I have always kept a journal. I have never known why. And now there is this blog.
When I was ten years old, I thought I was preserving some unique slice of history for future scholars. At fifteen, I wrote to maintain sanity, sometimes writing continuously for hours, escaping my life by chronicling it. As the years wore on and memories faded, I would say that I wrote to remember the puzzling and the mundane aspects of my existence.
Lately, it has seemed to me that writing a blog about my life may be a fundamentally narcissistic undertaking. Who but myself is really interested in what I have to say? Am I not actually writing for others, and subconsciously trying to satisfy an imagined audience? And why do such a thing? Why not let life burn itself out, day by day, and vanish?
Because then I would not understand. I write to figure things out. To comprehend life a little better. To find patterns, to uncover insight, to record mistakes for future review. I aim to approach the truth, somehow, laying down thoughts while I am still blind to their significance, appreciating events only in hindsight. Beyond just writing in a journal or a blog, I have to read it. Otherwise nothing is learned.
And the truth wants to be shared. Which is why we have blogs, poetry, and Dharma centers. On the city bus, excerpts from poems are posted along the ceiling. They capture something widely accessible and yet effective. Good poetry is true. It has to pierce its own container to touch us, to mean something greater than it seems to. This is Dharma, humans grasping with words for a wisdom that pierces the fog: uncomfortable, necessary, and bracing like a cold wind. I suppose all art comes from this kind of attempt to find Truth.
The new Poet Laureate of the US, Kay Ryan, says there is nothing to be done in the face of her fame, so new and so awkward, because are all exposed anyway, all the time. And if she’s right--as I know she is--well then, those who blog are likewise exposed already, anyway, before they even begin typing. So what if we are seen? I once lived with someone who used to read my blog to find out what I was all about and how I was really doing. Perhaps I was seen more accurately through the blog than by the everyday eye.
And so we write. Medical students, Army snipers, religious evangelists, and proud parents all feel compelled to share something with the world as they try to make sense of what it means to be alive day after day. I know my life now is superficially less interesting than it was when I lived in a startup Zen monastery. My posts are less immediately affecting than they were when I first moved to the city. They are certainly less frequent then they once were. They show symptoms of mental fatigue. But there I am. This is what there is.
Tonight the fading light made the blowing leaves on the trees glow richly green. Later, the leaves danced grey in the fading light. Breath came to mark the passage of time; leaves and mind did not separate. When the baby stirred, his skin seemed molded from porcelain, a tiny ideal come to life. He blindly searched for food from the depths of sleep, arching and raising his brows over closed eyes like a little drunkard seeking the sweet taste of life.
It is dark now, and the leaves blow still, rustling invisibly in the dark, beyond the drawn blinds.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Sunday, July 06, 2008
A Brush With De Quervain's
Medicine is one of those fields in which very little is charming. Yet medical conditions are often named for their discoverers, which never fails to seem quaint and earnest. As if a particular predicament did not exist before it was recognized by Dr Down or Dr Alzheimer and shared with a grateful world.
I have no idea who De Quervain was, but I am absolutely certain that the condition that bears this doctor's name has been around since time immemorial.
Before "De Quervain's" became real to me, it manifested as a curious and painful stiffness in the wrists. As the baby writhed and grunted and signaled readiness for a nighttime feeding, I would stand by the bassinet doing some grunting of my own, still mostly asleep, unable to mobilize my hands and reach for the child. I would eventually stretch them enough, or wake up enough, to reach into the bassinet and lift the baby, ignorantly utilizing the same rotten body mechanics that got me into the predicament in the first place.
This continued under the radar for weeks, and the baby grew, until the pain, and not just stiffness became a common fixture of the waking hours. I knew I should not lift the baby so much--but how can you even attempt such a thing? Looking around the internet, I learned that new mothers and grandmothers often have this kind of wrist pain, which resembles carpal tunnel pain but is restricted to the tendons at the base of the thumb. De Quervain's was real, belatedly.
