“Not Quite” Together Forever: Poetry, Friendship, and Parenting at the Edge of Intimacy and Mental Health

Transcript

• 00:02Right. So welcome everyone to
• 00:04to Grand Rounds.
• 00:05The screens are dark,
• 00:07on purpose, so don't be
• 00:09looking for slides or histograms
• 00:11or anything.
• 00:12We have something better than
• 00:13histograms today.
• 00:15And welcome to
• 00:17the eighth, if memory serves,
• 00:20annual
• 00:22lecture in memory of,
• 00:24Max Ridvo,
• 00:25who was class of
• 00:29fifteen sixteen
• 00:30at Yale College.
• 00:32And his,
• 00:34Thirteen.
• 00:35Thank you. Thirteen.
• 00:36And his, late stepfather,
• 00:39Alan Slifka, who was class
• 00:41of
• 00:42forty,
• 00:43fifty one, fifty two, fifty
• 00:45three. You're gonna correct me
• 00:46on that, Ari. But two
• 00:48notable alumni
• 00:50of Yale University and dear
• 00:51friends in their own right
• 00:53about, of the child study
• 00:54center.
• 00:56This,
• 00:57this series
• 00:58aims
• 00:59to explore the interface between
• 01:02child
• 01:03mental health broadly defined
• 01:05and the arts broadly defined.
• 01:08And over the course of
• 01:09the past eight years, we
• 01:10have really broadened those definitions.
• 01:13We have had
• 01:17beatboxing
• 01:18and spoken word.
• 01:19We have had photography.
• 01:21We've had we have had
• 01:25a play that went on
• 01:26to become a hit play
• 01:27in off Broadway.
• 01:30We had one Nobel laureate,
• 01:33and today, we have,
• 01:35a poet
• 01:36and a poet whose work
• 01:38is,
• 01:40just really magically perfect for
• 01:42what we're gonna be talking
• 01:43about.
• 01:44Let me say just a
• 01:45few more words about Max
• 01:46Ridvo
• 01:48and the Allan b Sliwka
• 01:50memory and foundation,
• 01:51and then I'll introduce our
• 01:53speaker.
• 01:54Max
• 01:55Ritvo, who died
• 01:58all too early at a
• 01:59very young age, close to
• 02:01a decade ago,
• 02:02nine years this year,
• 02:04was a Yale freshman. He
• 02:06came from he hailed from
• 02:07LA. He came as a
• 02:09freshman.
• 02:10He did amazing stuff, mostly
• 02:12in the field of poetry,
• 02:13but not only in that
• 02:14field.
• 02:15And he had one of
• 02:16these extraordinary magnetic personalities that
• 02:19whomever met him just fell
• 02:20in love with him automatically.
• 02:22And he had an outsized
• 02:23talent as a poet.
• 02:25He had a couple of
• 02:26of poems published when he
• 02:27was still with us,
• 02:29and he has had a
• 02:30whole body of work since
• 02:32then.
• 02:33One of the last poems
• 02:34that I'm aware of that
• 02:35he published while still living,
• 02:37came out of the New
• 02:38Yorker called A Poem to
• 02:40My Litter
• 02:41in which
• 02:42he dedicates these words to
• 02:44the litter of mice on
• 02:45whom
• 02:46some new chemo chemotherapy was
• 02:48being experimented.
• 02:49Just an extraordinary young man.
• 02:51When I think of Max
• 02:52and he became a personal
• 02:54and a family friend, but
• 02:55when I think of him,
• 02:56the word that comes to
• 02:57my mind is whimsical.
• 02:59He had whimsy all around
• 03:00him, the way that he
• 03:01carried himself, that he interacted,
• 03:03that he wrote.
• 03:04He was just wonderful, and
• 03:06we we all miss him
• 03:07so much.
• 03:08His, dear mother, Ariela Ridvo,
• 03:11who is joining us, you
• 03:12can't see her face right
• 03:13now, but she's joining us,
• 03:14and we'll hear from her
• 03:15later,
• 03:19was,
• 03:20is the mother of this
• 03:21extraordinary young man
• 03:23and was the wife of
• 03:24another,
• 03:25extraordinary,
• 03:26older man, Alan Sliwka.
• 03:28Alan Sliwka
• 03:30was an industrialist.
• 03:32He was a,
• 03:34phenomenal
• 03:37businessperson,
• 03:38and he was an even
• 03:39more phenomenal
• 03:41philanthropist.
• 03:42And he gave,
• 03:43large amounts of money to
• 03:45many causes dear to his
• 03:46heart.
• 03:47And the Allan B. Slavka
• 03:49Foundation
• 03:49continues to this day doing
• 03:51these very good works, and
• 03:53Ari is the president of
• 03:55that foundation.
• 03:57One of the things that
• 03:58the foundation
• 04:00did in partnership with the
• 04:01child study center and I
• 04:02wanna reiterate there have been
• 04:03many partnerships with the child
• 04:04study center,
• 04:06But one of these was
• 04:07building this project for the
• 04:08interface between medicine and the
• 04:10humanities,
• 04:11and it is here that
• 04:12we welcome today,
• 04:14poet
• 04:15Elizabeth
• 04:17Metzger.
• 04:18Elizabeth,
• 04:19has a
• 04:22track record a geographic track
• 04:24record. We were talking about
• 04:25it that parallels in funny
• 04:26ways Max's own.
• 04:28She has been, until very
• 04:30recently or maybe until right
• 04:31now in LA,
• 04:32but she is, ready to
• 04:34come back to New York.
• 04:35And it was in New
• 04:36York while being an m
• 04:37MFA student in poetry at
• 04:39Columbia
• 04:40that, she met Max. They
• 04:41were classmates.
• 04:43Two whimsicals
• 04:44coming together to do incredible
• 04:46stuff together.
• 04:48Among the things that Elizabeth
• 04:51have has done in addition
• 04:53to, published work, there's a
• 04:54upcoming,
• 04:56published collection that will come
• 04:58out in the fall of,
• 04:59twenty six.
• 05:00In addition to publishing in
• 05:01all the right,
• 05:03magazines and and venues, she
• 05:05has, something that I boy,
• 05:07would I like to have
• 05:08that job. She is the
• 05:10editor, I don't know if
• 05:10that's the right word, for
• 05:12the Los Angeles Review of
• 05:13Books section editor. So that
• 05:15sounds amazing.
• 05:17And very relevant to today's
• 05:19talk, Elizabeth is a mother.
• 05:20She's a mother of two,
• 05:22and she will talk also
• 05:24not just about
• 05:26poetry, her poetry, but about
• 05:28a life well lived and
• 05:30a life well lived even
• 05:31when you have some difficulties
• 05:33thrown your way. So we're
• 05:34delighted to welcome you to
• 05:35the Child Study Center, Elizabeth.
• 05:36Please, Kona.
• 05:42Thank you so much, Andres.
• 05:44And whimsical will be hard
• 05:46to live up to, when
• 05:47when Max is the one
• 05:48defining it, but I will
• 05:50do my best.
• 05:52Thank you, to everyone at
• 05:53the Child Study Center,
• 05:55for having me here. It
• 05:56is a tremendous honor to
• 05:58be here.
• 05:59I'm greatly indebted to the
• 06:01memory of of Max
• 06:03most especially,
• 06:04and Alan as well. And
• 06:06I just wanna give a
• 06:07a special extra shout out
• 06:09to Ari who,
• 06:11not only was
• 06:12a a major witness to
• 06:14my friendship with Max,
• 06:16but has really mothered me
• 06:18in LA through high risk
• 06:20pregnancies,
• 06:21through,
• 06:23through dealing with my son's
• 06:24difficulties, and through through my
• 06:26own writing career. So I'm
• 06:28just so glad you're here,
• 06:29Ari, and I feel your
• 06:30presence in the room.
• 06:32You can't see it on
• 06:32the screen, but Ari just
• 06:34sent you
• 06:35Oh,
• 06:36right back at you.
• 06:38This talk is called not
• 06:40quite together forever,
• 06:42poetry, friendship, and parenting at
• 06:45the edge of intimacy.
• 06:47It's about a thirty seven
• 06:48minute,
• 06:49talk last I checked, and,
• 06:51I don't have any PowerPoint
• 06:53or exciting slides. So I'll
• 06:55just be reading it. And
• 06:56then after I finish, reading
• 06:58the talk, I will read
• 06:59some poems of Max's and
• 07:00mine, and then hopefully, you
• 07:02guys will ask questions or
• 07:04offer any comments you'd like.
• 07:07Okay.
• 07:09What does poetry have to
• 07:10do with the edges of
• 07:11the mind?
• 07:13When we think about poetry,
• 07:14we often think of language
• 07:16taken to its extreme. La
• 07:18mode juste, or what Coleridge
• 07:19famously called the best words
• 07:21in the best order.
• 07:23We may also think of
• 07:24the extremeness of feelings and
• 07:26complexity of inner experiences that
• 07:28poetry seeks to express.
• 07:30Poetry exists for the moments
• 07:32when ordinary language fails us,
• 07:34the loves and losses that
• 07:36leave us speechless.
• 07:38A metaphor's job is to
• 07:39transform one thing into another.
• 07:41For example, to make an
• 07:42image of an abstract idea.
• 07:45The imagination does not take
• 07:46a feeling away from reality,
• 07:48but transforms it on the
• 07:50page to make it more
• 07:51real and real for another.
• 07:54Making words out of speechlessness
• 07:56is itself an act of
• 07:58transformation.
• 07:59Here we may think of
• 08:00prayer.
• 08:01In poetry, silence is not
• 08:03just the failure of language,
• 08:05but its source or potential
• 08:06energy.
• 08:07The poet Jory Graham writes
• 08:09about the edge of sound
• 08:10and silence.
