book talks about community, and how we need each other. I agree. Do I always feel connected? No. I think a lot of times I've contracted into a cave to lick my wounds, so to speak. I'm still grateful for the patience of those that keep reaching out. I'm sure I look and sound pretty normal most of the time, but I'm still absorbing the shock and the reality of what has happened - still trying to make sense out of it, if there's any sense to be made. Maybe there's not. I agree with something I saw in the book, too, that our society is all about spring and summer, all the time, and never fall or winter. I know I'm in the fall and winter stage, and it is hard for me to open myself to another spring and summer. Spring coming means that I have lived through death. I sat down to paint with a troubled child in the counselor's office this week while I waited to speak to my principal. I painted a rainbow first; the colors just came and laid themselves one upon another. Then a tree. A barren old tree with no leaves. Finally I saw a bird in my mind's eye, a bird rushing in from outside the picture somewhere. Coming in fast. "What's with the bird?" the counselor gently asked. "I don't know - maybe it's hope." "The tree has no leaves," the counselor said. "I know," I replied. "I can't do it." It sits there, barren. Maybe the leaves will come. I think so. It has to be.

We had a dress rehearsal tonight for our concert in two days. It's been raining for days on end, and tonight we had quite a lot. Our conductor drives in from Palo Alto, and we heard it was near flooding over there, and we all sat in our seats past our definitive starting time. Finally the second chair violinist said, "At least we can get tuned." Then Virginia made the announcements. When she came to the end, she slowed down, and then finally said, "I don't have any more." Someone understanding that she was hoping to fill time chirped, "Then start again from the beginning!" A few people said, "Someone start directing!" At last a percussionist volunteered and said he'd try. A bunch of us encouraged him with hoots and clapping. "Do you have a score?" "I have part of one." "Don't worry," our principal cellist said, "just wave your hand and we'll go." Larry actually did a great job. Without the conductor, many of us unabashedly counted rests out loud and tapped our feet. After a couple of pages, we were still going full steam, and our conductor walked in, and carefully placed his score on the stand as Larry was still conducting, and then exchanged places and we continued on, though our mouths and feet were now disciplined and quiet. We had a good rehearsal, though this is the most difficult program we've played yet. One funny instance was when some brass players got out of rhythm. "Count!" our conductor admonished. "And you all are engineers from the [Lawrence Livermore] Lab? God help us all!" he said. We stayed until ten, and I thought that we have such a nice community in our orchestra. I'm really glad.

Connections, and community. I'm grateful. I need you.