Show and Tell

when snow begins to defy gravity.  These are photos from our deck:

 Erik drew the following pictures without any prompting.  The first, he describes as "a brain and spinal column with the bones that stick out from the spine."

 

This one is "a jack o'lantern, ghost, and spider."  He drew this on the magnadoodle.  I was impressed with how he came up with objects to form a theme.

 One of my more recent oil paintings. 

 

I just caught Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy on television, and it reminded me of my 42 dream.  In the movie, an ancient race builds the most sophisticated computer in the universe and asks it to tell them the ultimate answer to all existence.  The computer calculates for eons, then one day pronounces the results: "42."  They are frustrated, of course, and build a computer to tell them the question.

I dreamed that for every answer the computer could have supplied, there existed an algorithm capable of converting it into any other answer the computer could have supplied. 

I ordered a special cough syrup called Buckley's to use in my experiment on disgust.  First check out the facial expressions of folks doing the taste test:
http://www.myspace.com/buckleys

And here are my first research participants:

 
 

The nanny called in sick, and Mark took the bus into work.  It's been awhile since I got to watch the kids by myself all day.  Mark went to Epic yesterday for testing.  He feels pretty good about it.  He said the tests were incredibly easy.  So, hopefully that means he will get an interview.  

Over the weekend, we went to the zoo.  I got Luke to poke his head through the polar bear cut-out, although I couldn't get him on the right side.  Oh well.  He's still cute!

We had a nice Christmas.  The kids opened presents in the morning.  I gave Erik a book about telling time.  Last week, we asked Erik if he could read a clock, and he said, "Yeah... 1... 2... 3..."  I had to leave the room to laugh, but it made me think he's ready for that now.


   

We played in the snow.  We drove through the Olin Park Christmas light display.  I spent more time watching the expressions on Luke's face than the lights themselves.  Luke was gasping and laughing the whole time.  Absolutely adorable.  I made pasta with a sauce made from pumpkin, sausage, and sage.  Then we made a fire and ate pie.  Very warm and cozy.  I had unexplained nausea all day (no, not THAT), but I still enjoyed myself.  

Last night, I dreamed that Mark and I returned to the south of France, a beautiful, happy paradise.  Then, I noticed that the horizon was black with clouds, and everyone was evacuating the coasts in preparation for future disaster.  Sometimes I wish I could just give my subconscious a good slap in the face. 

 Happy Holidays!

I love this story.  This excerpt from Lovingkindness, by Sharon Salzberg, illustrates the value of going out of your way to meet the suffering of others:

"I was in a car accident in the late seventies.  I arrived at the Insight Meditation Society on crutches to teach a long retreat and I was having difficulty getting around.  That was the year His Holiness the Dalai Lama came to visit.  The preparations for his visit were intensive, because we had to arrange a great deal of security for this man who is considered a head of state.  Our peaceful, rural retreat center became a stronghold.  Pleasant Street was barricaded off, and state policemen patrolled the roof with guns.  There were video cameras and a lot of excited activity.  I was feeling dismal on crutches, especially when I ended up in the back of a huge crowd waiting to greet the Dalai Lama when he arrived.  The care with His Holiness in it pulled up at last and was greeted by the cameras, the people, and the armed policemen.  The Dalai Lama got out, looked around, and saw me standing way in the back of the throng, leaning on the crutches.  He cut straight through the crowd and came up to me, as though he were homing in on the deepest suffering in the situation.  He took my  hand, looked me in the eye, and asked, 'What happened?'

It was a beautiful moment.  I had been feeling so left out.  Now I suddenly felt so cared for.  The Dalai Lama did not have to make the pain go away; in fact, he could not.  But his simple acknowledgment, his openness, helped me feel included.  Every act can be expressive of our deepest values."

This morning, Luke developed hives all over his body.  I slathered on the hydrocortisone cream, with little effect.  We gave him a huge dose of Benadryl.  Still no effect.  We put him in the shower to wash off whatever allergen might have covered his skin.  As he sat under the water, I watched his hives get bigger and redder until most of his body was blotchy.  Erik noticed that Luke's pulse was visible from the alternating flashes of pink and white in his welts.  

Finally, we called 911.  Luke was breathing okay, but his runaway hives had us all in a panic.  Erik was chanting, "Call the doctor!"  He said he was scared for Luke.  The paramedics advised us to administer the epipen.  We removed the safety cover and jammed it in his thigh.  A monster needle shot out and injected a dose of epinephrine.  Luke screamed hard, but his welts began to disappear before our eyes.  Within minutes, they were all gone.  

The paramedics arrived and judged Luke to be in good condition.  One of them recognized Erik and knew him by name.  They met when Erik had a sledding accident a few weeks ago.  

