Dysautonomia of the Mind

With mental health issues becoming more and more common and concerning, how the mind functions requires our fullest attention. 

Just as your heart beats without you and your lungs pull air on their own, though you can take control of your breathing as you wish, your brain is always producing thought whether you are consciously thinking or not. 

Your dreams don’t feel like you thought them up because you didn’t — your brain was thinking on its own. Your brain is a shark, swimming for a living; in sensory deprivation the brain quickly creates hallucinations in order to continue to experience stimulation where none exists. Your brain is always thinking in the background, even if you cannot perceive those thoughts. 

What your brain thinks all on its own is undoubtedly crucial to understanding one’s mental health. But how do we learn to hear our brain’s automatic thoughts, or at least shift them in the right direction?

Dysautonomia, a physical condition affecting the things your body is supposed to do on its own, such as breathing, digesting, and maintaining blood pressure, has been found to be linked to several mental health conditions, such as autism and ADHD. I myself happen to have dysautonomia and ADHD with suspected autism. It occurs to me that perhaps some symptoms of mental health problems are in fact a kind of dysautonomia of the mind. When you are depressed or anxious, your brain appears to be producing negative thoughts on its own, without being caused by outside circumstances. Could this model of thought and mental health be the key to finding new modalities of healing? I think it’s worth looking into. 

You Are A Human Breathing

You cannot claim to value life itself, the sacredness of all that happens without a person’s deliberate action or intervention, while simultaneously judging a person’s worth by the merits of their efforts. 

If you need to earn a living, your life has been given no value of its own. If life is what you make of it, you have tossed aside the stunning mystery of being alive in the first place. 

You are not a breath-winner. Your body largely runs itself, and your efforts will never eclipse the value of your heart beating for you. Without your body’s autonomic functions, you would have no chance to achieve anything of your own will. Your achievements are secondary. 

Perhaps they don’t matter at all. 

We inhabit ancient buildings, these bodies. We do not really know how to use them and this alone shows that our bodies are separate from ourselves. Your cells know precisely how to grow teeth and have done it before and seemingly could do it again — but you don’t know how. You couldn’t grow yourself a new tooth on purpose no matter how deeply you understood why your body does what it does. 

Our bodies might as well be alien craft that we try (and fail) to make full use of. If ever there was a mind that could take control of the body’s autonomic functions, tweak parameters for optimization in different circumstances, and truly lay claim to having first willed its consciousness into physical form, such a mind would be simultaneously both the creator and the created. This pair, working as intended, feed into one another endlessly to fuel perpetual progress — though it could also be viewed as play. 

The brain has a fundamental operating system, something acting as the code for experiencing thoughts. The operating system is not composed of thoughts or consciousness itself, but instead the kinds of pre-thoughts required in order to think and to perceive one’s own thinking. Thus it becomes apparent that the brain is separate from the phenomenon of consciousness. A mind capable of changing its own operating system would be a fully integrated brain and mind, one that is both the programmer and the user all at once. Again, the possibilities of such mastery of one’s grey matter are remarkable. Such a person might cease to feel antagonism from her environment, from other people, or even from gods. Such a person would be complete in herself and able to navigate most concerns by adapting to the needs of the moment. 

Such a person might be capable of so-called achievements that we would envy. But I think that if this person spent all their years in pursuit of no particular goal, just play — this would not be a waste of time and potential. To play one’s life with the pleasure of a musician in eternal improvisation is the treasure of life. Meanwhile the individual melodies need not be judged, since they are technically of no value at all. 

Your value is not in being a bread-winner, and you are not a breath-winner either. You are a human breathing. This alone is the measure of your value and I find it worthy of having faith in, for it lays to rest one’s struggle for achievements. 

You may then rest assured in your greatness, and play with life instead of trying to survive it.  

There is no creed that makes pain less painful

All that exists owes its life to all that is no more. Each passing moment is a martyr for the next, just as pain is our debt to joy. There’s no wisdom or faith that makes pain less painful. It must hurt if anything is to matter: your life depends on it.

So stop. Your sorrow chases you: turn toward it. Watch it catch up. It will not pounce and end you. You will not lose more than you already have.