• 08:11She writes, I think I
• 08:13am probably in love with
• 08:14silence, that other world, and
• 08:16that I write in some
• 08:18way to negotiate
• 08:19seriously with it.
• 08:21Because there is, of course,
• 08:22always the desire, the hope
• 08:24that they are not two
• 08:25separate worlds,
• 08:26sound and silence, but that
• 08:27they become each other, that
• 08:29only our hearing fails.
• 08:31Graham defines silence as the
• 08:33speech ripped out of you
• 08:35and differentiates
• 08:37poems that recount an experience
• 08:39in which silence exists more
• 08:41along the margins of the
• 08:42poem.
• 08:43And, she differentiates that from
• 08:45the urgent and brave kind
• 08:47of poem, which enacts an
• 08:48experience.
• 08:50Poems that enact find silence
• 08:52essential to their form. Silence
• 08:54is required for language to
• 08:56enact the most intense and
• 08:58immediate emotional experiences.
• 09:01In this talk, I will
• 09:02not consider the edge between
• 09:03sound and silence, but a
• 09:05related edge that is the
• 09:06edge of one's own mind
• 09:08or the edge between self
• 09:10and other. It is on
• 09:11the edge between self and
• 09:13other sometimes, but not always
• 09:15via direct address.
• 09:17That poetry, both writing it
• 09:19and reading
• 09:21it, lead to profound transformation
• 09:23when life is most demanding.
• 09:26Psychoanalyst Darlene Ehrenberg defines the
• 09:28concept of the intimate edge
• 09:30in psychoanalysis
• 09:32as the point of maximum
• 09:33self expression and maximum awareness
• 09:36of the individuality
• 09:37and boundaries of self and
• 09:39other for each participant.
• 09:41It is the point where
• 09:42each participant becomes acutely aware
• 09:44of self and of his
• 09:45own active participation
• 09:47in a particular interaction, the
• 09:49choices he makes, and of
• 09:50where he ends and the
• 09:52other begins.
• 09:53The intimate edge over time
• 09:56thus becomes the trace of
• 09:57a constantly moving locus. For
• 09:59each time this is identified,
• 10:01it is also changed. As
• 10:03it is reidentified,
• 10:04it changes again.
• 10:06This is quite related to
• 10:07the way I see a
• 10:08poem as changing with us
• 10:10as much as it changes
• 10:13us. Just as the nonverbal
• 10:15plays a key role in
• 10:16the primarily verbal exchange between
• 10:18patient and analyst where we
• 10:20say colloquially that an experience
• 10:22leaves us speechless,
• 10:24we are speaking not only
• 10:25about the edge of language,
• 10:27but about an intimate relationship
• 10:28between the self and the
• 10:30self or the self and
• 10:32another.
• 10:33A shift or threat to
• 10:34the idea of self or
• 10:35an important other can make
• 10:37our own minds feel elusive
• 10:39or unfamiliar.
• 10:40I will argue that one
• 10:41of poetry's main powers is
• 10:43its relationality,
• 10:45especially at such moments when
• 10:47relationship to self or other
• 10:49are threatened or in flux.
• 10:51While a poem may recount
• 10:53or describe a real relationship,
• 10:55what impresses me more is
• 10:56its power to enact a
• 10:58relationship,
• 10:59I e to relate.
• 11:00This is true in two
• 11:01ways. First, a reader has
• 11:03access to a relationship that
• 11:04is new and unfamiliar,
• 11:06experiencing intimacy
• 11:08as another, as the speaker
• 11:10of the poem.
• 11:11But secondly and more subtly,
• 11:12the poems I'm most interested
• 11:14in enact a relationship when
• 11:16it is least possible to
• 11:17sustain that relationship in life.
• 11:20In other words, the relationship
• 11:21develops further in the poem
• 11:23than it can in reality.
• 11:25When self and or other
• 11:27fail us, the poem brings
• 11:29us closer to either or
• 11:31both.
• 11:32Poetry, giving form to breath,
• 11:34is an ancient practice of
• 11:36embodiment.
• 11:37Where a line breaks, we
• 11:38may breathe.
• 11:40Where the line ends, the
• 11:41syntax may continue.
• 11:43This is called enjambment,
• 11:45which means the door is
• 11:46left open.
• 11:47The word verse comes from
• 11:49the idea of turning verse
• 11:51to turn back and forth.
• 11:53The same root as our
• 11:54word version.
• 11:55In poetry, we can use
• 11:57the loss of one version
• 11:58of self or other to
• 12:00encounter or turn into a
• 12:02new version.
• 12:03Poetry therefore helps us feel
• 12:05the paradoxical power of grief,
• 12:07not just to offer closure,
• 12:09but in doing so, to
• 12:11offer ongoingness.
• 12:13Love and death are not
• 12:14just the subjects of poetry.
• 12:16By considering death, we may
• 12:18in fact write love.
• 12:20In the next three parts
• 12:21of this talk, I will
• 12:22take you through three formative
• 12:24experiences in my life that
• 12:25most revealed the power of
• 12:27poetry
• 12:28to deepen and dwell on
• 12:29the intimate edge between self
• 12:31and other at the most
• 12:33mentally challenging and estranging moments.
• 12:36One, my friendship with Max
• 12:38Ritvo as his voice came
• 12:39alive on the page in
• 12:40the face of mortality.
• 12:42Two, anticipating Max's death and
• 12:45harnessing grief to keep Max
• 12:46part of my creative process.
• 12:49And three, parenting my son,
• 12:51Owen, during a mysterious
• 12:52health crisis
• 12:54and reconceiving how poetry might
• 12:56help me join him beyond
• 12:57shared memory and even beyond
• 12:59language.
• 13:01One,
• 13:03meeting Max as Max met
• 13:05mortality.
• 13:07Three years before he died,
• 13:09Max and I met in
• 13:10Dorothea Lasky's poetry workshop at
• 13:12Columbia where Max was beginning
• 13:14his pursuit of an MFA.
• 13:16I noticed Max was very
• 13:17thin, balding, and hyperelequent.
• 13:20What I didn't know was
• 13:21that he had cancer, Ewing
• 13:23sarcoma, and that it had
• 13:24recently returned after a four
• 13:26and a half year remission.
• 13:28That first class I workshopped
• 13:30a death poem about my
• 13:31debilitating fear of death throughout
• 13:34childhood.
• 13:35Max followed me out of
• 13:36the classroom
• 13:37and asked to share a
• 13:38cab across the park, and
• 13:40we leaped into an urgent
• 13:41and intimate friendship.
• 13:43Looking back, I see why
• 13:45I never considered for a
• 13:46moment that he was sick.
• 13:48Max was radically alive. By
• 13:50the end of the cab
• 13:51ride, he had invited me
• 13:52on multiple adventures. And within
• 13:54weeks, we had painted each
• 13:55other's faces at the new
• 13:56museum,
• 13:57tried on kimonos in the
• 13:58West Village as Max charmingly
• 14:00rattled off his passionate knowledge
• 14:02of the shibori tie dyeing
• 14:03process.
• 14:04Everything was a metaphor for
• 14:06living well. That's how it
• 14:07seemed with Max.
• 14:09But I think Max would
• 14:10put it differently. It was
• 14:11more like what he loved
• 14:12about art was what he
• 14:14loved about life and wanted
• 14:16to make more of.
• 14:18We were recognizing edges between
• 14:20us already, but in our
• 14:21friendship, we let our imagination
• 14:23dance together along these edges,
• 14:26approaching them from opposite ends
• 14:27like we were rolling out
• 14:29a red carpet,
• 14:30making that aisle between art
• 14:32and life just a little
• 14:33wider and more glamorous and
• 14:35whimsical.
• 14:36Max loved working this edge
• 14:38in our conversations.
• 14:39You have a daimon.
• 14:41Do you know what that
• 14:42is? He asked explaining that
• 14:44a daimon was like a
• 14:45soul, but an outward manifestation
• 14:47of it. In Philip Pullman's
• 14:48The Golden Compass, each daimon
• 14:50takes on the form of
• 14:51an animal.
• 14:52But according to Max, we
• 14:54were each other's.
• 14:56Max was not a poet
• 14:57because he was dying.
• 14:59Dying became his subject because
• 15:01he was a poet. In
• 15:02fact, when I met Max,
• 15:04he was writing about love
• 15:05and life. He told me
• 15:07he always wrote toward the
• 15:08opposite of what he felt.
• 15:09He wrote his funniest poems
• 15:11when he was miserable, he
• 15:12said.
• 15:13In his rebel wisdom, I
• 15:14understood that no real feeling
• 15:16could be separated from another
• 15:18feeling. In the same way
• 15:20silence in poems acknowledges this,
• 15:22Max celebrated the power of
• 15:23laughter
• 15:24to surprise us at our
• 15:25darkest moments.
• 15:27I thought of the poet
• 15:28as a recluse,
• 15:29but Max introduced me to
• 15:30the poet as performer.
• 15:32With Max, the fullness of
• 15:34life finally exceeded my fear
• 15:36of death. If death was
• 15:38part of life, it would
• 15:39not separate us. We would
• 15:41share whatever we could.
• 15:43In other words, Max position
• 15:44positioned himself as not quite
• 15:46an other. He was already
• 15:48crafting an idea of a
• 15:49self outside of himself.
• 15:52In order to accelerate the
• 15:53uncategorizable
• 15:54relationship we had, we needed
• 15:55to view each other in
• 15:57some sense as alternate selves.
• 15:59It was easier to leave
• 16:00his creative decisions to me
• 16:02on his deathbed
• 16:04because Max could imagine that
• 16:05I would approach the work
• 16:07as Max, an uncanny belief
• 16:09that the word empathy can't
• 16:10quite contain.
