Do you know the stories behind these images? Don’t you think you should?

Mom and Dad moved ‘back’ to the assisted living facility they had lived in. The dining room was a long walk from their apartment. Mom made it pretty far, but then started to lose her balance. Dad kept on going. She made a suggestion about her care. I said then we’d have to have _____ come 24/7…a caregiver who was coming once in a while. I was worried about money after having someone 24/7 for Dad. Of course, that’s what we did in real life. It didn’t make sense in the dream.

Then Mom announced that she’d decided she was ‘leaving’ Dad and moving to a nursing home. It was odd to me that she said she was leaving him, since what she really meant was moving somewhere else. And I couldn’t understand why she would choose to live in a nursing home. That’s all I remember.

Perhaps I was warning myself about the dangers of passivity. Mom’s dream attitude was pretty much the same in real life. And there was Dad, in the background, moving forward without anyone really noticing. Two parts of myself. And I seem to be resisting the one that has been strongest most of my life. The nursing home is comparable to this apartment. I need to continue on to the dining room. And fill up on what nourishes me.

I was visiting my old elementary school. Claire and Sue both were teaching there. And other people I knew, or used to know, came in to do some substitute teaching. I remember thinking, wow, all these people I sort of know, working together as teachers. One was Mark…. I can’t remember his last name, from elementary school. I basically just sat in on the classes. But at one point we were outside sitting in the grass while recess? was going on. We were smoking, or some of us were. I talked to a teacher, that I used to have. She smoked, too. At one point I was walkiing down the hall behind Sue. The kids hanging out in the hall were high school age. Sue passed them, then a girl moved over to block my way. She said we’re always tellling them to speak up, that at some point, Sue was doing something with her pants, as if she was fixing her underwear, but then put a video in her pants. I didn’t really understand, and told the girl that. She said “she stole it!” I told her I’d talk to Sue.

It’s amazing how much time can be spent trying to figure out the root of personal evils when it’s often tagging along right behind you all the time. I recently spent a week with family, paying close attention to things I’ve uncovered that I want to change. Why I just stop talking when interrupted or challenged. Why I’ve always resisted standing up for my beliefs and opinions. I have a fairly new understanding of my strength, yet I’ve often used it only when the path was clear. An underlying feeling that no one will believe me or take my thoughts seriously. Why I’ve always stuck around, putting up with insensitive behavior.

With ponderings over the past few years, I seemed to have figured it out. But in the last week, I saw it unfold right in front of me. At least the part that still preys on me day to day. I learned that from the time I was small, I gave in to arguments because the only other option was to argue nonstop, as the other party insists they are always right. No matter the evidence to the contrary. And when the evidence presents itself, it’s hidden. I never had the opportunity to even learn that I was right.

As the youngest, my thoughts were giggled at, teased. How could her ideas be valid, she’s just the baby. Now I know they are. Even more than valid…insightful. I know when I’m right. And I recognize the evidence. Yet the struggle continues.

I also seem to be in direct line with my mother and grandmother. As the generations have passed, confidence has grown a bit stronger. I know that Gram wanted more. She worked at Princeton University Library as a single woman before she became a farmer’s wife and her life turned into plucking chickens and boiling water on the stove for the children’s baths. I don’t know the details of her longings, but she had the air of a stately and graceful woman. Not the type to haul and plant and gather eggs.

I believe Mom loved her life as a mother. She took pride in her home and had the support of Dad who would do all of the wallpapering and home decorating that she desired. We lived in nature where she watched her wildflowers grow and peeked at the groundhogs, deer, and periodic egret through the binoculars. But she also had a strong creative urge that was never satisfied. With the perfectionist strain that ran in the family, or perhaps was passed from parent to child through the generations, the creative endeavors she attempted were never good enough and she let them go. Although she always encouraged them in her children… every week-long beach vacation included paint-by-numbers, stained glass, or a homemade craft project like decorating Dad’s old tobacco tins with burlap contact paper and creatures made of small shells.