I began to lift the baby with a neutral, not bent wrist. But a hard bump the size of a lentil grew under the skin of the wrist, below the thumb. The right wrist now hurt all the time, not just when I was hoisting the baby in a contorted manner. Pressure on it of any sort was excruciating. I tried to immobilize it with a bandage and woke up one night to find myself tearing at it, and the wrist burning with pain.
Finally, I could not lift the baby much at all. I would awkwardly pick him up using my forearms rather than my hands, and wretchedly try to maneuver him around. Or I would wait for my husband to step in and lift, rotate, and tuck my son's body into the desired position.
I had resisted splints because pressure on the wrist was so excruciating, but finally I was convinced that, since my physical misery was only increasing, I should give them an honest try. At the low point, unable to turn a doorknob or pick up a pillow, I finally splinted.
The splint was a battered neoprene one covered with mortar and speckled with paint. It's the grit between the tiles of our bathroom floor, the color of our kitchen. I padded the inside with foot-pampering gel toe-spacers, to take pressure off the lentil-like growth, now visible beneath the skin. I put this ugly contraption on. The relief was immediate. I refused to take it off until I had a fresh, unsoiled but otherwise identical model, to wear.
Two days later, my wrists are fine. I wear the brace at night and intermittently during the day. I avoid all pressure on a bent wrist. Since the flaring pain is gone, I am functioning well. Most interesting of all, the lentil-like growth, which two days ago was a small mountain pushing whitely outward against skin and vein, has now completely vanished.
I move my body and employ my wrists with great care. The baby has gained even more weight; he is a solid little turkey of boy-meat, more charming and engaging every day. The online descriptions of De Quervain's are depressingly short on successful treatments (acetaminophen, surgery). In this case, what saved me was listening to my body and being curious and desperate enough to rig up a solution that worked. I wish I had been more careful from the beginning.
Fortunately, the way karma seems to work, you keep encountering your issues in various forms until you resolve them. Today the wrists, tomorrow, who knows?
I have no idea who De Quervain was, but I am absolutely certain that the condition that bears this doctor's name has been around since time immemorial.
Before "De Quervain's" became real to me, it manifested as a curious and painful stiffness in the wrists. As the baby writhed and grunted and signaled readiness for a nighttime feeding, I would stand by the bassinet doing some grunting of my own, still mostly asleep, unable to mobilize my hands and reach for the child. I would eventually stretch them enough, or wake up enough, to reach into the bassinet and lift the baby, ignorantly utilizing the same rotten body mechanics that got me into the predicament in the first place.
This continued under the radar for weeks, and the baby grew, until the pain, and not just stiffness became a common fixture of the waking hours. I knew I should not lift the baby so much--but how can you even attempt such a thing? Looking around the internet, I learned that new mothers and grandmothers often have this kind of wrist pain, which resembles carpal tunnel pain but is restricted to the tendons at the base of the thumb. De Quervain's was real, belatedly.
I began to lift the baby with a neutral, not bent wrist. But a hard bump the size of a lentil grew under the skin of the wrist, below the thumb. The right wrist now hurt all the time, not just when I was hoisting the baby in a contorted manner. Pressure on it of any sort was excruciating. I tried to immobilize it with a bandage and woke up one night to find myself tearing at it, and the wrist burning with pain.
Finally, I could not lift the baby much at all. I would awkwardly pick him up using my forearms rather than my hands, and wretchedly try to maneuver him around. Or I would wait for my husband to step in and lift, rotate, and tuck my son's body into the desired position.
I had resisted splints because pressure on the wrist was so excruciating, but finally I was convinced that, since my physical misery was only increasing, I should give them an honest try. At the low point, unable to turn a doorknob or pick up a pillow, I finally splinted.
The splint was a battered neoprene one covered with mortar and speckled with paint. It's the grit between the tiles of our bathroom floor, the color of our kitchen. I padded the inside with foot-pampering gel toe-spacers, to take pressure off the lentil-like growth, now visible beneath the skin. I put this ugly contraption on. The relief was immediate. I refused to take it off until I had a fresh, unsoiled but otherwise identical model, to wear.