• 16:12In addition to stewarding the
• 16:13legacy of his poetry, it
• 16:15felt as if he bequeathed
• 16:16me my fullest self.
• 16:18In Yoruban culture, Max told
• 16:20me, if one twin dies,
• 16:22the other twin keeps a
• 16:24doll modeled after the dead
• 16:26twin, caring for it as
• 16:28if it were living.
• 16:29This is how I think
• 16:30about my role carrying forward
• 16:32Max's poetry.
• 16:33One of my first disagreements
• 16:35with Max was about whether
• 16:36it was better to spend
• 16:37your time with books or
• 16:39with people.
• 16:41I'd rather read any day,
• 16:42I said. He replied, I
• 16:44barely read. That was hardly
• 16:46true.
• 16:47But he said, people are
• 16:48much more interesting.
• 16:50Max was helping me recognize
• 16:51that poetry was relational,
• 16:53a way to sustain relationships
• 16:55when he was being asked
• 16:56to give them up. This
• 16:58applied to a beloved, sure,
• 17:00but for Max, it also
• 17:01included himself.
• 17:03Poetry also allowed him the
• 17:04hope for new relationships with
• 17:06strangers,
• 17:06and his goal was to
• 17:07entertain everyone, not just poets.
• 17:10Max spoke of his poems
• 17:12as a blueprint of his
• 17:13neural pathways
• 17:14so that someone else might
• 17:16travel their own experience via
• 17:18Max's thinking process.
• 17:20Max was making friends with
• 17:22the future.
• 17:24When a possibly when a
• 17:26possible surgery threatened to change
• 17:28or compromise his vocal range,
• 17:30Max urgently arranged to record
• 17:32his entire chapbook of poems
• 17:34called Aeons.
• 17:35Max didn't just perform each
• 17:37poem. He performed each line
• 17:39of each poem multiple times
• 17:40with every possible affect,
• 17:43imagining that I might help
• 17:44him later collage together the
• 17:45ideal version of each poem.
• 17:48Here was Max performing exactly
• 17:50what his poems enact on
• 17:52the page, not the grim
• 17:53process of dying,
• 17:55but an effervescent
• 17:56amplification of selfhood on the
• 17:58precipice.
• 17:59Another profound edge Max crossed
• 18:01in poetry
• 18:02was instigated by the death
• 18:04of his friend Melissa,
• 18:05a painter only a bit
• 18:07older than we were who
• 18:08also had Ewings.
• 18:10The first time that Max
• 18:11came over to my apartment
• 18:12to work on poems together,
• 18:14he received a text that
• 18:16Melissa had died.
• 18:18I remember how he slipped
• 18:19off the chair almost bonelessly,
• 18:21and we lay on the
• 18:22floor not speaking.
• 18:24I mirrored his stillness. I
• 18:26don't think I even hugged
• 18:27him or held his hand.
• 18:29Of course, in grieving Melissa,
• 18:31Max had to face his
• 18:32own future. What I did
• 18:33not yet realize was that
• 18:34he was also introducing me
• 18:36to my future, grieving him.
• 18:39In poems such as the
• 18:40watercolor eulogy, Max brought Melissa
• 18:42back by animating the syllables
• 18:44of her name in an
• 18:45imagined heaven.
• 18:46I'll read this poem later.
• 18:48And each time I do,
• 18:49I cannot help hearing Melissa's
• 18:50name in Max's voice.
• 18:53In poems, we come together.
• 18:55During the last weeks of
• 18:57class, Max's scans came back
• 18:59with bad news that his
• 19:00cancer had spread. We took
• 19:02a walk by Sloan Kettering
• 19:03and along the East River
• 19:04where children ran through sprinklers
• 19:06after school.
• 19:08We seem to walk on
• 19:09an actual edge with death
• 19:10threatening to come between us.
• 19:13But even then, the way
• 19:14that Max approached the moment
• 19:16was the way that he
• 19:17approached his poems,
• 19:18motivated by mortality
• 19:20to breathe bigger.
• 19:21I use the word breathe
• 19:22deliberately because while Max had
• 19:24a tumor in his lungs,
• 19:26Max didn't wait for inspiration,
• 19:27which literally means to breathe
• 19:29into.
• 19:30At that moment, he seized
• 19:32a bird shaped whistle I
• 19:33had given him as an
• 19:34awkward distraction
• 19:36and quite literally blew into
• 19:38it. On the verge of
• 19:39graduating from Columbia, we felt
• 19:41the border between life and
• 19:42death as the threshold of
• 19:43our real life as poets.
• 19:45Just one more space our
• 19:46friendship and our poems could
• 19:48step into together.
• 19:50Max soon realized that he
• 19:51was late for class, typical
• 19:52realization of his, and I
• 19:54hailed him a cab. By
• 19:55the time I'd walked back
• 19:56home, Max had texted me
• 19:58a full poem titled afternoon,
• 20:00which remains untouched, one of
• 20:02his most powerful works.
• 20:04And it has that bird
• 20:05shaped pipe. You'll hear it
• 20:06later.
• 20:07During the last year of
• 20:08his life, when we both,
• 20:09by some twist of fate,
• 20:10ended up in Los Angeles,
• 20:12Max and I spent most
• 20:13afternoons in his childhood home
• 20:15working together on our poems,
• 20:16eating dinner together with Arn,
• 20:18and watching Nosferatu,
• 20:20and when possible, going vintage
• 20:22shopping, doing karaoke, and taking
• 20:24mindful walks.
• 20:25One day on the floor
• 20:26of a chemo center in
• 20:27West LA where he joked
• 20:28around with the nurses and
• 20:29patients alike, Max asked me
• 20:31to give him edits on
• 20:32his latest draft.
• 20:34Usually I had a sort
• 20:35of taming role, distilling the
• 20:37emotion from the wild rove
• 20:38of images,
• 20:40but the poems were coming
• 20:41fully formed now. While Max
• 20:43was teaching me how to
• 20:44perform my poems and introduce
• 20:46more sense and sides of
• 20:47myself onto the page, I
• 20:49didn't think of my role
• 20:50that day as that significant.
• 20:52All I did was revise
• 20:53the line breaks.
• 20:55But now I think that
• 20:56maybe I was making room
• 20:57for silence in Max's form,
• 21:00marking the edge where the
• 21:01poem is turned over from
• 21:03self to other.
• 21:04I was making space for
• 21:06myself in the cadences of
• 21:07his brain, a space where
• 21:09any subsequent reader will meet
• 21:11Max still.
• 21:13Max wrote until the very
• 21:14end, and death came as
• 21:16soon as he could not.
• 21:18I am still grieving that
• 21:19the intimacy of experiencing one
• 21:21mind via another like his
• 21:23notion of the daimon is
• 21:25not quite possible in reality.
• 21:27However, without Max, I still
• 21:29feel the edge of his
• 21:30mind dissolve into mine when
• 21:32I read him. That is
• 21:33the gift of his poems.
• 21:35It is impossible
• 21:36not to become Max there.
• 21:39Two, grieving Max and becoming
• 21:41Max.
• 21:43If dying threatens to make
• 21:45the self unreachable,
• 21:47grief is often a reaction
• 21:48to an unreachable other.
• 21:50In works of love, Kierkegaard
• 21:52talks of our pure love
• 21:54for the dead, quipping that
• 21:55there should be a banner
• 21:56over the cemetery that says
• 21:58we demand nothing.
• 22:00The living need. We are
• 22:02relational.
• 22:03One might argue that we
• 22:04need to be needed. The
• 22:06gap between the dying and
• 22:07the dead is as vast
• 22:09as the gap between a
• 22:10newborn baby and the idea
• 22:12of the unborn.
• 22:13My second book of poems
• 22:15explores this as my grief
• 22:17after Max's death dovetailed with
• 22:19my first pregnancy.
• 22:20I began writing poems to
• 22:21Max, however, long before he
• 22:23died. Soon after we met,
• 22:25Max went to the NIH
• 22:27for routine scans. He couldn't
• 22:29sleep the night before the
• 22:30results and called me after
• 22:31his father fell asleep.
• 22:33I stayed on the phone
• 22:33with him until he finally
• 22:35fell asleep. And when I
• 22:36hung up, I wrote the
• 22:37first of many poems I
• 22:38wrote for him in his
• 22:39lifetime.
• 22:40This one became the final
• 22:41poem in my first book,
• 22:42the spirit papers, which I
• 22:43will also read later. But
• 22:45the next day, I was
• 22:46hesitant to show the poem
• 22:47to Max, afraid that I
• 22:48might be appropriating his experience.
• 22:51When I confessed these concerns,
• 22:53Max joked, it depends if
• 22:55it's good. If it's good,
• 22:56please immortalize me.
• 22:59I practice grieving Max in
• 23:00poems, such as one called
• 23:02pretend in which we played
• 23:03at the idea of heaven
• 23:04by turning a friendship between
• 23:06two gnomes into a third
• 23:07gnome. In poems, I was
• 23:09also superstitiously
• 23:10warding off his actual death.
• 23:13And when Max revised my
• 23:14poems, he was also revising
• 23:16my grief.
• 23:17Revising my grief is just
• 23:18one way that Max deepened
• 23:20our friendship, made death something
• 23:21mutual
• 23:22rather than an unspeakable obstacle
• 23:25between us.
• 23:26In addition to demanding logic
• 23:28on the page and performance
• 23:29off the page,
• 23:30Max revised my idea of
• 23:32the you or the addressee
• 23:34of the poem.
• 23:35It became more fluid. Sometimes
• 23:37I'd write Max a poem
• 23:38and he'd say, this is
• 23:39really a poem about your
• 23:41future child.