I’ve thought many times, maybe I can be the one to break some of these patterns. I know that chances are slim I’ll be able to change the innate characteristics of certain people, but maybe in changing myself I can show what’s possible. Especially to myself. Can I break out of the mindset that I need to follow rather than lead? Do things that fulfill me, rather than what I’m supposed to? Can I find a way to relate to people who will always be in my life so that I can still speak my mind without having to fight for the right?

Much of what holds me feels like a shell that needs to be busted…break it large, not a little at a time. I peck away at the smaller things, hoping eventually they will create a weakness in my shell that I can burst through.

In class, we had some kind of haircutting exam. No one was prepared and we were all trying to help or cover for each other.  My subject had long, silky blond hair. I was afraid that I had to cut layers into her hair and had no idea how to do it, but picked up a few tips watching someone else. I think I wanted to create a Farrah Fawcett hairstyle. Sue was very disturbed. I ended up with some kind of bizarre hairstyle that was flat on top and poofed out into curls. Fortunately, no one looked at me strangely as I walked through the halls.

It was a difficult day at school and apparently our class had gone all day, from class to class, without a meal break. No breakfast, no lunch. We were annoyed and complaining when we got on the bus to go home. I sat next to Ann on the left side of the bus. She had short hair like she does now.

Ann and I got to talking and she confided in me that her husband had raped her, that that was why her latest child was born. She was convinced that it would never stop and he wanted up to 10 children. As a religious man, he believed that it was their duty to produce children. I was aghast and furious. We’d try to figure out how to get her out of the marriage. I even asked her if she’d told our old choir director. I knew she’d be beside herself and do whatever it took to help Ann. Apparently a friend who was sitting across the aisle from us was in the same sort of situation!

I’m not sure of the order of the next few things, but my ‘boyfriend’ and I ended up going after Ann’s husband. He was naked in bed with another woman. We battered him with baseball bats. I remember his skin breaking open where we hit. He didn’t want his woman to think it hurt, so he laughed a little and pretended it didn’t hurt. He rolled over on his stomach. I hit the bottom of his foot. The skin broke open and blood seeped a little. I remember thinking that he was a jock and wouldn’t be able to play his sport.

We escaped and ran through the yard, tossing our old baseball bats as we went. I yelled to my partner in crime…what about fingerprints?? He said it was ok, he’d done something so his didn’t show. What about mine…

We ended up in a strange place…under a tent? It was some sort of drug festival. Everyone was wasted. We’d done some sort of drugs, although I don’t remember doing it. Perception was odd. We ran into my friend’s uncle. He was all for doing this drug. And promoting it with his nephew. I was a bit concerned. I certainly didn’t want it to become my friend’s lifestyle. I was concerned about getting rid of the drug smell on my body before returning home. My friend said the way to eliminate it was with the smell of sex. As my body moved to the motion of his hand, I turned to my left. About 50 feet away was his younger sister, mirroring my movements with her partner.

I drove home alone. Traffic slowed on the main road, up ahead I saw flashing lights. Following the car in front of me, I turned onto a road to avoid police. Unfortunately, I found I’d just turned in to a road on a military base. I started to turn around, but realized there was no other route to take so I continued on, through the barriers that were up to allow people through for a detour. I reached the far side of the base, and the barriers were down. I approached slowly to find someone posted at the guard house. His window was open and, smiling, he asked my name and where I lived. I gave him my real name. And before I had the whole town name out, he said “go ahead,” and opened the gates.

Eventually, I ended up at my friend’s parents’ house. He was with me at that point. His parents were up. Waiting for us, I suppose. We cautiously went inside and I said to him under my breath, “I need to rinse and spit.” He made small talk with his father, distracting him so I could go to the bathroom to clean my breath. I think there were sliding glass doors, because once I was in the bathroom, I closed curtains for privacy. His mother reached in and opened them, suspicious about what I was doing. Of course, I was only at the sink rinsing my mouth, so I merely glanced up and went about my business.

