Rachel Naomi Remen Quotes

We are all here for a single purpose: to grow in wisdom and to learn to love better.

to live until she was big enough to undergo extensive open-heart surgery. She had been followed since birth in our Pediatric Cardiology Clinic at the New York Hospital, and many of the pediatricians knew her and her family. Despite her physical difficulties she took full possession of all the hearts around her, including mine. When the time for her surgery finally came, her parents were deeply anxious. These were early days for many cardiac surgery techniques, and the risks were considerable, but without surgery, she would not survive childhood. As the senior pediatric resident, I met with Immy’s parents before the surgery to do an intake interview and summarize Immy’s long story. They were committed and ready and very pale. As we spoke, they sat close together holding hands. Afterward I took them

I looked at the place on my finger again. This time it really was an empty space. And silent. It was big. For the first time I faced a loss with a sense of curiosity. What would come to fill up this space? Would I make another ring? Or would I find another ring in a secondhand shop, or even in another country? Perhaps someday someone I had not even met would give me a ring because he loved me. I was thirty-five and I had never trusted life before. I had never allowed any empty spaces. I had believed that empty spaces remained empty. Life had been about hanging on to what you had and medical training had only reinforced the avoidance of loss at all costs. Anything I had ever let go of had claw marks on it. Yet this empty space had become different. It held all the excitement and anticipation of a wrapped Christmas present.

REMEMBERING COMPASSION TAKES time, and sometimes the most profound learnings are not a part of a curriculum but are come upon by chance or even grace, the way that Glory found the pinecone. She brought it with her to the afternoon class; a large cone, split down the middle and attached to a Y-shaped branch. I stared at it in fascination, resting there in her lap, and hoped that she would say something about it. If you squinted your eyes, it was exactly the size and shape of a human heart. Glory is a young family practitioner who practices in a small rural town. Her patients range from the newborn to the very old, and her practice has afforded her a profound window on life. I met her at one of the physicians’ retreats I teach on detoxifying death. During the first evening’s discussion, she had said that she would find her own death a relief; in fact, life being as it is, she couldn’t imagine why anyone would struggle to live if there was a way to leave with honor. She had felt this way for as long as she could remember. It was an unusual thing for a physician to say, and the group who listened were surprised. She did not seem suicidal or even depressed, merely matter-of-fact. As she spoke, I found myself wondering what lay behind her words. I had some ideas, but, as it turned out, I couldn’t have been more wrong. When she began to talk about the pinecone, all this became clearer. In a voice that we could barely hear, she told us that she had found it on the path as she was coming in to lunch and had known instantly that it was hers. She looked at it lying there in her lap. “It’s my heart,” she told us. “It’s broken. Split in half.” She began to tell us about a vast sadness that she had experienced all her life, a personal sense of the suffering in the world that goes on and on. She had felt this suffering even as a child. It had broken her heart, made her unwilling to live any longer than she had to. Yet brokenhearted though she was,

When we recognize the spark of God in others, we blow on it with our attention and strengthen it. No matter how deeply it has been buried or for how long .... When we bless someone, we touch the unborn goodness in them and wish it well.

Perhaps you should tell Dr. X,” I told him. He began to laugh. “Don’t be absurd,” he said. That night I could not sleep. At two in the morning I dressed and returned to the hospital to look in on Immy. She was no better. Her parents had not left the ICU waiting room, and several other family members had joined them there. We sat together talking for awhile, but I had no news and could offer little comfort. My heart ached for them and for Immy. Back in the house staff residence, once again I undressed for bed, but I still could not sleep. I kept thinking of the lost medal and what Immy’s parents had told me. At last, I took some paper and wrote to Dr. X, telling him what had happened and how important the medal was to Immy’s family. Folding the note in half, I dressed once more and went back to

"Reclaiming ourselves usually means coming to recognize and accept that we have in us both sides of everything. We are capable of fear and courage, generosity and selfishness, vulnerability and strength. These things do not cancel each other out but offer us a full range of power and response to life. Life is as complex as we are. Sometimes our vulnerability is our strength, our fear develops our courage, and our woundedness is the road to our integrity. It is not an either/or world. It is a real world. In calling ourselves "heads" or "tails," we may never own and spend our human currency, the pure gold of which our coin is made.