Two days later, my wrists are fine. I wear the brace at night and intermittently during the day. I avoid all pressure on a bent wrist. Since the flaring pain is gone, I am functioning well. Most interesting of all, the lentil-like growth, which two days ago was a small mountain pushing whitely outward against skin and vein, has now completely vanished.
I move my body and employ my wrists with great care. The baby has gained even more weight; he is a solid little turkey of boy-meat, more charming and engaging every day. The online descriptions of De Quervain's are depressingly short on successful treatments (acetaminophen, surgery). In this case, what saved me was listening to my body and being curious and desperate enough to rig up a solution that worked. I wish I had been more careful from the beginning.
Fortunately, the way karma seems to work, you keep encountering your issues in various forms until you resolve them. Today the wrists, tomorrow, who knows?
Monday, June 30, 2008
Obviously...
Baby K seems to recognize the sign for "hungry?"
Encouraged, I've begun building my knowledge of ASL based on our needs: "papa"; "change" (as in diaper); "up"; "more"; "big"; and "boy".
I have been looking for the American Sign Language signs for "noise" or "sound". I can't find them. It's taken me weeks to finally realize why not. Deaf people probably don't really talk about noises, do they?
But the baby is interested in sounds. He perks up and looks at me when he hears the garbage trucks rumbling around our neighborhood. How can I tell him what they are?
I can't find the sign for "truck" either. What does this say about deaf people, as evidenced by ASL dictionaries? That they have different interests from a hearing baby....
Encouraged, I've begun building my knowledge of ASL based on our needs: "papa"; "change" (as in diaper); "up"; "more"; "big"; and "boy".
I have been looking for the American Sign Language signs for "noise" or "sound". I can't find them. It's taken me weeks to finally realize why not. Deaf people probably don't really talk about noises, do they?
But the baby is interested in sounds. He perks up and looks at me when he hears the garbage trucks rumbling around our neighborhood. How can I tell him what they are?
I can't find the sign for "truck" either. What does this say about deaf people, as evidenced by ASL dictionaries? That they have different interests from a hearing baby....
I am completely in love with my son
The baby's eyelashes are so impossibly long that they don't fit neatly around the eyelid anymore, but lie ruffled as he sleeps. I stare at his profile, hoping to etch it in my mind, knowing it's already seared into my unconscious heart. I did not know it was possible to love someone like this.
Over the weekend, the baby seemed to become more childlike, and less babylike. Not physically, but behaviorally. He wakes up in the morning, and besides the usual smiles and cuteness, he is now ready to play. Where he used to grab things aimlessly, now he reaches for toys, and tries to make his way toward them. His attempts at crawling look like a face-grinding and floor-slobbering, and usually end with loud complaints. You pick him up and dry him off and try not to think about what's on the floor (we've been washing it) and then he's at it again.
There is a certain social maturity developing in him. He will smile, asking for reassurance, when he's feeling stressed. He will wait expectantly, for someone to make eye contact. He will play and laugh, but has never laughed for me. This morning I told my husband, "Kids are always savvier than they let on." I remember that from my own childhood. I realized that I was communicating with my husband via the baby, as in, "Maybe your papa wants to take you for a walk." Better to talk directly to the adult and leave the confused little kid out of it.
At night, the baby becomes younger. He does not like bedtime, and last night he cried when his papa left the room. He kept looking in the direction of his vanished father beseechingly. So papa came back to sit with us while the baby finally settled down for some serious sucking.
He knows not to bite me with his one razor-sharp tooth bud, but when he's tired or frustrated with pain, he chomps. It feels like he could draw blood, and I yelp and leave things alone for a minute.
He does not like a wet diaper, and can stay dry for hours when asleep. When he's awake, he can hold it for an hour or so, and let it go on cue. Of course, if there's no cue, you can end up with a lap full of saved-up baby pee. He'll pee when the diaper's open so he can get a fresh one, and he'll pee into the bedtime diaper and howl to be changed. Nobody wants to sleep in that stuff for hours.