• 23:42Other times, I'd write a
• 23:43poem fearing a miscarriage and
• 23:44he'd say, Elizabeth, I think
• 23:46that you is me.
• 23:48The relationship between I and
• 23:50you became newer and more
• 23:52intimate.
• 23:52The more possibilities,
• 23:54the truer the you felt.
• 23:56I was learning to speak
• 23:57to Max without a response,
• 23:58without even knowing whether or
• 24:00not it was him.
• 24:02He gave me freedom as
• 24:03a poet to incorporate him
• 24:04into my own imagination.
• 24:06Two weeks before Max died,
• 24:08I went over to tell
• 24:09him that I was pregnant
• 24:10before I even told my
• 24:11parents.
• 24:12It's very early, I said,
• 24:13but I wanted to tell
• 24:14you. I was aware it
• 24:16might be painful for him
• 24:17to be faced with a
• 24:18timeline, an experience he would
• 24:20not live to see through
• 24:21himself.
• 24:22But he immediately reached his
• 24:24hand to my belly, which
• 24:25startled me.
• 24:26Much of this was silent,
• 24:27as he was on oxygen
• 24:29and saved what voice he
• 24:30had left.
• 24:31Eventually,
• 24:32very dizzily, I walked out
• 24:34of the room and slowly
• 24:36back down the stairs and
• 24:37out the front door.
• 24:39I never saw Max again.
• 24:42Shortly after Max's funeral, I
• 24:44began to bleed and was
• 24:45put on bed rest with
• 24:46a fifty percent placental separation
• 24:48and hyperemesis gravidarum.
• 24:50The situation lasted for many
• 24:52months of my pregnancy. I
• 24:53could neither grieve Max nor
• 24:55mark the publication of my
• 24:56first book,
• 24:57but I felt most guilty
• 24:59for not writing
• 25:00as Max wrote some of
• 25:01his best work on his
• 25:02worst days.
• 25:03I soon realized that this
• 25:04experience was the world of
• 25:05my next book even if
• 25:06I didn't write the poems
• 25:07in real time, even if
• 25:09Max wasn't really there to
• 25:10write with me. That's when
• 25:12I began hearing Max in
• 25:13my head
• 25:15conversing with me.
• 25:17The new poems came.
• 25:18A few years later when
• 25:19I was put on bed
• 25:20rest again with my daughter
• 25:21hooked up to an IV
• 25:23isolated and helpless even in
• 25:25my own home, Max came
• 25:27back again. We have been
• 25:28having conversations on the page
• 25:30ever since. Of course, Max
• 25:32wasn't actually speaking to me,
• 25:34but I wasn't putting my
• 25:35ideas into Max's mouth either.
• 25:37These were ways of thinking,
• 25:39approaches to poems that I
• 25:41only had access to as
• 25:43Max.
• 25:45Three,
• 25:46parenting. So here's switching gears
• 25:48to my son.
• 25:49Owen's mysterious
• 25:50regression and return.
• 25:52Birth is always an ending
• 25:54as much as a beginning,
• 25:56and I felt this acutely
• 25:57in the postpartum period. The
• 25:59loss of Max, the loss
• 26:00of my former self,
• 26:02the love I felt for
• 26:03this stranger, I couldn't always
• 26:04soothe or even pick up
• 26:06easily after months atrophying on
• 26:08bed rest.
• 26:09Still, the love was extraordinary,
• 26:10corporeal, and beyond language more
• 26:12than any other love I
• 26:13had experienced.
• 26:15While I read my newborn,
• 26:16Max's poetry, the day that
• 26:17we came home from the
• 26:18hospital, I became fascinated by
• 26:20how much of our relationship
• 26:22developed without words.
• 26:23I learned that the word
• 26:24infant means not speaking,
• 26:26and I became curious about
• 26:28Beatrice Beebe's work on mother
• 26:30infant interactions
• 26:32as they predicted attachment patterns.
• 26:34We talk to our babies
• 26:36before they have language and
• 26:37I began to explore how
• 26:38poetry might capture this pre
• 26:40verbal relationship
• 26:41as well as the shocking
• 26:43mix of estrangement and deep
• 26:44intimacy I felt both toward
• 26:46the baby
• 26:47and myself.
• 26:48In the first three years
• 26:49of his life, Owen developed
• 26:51normally, if not precociously. He
• 26:52was babbling by the time
• 26:53he was a few months
• 26:54old. And once he could
• 26:55speak, he spoke constantly and
• 26:57in sentences. He was alert,
• 26:59social, affectionate, energetic,
• 27:01always making people laugh and
• 27:02zooming vehicles passionately around the
• 27:04house. He knew the alphabet,
• 27:06the words to many books,
• 27:07and definitely more vehicles than
• 27:09I did. He could find
• 27:10Goldbug on every page of
• 27:12Richard Scarry's Things That Go
• 27:14and enjoyed singing the lyrics
• 27:15to many Beatles song at
• 27:16a toy microphone for an
• 27:18audience of relatives.
• 27:19Though my bed rest with
• 27:20his sister was disruptive for
• 27:22him, Owen seemed excited to
• 27:24be a brother.
• 27:25The pandemic began a few
• 27:26months later, and he was
• 27:28he certainly struggled to give
• 27:29up preschool in his weekly
• 27:30routines like the farmer's market.
• 27:32Despite our household anxiety, I
• 27:34tried to make the day
• 27:35feel as structured as possible,
• 27:36and we were grateful to
• 27:37have more time to spend
• 27:38together.
• 27:40Six months after lockdown began,
• 27:41when Owen was three and
• 27:42a half, we first noticed
• 27:44a change in his speech.
• 27:46His speech seemed garbled, pressured,
• 27:48and unclear. Was he imitating
• 27:50SpongeBob characters after being introduced
• 27:52to television?
• 27:53We laughed with him and
• 27:54imitated the voices back to
• 27:56him. Within another month or
• 27:57so, Owen was speaking hoarsely
• 27:59and slurring his words. His
• 28:01speech got slower and slower,
• 28:04and he lost affect. It
• 28:05seemed hard for him to
• 28:06produce
• 28:07speech. Having made it through
• 28:08the pregnancies, I was determined
• 28:10not to catastrophize.
• 28:12I wanted to get our
• 28:13life back, and I told
• 28:14my husband it was probably
• 28:15just a phase, maybe a
• 28:16psychological effect of the pandemic
• 28:19and new sibling.
• 28:20By the new year, Owen
• 28:21wasn't completing his sentences. From
• 28:23the car window, he would
• 28:25say, there's a big
• 28:27in a slow drawn out
• 28:28way. He seemed unable to
• 28:30retrieve the word for truck.
• 28:32He was incomprehensible
• 28:33to others, avoiding eye contact,
• 28:35lethargic in body, and his
• 28:37affect and facial expressions seemed
• 28:39flat.
• 28:40If giving birth had revised
• 28:42the edge between self and
• 28:43other, Owen's regression certainly threatened
• 28:46that edge yet again.
• 28:48Owen became gradually harder to
• 28:50reach, less recognizable.
• 28:52He would stare at one
• 28:53light in the garage all
• 28:54day asking us to lift
• 28:56and close the door to
• 28:57make it go on and
• 28:58off. In fact, he stopped
• 28:59asking, but would tantrum until
• 29:01we did this. Where was
• 29:03our son? Had we left
• 29:04him somewhere?
• 29:05He lost interest in vehicles,
• 29:07in every one of his
• 29:08interests except food, which he
• 29:09seemed to nearly choke on
• 29:11rather than chew and taste.
• 29:13When he became agitated or
• 29:14excited, he would shake his
• 29:15head chaotically and flap his
• 29:17hands and walk on his
• 29:18toes.
• 29:19A physical therapist noticed that
• 29:20he had surprisingly weak core
• 29:22strength.
• 29:23Once or twice, he screamed
• 29:24out in the middle of
• 29:25the night. But we when
• 29:26we ran in
• 29:28expecting a nightmare, he seemed
• 29:29to be asleep, mouth grimacing
• 29:31and arousable if we shook
• 29:33him. In the mornings, he
• 29:35woke exhausted.
• 29:36Terrified of seizures, we took
• 29:38Owen to a neurologist at
• 29:39UCLA who did not reassure
• 29:41us. He was impressed by
• 29:42Owen's out of it presentation
• 29:44juxtaposed with a series of
• 29:46videos we had collected from
• 29:47just the year before. Quick
• 29:48talking, emotive, and inquisitive.
• 29:51With differential diagnosis from white
• 29:53matter in the brain to
• 29:54childhood disintegrative disorder or a
• 29:56head injury we had overlooked,
• 29:58we proceeded through a harrowing
• 29:59battery of genetic tests and
• 30:01MRI and
• 30:02EEG and overnight EEG at
• 30:04children's hospital, which all turned
• 30:05out clean.
• 30:07After one test, I took
• 30:08him to a toy store,
• 30:09which seemed to animate him
• 30:10a bit. However, by the
• 30:11time I asked him at
• 30:12dinner to say what toy
• 30:13he had gotten, he had
• 30:15forgotten about the trip to
• 30:16the toy store altogether.
• 30:18Vision and hearing screenings came
• 30:19back normal, though his lack
• 30:21of responsiveness made it hard
• 30:22to tell if he could
• 30:23even understand the basic instructions.
• 30:25Three days of neuropsych testing
• 30:27revealed significant cognitive impairment with
• 30:30first percentile
• 30:31processing speed.
• 30:33As a witness to some
• 30:34of the testing,
• 30:35it seemed shocking to even
• 30:36consider these results as Owen
• 30:38mindlessly pressed the touchscreen on
• 30:40an iPad
• 30:41transfixed by the way answers
• 30:42lit up. The neuropsych suggested
• 30:45late onset autism and suggested
• 30:47we get Owen an IEP.
