Con toda valentía y decididamente…

 

Con toda valentía y decididamente…

Ricardo T. Ricci 18/5/21     

riccirt@fm.unt.edu.ar

 

“…atrás quedaron las cercas de púas, descendí hasta el borde del bosque. De pronto, en la noche explotó el día: ¡sirenas, luces trazadoras, iluminación a pleno, gritos, ladridos! Corrí hacia la espesura, ya no era tiempo de elegir entre la incertidumbre y el infierno, estaba jugado.”

Echado en el suelo húmedo de rocío, masticando tierra y pasto, me sobrevino un miedo visceral, un miedo como la suma de todos los miedos, un pánico ancestral. Mi cuerpo se hizo pequeñito y mi alma se deshilachó; sentí que se volvía trémula, incompetente y derrotada.

Como pude alcancé a pararme a pesar de mis temblores, me expuse a la luz enteramente y coloqué ambas manos detrás de mi nuca. Humillado, me entregué una vez más.

La única rosa rosa, o esas cosas de los hombres...

 

La única rosa rosa, o esas cosas de los hombres…

Ricardo T. Ricci, 18 de octubre de 2021.

riccirt@fm.unt.edu.ar

 

Octavo día de la Novena de mi Virgen Morenita. Bonita, milagrosa y protectora de todos los míos, refugio de mis dolores, dispensadora de la esperanza infinita. Allí junto al altar mayor, iluminadísima, adornada como toda pura entre las puras con cientos de flores blancas, rosas, claveles, lirios, calas y gladiolos. Las flores de la pureza. Todos los faroles la apuntan a la Morenita y la fila de fieles que la veneran avanza lenta, pero incesantemente.

Esa era mi oportunidad, en una bolsita de papel madera llevaba mi ofrenda. Antes de ir al templo pensé: Yo no me creo tan pura como para ofrendar una rosa blanca. Nunca, por más que lo intento, he logrado una verdadera paz, las pasiones me invaden y me confunden, a menudo reacciono con irritación. Creo que el rojo de la sangre que me ciega mancha sin piedad toda la pureza que pudiera conseguir.

Por eso es que se me ocurrió, para ser sincera, poner una rosa rosa en tu altar inmaculado. Para mí es pureza teñida de pasión, me representa mejor a mí. Para que mi rosa no desentone la pongo en un costadito de las ofrendas, en el borde de esa inmensa corona de blancura. Una manchita apenar perceptible.

Ahora ya estoy presente para el último día de la Novena. Dispuesta para la ceremonia final, para la gran celebración, para festejar con cantos y panderetas a mi Virgen Morenita. La aclamación final de todos los que la veneramos. A duras penas, poco a poco, logro acercarme algo a tu magnífico altar, estoy deslumbrada con tanta belleza. No resisto la tentación de echar una mirada al costadito, a mi costadito, ese en el que puse mi rosa rosa como testimonio de mi avergonzada pasión.

No la veo, no está allí mi rosa. Nada de color interrumpe el blanco magnífico. Mi rosa ya no está, ¿qué es lo que habrá ocurrido? Todo está en su lugar menos mi rosita. De pronto siento que mi rostro se enciende, el calor me invade la cara. ¡Anoche, anoche mismo, como premio a mi sinceridad, te la llevaste contigo Madre mía! La aprietas sobre tu corazón y allí estará, estaré, siempre contigo. Como cuando éramos niños los Reyes se llevaban el pasto y el agua, tú te llevaste mi rosa rosa.

Me postro humildemente ante el milagro, ¡estoy inmensamente feliz! Me siento indigna del favor que me hiciste y del amor que me tienes.    

 

 

Fotografía personal tomada en una capilla de S. M. de Tucumán el 10 de octubre de 2021.

The Beauty of the Unpredictable

 The Beauty of the Unpredictable

Ricardo T. Ricci en: ARS MEDICA https://ars-medica.mn.co/posts/the-beauty-of-the-unpredictable

Reading, reading, and reading… an endless source of revelations. Walking along the paths where we can still find the footprints of great writers and the literary critics who knew them by heart, is a fascinating experience.

Now, we are the ones invited to make our small contribution to this river of creativity sharing reflections, aphorisms, short stories and poems, everything adds up.

That is what this essay is about; the causes and effects of reading and writing; about the situations and the implications of humans and their circumstances. It's about the unexpected consequences that reading generates; reading King Lear or The Tempest by Shakespeare can have a much greater impact in our lives than the prophecies attached to the wrapper of my favorite chewing gum I read in my childhood.

