2000
Recommended by Mia Meijer
Inspirational
I don't normally read inspirational books, but Mia had this on her top-ten favorite books, and had a copy to lend. What a surprising book! What a life story Rachel Remen has -- only child of older hard-working professionals. Full of ambition and determination, even after a collapse at age 16 and a diagnosis of Crohn's disease [no cure, bad prognosis].
Her marvelous memories of her wise grandfather's caring for her and nuggets of wisdom [he died when she was 7] -- she notes that he was probably much less available to his own daughter [her mother] when she was a child.
Much of Remen's book is quite short accounts of outstanding anecdotes of people dealing with severe illness, death of a loved one, and so on. Remen lectured a lot, apparently mostly telling a lot of anecdotes like these to make her point that mind and body are interrelated, and mind/feeling can play a large role in getting well. She discusses how new [and rejected] this idea was when she first started lecturing on it in the 1970s[?] to doctors and nurses.
Reading several of these anecdotes really gives a good impression of the mind-body linkage, or of the spiritual side of health and illness, if you will.
COMMONWEAL is the organization [near San Fran] started by Michael Lerner [Tikkun] where Rachel set up her integrative medicine programs and counseling. See her own website too, which has several of the stories from this book. One is below, another two I have as WORD docs in my Documents folder.
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For several weeks, I could not get this simple, powerful dream out of my mind, and eventually I described it to a friend who had a deep interest in dreams and their meanings. “Perhaps there is a conversation going on between the rock and the daffodil,” she said. … With surprise, I realized I knew this conversation well. The rock was saying, “It’s a dangerous world. DON’T BLOOM! I will keep you safe.”
I began to laugh. “That rock sounds just like my father,” I told her. “And mine,” she said and asked if I could hear the other side of the conversation—-“What was the bulb saying?” “I need to bloom,” I told her. “Blooming is my whole purpose for being alive.” She frowned. “It should feel good to have that rock between you and danger, shouldn’t it?” she asked, “ But it doesn’t, really.” Suddenly my eyes filled with tears. I had no idea why. We let the matter drop there. From time to time I would think about it, and once I dreamt it again. It was just as disturbing.
Some years later I was agonizing over a major career change. The stress of this decision became intense, and one morning I awoke with a severe pain in my back. After the third or fourth day, I went to see my doctor, who told me that the pain did not correspond with anything anatomical he knew about. The pain went on for weeks. Finally someone suggested I consult an acupuncturist …This was not the usual thing to do at that time, but I had become desperate and so I had gone. Dr. Rossman ran his finger lightly down my back. When he touched the place that was hurting, the pain was so intense that I cried out. “Ah, he said, “ this is an acupuncture point. The life energy is stuck here.” … As soon as I felt the needle, the old, half-forgotten image of the daffodil bulb and the rock reappeared to me with extraordinary clarity. Suddenly I understood how the rock felt. The rock was afraid to let the bulb bloom. It knew the daffodil’s value and was determined that it must not come to harm. If it bloomed and became visible, it could be hurt. I also understood for the first time that if it did bloom, the daffodil might die.
Survival was a high priority in our family. My father, and indeed many other members of my family, had been made fearful of life by the Depression and the war. They had become experts at surviving. Surviving was a question of tenacity, of putting safety above all other considerations. Living, on the other hand, was a matter of passion and risk. Of finding something important and serving it. Of doing whatever was needed in order to live out loud.
As a child of my family, I had not understood the difference in this way before. Perhaps survival was not the goal of life at all. As I anxiously began to wonder if it was possible to protect something without stopping the life in it, in my mind’s eye the rock spontaneously began to change its shape. As I watched in surprise, slowly it became taller and thinner and more transparent until I realized it was becoming a greenhouse. Inside it, the daffodil bulb put out a spike and bloomed. The yellow of the flower was extraordinary—as if it were made not of petals but of light. Lying there on Dr. Rossman’s table, I began to weep.
In the blink of an eye, things had turned inside out. The reason the rock had given the bulb for not blooming was the very reason it was important to bloom. It was a dangerous world, a world of suffering, loneliness, and loss. Daffodils were needed.
My family had actually cultivated fear. After I was bitten by a stray dog as a child and underwent a painful series of rabies shots, I became terrified of all dogs. My father encouraged this, believing that it would keep me safe. It had never occurred to me before that fear might be the wrong sort of protection.
After the first treatment, my pain never came back. When I revisited Dr. Rossman to discuss this with him, he told me that the acupuncture point where my life energy had been blocked was called the “Heart Protector”.
Shortly afterward, I left my secure and respectable faculty position at Stanford and moved down the peninsula to join with others who also dreamt of finding a new way to practice medicine.
Perhaps finding the right protection is the first responsibility of anyone hoping to make a difference in this world. Caring deeply makes us vulnerable. You cannot move things forward without exposure and involvement, without risk and process and criticism. Those who wish to change things may face disappointment, loss, or even ridicule. If you are ahead of your time, people laugh as often as they applaud, and being there first is usually lonely. But our protection cannot come between us and our purpose. Right protection is something within us rather than something between us and the world, more about finding a place of refuge and strength than finding a hiding place.