"What did he do before this?" B asked. He looked at the world with big pensive eyes. Now that mysterious little person chuckles and dances and reads books and carries on long conversations that seem almost intelligible. He sits unsteadily, leaning on his hands, until he leans down to chew on his toes, or flips over onto his back. He plays peekaboo and looks at the baby in the mirror. When he's feeling shy, he buries his face in my shoulder, hiding from his reflected self.
All this at fourteen weeks of age, and fifteen pounds of solid baby-weight.
Over the weekend, the baby seemed to become more childlike, and less babylike. Not physically, but behaviorally. He wakes up in the morning, and besides the usual smiles and cuteness, he is now ready to play. Where he used to grab things aimlessly, now he reaches for toys, and tries to make his way toward them. His attempts at crawling look like a face-grinding and floor-slobbering, and usually end with loud complaints. You pick him up and dry him off and try not to think about what's on the floor (we've been washing it) and then he's at it again.
There is a certain social maturity developing in him. He will smile, asking for reassurance, when he's feeling stressed. He will wait expectantly, for someone to make eye contact. He will play and laugh, but has never laughed for me. This morning I told my husband, "Kids are always savvier than they let on." I remember that from my own childhood. I realized that I was communicating with my husband via the baby, as in, "Maybe your papa wants to take you for a walk." Better to talk directly to the adult and leave the confused little kid out of it.
At night, the baby becomes younger. He does not like bedtime, and last night he cried when his papa left the room. He kept looking in the direction of his vanished father beseechingly. So papa came back to sit with us while the baby finally settled down for some serious sucking.
He knows not to bite me with his one razor-sharp tooth bud, but when he's tired or frustrated with pain, he chomps. It feels like he could draw blood, and I yelp and leave things alone for a minute.
He does not like a wet diaper, and can stay dry for hours when asleep. When he's awake, he can hold it for an hour or so, and let it go on cue. Of course, if there's no cue, you can end up with a lap full of saved-up baby pee. He'll pee when the diaper's open so he can get a fresh one, and he'll pee into the bedtime diaper and howl to be changed. Nobody wants to sleep in that stuff for hours.
"What did he do before this?" B asked. He looked at the world with big pensive eyes. Now that mysterious little person chuckles and dances and reads books and carries on long conversations that seem almost intelligible. He sits unsteadily, leaning on his hands, until he leans down to chew on his toes, or flips over onto his back. He plays peekaboo and looks at the baby in the mirror. When he's feeling shy, he buries his face in my shoulder, hiding from his reflected self.
All this at fourteen weeks of age, and fifteen pounds of solid baby-weight.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Father's Day
Seven o'clock on a Sunday morning.
I am dancing around the bedroom, mostly naked, holding a baby like a football.
I sing "Johnny Todd," "Clementine," and "She Loves You" in the morning light.
The baby's arms and legs bounce, and little spit bubbles form on his lips.
He smiles at papa and goes to read a book while I make my way to the kitchen to find something for breakfast. We have one egg and a large quantity of dry cereal.
Papa still hasn't found the Father's Day card hidden in the baby's crib.
I am dancing around the bedroom, mostly naked, holding a baby like a football.
I sing "Johnny Todd," "Clementine," and "She Loves You" in the morning light.
The baby's arms and legs bounce, and little spit bubbles form on his lips.
He smiles at papa and goes to read a book while I make my way to the kitchen to find something for breakfast. We have one egg and a large quantity of dry cereal.
Papa still hasn't found the Father's Day card hidden in the baby's crib.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Involuntary Ascetism Ends
My last post marked a local low point in the experience of motherhood. I asked my husband to come home from work early that day; I was so fatigued that I feared dropping the baby. I would look down at him and not really "see" him properly.
My very wise husband suggested I go to bed with the baby that night. Normally, after the little guy goes to sleep, I stay up for a couple hours and do yoga, or enjoy some grown-up company with my husband. The baby sometimes sleeps for 5 or 6 hours, but during that time I'm awake, trying to be an adult. Bedtime is at 7pm so I can have some time to relate to the man I married. But I wasn't much fun to be around anyway. And so I went to bed that night at 8pm.