“Greater than scene… is situation. Greater than situation is implication. Greater than all of these is a single, entire human being, who will never be confined in any frame.” *

I once came across the phrase: "The map is not the territory," which suggests the description of the thing is not the thing itself. It is not the same standing in front of the Iguazú Falls and staring at the scene with your very own eyes, than looking at a map of the border between Brazil and Argentina, a brochure of the National Park, or a photograph of the falls on National Geographic. There is no information that could replace the beauty that fills your eyes, that continuous roar of water that rushes in uncontrollable streams, the humid feeling of fine droplets of water falling on your face, your hair, and your clothes.

The map is not the territory. It is incomparably different to be situated on the scene; the feeling of involvement surpasses everything as we become one with the surroundings. We are involved, we are part of the experience. The basalt stone, the multiform ferns, the coati and the toucan are part of the falls, and once

we are there, we are too. If you pause for a moment to think about it, you immediately feel astonished.

There is no greater joy than to contemplate the entire human being. The grace and the struggles of the lay person, pretentious and insecure, arrogant and humble. The human that has the ability to hold and appraise the beauty of the territory, to design the map and remain irrepressible to any frames. A mass of flesh and bones, a sentient apparatus, a will, an arrow thrown into the immensity and immense in itself.

The human being that emerges as a continent of the self. A self-penetrated by feelings, emotions, reasons, desires and actions. A self that is both uncontainable and continent at the same time. A being confronted with the fragility of existence, uncertain and powerful. A heap of matter capable of containing the universe and imagining what the collision between Andromeda and the Milky Way will be like, which will occur in several billions of years’ time.

A being embedded in space and time, a being involved in the scenes, as we saw, and involved in time, with a biography, a story and a narrative of its own.

*Quotes extracted from brainpickings.org

Eudora Alice Welty (Jackson (Mississippi, April 13, 1909 - July 23, 2001) was an American writer who wrote novels and short stories about the South of the United Stated of American. Welty won the Pulitzer Prize in 1973 for his novel The Optimist's Daughter. She was also awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1980.

Ricardo T. Ricci, translated by Mariana Dittborn

“La Belleza de lo impredecible”

 “La Belleza de lo impredecible”

Ricardo T. Ricci (riccirt@fm.unt.edu.ar)

El hilo continuo de la revelación: Eudora Welty[1] sobre la escritura, el tiempo y la no linealidad de cómo nos convertimos en quiénes somos.

 “Más importante que la escena…es estar situado en ella. Aún más valioso que estar en la situación es estar implicado. Más grande aún que todo esto, es un solo ser humano que, contemplado como un todo, nunca podrá ser confinado en ningún marco”.[2]

Leer, leer, y leer, es una fuente inagotable de revelaciones. Andar por los caminos en los que todavía se encuentran las huellas de los grandes escritores y las de los críticos literarios que los han conocido al dedillo, es una experiencia fascinante.

Ahora somos nosotros los que estamos invitados a aportar nuestro pequeño aporte a este río de creación, una reflexión, un aforismo, un pequeño poema, un breve relato, todo suma.

 De eso se trata este texto, de las causas y los efectos de la lectura y la escritura, de las situaciones y de las implicaciones de los hombres en las circunstancias vitales. De los efectos insospechados que esos textos pueden tener. Leer Rey Lear o La Tempestad de Shakespeare, puede tener un efecto determinante en nuestras vidas, decididamente mayor que aquellas predicciones que de niños leíamos en el envoltorio de las gomas de mascar.  

“Más importante que la escena…es estar situado en ella. Aún más valioso que estar en la situación es estar implicado. Más grande aún que todo esto, es un solo ser humano que, contemplado como un todo, nunca podrá ser confinado en ningún marco”

Los gurúes de Palo Alto repetían con tanta frecuencia: “No es lo mismo el mapa que el territorio”. No es lo mismo ver las cataratas del Iguazú en un mapa del límite entre Argentina y Brasil, en un plano del Parque Nacional Iguazú, en una foto de la National Geographic Magazine, que estar situado en la escena, que verlas con los propios ojos. Ninguna información previa es capaz de reemplazar esa belleza que nos llena los ojos, ese bramido continuo del agua que se desbarranca a raudales incontenibles, esas finas gotitas que humedecen nuestra cara, nuestro cabello y nuestra ropa.