• 30:48While specialists, speech therapists, PTs,
• 30:51and Owen and OTs commented
• 30:53on his sweetness,
• 30:54it seemed no one really
• 30:55believed us that the child
• 30:56just a year before had
• 30:58memorized William Carlos Williams poems
• 31:00and impressed rooms of adults
• 31:01with a sense of humor
• 31:02and thoughtful questions.
• 31:04When we finally met with
• 31:05doctor Cathy Lord, Owen was
• 31:07no longer deteriorating, but it
• 31:09was hard to tell if
• 31:09he was improving
• 31:11or if this was a
• 31:12new normal.
• 31:13She suggested that despite lack
• 31:15of evidence, something had happened
• 31:17in Owen's brain that we
• 31:18did not understand. Perhaps he
• 31:20had had an infection, some
• 31:21kind of encephalitis.
• 31:23We came away understanding only
• 31:24that Owen was either going
• 31:25to improve and emerge with
• 31:27time and therapies or not.
• 31:29It was a harrowing period
• 31:31of uncertainty,
• 31:32and poetry helped me then
• 31:33and in the aftermath to
• 31:35examine the questions that haunted
• 31:36me and threatened to keep
• 31:37us apart. Would he forget
• 31:39me? Could I love him
• 31:41like this, or would I
• 31:42always mourn the child he
• 31:43once was or who I
• 31:44had thought he was or
• 31:46wanted him to be?
• 31:48Questions of self blame for
• 31:49not catching his symptoms sooner
• 31:51came together with fantasy conversations
• 31:53with Owen in the future
• 31:55in which he could tell
• 31:56me what happened and how
• 31:57he felt.
• 31:58What had caused this? What
• 32:00had I made up?
• 32:01Therapy was intensive and daily,
• 32:03multiple sessions of OT, PT,
• 32:05and speech where he was
• 32:06asked to name images on
• 32:07flashcards as quickly as possible.
• 32:10During this time, he developed
• 32:11a new interest in gas
• 32:12stations, particularly their colors.
• 32:15Though it was obsessive, we
• 32:16were delighted to see him
• 32:17engaging enthusiastically
• 32:19with the world again. We
• 32:20would agree to drive miles
• 32:21out of the way to
• 32:22pass the gas stations he
• 32:23wanted.
• 32:24We were warned not to
• 32:25indulge these special interests too
• 32:27much, but because he was
• 32:28also becoming increasingly inflexible.
• 32:32Looking back, it makes sense
• 32:33to me that this unsettling
• 32:35time period must have made
• 32:36him desperate to control what
• 32:37he could in his environment.
• 32:39When he stared at a
• 32:40blinking yellow light on the
• 32:42TV and announced
• 32:43yellow is my friend,
• 32:45which a year before we
• 32:46would have thought was a
• 32:47joke and six months before
• 32:48we would have been spooked
• 32:49by. Now our parental instinct
• 32:52led us to join him
• 32:53rather than let him drift
• 32:54into his own world without
• 32:55us. Staring at the light
• 32:57with him seemed to lend
• 32:59Owen a sense of emotional
• 33:00security and soon to more
• 33:02facial expressions and eventually more
• 33:04verbal exchanges.
• 33:05Soon Owen began to want
• 33:07to remember things he had
• 33:08forgotten.
• 33:09Sometimes he'd lift a toy
• 33:10and say, remember when I
• 33:11played with this?
• 33:12Most profoundly, he would wake
• 33:13up in the morning, still
• 33:15lethargic as ever, and bring
• 33:16his father a baby book
• 33:18in an effort to retrieve
• 33:19the words he had forgotten
• 33:20from helicopter to camel.
• 33:23Retracing the steps of learning
• 33:24language, he seemed to be
• 33:26saying, I'm ready to be
• 33:27brought back.
• 33:28In this gradual process of
• 33:30recovering memories and retrieving words,
• 33:32Owen's thoughts and speech seemed
• 33:34to increase in speed in
• 33:35speed gradually as well. At
• 33:37first, he developed a stutter,
• 33:39but soon he was speaking
• 33:40in full sentences again, and
• 33:41his vocal fry faded over
• 33:43the next months. Rather than
• 33:45send him to kindergarten, we
• 33:46had Owen do a year
• 33:47of pre k, and by
• 33:48the time it began, his
• 33:49range of affect was back
• 33:50and he was interacting with
• 33:51other children again and listening
• 33:53to instructions at school.
• 33:55As Max taught me, humor
• 33:57is essential to being alive
• 33:58and hearing Owen laugh and
• 34:00joke again was the greatest
• 34:01sign of hope. He also
• 34:03became more difficult behaviorally. Though
• 34:05he was no longer lethargic,
• 34:06he would have tantrums if
• 34:07we didn't engage him for
• 34:08a moment. He was still
• 34:09obsessive about pressing every floor
• 34:11in the elevator at the
• 34:12speech therapy building, and he
• 34:14had a full blown meltdown
• 34:15when they changed the carpets
• 34:16in that elevator.
• 34:18Looking back, all of these
• 34:19were signs of his progress,
• 34:20his engagement again with the
• 34:22environment.
• 34:23Over the kindergarten and first
• 34:25grade years, it became easier
• 34:26to discern his intelligence and
• 34:28his personality
• 34:29and also some significant learning
• 34:31struggles ranging from attentional difficulty
• 34:33to a delay in learning
• 34:34to read.
• 34:35At school, Owen is a
• 34:36big personality with good self
• 34:38esteem and emotional attunement. Teachers
• 34:40and peers gravitate to him,
• 34:42and his passion is palpable.
• 34:43He led a charge of
• 34:44students who usually played on
• 34:45the playground at recess to
• 34:47tend to the bugs in
• 34:48the garden, teaching them a
• 34:49surprising array of facts and
• 34:50asking great questions along the
• 34:52way. The school can be
• 34:54quite frustrating and exhausting for
• 34:56Owen, and he does need
• 34:57a good deal of supports
• 34:58throughout the day. We are
• 34:59relieved that he approaches his
• 35:00community with compassion and curiosity
• 35:03again, and dare I say,
• 35:04max level charm.
• 35:06As Owen's recovery process unfolded,
• 35:09my own urge to write
• 35:10returned. This is where the
• 35:11idea of the poem as
• 35:13enacting
• 35:14rather than recounting can be
• 35:15of some use. I think
• 35:17of the myth of Demeter
• 35:18whose daughter Persephone goes to
• 35:20the underworld,
• 35:21turning the world to winter.
• 35:23Then when she returns to
• 35:24her mother, it brings spring.
• 35:26It is not just the
• 35:27daughter's journey alone, but the
• 35:29mother's response to her daughter's
• 35:31coming and going that changes
• 35:32the seasons.
• 35:34Even if I never know
• 35:35where Owen went or what
• 35:37he experienced,
• 35:38I can imagine it. And
• 35:39by responding imaginatively,
• 35:41I can share a new
• 35:42season with him.
• 35:44Around this time, I learned
• 35:46the term athazigoraphobia
• 35:48means both the fear of
• 35:49forgetting and the fear of
• 35:51being forgotten. Now whether or
• 35:52not this is a real
• 35:53word,
• 35:54I became fascinated by the
• 35:56conflation of these two fears.
• 35:59Somehow the word gave me
• 36:00imaginative
• 36:01access to a border that
• 36:02I could share with my
• 36:04son, a made up margin
• 36:06to write toward, which I
• 36:07think of as a Thazigore,
• 36:09not an afterlife, but a
• 36:10between life, a beyond language
• 36:13landscape
• 36:14of forgetting.
• 36:15In I and Thou, Martin
• 36:16Buber writes that distance provides
• 36:18the human situation,
• 36:20relation provides man's becoming in
• 36:23that situation.
• 36:24Rather than fear my son
• 36:26relapsing or anxiously search for
• 36:28the right diagnosis,
• 36:29thanks to poetry, I can
• 36:31stay with my son in
• 36:32the moment instead.
• 36:34In occasional moments, Owen, who
• 36:35is now eight, does ask
• 36:37about the edges of that
• 36:38time when he was four,
• 36:40remembering the baby book he
• 36:41would ask us to quiz
• 36:42him from. But for the
• 36:43most part, it still remains
• 36:45to be seen how Owen
• 36:46has processed or will process
• 36:48the experience.
• 36:49I do not imagine that
• 36:50my poems capture his perspective,
• 36:53just as my poems for
• 36:54Max do not speak for
• 36:55Max even when I speak
• 36:57as him. What is more
• 36:58rewarding about writing to Owen
• 37:00is the way it allows
• 37:01the very experience of rupture
• 37:03to become a space for
• 37:04relating and repairing our relationship.
• 37:07It is especially meaningful when
• 37:08readers relate to this without
• 37:10the context of Owen's medical
• 37:12crisis.
• 37:12Watching any child become himself,
• 37:15become an other, is an
• 37:16endless and awesome privilege.
• 37:18In the case of Owen,
• 37:19the impossible togetherness I can
• 37:21create with my son in
• 37:22a poem
• 37:23offers real possibilities
• 37:25off the page too. Writing
• 37:27to Owen helps me find
• 37:28a way out of my
• 37:29own anxieties as a mother
• 37:30and back to him.
• 37:32I will love whatever version
• 37:33I find there.
• 37:35And some con concluding remarks
• 37:37to bring this back to
• 37:38poetry, the new and ongoing
• 37:39relationship of the poem.
• 37:42Language doesn't just fail us
• 37:44because of the intensity of
• 37:45an emotional experience. It often
• 37:47fails us at moments that
• 37:49fissure the relationship between the
• 37:51self and the self or
• 37:52the self and another.