Luke has been sleeping ever since, but he is doing well.  We are all just happy he's okay.

In an interview with the Shambhala Sun, an online Buddhist magazine, Daniel Gilbert, author of Stumbling on Happiness, says:

The possibility of a life free of suffering is as close to zero as I can imagine. It’s hard to imagine what that would be like. If we think about what emotions do for us—why the brain evolved feelings like happiness and unhappiness—it becomes perfectly clear that having positive feelings all the time is neither possible nor desirable.

What are feelings for? From the psychological and biological point of view, emotions constitute a primitive signaling system. They are your brain’s way of telling you when you are doing things that are or are not in your best interest. It’s no coincidence that fat, sugar, salt, and sex tend to make people happy. These things are, by and large, very good for mammals. They keep them alive and reproducing. It’s no surprise that a whack on the head or a scary face make people unhappy. They are dangerous. Your emotions, then, are a very rough, but not bad, guide to what’s good or bad for you in the world, a compass as it were.

What good is a compass always stuck on north? A compass needle has to be free to fluctuate. Similarly, an emotional system, substantiated in the human brain, has to be free to go from happy to unhappy. It can’t get stuck on endlessly blissful, or else it approaches everything or avoids everything equally. We are meant to be happy, and we are meant to suffer. We’re supposed to suffer when we are encountering circumstances that aren’t good for us.

Perhaps, however, not all emotional suffering is legitimate.  In fact, I believe suffering is by nature the sort of emotional pain that becomes a problem in itself, because there's nothing we can do about it, or it points to events we need not worry about.  All of the examples Gilbert provides are events with immediate consequences for physical well being, but what about metaphorical opportunities and threats?  Humans have a way of equating events that are otherwise meaningless for survival (at least directly relevant) with physical scenarios.  Criticism as a whack on the head, failing to stay on top as drowning, social powerlessness as physical restraint, love as sex. 

Suppose that the suffering caused by these metaphors is unnecessary, a dark layer of interpretation superimposed on an impotent reality.  If so, we are not meant to suffer, and one can envision a life in which, through mental practices aimed at altering those metaphors, emotional pain never transforms into suffering.

Yesterday, I got stuck in traffic on Monroe and decided to take a side street to bypass it.  I turned into a small neighborhood where the roads were narrow and still smothered in snow and ice.  I slipped all over the place, hoping I wouldn't get stuck on the slopes.  I turned a corner, further into the maze, and slipped and slid down that road as well, trying to avoid the parked cars.  Another corner, more fishtailing, coasting sideways, veering this way and that.  

Finally, I made it back to Monroe, but I could not turn left, so I ended up turning right, then into a shopping center parking lot.  I made my way to Victor Allens where I gave up, parked the car, and went in for a hot tea.  How did I end up here?  

If that was any indication, traveling the more obscure path means you lose some control, don't know for sure where you're going, and can't say if you'll make it in one piece.  But, if you do, you'll end up in a place you least expect.  The big street, all well marked and paved, offers far less adventure.

A couple of nights ago, my two year old Luke was sick, and I woke him up at 1 am to change and clean him.  The poor baby was sleeping in the supper his stomach had rejected.  An awful sight.  I made a bath.  He cried and wailed with that shaky, ill voice, quivering with nausea and sleep deprivation.  But, after half an hour, he was clean and dry and wrapped in a towel in my arms all warm and cozy.  He finally stopped crying and clung to me, rested his head on my shoulder, and closed his eyes.  He seemed comfortable.  I carefully and quietly dressed him in soft pajamas.  We picked out two new stuffed animals.  The usual ones had not escaped the viral onslaught.  When I palced him in the clean crib with a new, clean blanket, he looked so happy and relieved.  In that moment, I felt really privileged to be a mom.  He slept soundly and felt better in the morning.

I'm sitting in a cafe in front of a fireplace listening to Hawaiian lullabyes.  So soothing that, amid the sounds of coffee machines and cash registers, scooting chairs, soft conversation, and cars outside, I'm nearly asleep.  I think as an adult, listening to lullabyes in a foreign language more closely replicates what it must be like to hear lullabyes as a baby.  You can listen to the sounds without worrying about the meaning of the words.  You know the meaning... they're saying: I love you.  I will take care of you.

We were snowed in today, and both the boys are still recovering from a virus, now in its second incarnation.  Erik commented that, in the beginning, the germs did not know the right way out and went backwards, but now they know the correct exit.  We went through nearly 30 diapers in the past two days. 

I submitted my general theory paper to Psychological Review today.  I planned on reading through it one last time, but I simply couldn't wait any longer.  Weighing in at nearly 90 pages, it represents the most comprehensive description of my theoretical model to date. 