The baby slept for six hours, and I did too. I awoke restored in every possible way.
My lips were red again. The world was once again full of promise and a hint of magic. My child was beautiful and adorable, my husband interesting and kind.
I heard once, second hand, about a prominent Buddhist teacher and monk who didn't lie down to sleep for a year, or maybe three years. When asked what it was like, he said, "I was just really grumpy during that time." It's hard to be graceful, or happy, or to meditate comfortably, when you are sleep deprived.
I realized, after my rest: it had been ten weeks since I'd slept more than three hours at a stretch. Of course I was miserable.
Last night, I slept again. For a five hour stretch. I felt so good when I woke up that I went to the hospital to take care of a long-delayed blood draw. Two weeks ago, I could not have imagined fasting for twelve hours, breastfeeding, and then hiking over to have blood drained out of me, all before 9 a.m. This morning, I did it and I was fine.
And so the sun shines, the trees blow in the wind, the road crew cuts into the pavement outside our apartment. Indoors, classical music plays, the baby grunts and babbles and reaches a developmental milestone: grasping and waving an object around. It's a good day. Gotta sleep more often!
My very wise husband suggested I go to bed with the baby that night. Normally, after the little guy goes to sleep, I stay up for a couple hours and do yoga, or enjoy some grown-up company with my husband. The baby sometimes sleeps for 5 or 6 hours, but during that time I'm awake, trying to be an adult. Bedtime is at 7pm so I can have some time to relate to the man I married. But I wasn't much fun to be around anyway. And so I went to bed that night at 8pm.
The baby slept for six hours, and I did too. I awoke restored in every possible way.
My lips were red again. The world was once again full of promise and a hint of magic. My child was beautiful and adorable, my husband interesting and kind.
I heard once, second hand, about a prominent Buddhist teacher and monk who didn't lie down to sleep for a year, or maybe three years. When asked what it was like, he said, "I was just really grumpy during that time." It's hard to be graceful, or happy, or to meditate comfortably, when you are sleep deprived.
I realized, after my rest: it had been ten weeks since I'd slept more than three hours at a stretch. Of course I was miserable.
Last night, I slept again. For a five hour stretch. I felt so good when I woke up that I went to the hospital to take care of a long-delayed blood draw. Two weeks ago, I could not have imagined fasting for twelve hours, breastfeeding, and then hiking over to have blood drained out of me, all before 9 a.m. This morning, I did it and I was fine.
And so the sun shines, the trees blow in the wind, the road crew cuts into the pavement outside our apartment. Indoors, classical music plays, the baby grunts and babbles and reaches a developmental milestone: grasping and waving an object around. It's a good day. Gotta sleep more often!
Thursday, June 05, 2008
The Locus for Going Crazy
Sometimes silence on a blog means that the writer's life is so full of high adventure there's no time to stop and write it down.
And sometimes it means life is kicking your butt, you have nothing useful to say, and you're taking your mother's advice in such situations and keeping your mouth shut.
Excuse me. There is a yelling child on my lap.
That's better. Now we have a only mildly fidgety baby swinging in a mechanical swing nearby. You know, the sort of contraption you looked upon with a combination of suspicion and disdain before you came to rely on its mysterious powers? He calms down the minute his butt hits the seat.
My last post was written in haste, and the comment that was posted to it was better thought-out than the original post. Or so it seems to me. For days, I have contemplated thoughts to add. Did you know that London cabdrivers have enlarged hippocampi? The better to remember their ways around the warren of city streets? Perhaps the human mind is nothing more than the imagined self that arises from the fleshly computing of a billion neurons.
Perhaps we use the term "mind" too loosely, and miss having a discussion entirely because we talk past each other.
Perhaps the same is true of "God". Do we mean the divine mystery that emerges from a silent mind and open heart? Or a parental arbiter that rules our lives? Spend your time discussing one while your friend discusses the other, and you have no discussion at all.