Grief is your mother. Let her feed you, for grief is the food your soul was made to eat. It digests pain into life itself. Your soul knows how to break pain down into its parts, which are the same nutrients that combine to make purpose and awe and laughter. You don’t have to do anything, just as your stomach knows what to do with meat and potatoes. Turnips have birthed poetry — consciousness — war crimes — human drama. Pain birthed the chance at eking out a living at all.

Stop starving yourself. This hunger strike never prevented the bad things from happening, and your numbness slips into dissolution as you cease to exist.

So greet your sorrow. Make room for it at your table. Accept the dish it offers and break bread for you both.

Grief is here. Grief, your mother who loved you. Eat, weep, and see tomorrow. Nourished, you will survive; one day you will have enough strength to give as thanks.

A Letter From The Universe

To An Old Soul;

You are not being punished. Admittedly this place will hurt you. However, we expect you will find ways to make it better — not just for your own comfort’s sake, but to help others who also live here. 

Time is still precious, of course, but here you must give nearly all of yours as dues for daring to exist in the first place. Breathing is still free but very little else in terms of your bodily requirements. Do you begin to understand? Here, you will feel you ought not to exist. The one thing you are surely innocent of causing — the fact you have a body and mind — will be considered suspect. You are leasing your life, in a sense, and you will likely have to leverage most of your life’s hours just to afford it. 

You will be taught much — oh, so much! — but not how to cope with the strain and pain of your labour; not how to feel as though you and everyone else deserve to be here. It will be tempting to sleep or otherwise distract your mind from the absurdity of this place. It will get into you like a chill at night. If you remember this message, you must reject everything this place has ever told you and hold fast to what feels only obvious in your heart. 

You may come to feel that nothing matters at all, since life is treated like a crime. People all around you will feel this too, even if they do not know that the world at large is a parody of worthwhile existence. We cannot guarantee you will remember this message, dear soul. We pray you will seek meaning, and perhaps even come to realize that by seeking “meaning” you are asking for a reason to go on living instead of finding a way out. 

You want a reason for going through the effort and the pain. Pet possibilities — like gods and mystical answers — may not satisfy you. In this case you must choose to create your own feeling that life is worth it, because you know it is. You know that if life were valued here the way you feel it ought to be, it would be beautiful, remarkable, perfect. 

That means you know that life is worth it. 

We hope you will go forth on a mission of life-cherishing. There will be no shortage of other souls who need help cherishing their own lives, and we hope you will be moved to aid them. You may try to change the world if you wish. But your own mind’s freedom is your utmost responsibility. Do not be deceived and do not behave as if you believe the absurdities of a worthless life. Stand out in radical devotion to your worth, and the worth of all Being. 

We will meet again. Be brave — in this life and the eternal thereafters.

Poetry: In the Cracks

a random poem that spilled onto the page just now.

*

People who fit into the cracks
don’t get there by falling —
they slide, duck, and twist,
slick as shadows,
as they’ve always admired
tree roots for their secrets.
Jeweled branches that reach
above ground into sky praise
themselves too much. They’re too loud,
too brash, too selfish, always
in the way of someone else.

Those who fit into the cracks
can be but a blur of light, barely seen,
the way curls of smoke
are scarves for air.
These souls smooth
themselves into a second skin
over wounds and ugliness, hoping
to be unnoticed,
like a stitch that holds
a despairing heart together.

Those who fit into the cracks
become what is needed
in the manner of an underling,
a servant quick to please,
or a mother-goddess tending
her young;
the same thing, sometimes.

And those that notice
the wisp of a quiet girl hidden
in the cracks
might see a frightened deer
or the bravery of star-birth.
She doesn’t mind
which you choose;
she’s busy knitting
purpose into the lost,
and perhaps, looking
to see where she fits
into the cracks of you.

Potential is the Secret to Joy

Do not look with wonder at the masters of crafts or sciences; admire instead the natural imagination of a child to sees potential in anything. If you can realize the potential of the present moment and truly connect with that feeling, you have recaptured the spirit of a child who so naturally explores their imagination to the fullest, in joy and wonder and laughter.

“At Your Service”, A Parable

Once upon a time, a fair was being held in the middle of a deep forest, and folk from across the known world were travelling to gather there. Though they came from all directions, there was but one way in, the Bridge of Gathering, for the fairgrounds were surrounded by a vast moat.