• 37:54Those moments when the edges
• 37:55of our own mind or
• 37:56the edges between ourselves and
• 37:58others feel most unclear or
• 37:59threatened
• 38:00paradoxically
• 38:01make space for poems to
• 38:03be most relational.
• 38:04They bring the self closer
• 38:06to the self, the self
• 38:07closer to the other. Of
• 38:08course, we are not actually
• 38:10together.
• 38:11But how different is it
• 38:12from the way we feel
• 38:13together with another in real
• 38:15life? Being not quite together
• 38:17is the great intimacy of
• 38:19poetry.
• 38:20Across the greatest borders of
• 38:21loss, the poem finds a
• 38:23new relationship.
• 38:24The relationship takes place in
• 38:26the poem. The poem does
• 38:28not describe, but enacts it.
• 38:30We get to know each
• 38:31we get to know each
• 38:32other beyond small talk, beyond
• 38:34talk, beyond language.
• 38:36We see this modeled in
• 38:37the living relationship of infant
• 38:39and parent, also patient and
• 38:41analyst.
• 38:42It is through words that
• 38:43we move past words.
• 38:44It is not by remembering
• 38:46the past that we may
• 38:47better experience our present, but
• 38:49by reliving it in language.
• 38:52Even without death itself making
• 38:53the self or other unreachable,
• 38:55many of life's greatest challenges
• 38:57make us feel not only
• 38:58the loss of others, but
• 39:00as if part of ourselves
• 39:01is gone. Anne Carson even
• 39:03writes this about erotic longing.
• 39:04When I desire you, a
• 39:06part of me is gone,
• 39:07she writes.
• 39:08Likewise, when we are most
• 39:10lost, poetry can turn our
• 39:12idea of letting go into
• 39:14an idea of going on.
• 39:16To move forward, we must
• 39:17look back. To stay alive,
• 39:19we must make life new.
• 39:21Poetry can offer this new
• 39:23experience rather than just recounting
• 39:25a past experience.
• 39:26In poems, we are not
• 39:27quite ourselves and the other
• 39:29is not quite other.
• 39:31The dead are not quite
• 39:32dead, the lost are not
• 39:34quite gone, or not quite
• 39:36forever.
• 39:38Poetry, when it is urgently
• 39:39enacted at the most desperate
• 39:40and mysterious human moments, is
• 39:42not just a way to
• 39:43dwell in possibility
• 39:45as Emily Dickinson proposes.
• 39:47It is also a way
• 39:48to spend a moment together
• 39:49in the impossible.
• 39:51Max was a poet who
• 39:52was dying, but he was
• 39:53one of the most alive
• 39:54people I have ever met.
• 39:56And I consider his poetry
• 39:57some of the most relational
• 39:58that we have, disarming and
• 40:00embracing the reader at once.
• 40:02To reach toward all of
• 40:04the living, even strangers, as
• 40:06he was forced to let
• 40:07his own life go, is
• 40:08a tragedy. But it did
• 40:10not make his poems tragic.
• 40:11In fact, it made them
• 40:12more ecstatic.
• 40:14I wrote toward my son
• 40:15not because he was lost
• 40:17to me nor because he
• 40:18returned, but because I wanted
• 40:19to keep something painful alive
• 40:21rather than just move on
• 40:23from it.
• 40:24In both cases, what seems
• 40:25to magnetize poetry is the
• 40:27border of reachability,
• 40:29those places where we penetrate
• 40:30the minds of another and
• 40:32are then faced with the
• 40:33limits of what we can
• 40:34know, even the limits of
• 40:35empathy.
• 40:36When the self or other
• 40:37goes dark, we have the
• 40:38break of a line followed
• 40:40by the enjambment
• 40:41or the like of a
• 40:42simile followed by an unexpected
• 40:44image.
• 40:45Poetry can enact the rupture
• 40:46between self and other and
• 40:48repair it.
• 40:50Poetry offers the powerful dissolution
• 40:52of boundaries that only love
• 40:53and death do.
• 40:55When I let Max's imagined
• 40:56voice enter my own poems,
• 40:58it is because I can
• 40:59hear him just past hearing.
• 41:01I can speak him.
• 41:03Similarly, when I write about
• 41:04my son or include his
• 41:05voice in my poems, it
• 41:06is because I often cannot
• 41:07answer him satisfactorily,
• 41:09nor can I ask him
• 41:10exactly what I wish to
• 41:11know? But we can go
• 41:12together
• 41:13in wanting, in wondering, in
• 41:15failing, in the language of
• 41:17not knowing.
• 41:18John Keats spoke of negative
• 41:20capability,
• 41:21to rest in uncertainty, mysteries,
• 41:23doubts without any irritable reaching
• 41:25after fact and reason.
• 41:27And I think this quality
• 41:28of poetry teaches us something
• 41:30about relationships as well. It
• 41:32is not a bad way
• 41:33to love.
• 41:34One Emily Dickinson poem I
• 41:36adore demonstrates this beautifully.
• 41:38I cannot live with you.
• 41:40It would be life.
• 41:42And life is over there
• 41:43behind the shelf.
• 41:45Though the speaker cannot join
• 41:47the other, she conjures up
• 41:48a whole life we might
• 41:49not have noticed lurking over
• 41:51there behind the shelf, maybe
• 41:53also beyond the self.
• 41:55Precisely when we feel incomplete,
• 41:57for a moment, the poem
• 41:59lets us feel whole.
• 42:00That same Dickinson poem ends,
• 42:03so we must meet apart,
• 42:05you there,
• 42:06I here, with just the
• 42:08door ajar
• 42:09that oceans are, and prayer,
• 42:12and that white sustenance,
• 42:15despair.
• 42:16Perhaps poetry's relational power is
• 42:18strongest
• 42:19when communication feels impossible
• 42:22or unbearable
• 42:23with just the door ajar
• 42:25when connection is not quite
• 42:26possible,
• 42:27unrequited,
• 42:28unresolved, or elegized.
• 42:30Though the poem points out
• 42:32that life is over there,
• 42:34the speaker's candid longing bridges
• 42:36the distance between herself and
• 42:38the other with magnetic charge.
• 42:40At the end of the
• 42:41poem,
• 42:42despair itself becomes
• 42:44sustenance.
• 42:45And there
• 42:46on that edge we meet.
• 42:59Thank you. I will now
• 43:00do the the the most
• 43:01important part, which is to
• 43:03read some of Max's poems.
• 43:04Then I'll I'll read two
• 43:05of Max's poems, then I'll
• 43:06read three of my own
• 43:07poems.
• 43:08These first two poems are
• 43:09we okay on time? Is
• 43:10that Okay. These first two
• 43:12poems come from, four reincarnations,
• 43:14and the first one is
• 43:16his elegy for, the,
• 43:18Melissa Carroll, his friend who
• 43:20I mentioned.
• 43:21The watercolor eulogy for Melissa
• 43:23Carroll.
• 43:25When you leave my mind,
• 43:27the last piece of you
• 43:28to leave is your hands.
• 43:31When you go to the
• 43:32earth, the last part of
• 43:34you visible
• 43:35above what is either sand
• 43:37or clay
• 43:38isn't a hand but a
• 43:40glowing shroud.
• 43:41The black goose with your
• 43:43name in its throat and
• 43:45my name in its stomach
• 43:47will cough you up with
• 43:48her hoots,
• 43:50part jelly,
• 43:51part watch, part bone,
• 43:53part me, part power.
• 43:57There is a dead language
• 43:58buried in English. There is
• 44:00a word no one remembers
• 44:01for a temple with a
• 44:03bowl of millet sealed in
• 44:04each brick.
• 44:05When you are buried, the
• 44:07word will grow a saw
• 44:09sound.
• 44:10Its meaning will change to
• 44:12specify you as the builder.
• 44:15No one can speak the
• 44:16language you will rewrite.
• 44:18I know this isn't the
• 44:19heaven we wanted.
• 44:21Whatever is.
• 44:23And soon, I'll join you
• 44:24amid the terms for tiny
• 44:26bottles of defunct potions
• 44:28and no longer understood passions.
• 44:31And together we'll bury our
• 44:33own particular
• 44:34I love you.
• 44:36I wouldn't mind it's being
• 44:37sealed off with us
• 44:39in our brick of earth.
• 44:44The next poem is one
• 44:45of my favorite of Max's.
• 44:46It's the one with the
• 44:47bird shaped pipe I mentioned.
• 44:49And hopefully, you can hear
• 44:50the edges, these sort of
• 44:51not quite edges,
• 44:53in these poems.
• 44:55Afternoon.
• 44:58When I was about to
• 44:59die, my body lit up
• 45:01like when I leave my
• 45:02house without my wallet.
• 45:05What am I missing? I
• 45:06ask, patting my chest pocket.
• 45:09And I am missing everything
• 45:10living that won't come with
• 45:12me into this sunny afternoon.
• 45:15My body lights up for
• 45:17life like all the wishes
• 45:19being granted in a fountain
• 45:20at the same instant,
• 45:22all the coins burning the
• 45:24fountain dry.
• 45:25And I give my breath
• 45:27to a small bird shaped
• 45:28pipe.
• 45:30In the distance behind several
• 45:32voices haggling,
• 45:33I hear a sound like
• 45:35heads clicking together,
• 45:37like a game of pool
• 45:39played with people
• 45:41by machines.
• 45:44Now I'll read three of
• 45:46my own poems. The first
• 45:47one is for Max. It's
• 45:48the last poem in my
• 45:49first book, but it's the
• 45:50first poem I ever wrote
• 45:51for him. Not spring.
• 45:55When all the other trees
• 45:57are bare, the red tree
• 45:59grows.
• 46:00The fire of a thousand
• 46:01parrots cannot overcome its courage.