That’s all I remember.

Note: The above was a dream. I don’t take illegal drugs. And I rarely drink. This was during an afternoon nap. I hadn’t eaten anything strange, or made any changes to medications. I had been a bit hard on my system this week, staying up too late, not eating right, as usual. But I’m really at a loss as to what would cause this dream.

President Obama recently quoted the Koran and mentioned Allah in reaching out to the Muslim community. One person in the audience commented that when he hears the word “Allah,” his heart opens.

Lera Boroditsky and colleagues at Stanford University studied grammatical gender systems by asking German-English and Spanish-English bilinguals to describe “bridge,” which is feminine in German and masculine in Spanish. The German-English bilinguals used words such as “elegant,” “slender,” “pretty,” all feminine-leaning adjectives. The Spanish-English bilinguals used words like “strong,” “towering,” “heavy,” “dangerous,” considered masculine in the English language. The gender of “bridge” in the native language seemed to have an impact on each bilingual’s view of the object.

In a recent Brain Science podcast episode, Alice Gaby said, “…when we write, the word that’s written to the left corresponds to what would have been spoken earlier than the word that’s written to its right. Now this is the way we do it in English but of course Hebrew or Arabic go from right to left, [in] Chinese, the writing system goes from top to bottom. Lera Boroditsky’s work actually looked at people’s non-linguistic cognition about time and particularly their gestures – how people move their hands when thinking and talking about time– and found a strong correlation between temporal sequence moving left to right for English speakers and right to left for, say, Hebrew speakers and top to bottom for Chinese Mandarin speakers.”

Each of these examples show the importance of communicating with people in their own language, if you wish to reach them. Many people repeatedly bang their heads against the wall trying to get a message across to people who are not like them. If some of that time was used to learn about and try to understand the people you are trying to reach, not only would your head feel better, but you might actually open a line of communication.

I have seen ‘professionals’ talk to seniors like they are children. Making assumptions that they don’t understand normal language. It’s belittling. And I know for a fact a senior will walk away rolling their eyes and give up trying to communicate. In senior facilities, this makes for a miserable life. Not all seniors are alike. Yes, some may have comprehension difficulties. Some may clearly understand what’s being said to them, but have trouble responding. It’s so important to get to know the senior you are speaking to and reach them at their own level, instead of expecting them to respond at the level you’re assuming. I guarantee, anyone who is continually talked down to will slowly regress.

Some parents yell at or order their children. Sometimes out of frustration, or lack of time. Maybe they’re just plain irritated. A child will only learn to ‘obey’ or act out even more. Scientists believe that language is acquired most easily during the first ten years of life. And how do they really learn their language? By how they are spoken to and the language they hear around them. Children want to learn. We can even think back and remember what it’s like to be a child who is confused because something was just stated without any explanation. Once a situation is explained to them, they are much less likely to rail against it. And hey…they’ll even learn! I know there are things I never truly learned in school because they were presented to me in the form of information to memorize. I was not given a context in which to place it, which would have worked it into my life and understanding.

There are as many ways of communicating as there are types of people. Open your mind and listen to whom you’re speaking. They don’t think like you do. Because everyone has a slightly different mind. It’s what makes the world so interesting.

I’m currently reading Madness: A Bipolar Life by Marya Hornbacher. In pondering her descriptions of mood swings during bipolar illness, I recognize the characteristics of mania and depression. The racing mind…so many thoughts rushing that you just can’t grab on to one long enough to do something with it. The depression that hits almost as a result of not being able to grab onto one thought and move forward.

It makes me wonder if some mental illness is made up of what we all go through, but taken to an extreme, interfering with your daily functioning. The brain not being able to manage normal processes until your capacity to control it has been completely usurped.