Noticing that perception of the divine happens in a particular locus in the brain, does that make it "only" a neural phenomenon, and not real? Would we say that the streets of London are not real because the experience of them can be measured as a particular pattern of neural activity? If seeing my grandmother correlates with one pattern of neural activity, and having a spiritual experience correlates with another, am I allowed to diagnose one phenomenon as a genuine experience, and the other as some sort of artifact?
Do people really think it's an artifact? Or do I imagine "scientists" to be close-minded because it makes me feel better for not being one? Do I set up a conflict between science and Buddhism where, for the most part, there really isn't one?
I had these thoughts, and I also happened to have a major attack of the Inner Critic--that voice in the head (show me the locus...) that notices what is lacking, what is not quite right, what is hopelessly muddled. For who am I to discuss "brain" or "mind" or "holiness"? Having tried--and you might say, failed, if you were in a judgmental mood-- at being a scientist; having tried my darnedest at being a Zen monk, having tried to live outside the monastery and meditate a lot, where am I now? I have a baby, all the time in the world to not meditate in, and only a marginal idea of which way is up.
My mind, what's left of it, is the most unclear and conflicted it's been in years. I have some inkling that something called "hormones" is involved. That and a really stunning life change that has to do with the baby who currently lies asleep in a sling against my chest, after another half hour of loud complaining.
It takes me weeks to recognize simple things: that the songs playing in my head are an attempt to avoid feeling intensely vulnerable; that I need to have contact with other people, because as absorbing as this little person is, talking to no one but him and my husband will lead only to depression; that perhaps instead of really wanting to have a career, instead of fighting against fate for some way to provide for my little family, I should gracefully accept this very important job I'm actually doing right now.
It's time to ask for help. To get a massage, to get a babysitter, to think about therapy. I've weathered a lot of good fortune this past year, and now I've found the point of resistance. Thinking doesn't help, and feeling bad about it doesn't help.
I don't want to be doing anything other than what I'm doing now. I just want to feel peaceful doing it.
And sometimes it means life is kicking your butt, you have nothing useful to say, and you're taking your mother's advice in such situations and keeping your mouth shut.
Excuse me. There is a yelling child on my lap.
That's better. Now we have a only mildly fidgety baby swinging in a mechanical swing nearby. You know, the sort of contraption you looked upon with a combination of suspicion and disdain before you came to rely on its mysterious powers? He calms down the minute his butt hits the seat.
My last post was written in haste, and the comment that was posted to it was better thought-out than the original post. Or so it seems to me. For days, I have contemplated thoughts to add. Did you know that London cabdrivers have enlarged hippocampi? The better to remember their ways around the warren of city streets? Perhaps the human mind is nothing more than the imagined self that arises from the fleshly computing of a billion neurons.
Perhaps we use the term "mind" too loosely, and miss having a discussion entirely because we talk past each other.
Perhaps the same is true of "God". Do we mean the divine mystery that emerges from a silent mind and open heart? Or a parental arbiter that rules our lives? Spend your time discussing one while your friend discusses the other, and you have no discussion at all.
Noticing that perception of the divine happens in a particular locus in the brain, does that make it "only" a neural phenomenon, and not real? Would we say that the streets of London are not real because the experience of them can be measured as a particular pattern of neural activity? If seeing my grandmother correlates with one pattern of neural activity, and having a spiritual experience correlates with another, am I allowed to diagnose one phenomenon as a genuine experience, and the other as some sort of artifact?
Do people really think it's an artifact? Or do I imagine "scientists" to be close-minded because it makes me feel better for not being one? Do I set up a conflict between science and Buddhism where, for the most part, there really isn't one?
I had these thoughts, and I also happened to have a major attack of the Inner Critic--that voice in the head (show me the locus...) that notices what is lacking, what is not quite right, what is hopelessly muddled. For who am I to discuss "brain" or "mind" or "holiness"? Having tried--and you might say, failed, if you were in a judgmental mood-- at being a scientist; having tried my darnedest at being a Zen monk, having tried to live outside the monastery and meditate a lot, where am I now? I have a baby, all the time in the world to not meditate in, and only a marginal idea of which way is up.