• 46:05I picture you lying in
• 46:06the township of your father's
• 46:08arms.
• 46:09The noose of your mouth
• 46:11is a way of not
• 46:12speaking.
• 46:13The floors of your eyes,
• 46:15shiny and light soaked.
• 46:18Rest finds your rib cage.
• 46:20It hides and seeks within
• 46:22the crescent lung, a sad
• 46:24little Mesopotamia.
• 46:26I will be talking to
• 46:27you for a long time
• 46:29when you wake in the
• 46:30felt shade,
• 46:32leaving what you love
• 46:34of what you love.
• 46:38And these last two poems
• 46:39are from,
• 46:40a book that doesn't exist
• 46:42yet, and they're for my
• 46:43son.
• 46:45The first one sort of
• 46:46uses a form of repetition
• 46:48to try to capture that
• 46:49feeling of
• 46:51of his regression and the
• 46:52uncertainty of it
• 46:54as we made him.
• 46:57It's his fourth birthday again
• 46:58in the land of forgetting.
• 47:01Humongous balloons
• 47:02sway and pop in the
• 47:04wind.
• 47:05The trick candles pop and
• 47:07sway as I pass them
• 47:08in front of his breath.
• 47:10I have such a sweet
• 47:11tooth for family. I deny
• 47:13he is missing.
• 47:14Regression means he is closer
• 47:16to where we made him.
• 47:18Thin mist from his first
• 47:20night home from the hospital
• 47:21still haunts us.
• 47:23Sometimes I sleep in the
• 47:24position I was in when
• 47:26we made him.
• 47:27French blue curtains in the
• 47:28guest house lit our skin
• 47:30blue.
• 47:31Sometimes I hang off the
• 47:32bed for an hour after,
• 47:34longing to return to his
• 47:36birth or before we made
• 47:37him.
• 47:39It's his fourth birthday, and
• 47:40the candles trick us again.
• 47:43A few balloons
• 47:44reinflate from their shiny torn
• 47:46skins.
• 47:48Impossible.
• 47:49The mist hides nothing, leaves
• 47:51us.
• 47:52Ordinary sky closes in.
• 47:55I am so afraid I'll
• 47:57leave then haunt my family.
• 47:59I kiss and kiss them.
• 48:01If he were to forget
• 48:03us,
• 48:03would we still be the
• 48:04ones who made him?
• 48:08And this last one comes
• 48:10out of a conversation.
• 48:11I I a real conversation
• 48:12I had with my son,
• 48:14and his own. One of
• 48:15the interesting things, the phase
• 48:16that he was in as
• 48:17he emerged from this regression
• 48:19was a phase in which
• 48:20he came to understand more
• 48:22or start to ask questions
• 48:22about mortality and ask what
• 48:24death is. So this poem
• 48:26comes from that, and the
• 48:26last line of it will
• 48:27be the title of my
• 48:28next collection.
• 48:31The poem is called don't
• 48:32make me.
• 48:34When I told you the
• 48:35crab on the beach was
• 48:36dead, you asked me, what's
• 48:39dead?
• 48:40I said, this is his
• 48:41shell, but you must have
• 48:43heard soul,
• 48:44a year long misunderstanding.
• 48:47A summer later,
• 48:48unable to sleep, you said,
• 48:50no. You told me the
• 48:52body is the part that
• 48:53goes. The soul stays.
• 48:55And I said, no. You
• 48:56have it backwards. The shell
• 48:58stays and becomes the beach
• 48:59again.
• 49:01I waited for you to
• 49:02ask after the soul
• 49:04where the crab goes,
• 49:06practiced in my head an
• 49:08inconsolable
• 49:09hour.
• 49:10I don't know or nowhere,
• 49:13scraping my mortal voice like
• 49:15bright meat when suddenly you
• 49:17shot up from the covers
• 49:19done crying
• 49:20so the going is forever?
• 49:24Thank you.
• 49:37Just in person or on
• 49:39Zoom?
• 49:40So beautiful Hold on. Hold
• 49:41on a sec.
• 49:46Beautiful talk. Thank you so
• 49:47much.
• 49:49I was really struck by
• 49:50what you said about pre
• 49:51grief, and I would love
• 49:53to hear you talk more
• 49:54about your experience of doing
• 49:55that with Max,
• 49:57and his experience of doing
• 49:58that for himself. I have
• 49:59a patient who has said
• 50:01to me multiple times, you
• 50:02can't pregrieve. And I I
• 50:04really disagree with that. But
• 50:05I think
• 50:06I'm really curious also especially
• 50:08about,
• 50:10this kind of merging you're
• 50:11talking about, not only of
• 50:13self and other, but of,
• 50:15like, so much of Mac's
• 50:16work, I think, is really
• 50:17marked by
• 50:19this combination
• 50:20of, like, humor and pathos
• 50:22and of, like, mourning and
• 50:23celebrating. And I'm curious about,
• 50:25like, in the pre grieving
• 50:26process, the way those two
• 50:27things come together and Yeah.
• 50:28Whether you can talk more
• 50:29about that. Thank you so
• 50:30much for that question. Yeah.
• 50:33Yeah. I think,
• 50:35anticipatory
• 50:35grief or pre grief is,
• 50:37like, definitely,
• 50:39the heart of what our
• 50:41friendship
• 50:42revolved around. So I think
• 50:43this relates to the second
• 50:44part of your question in
• 50:45a way because it was
• 50:46a way for death and
• 50:48Max was dying. I was
• 50:49not dying. That could have
• 50:51interrupted not only interrupted a
• 50:53friendship, but the friendship formed
• 50:54with that knowledge already there.
• 50:56This wasn't a friendship that
• 50:57existed before that. So I
• 50:58think if we hadn't found
• 51:00a way to integrate that
• 51:01and make it a shared
• 51:02thing that we could do
• 51:03together,
• 51:04we might not have been
• 51:05able to be as close
• 51:06as we were. So grief
• 51:07was essential. Grief was something
• 51:09that on different ends of
• 51:10it, we could both
• 51:11experience together. So that has
• 51:13something to do with the
• 51:14the way that self and
• 51:15other, sort of came together
• 51:17and get blurred through grief.
• 51:19But pre grief also, yeah,
• 51:20I think people talk a
• 51:21lot about grief as having
• 51:23phases and grief never ending.
• 51:25It comes in waves. These
• 51:26expressions we know of.
• 51:28So for me it just
• 51:29makes absolute sense that that
• 51:30means it would it would
• 51:32move in both directions. Right?
• 51:33It doesn't have a starting
• 51:34point when when the person
• 51:36takes their last breath. It
• 51:38it it never ends in
• 51:40both directions. It's already begun.
• 51:41And so in that sense,
• 51:43we could tap into the
• 51:44way grief
• 51:45was more,
• 51:47full of vicissitudes like life
• 51:48and was really a living
• 51:50process. A way to live
• 51:51with this thing rather than
• 51:53against it or by blocking
• 51:54it out and that allowed
• 51:55us to have a kind
• 51:56of heightened life
• 51:58force together rather than this
• 51:59kind of elephant in the
• 52:00room feeling.
• 52:02So, yeah. I I think
• 52:03I I don't think one
• 52:04should force, like, you know,
• 52:05pre grief, like, is something
• 52:06that it happens or doesn't.
• 52:08But I think absolutely it
• 52:10it it would make sense
• 52:11that its beginning point isn't
• 52:13marked by something that happens
• 52:15to another person or or
• 52:16some particular definition of loss
• 52:18that someone who's probably less
• 52:20close to
• 52:21your own grief process might
• 52:22acknowledge it as. You know
• 52:23what I mean? It's different
• 52:24for each for each person.
• 52:26So for Max, for I
• 52:27think our friendship began sort
• 52:29of in grief in a
• 52:29way.
• 52:31And I don't even think
• 52:31of that as a bad
• 52:32thing. I think grief included
• 52:34all of the ecstasy of
• 52:35it. It was really fun.
• 52:37Yeah.
• 52:39I I might ask
• 52:41if I if I may,
• 52:43I may ask amongst those
• 52:44lines.
• 52:46You you know, I,
• 52:48I had the cheat sheet
• 52:49because I have your talk
• 52:50on paper. Uh-huh. And I
• 52:53I think that I underlined
• 52:54every single line because it
• 52:55was so good.
• 52:56But one line that I
• 52:58underlined is this, could I
• 52:59love him like this,
• 53:01or would I always mourn
• 53:02the child he once was
• 53:04or who I had thought
• 53:05he was wanted him to
• 53:06be?
• 53:08And I think it it
• 53:09struck at a number of
• 53:10levels,
• 53:11but this is something that
• 53:12we deal with when a
• 53:13child has some
• 53:15regression, some major psychiatric illness,
• 53:17any number of conditions sometimes
• 53:19devastating that we see.
• 53:21How do we make our
• 53:22peace with that, and how
• 53:23do we mourn?
• 53:25Is that the right word?
• 53:26How do we pre mourn,
• 53:28transmourn?
• 53:29Is mourning the right word
• 53:31at all? And, thank you
• 53:32for sharing your experience, and
• 53:33so glad to hear that
• 53:34Owen is doing better. But
• 53:35what can you add to
• 53:36that? Yeah. Thank you for
• 53:37that question. Yeah. I think,
• 53:39you know, in a weird
• 53:40way, like, I thought once
• 53:42Owen emerged that those questions
• 53:44would go away.
• 53:45But even the word emerge
• 53:46is so ridiculous. Like, what
• 53:47is it? That's actually what
• 53:49I realized was,
• 53:52your voices.
• 53:53I just like
• 53:57Okay. Okay.