I recently described my mind as a ping-pong match between the right and left sides of my brain. But neither scores, and neither wins. I suppose a ping-pong game seems balanced. And my game probably is, in the sense that my left and right are both active and vibrant. But they battle…back. And forth. And back. And forth.

A Stroke of Insight

Neuroanatomist Jill Bolte Taylor literally experienced this battle during a stroke. She described her experience vividly during a TED talk. A hemorrhage in the left side of her brain caused her consciousness to exist almost fully in her right brain, completely changing her perception of her body, the world around her, and of reality. Alternating between left brain perception, and what she calls “la la land”, she eventually worked out a way to plan for the shifts between hemispheres and got herself some help.

“Imagine what it would be like to be totally disconnected from your brain chatter”

Ms. Taylor experienced this through her stroke. Artists experience this during their work, becoming engrossed in the creativity involved while they create. I once had a drawing teacher who said that when she was going to work on a drawing, she told her family she was “going under.” She was about to become part of her right brain…the creative, sensual, emotional part of herself that she accessed to create artwork that flowed from her. It’s difficult to communicate with someone in this state. It takes time for them to transition back into allowing the left brain to function and access the language portion of the brain. And often when this occurs, the creative spell is broken.

Alternatively, accessing this creative state can be extremely difficult. Last fall I took a weekend drawing and painting workshop with Tim Hawkesworth. Tim is a fabulous artist and teacher who encourages artists to reach within and express who they are. Even with his guidance and inspiring morning talks, I struggled the entire first day of the workshop. I was approaching art with my left brain. With the help of his associate who gave me a massage and talked me through my struggle, I was able to relax. I finally made the conscious decision to stop fighting myself and was able to produce work that surprised me.

I had never done work like this before. I didn’t know it was in me. It was exciting, fulfilling, invigorating. And yet, I haven’t produced anything since. Although it’s always hovering in the “back” of my mind. The necessity of left brain activity in my regular work day keeps me from delving into the intangeable right. I battle every day. That practical chatter cannot justify my taking the time necessary to transition to the “la la land” where my art emerges.

And yet, I love my left brain. Not only am I able to think things through to conclusion, understand words and numbers, and troubleshoot problems, I need my left brain to contain the energy that comes from the beauty of my right. The next step is to learn how to manage the back…and forth. Jill Bolte Taylor was able to determine a plan while in the midst of stroke.

I need my right to allow the left to do its work: creating structure that allows me to function properly, accomplishing what I have to as well as what I want to; managing my time so I can create the space I need for my right brain to flow; planning my finances and the steps I need to take to acquire income that will allow me to explore my right brain, as well as develop my left; and allowing my right brain the freedom to roam.

“Suppose that we carry a magnetic compass about in the neighbourhood of powerful magnets. The needle waggles as we move and comes to rest pointing in a new direction whenever we stand still in a new position.

“Suppose that instead of a single compass we carry an arrangement of many magnetic needles, large and small, swung so that they influence one another, some able only to swing horizontally, others vertically, others hung freely. As we move, the perturbations in this system will be very complicated. But for every position in which we place it there will be a final position of rest for all the needles into which they will in the end settle down, a general poise for the whole system. But even a slight displacement may set the whole assemblage of needles busily readjusting themselves.

“One further complication. Suppose that while all the needles influence one another, some of them respond only to some of the outer magnets among which the system is moving. The reader can easily draw a diagram if his imagination needs a visual support.

“The mind is not unlike such a system if we imagine it to be incredibly complex. The needles are our interests, varying in their importance, that is in the degree to which any movement they make involves movement in the other needles. Each new disequilibrium, which a shift of position, a fresh situation, entails, corresponds to a need; and the wagglings which ensue as the system rearranges itself are our responses, the impulses through which we seek to meet the need.

“Often the new poise is not found until long after the original disturbance. Thus states of strain can arise which last for years.”

from Science and Poetry by I. A. Richards, 1926