My mind, what's left of it, is the most unclear and conflicted it's been in years. I have some inkling that something called "hormones" is involved. That and a really stunning life change that has to do with the baby who currently lies asleep in a sling against my chest, after another half hour of loud complaining.
It takes me weeks to recognize simple things: that the songs playing in my head are an attempt to avoid feeling intensely vulnerable; that I need to have contact with other people, because as absorbing as this little person is, talking to no one but him and my husband will lead only to depression; that perhaps instead of really wanting to have a career, instead of fighting against fate for some way to provide for my little family, I should gracefully accept this very important job I'm actually doing right now.
It's time to ask for help. To get a massage, to get a babysitter, to think about therapy. I've weathered a lot of good fortune this past year, and now I've found the point of resistance. Thinking doesn't help, and feeling bad about it doesn't help.
I don't want to be doing anything other than what I'm doing now. I just want to feel peaceful doing it.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Thoughts of a "Neural Buddhist"
On a years-old to-do list is the following item: "launch applied neuro-religion blog".
I have not done so, and yesterday's article by David Brooks in the NY Times makes me sorry I haven't.
I have read with dismay the overly-simplistic "arguments" against religion in the scientific press. Richard Dawkins has disproved the literal existence of the Judeo-Christian God of the Bible. So what? Human spiritual undertakings are therefore bunk? It doesn't follow. Defining your adversary in ridiculously narrow terms, the better to pulverize him, isn't convincing.
It's encouraging to have a NY Times columnist point out that strict scientific materialism is beside the point. We are talking here about what it means to be human.
Starting from the point of view that the mind is a computer leads only to conclusions consistent with that assumption. As in, "The things that give meaning to human existence are actually meaningless, because consciousness is nothing more than a bunch of microprocessors clicking away."
My favorite book for exploring this topic is HHDL's The Universe in a Single Atom: The Convergence of Science and Spirituality. My own copy is peppered with metal Book Darts marking key passages.
Perhaps the greatest "scientific discovery" of recent years went unmentioned in Brooks' column. Meditation changes your brain in measurable ways. By training oneself and conciously undertaking a transformation of mind, tangible physical and mental alterations result. Cerebral cortex thickens. People are truly less distractable. These come as no suprise to meditators, who have seen dramatic changes in themselves and their fellows.
But those working from a scientific mindset need measurable data, and here is data that suggests that, far from being delusional, spiritual practice can magnify and improve the human creature.
If we had data like this ten years ago, perhaps I would still be a neuroscientist.
I have not done so, and yesterday's article by David Brooks in the NY Times makes me sorry I haven't.
I have read with dismay the overly-simplistic "arguments" against religion in the scientific press. Richard Dawkins has disproved the literal existence of the Judeo-Christian God of the Bible. So what? Human spiritual undertakings are therefore bunk? It doesn't follow. Defining your adversary in ridiculously narrow terms, the better to pulverize him, isn't convincing.
It's encouraging to have a NY Times columnist point out that strict scientific materialism is beside the point. We are talking here about what it means to be human.
Starting from the point of view that the mind is a computer leads only to conclusions consistent with that assumption. As in, "The things that give meaning to human existence are actually meaningless, because consciousness is nothing more than a bunch of microprocessors clicking away."
My favorite book for exploring this topic is HHDL's The Universe in a Single Atom: The Convergence of Science and Spirituality. My own copy is peppered with metal Book Darts marking key passages.
Perhaps the greatest "scientific discovery" of recent years went unmentioned in Brooks' column. Meditation changes your brain in measurable ways. By training oneself and conciously undertaking a transformation of mind, tangible physical and mental alterations result. Cerebral cortex thickens. People are truly less distractable. These come as no suprise to meditators, who have seen dramatic changes in themselves and their fellows.
But those working from a scientific mindset need measurable data, and here is data that suggests that, far from being delusional, spiritual practice can magnify and improve the human creature.
