I'll Have Another, Part 2

When my dad was in the hospital last year, when he was still very much conscious, making friends with the nurses and letting everyone know that he was quite certain he was fine to return to Grand Central Skinner, I stumbled upon an NPR radio program called 'On Being.'  At the time, I had a hunch that my dad was very much wrong about his ability to quickly return home.  My heart and mind felt a bit heavy knowing that my dad was not OK and that I was supposed to be on a plane in less than two weeks. I was craving a bit of wisdom on just about anything.

I clearly remember pulling into the Henry Ford Hospital parking lot, listening to the last five minutes of the show.  Sylvia Boorstein explained what she says to herself when she is in a moment of anxiety:  "Sweetheart, you are in pain.  Relax.  Take a breath.  Let's pay attention to what is happening.  Then, we will figure out what to do."

That was the wisdom I needed to hear.

And, she ended the show reciting a poem by my favorite, favorite poet, Pablo Neruda:

Keeping Quiet
by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth,
let's not speak in any language;
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I'll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

--
The show stayed with me.  When I got to Australia, I subscribed to my favorite NPR podcasts (the usual suspects -- Radiolab, This American Life, and Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me) as well as On Being.  A few weeks later, it occurred to me that I should actually search for that first show I heard in the parking lot of the hospital and listen to it in its entirety.  I found out three further facts that made my initial listening experience seem quite special:

1.  The episode had been taped in the metro-D (in bourgie Birmingham, to be precise).
2.  The title was "What We Nurture" -- a phrase that deeply resonated with me around my relationship dynamics with  my father.
3.  It was a re-broadcast...which I interpreted as The Universe handpicking this episode out of the archive to play at the precise moment that was meaningful to me.

And, get this -- they rebroadcast the show AGAIN in the week of the anniversary of my dad's death.

I have listened to this episode, 2.2 times, and each time I have found it quite helpful and wise.  So, I wanted to share it.  Check out "What We Nurture" on On Being.