No es lo mismo el mapa que el territorio. Es incomparablemente diferente estar situados allí, en la escena; el sentimiento de la implicación lo sobrepasa todo ya que pasamos a ser uno con el espacio. Implicado formo parte de la experiencia. La piedra basáltica, los helechos multiformes, el coatí y el tucán son parte de las cataratas, una vez que estamos allí, nosotros también lo somos. Basta pensarlo un poco para sentirnos estupefactos.

 

Nada hay más maravilloso en la creación que un ser humano contemplado como un todo. El hombre genérico agraciado y sufriente, sin seguridades y pretencioso, altanero e incapaz, soberbio, humilde y rastrero. El ser humano es quien tiene la capacidad de albergar la belleza del territorio, de diseñar el mapa y de permanecer él mismo incontenible en cualquier molde. Un cacho de carne y huesos, un aparato sentiente, una voluntad, una flecha lanzada a la inmensidad e inmensa en sí misma.

El ser humano se nos aparece como el continente del yo. Un yo atravesado por los sentimientos, las emociones, las razones, los deseos y las acciones. Un sí mismo a la vez incontenible y continente. Un ser en la existencia frágil, incierto y potente. Un montón de materia capaz de contener el universo e imaginarse cómo será el choque entre las galaxias de Andrómeda y La Vía Láctea que ocurrirá dentro de varios miles de millones de años.

Un ser incrustado en el espacio y el tiempo, un ser implicado en las escenas, como vimos, e implicado en el tiempo, con biografía, con historia y con una narrativa propia.        

---

[1] Eudora Alice Welty (Jackson (Misisipi), 13 de abril de 1909 -  23 de julio de 2001) fue una escritora estadounidense que escribió novelas y cuentos sobre el Sur de Estados Unidos. Welty ganó el Premio Pulitzer en 1973 por su novela The Optimist's Daughter. Asimismo, fue galardonada con la Medalla Presidencial de la Libertad en 1980.

[2] https://www.brainpickings.org/2018/02/21/eudora-welty-one-writers-beginnings/ Todos los textos en cursiva corresponden a este sitio.

Advice from a Caterpillar: Reflections on Change, Uncertainty and Identity

 

Advice from a Caterpillar: Reflections on Change, Uncertainty and Identity

 

How might we navigate uncertainty in medical practice?

As physicians, we are constantly dealing with change and the uncertainty that comes with it. But we never seem to have the time to reflect on how we change as we try to navigate the uncertainty of medical practice.

We invite you to read this short essay by our member @Ricardo Ricci. Through a fictional conversation between Alice and the Caterpillar, we are invited to explore the foundations of uncertainty and the evolving nature of identity. 

 

 

Advice from a Caterpillar: Reflections on Change, Uncertainty and Identity

 

Mr Caterpillar, a few days ago you asked me, "Who are you?" with your arrogant tone. Your existential question took me by surprise, as I was feeling insecure about myself at the moment. I was having issues with my height and had no control over my body, which made my situation rather unstable. 

I had been going through a rough time and suffering all sorts of weird symptoms after drinking an unknown brevage; I went from being your height, Mr Caterpillar, about twelve centimetres, to growing tall above the treetops in a matter of seconds. Apparently, the instability of the body is necessarily followed by the instability of the mind. As you may already know, mind and body cannot be separated.

In this blurry, delusional situation, you dare to ask “Who am I?”

I knew who I was when I woke up that morning, but given the circumstances, I just wasn't sure anymore. Such was the transience and instability of my states. You remember, right?

Now that I am back at home, I am not sure whether I should laugh or feel angry about your nonsense. But I have convinced myself that it was not an illusion.

Mr Caterpillar, you provided me with the opportunity to face unresolved issues -- issues that I was not aware of in my certain and immutable sense of reality, a reality that I now realize is rather unpredictable.

Although, I wouldn’t say you are in the best position to preach about permanence and stability; caterpillars are not immutable beings, after all. When we met, you were a larva and soon you will become a butterfly. How confident do you feel about your identity? I wonder if you can call yourself a caterpillar while being a larva? Would you still be you when coloured wings grow on your back and you become butterfly? Can we even speak of a permanent identity?

Mr Caterpillar, much water has flowed under the bridge of identity as we discuss this existential matters. We used to think our development was only determined genes. But scientists discovered that it's not that simple. It turns out that our environment affects how genetic information is expressed. Did you know that? And it's not only the physical environment...the social environment also seems to play a role. I'm just amazed by the fact that social interactions can shape our identity.