If we had data like this ten years ago, perhaps I would still be a neuroscientist.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Sweet and Tender Baby Mind
Getting to know a baby is like getting to know some fundamental and universal aspect of the Self, the foundation that a human is built upon. As we grow, successive layers of personality are superimposed upon the Babyself. That first consciousness remains recognizable to us though--that's why people find babies interesting. In them, we recognize something buried, but still present in our own psychic makeup.
The two most striking things about babies--or this baby at any rate, and I don't imagine he's so unique in this--is the sweetness, and the vulnerability they embody.
All the arguments about humans being fundamentally open-hearted now make sense and are no longer theoretical. This baby is easily swayed to joy, eager to relate, eager to love and be loved. He is spontaneously sweet, and without guile.
And he is vulnerable. He displays some understanding of his own complete neediness. He does not mind if he gets dirty, and he doesn't mind physical discomfort as much as I would expect. You can drip saline drops in his nose, or let milk crust form in his armpits, and he hardly complains at all. (How milk crust gets into a baby's armpits in the first place has me stumped, but that doesn't concern him either.) But take his mama away and give him a bottle, and he is not happy. Fail to feed him when he cries in the middle of the night, and he becomes indignant. Even when there is no blood-sugar emergency, when the boy is tired he clings to my chest and looks into my face with large eyes as if he were asking for something or regarding some great wonder.
This baby mind is precious. To turn it to nastiness would require pain coupled with insult--plus a processing ability he does not yet have. In my own experience, I have been very uncomfortable when my own infantile vulnerablity arises. You could argue that it's hardly relevant in an able-bodied person for whom food and shelter are normally in steady supply. But it persists; perhaps its arising is a sign of some mild pathology, but nevertheless it is as much a part of the human psyche as the delight that comes from watching light and shapes, or the innate satisfaction of sharing a smile and laughter with another person.
From our earliest weeks of life, we are helpless, and we are joyful. It's a privilege to care for someone who is wholly in that phase of life.
The two most striking things about babies--or this baby at any rate, and I don't imagine he's so unique in this--is the sweetness, and the vulnerability they embody.
All the arguments about humans being fundamentally open-hearted now make sense and are no longer theoretical. This baby is easily swayed to joy, eager to relate, eager to love and be loved. He is spontaneously sweet, and without guile.
And he is vulnerable. He displays some understanding of his own complete neediness. He does not mind if he gets dirty, and he doesn't mind physical discomfort as much as I would expect. You can drip saline drops in his nose, or let milk crust form in his armpits, and he hardly complains at all. (How milk crust gets into a baby's armpits in the first place has me stumped, but that doesn't concern him either.) But take his mama away and give him a bottle, and he is not happy. Fail to feed him when he cries in the middle of the night, and he becomes indignant. Even when there is no blood-sugar emergency, when the boy is tired he clings to my chest and looks into my face with large eyes as if he were asking for something or regarding some great wonder.
This baby mind is precious. To turn it to nastiness would require pain coupled with insult--plus a processing ability he does not yet have. In my own experience, I have been very uncomfortable when my own infantile vulnerablity arises. You could argue that it's hardly relevant in an able-bodied person for whom food and shelter are normally in steady supply. But it persists; perhaps its arising is a sign of some mild pathology, but nevertheless it is as much a part of the human psyche as the delight that comes from watching light and shapes, or the innate satisfaction of sharing a smile and laughter with another person.
From our earliest weeks of life, we are helpless, and we are joyful. It's a privilege to care for someone who is wholly in that phase of life.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Baby's First Blog
Baby Kieran has his own blog. You are invited to visit!
http://babyktg.blogspot.com/
http://babyktg.blogspot.com/
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Birth
The baby came on Friday morning.
Labor was longer and harder than anything I've ever done. The result is more precious than anything I've ever known.
We are both doing well.
Click on the flickr photo badge to see lots of baby photos.
Labor was longer and harder than anything I've ever done. The result is more precious than anything I've ever known.
We are both doing well.
Click on the flickr photo badge to see lots of baby photos.
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