But judgment may heal over time. One of the blessings of growing older is the discovery that many of the things I once believed to be my shortcomings have turned out in the long run to be my strengths, and other things of which I was unduly proud have revealed themselves in the end to be among my shortcomings. Things that I have hidden from others for years turn out to be the anchor and enrichment of my middle age. What a blessing it is to outlive your self-judgments and harvest your failures."

the hospital to tape it to the closed door of Dr. X’s office. I had signed it and on the way back to my bed I began to worry. What if I had done something really foolish? If the surgical resident didn’t care about such things, why should Dr. X? I was off call the next day and, exhausted, I spent most of the time asleep. When I returned to the hospital for the evening shift, the pediatric day resident told me that Immy was no better. For the next few hours I took care of whatever was most urgently needed on the service, but later in the evening I stopped by the Intensive Care Unit to examine Immy and speak with her family. I found her parents in the waiting room. Together we went to see Immy. She was still unconscious. Leaning over to listen to her chest, I suddenly noticed a medal pinned to her hospital gown. Turning to her parents in relief, I asked if it was another one. “No,” her mother said, “it was the same one that was lost.” Dr. X had come that afternoon and brought it to them. I told them how glad I was that it had been found. “Yes,” her father said. “We are too.” Then he smiled. “She is safe now, no matter what happens,” he told me.

looking for Immy’s gown. It had taken half an hour but they had found it, neatly folded, with the medal still attached. I was astonished. “The people who work in the laundry room must have been very surprised to see you all there, and especially with Dr. X himself. Did he say why he asked you to do this?” “Oh, yes,” the resident replied. Surrounded by mountains of clean sheets and towels, Dr. X had told the elite young surgeons he was training that it was as important to care for people’s souls as it was to care for their hearts.

people seemed to seek her out at times of pain and despair. It was hard for her to understand why this was. As a young person and later as a doctor, she had been there for them, had comforted and stood with them. They had thought her heart was whole, had trusted in it. She touched the pinecone in her lap. “I have hidden this all of my life, Rachel,” she said, speaking to me from across the room. We all sat in silence for a few minutes: there was nothing anyone could say. Our retreat center has a labyrinth exactly the dimensions of the one in the cathedral at Chartres in France. The Chartres labyrinth is a walking meditation that has roots in the fourteenth century, a path enclosed in a circle inscribed on the floor. The path inside the circle is long and convoluted and eventually leads into the center; it is more than a third of a mile into the center of the circle and out again. The following afternoon, during the period of meditation, Glory decided to walk this path alone. At the beginning, she had clasped her hands behind her back and started walking slowly and deliberately, looking down, trying to keep her balance on the narrow path. She had been walking step by step by step for about ten minutes or so and was becoming a little bored when she began to experience an urge to hold her hands out, palms up. She fought this impulse for a while, telling herself it was irrational. Finally, she had surrendered to it, and walked on with her hands held out before her. Within a minute or two she had the distinct impression that her pinecone was resting on her upturned palms. She knew she had left it on the bed in her room, but with her eyes on the floor she could feel the weight of it quite clearly in her hands. She felt as if she was being told to offer it to others, just as it was. It was a strange and puzzling thought, but it somehow seemed the right thing to do. She walked on in this way for several more minutes and at last came to a place in the labyrinth close to the

Integrity usually comes to people slowly and takes them unawares, as part of a natural process of maturing or through the need to be there for someone else who is counting on them. But it can appear full-blown in times of crisis or loss. In my work I have seen many people recover a greater integrity because they have lost something or someone very dear to them.

With certain people we may get to try on a greater wholeness for a time, to actually experience being more. These experiences are a sort of grace. They help us to know not only the direction of our personal wholeness but how it feels and even tastes. Everyone's wholeness is unique and even such common role models as Eleanor Roosevelt and Albert Schweitzer can distance us from ourselves. Our wholeness will look different than theirs. Our wholeness fits us better than theirs. Our wholeness is much more attainable for us than theirs ever could be.

We usually look outside of ourselves for heroes and teachers. It has not occurred to most people that they may already be the role model they seek. The wholeness they are looking for may be trapped within themselves by beliefs, attitudes, and self-doubt. But our wholeness exists in us now. Trapped though it may be, it can be called upon for guidance, direction, and most fundamentally, comfort. It can be remembered. Eventually we may come to live by it.

with me to the children’s ward to examine Immy. She greeted us with her wonderful take-no-prisoners smile. She was holding a new teddy bear. Someone had put a white bandage across its chest. I examined Immy carefully. Her heart sounds bore no resemblance whatever to the organized sounds of a normal heart. Once again, I marveled at her endurance. As I helped her to dress, I noticed a Saint Christopher medal pinned to her tiny pink undershirt. “What is this?” I asked her parents. Hesitantly her mother told me that a family member had made a special trip to Rome to have the medal blessed and then dipped into the healing waters at Lourdes. “We feel that it will protect her,” she said simply. Her husband nodded. I was touched. Immy spent the next day or two undergoing tests, and I saw her several more times.

Dieter said softly, 'My doctor's love is as important to me as his chemotherapy, but he does not know.' Dieter's statement meant a great deal to me. I had not known either. For a long time, I had carried the belief that as a physician my love didn't matter and the only thing of value I had to offer was my knowledge and skill. My training had argued me out of my truth. Medicine is as close to love as it is to science, and its relationships matter even at the edge of life itself.