Thus, my dear Mr Caterpillar,  I am not the same now as I was before I met you, and likewise the same happens to you. The process may be even faster than your much expected metamorphosis. By the way ... can you feel your cells changing at this very moment? I don’t, but even if I don´t turn into a butterfly, I know that I´m changing as quickly as you are. Old cells in my body are dying and new ones are born, and so on and so forth. The same happens to the human brain. Our neurons are constantly changing and making new connections. What is considered useful is nourished and what is considered obsolete is trimmed or modified. Connections between neurons hold our memory in the form of partially stable chemical complexes. That is the so-called long-term memory, the one that allows me to react when the Mad Hatter or The Queen of Hearts calls: Alice!

Now, my dear Mr Caterpillar: Can you see how fragile is the biological foundation of identity? Transience, insubstantiality, and subtlety are its characteristics. Our sense of self lives in the realm of the improbable, as does life itself. Yours, mine, the planet´s even.

I can´t believe you had the nerves to ask who am I?

I am Alice, the incredibly weak and fleeting Alice.

I am Alice, the one who, from that very unstable reality common to all humanity, aspires to conquer the stars.

I am Alice, the one who meddles into subatomic particles with the hope of understanding what happened before the Big Bang.

I am Alice, the one who with very limited resources aspires to bring some order to this world of nonsense where it is considered totally normal to see the smile of a cat after the cat is gone.

My dear Mr Caterpillar, now I will leave, hoping that tomorrow, when you become a butterfly, you will recognize me. And please don't forget to spread your wings when we cross paths so that I can recognize you.

 

 

Written by Ricardo T. Ricci

Translated by Mariana Dittborn

Publicado en: https://www.ars-medica.org/

Con toda valentía y decididamente…

 

Con toda valentía y decididamente…

Ricardo T. Ricci 18/5/21     

riccirt@fm.unt.edu.ar

 

“…atrás quedaron las cercas de púas, descendí hasta el borde del bosque. De pronto, en la noche explotó el día: ¡sirenas, luces trazadoras, iluminación a pleno, gritos, ladridos! Corrí hacia la espesura, ya no era tiempo de elegir entre la incertidumbre y el infierno, estaba jugado.”

Echado en el suelo húmedo de rocío, masticando tierra y pasto, me sobrevino un miedo visceral, un miedo como la suma de todos los miedos, un pánico ancestral. Mi cuerpo se hizo pequeñito y mi alma se deshilachó; sentí que se volvía trémula, incompetente y derrotada.

Como pude alcancé a pararme a pesar de mis temblores, me expuse a la luz enteramente y coloqué ambas manos detrás de mi nuca. Humillado, me entregué una vez más.

Juanita. The colossal grief of a survivor.

 

Juanita. The colossal grief of a survivor.

 

My grandmother, Juanita (the first on the right), came to Argentina around 1920. Yes, ours was the promised land for the Galicians and the Tanos, also for the Catalans as was their case. Their emigration was forged around a dream, that of the promised land; the trip was made, however, to escape the terror.

Juanita, with only sixteen years, joined a group of civilian volunteers to fight against the so-called Spanish Flu. That simple decision changed her life forever.

In 1918, the world was at war; hundreds of thousands of men and women died, some from bullets and lethal gases, others from typhus in the trenches, and others from foreign viruses more effective than the bullets themselves. 

The exact place where the plague began is still a matter of dispute, but what is certain, is that it was not in Spain. These were times of military secrets, of biased news to avoid lowering the soldiers’ morale (unofficially, it is said that between fifty and one hundred million people died around the world). 

Be that as it may, Juanita's homeland was one of the worst affected areas with eight million people infected and 300,000 dead. Her own family was decimated; her parents, two of her younger brothers, her Aunt Elisa, and her Grandfather Paco, they all died. 

Juanita's senses were saturated with death. With a cry that knew no end, she told me that the smell of death, that hissing sound of the end, the metallic taste of her own saliva, and the cold rigidity of corpses, were all still present in her memory. 

Juanita was the kindest person in the world, tiny, silent, prudent, immensely prudent. I called her Abueli. I never saw her wearing anything else, other than her strict old mourning robe. Her eyes did not accompany her smiles; strangers, they looked at me without seeing. They were in a place where you don't need encouragement to cry, they were forever in the vast country of grief.

 

S.M. de Tucumán 24 de marzo de 2020.

Author: Ricardo T. Ricci 

Translation: Mariana Dittborn