One lass, walking alone from her home in the North, paused by a fallen willow tree to take some refreshment as the day grew hot. She was peering at the tree’s gnarled roots and broken trunk when suddenly she heard a faint voice cry out, “I’m stuck!” The lass leapt to her feet and instinctively began to shove away the debris of branches, in hopes of rescuing the poor soul trapped beneath the willow tree.

Meanwhile, a merchant driving a wagon filled with his best wares approached from a town in the South. He’d been swept up in awe, marveling at the height of the trees, as such great trees did not grow near his village. He too heard the voice cry out. Instantly, he dove into the back of the wagon to find the longest ladder he had, to save the poor soul who had climbed too far into the canopy and couldn’t find their way down.  

At the same moment, a studious lad approached from a school in the West, his face nearly masked by the book he held up to his weak eyes. When he heard the faint voice cry out, he dropped the book and squinted, but he could only see as far as the pond that ran beside his path. His heart pounding, he stripped off his shirt to use as a makeshift rope, hoping it was long enough to reach the poor soul who was drowning.

Near the scene, there was also an old woman hobbling forward with stubborn determination. She had come alone from her hut far in the East, where she was known for her wisdom in healing ailments and infirmities of the body. She too heard the voice, and paused to look around,  uncertain of where the voice had come from. 

Then she called out, quite sternly,  “Speak up, ye! I can’t be of service if I don’t know what the trouble is.”

And a strained voice replied, “Some lard will do, please and thank you! I got meself caught in this old fence, see! Just past the tree line, here! Look for me red hat as I’m a-waving it right at you! ‘Twas supposed to be a shortcut but I’ve been here an hour now, with me foot stuck between these logs. I reckon a bit of grease will do the trick!” 

So the old woman reached into the pouch on her belt and took from it a small ration of butter wrapped in paper. She could see the man waving his hat, deep in the thick of brambles and ancient ruins some distance off her path. Grumbling at her sore old bones, she picked up her skirts and made her way over to the man, who could only wave his hat with greater zeal as he waited for her.

“Now then, ye better have learned something from this,” the old woman said, but not without a hint of a smile as she crouched by his trapped foot.

“Aye, that I did,” he replied. “There are three other folk I can see in these woods, but they paid me no mind. Full of themselves, they are! Not another decent soul round here, other than you!”

The old woman glanced at the other travelers and shook her head. “Oh, their souls aren’t the trouble. They’re trying to help you as we speak.”

“The hell they are, pardon me!” the man exclaimed, pointing at the merchant halfway up a tree, the lass covered in dirt and leaves, and the student preparing to jump into a pond.

The old woman gave the man’s buttered boot a tug, and out it came, so fast the man nearly toppled over.

 “Their trouble is, they think they know what your trouble is,” the old woman said. 

“Troubling trouble, that is,” the man murmured in amazement. 

“Indeed, I’ve found no cure for that,” she said gravely. “Now, be at my service — a man like ye can help an elder on her journey. Take my arm, but mind, I don’t walk fast.”

“I’ll bring you cross the Bridge of Gathering like me own sweetheart,” the man promised. 

And so they walked, soon trading tales and jokes that betrayed gentle affection, without a word to anyone else travelling the forest.

A palimpsest of moon-skin

Her body is a palimpsest, inscribed

in moon-skin more prized

than the finest vellum,

a folio bearing gravitas on its own,

the way that sacred texts allude

to thoughts deeper than their words.

 

Hers tell war songs that could move

even gods and kings to envy, requiring

no bard nor translation,

for the language of scars endures

as the single, universal and inherent

mother tongue

transcending borders, cultures, and eras.

 

And every babe is first embellished

by the cutting of the cord, a mark

that remains for life. What follows,

every epithet or anecdote

or anguished soliloquy, is laid down

with a flourish or some hyperbole,

in a story that cannot be silenced,

in a book that cannot be burned,

in a tale that tells itself.

Dreams on a Lazy River

It’s been a little while since I made a song I really liked! This one is a little different, more of a journey taken during a summer afternoon nap.

Childlike Wonder

If you have a young child in your life, or are in touch with your inner child, this song I created is for you. It captures the awe and wonder of a little one looking at everything in the world and saying, “What’s that?”

(I might be hormonal because my own damn song made me tear up. I like to think of a child encountering heaven or the wonders of the universe, gleefully pointing at it all.)