Wish me luck!

We rented the Wizard of Oz, and Erik was quite eager to watch it.  He had never seen it before.  He ran around the house excited and exclaimed, "I want to watch the Lizard of Woz!" 

Sorry honey, no lizard.  But he did like the emerald city.  He's really into crystals right now.

Hurray, I'm officially in Richie's lab!  So exciting!

See: http://psyphz.psych.wisc.edu/web/personnel/grads.html#lindeman

Need a giggle?  This audio clip from one of my favorite Tom & Jerry episodes features a guitar playing, yodeling mouse who also happens to be a stutterer. 

This weekend, I began taking an antibiotic, Bactrim, for a minor infection. Within a day, I noticed that everything going on in my life had taken on a negative aura. Whether academic, interpersonal, or just personal, everything seemed bad somehow, in a shaky way, as if disaster was on the horizon. Anytime I contemplated a situation, I would get that gut feeling that something bad was about to happen. I questioned the stability of my career path, found new laments in my communication skills, and could scarcely contemplate much less engage in harmonious social interactions, which left me with that raw feeling of not wanting to be touched, torturously combined with an increased need for it.

The global nature of this anxiety compounded the emotion, creating an all-around sense of impending doom.

All the while, it was clear to me that my anxiety had no logical basis. In most domains of my life, good fortune and warm sentiments have overruled in abundance. Yet, my anxiety was stubbornly persistent. Feelings of electricity scorching my veins, an overdose of caffeine, a rotten hole in my stomach, a weight on my chest, and the muscular precursors of sobbing took root in my body and would not let go.

Finally, it occurred to me that my anxiety had started when I took the first Bactrim tablet. (Thank you Schacter and Singer!!!) An internet search quickly revealed that severe anxiety and panic attacks are side effects of the drug. While I continue to feel the anxiety until this course of medicine is mercifully concluded, I have experienced some freedom from its downstream cognitive influences. Whatever dark cloud wafts into the day's events can be adequately dissipated with a bit of reattribution and patient pain tolerance.

The "light at the end of the tunnel" is in fact all around me, and the tunnel is just an artifact of my drugged imagination. I wonder... how often does our anxiety fit this story, with some other influence akin to Bactrim? There is probably hope in every situation even if we can't feel it.

A few days ago, I was telling my life story to a friend.  She remarked on the connection between certain events in my distant past and my current situation.  She cautioned that further exploration of my present might "pull on some threads," implying that experiences in my past were not entirely laid to rest.  I assured her there were "no threads!"  I spent several days reiterating this to other friends, reassuring myself.  No threads!

Then today, I came one step closer to accomplishing a lifelong goal.  It began incubating decades ago during long periods of difficulty and loss.  I wrote a paper presenting a new theory about depression, and it was accepted pending revisions.  I howled with joy like a coyote on heroin!  The paper has significant implications for the treatment of depression.  Conceivably, someone with depression will experience greater relief as a result.  I have wanted to do something that could somehow ease emotional suffering in others since I was eighteen, so I was a bit full of myself.  

Then this afternoon, I pulled out an old DVD with episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation for my son to watch.  The first episode was called "Tapestry."  I tried to skip through it, but we lost our DVD remote, so I sat through the last 10 minutes of the episode in which Captain Picard faced his new self after making changes to his past.  He witnessed how the mistakes of his youth were responsible for the accomplishments of his adulthood, because with their correction (thanks to Q, a being from outside the space-time continuum), he became a "dreary man... bereft of passion."  At the end of the episode, he explained how everything important to him as an adult had unraveled when he pulled on the threads in the tapestry of his life.  Of course, that caught my attention.

Perhaps the past had a purpose.  However, when I look back, the events of my past feel wrong, like a mistake.  If there was any order or purpose in the universe, such things would not have happened.  On the other hand, doing something to "leave the world a better place" is a deep desire, and I would not have written the paper without such a past.  But who cares if past regrets lead to some arbitrary positive consequence?  The past is still the past.

At a parade this morning, I was reminded of a beautiful Cirque de Soleil scene described in Dave's writings, a secret place with, among other things, "a fine, soft, ornate rug or tapestry with perfection cast into striking poignancy by the smallest of ritual flaws -- a flaw with such ritual as to rival the most moving spiritual ceremony you've ever seen, compacted into a tiny warp of ragged yarn which pulls the whole cloth just far enough out of its potential Cartesian rigor into a gentle, eye-catching proportion."

All of a sudden, my past experiences feel like a ritual flaw, something beautiful, a part of some overall perfection.  

I take it back.  There are threads of my past woven into my present, but I am happy with them.