• 54:08Thank you. Yeah. So I
• 54:10think,
• 54:11I think that I thought
• 54:12with his returning to some
• 54:14version of himself that I
• 54:15found familiar
• 54:16that something would be over.
• 54:17I wouldn't have to answer
• 54:18those questions or more, and
• 54:20I could instead be relieved.
• 54:22And that too was actually
• 54:23very estranging and very isolating
• 54:25to think that that that
• 54:26I no longer
• 54:27claimed the experience or that
• 54:28he no longer was those
• 54:30other versions, which I'm very
• 54:31glad he didn't stay not
• 54:32remembering his day before. But
• 54:34I still wanted to include
• 54:35that sort of like this
• 54:36grief. I I think I
• 54:37wanted to include all of
• 54:38it because we had been
• 54:39there together even if it
• 54:41had made us feel separated.
• 54:42And I and I felt
• 54:43guilty, and I felt, you
• 54:44know, did I cause this?
• 54:45Did I was it even
• 54:46true that he wasn't always
• 54:47like this? You know, all
• 54:48those questions were there. But
• 54:50I think,
• 54:51if anything my like, I
• 54:53don't have any great insight
• 54:54as to as to what
• 54:56to call that or or
• 54:57how to approach it. But
• 54:58I do I can say
• 54:59from the side of someone
• 55:01in in my case where
• 55:02there's a sort of this
• 55:03ostensible return to some level
• 55:05of normalcy
• 55:06that that wasn't a return
• 55:08to normalcy. There's still there's
• 55:09a a claim that I
• 55:10think one should be able
• 55:12to access at all times
• 55:13sort of all of those
• 55:15those stages. And maybe that's
• 55:16where I found through poetry
• 55:17that I was really
• 55:19appreciated that this transcended
• 55:21the sort of,
• 55:22unusualness
• 55:23of my experience and speaks
• 55:24more to maybe what parenting
• 55:26is like because your child
• 55:27is always going through whether
• 55:28we you know, you have
• 55:29the list of milestones that
• 55:30you look for or just
• 55:32the, you know, moments and
• 55:33memories and different phases and
• 55:35different things that your child
• 55:36is. You're many different people
• 55:37together. And I think, again,
• 55:39that sort of touches on
• 55:39what your question was in
• 55:41the second part where it's
• 55:42not one border between self
• 55:44and other. It's once you
• 55:45recognize that there are many
• 55:47different others
• 55:48and maybe some feel like
• 55:49ones you wanna mourn and
• 55:50some feel like ones you
• 55:51wanna bring closer and kind
• 55:52of tether back. In a
• 55:53way, it's recognizing that I
• 55:55am many selves and I
• 55:56feel many different things toward
• 55:57it. And and Owen is
• 55:59many people and maybe some
• 56:01of those some of those
• 56:02parts will actually come back
• 56:03and maybe that will be
• 56:04scary or maybe they'll show
• 56:05in a way that's now
• 56:06in a more integrated healthy
• 56:07context. But whatever it is,
• 56:09I like the idea of
• 56:10the multiplicity and that we
• 56:11can find many different kind
• 56:12of connection points. And so
• 56:13when we feel those moments
• 56:14of disconnect or worry that
• 56:16we're really removed from someone
• 56:18we love, that too is
• 56:19just kind of once you
• 56:20sort sort of see the
• 56:22that it will change again,
• 56:24you can appreciate it as
• 56:25sort of building a world
• 56:26together.
• 56:27That
• 56:27you need many different angles,
• 56:28many different ways of,
• 56:30of sharing each other. Yeah.
• 56:32Thank you. Sure. We're running
• 56:34short of time, but I
• 56:37we're running short of time,
• 56:38but I definitely would like
• 56:39to invite Ari if she
• 56:40is willing.
• 56:41Ari in LA, anything you
• 56:43want to comment?
• 56:45First of all, I wanna
• 56:46thank you, Elizabeth. This was
• 56:47brilliant, but you're never anything
• 56:50short of brilliance
• 56:52and agreeing to
• 56:54to be our eighth speaker.
• 56:56Didn't realize we've had so
• 56:58many.
• 56:59And
• 57:00to thank you
• 57:01for
• 57:02being
• 57:04Max's soul sister. This is
• 57:05the way I refer to
• 57:06you guys, the two of
• 57:08you,
• 57:10and Owen's mommy.
• 57:12I've I've been with you
• 57:14through
• 57:15both instances,
• 57:17the gains, the losses, the
• 57:19grief.
• 57:20And I must say that
• 57:22for you, I believe, and
• 57:23I think you all
• 57:25heard in Elizabeth poetry that
• 57:27it's not poetry,
• 57:29but it's essential poetry without
• 57:31this poetry
• 57:33though, she's had wonderful therapy,
• 57:35Elizabeth,
• 57:36as
• 57:37I believe all of us
• 57:38in the room have had
• 57:39and,
• 57:40wonderful opportunities
• 57:42to work with,
• 57:44Max
• 57:45together on grief and with
• 57:48others,
• 57:49when Owen was regressed.
• 57:51For Elizabeth,
• 57:53she wouldn't be
• 57:54whole. We're never whole, but
• 57:56she wouldn't be standing there
• 57:58doing what she's doing today
• 57:59if it wasn't but for
• 58:00her poetry.
• 58:02Her poetry
• 58:03is
• 58:04like
• 58:05food is for some of
• 58:06you, like
• 58:08and so that that's the
• 58:09whole point of this art
• 58:11and medicine
• 58:12symposium.
• 58:13She and Max were so
• 58:14alike that way.
• 58:16And so while they laughed
• 58:17and scratched and ate oysters
• 58:19on a Tuesday,
• 58:21and went to
• 58:23sushi bars and whatnot.
• 58:25The
• 58:26true connection, as she said,
• 58:28the silences
• 58:29were fine
• 58:31because there was also poetry
• 58:33that truly connected them. I
• 58:35mean, Max would bear his
• 58:36soul and would email her
• 58:38at three o'clock at night,
• 58:40some sort of a version
• 58:41of a poem because he
• 58:42couldn't sleep when he was
• 58:43so ill.
• 58:45And Elizabeth would come right
• 58:47back to him with a
• 58:49version.
• 58:50She was the first reader
• 58:51of his book, which we
• 58:53got to see the the
• 58:54proofs
• 58:55before he died. He got
• 58:56to hold them. It was
• 58:57a big huge
• 58:58ceremonial opening.
• 59:00Elizabeth was his go to.
• 59:02I never left the clinical
• 59:04trials room. Clinical trials are
• 59:06dangerous and scary,
• 59:08and
• 59:09they were approved by the
• 59:10FDA for Max.
• 59:12But for when Elizabeth came,
• 59:14we all cleared the room.
• 59:15Max's family all left. So
• 59:17Elizabeth and Max could have
• 59:18the floor to connect, to
• 59:20do their work, and
• 59:22for neither one of them
• 59:23to feel that
• 59:25the prevailing
• 59:26theme of the day is
• 59:27the clinical trial. The prevailing
• 59:29theme of the day was
• 59:30what they could create together,
• 59:32which made for a much
• 59:33more holistic
• 59:34experience.
• 59:36With Owen, it was heartbreaking.
• 59:38I saw Owen before, and
• 59:40I know Owen now.
• 59:42And and it was heartbreaking
• 59:44to see
• 59:45that
• 59:47regression. And I know for
• 59:48Elizabeth, it was
• 59:50extremely frightening too.
• 59:52The poems that came afterwards
• 59:54are
• 59:55beyond. They're just
• 59:57so very
• 59:58beautiful. And I don't think
• 01:00:01at the time she could
• 01:00:02have written them because at
• 01:00:03the time Elizabeth's job was
• 01:00:04to get him better or
• 01:00:05so she believed
• 01:00:06or to make sure they
• 01:00:07saw everybody and anyone,
• 01:00:10throughout the country.
• 01:00:12And I couldn't have done
• 01:00:13that without you, Ari. Ari
• 01:00:14was in the pandemic. We
• 01:00:16were barely going to doctor's
• 01:00:17appointments, but the one person
• 01:00:18I knew was taking extreme
• 01:00:20cautions was Ari. So we
• 01:00:21she was able to offer
• 01:00:23so much,
• 01:00:24so much wisdom about that.
• 01:00:26Yeah. And, and
• 01:00:28the point is that that
• 01:00:30that the healing
• 01:00:31for Owen, for Elizabeth, for
• 01:00:33everybody,
• 01:00:34and and and the and
• 01:00:35the lesson in the room
• 01:00:37for all the practitioners
• 01:00:40is that we can practice
• 01:00:41out of one modality. We
• 01:00:43gotta look at a patient
• 01:00:44as a whole person,
• 01:00:46and we got to try
• 01:00:47and find things that are
• 01:00:48healing beyond the regular sessions
• 01:00:51or the medications
• 01:00:53or the whatever.
• 01:00:54Take Max as an example.
• 01:00:56Take Elizabeth as an example.
• 01:00:58Those of you who've been
• 01:00:59here when Louise spoke, take
• 01:01:00her as an example when
• 01:01:02she was talking about her
• 01:01:03psychoanalytic
• 01:01:04experience.
• 01:01:06Take Owen as an example
• 01:01:07too.
• 01:01:08And
• 01:01:09and I think
• 01:01:11I hope you heard Elizabeth
• 01:01:13when she spoke about the
• 01:01:15edges and the silences
• 01:01:17and and acting
• 01:01:19as well as recalling.
• 01:01:21Thank you so much, Elizabeth.
• 01:01:23This was really, really valuable
• 01:01:25and also very touching to
• 01:01:27me.
• 01:01:27Thank you. Thank you, Ari,
• 01:01:29and, thank you, Elizabeth. This
• 01:01:31was wonderful. Thank you so
• 01:01:32much.