A Case for Poems

An interesting article caught my eye the other day.  The title was, "Shakespeare and Wordsworth Boost the Brain, New Research Reveals."  The article summarizes a study by researchers at Liverpool University who found that reading classical literature had a beneficial effect on the mind.  Using brain scans, they found that subjects who read Shakespeare showed more brain activity than subjects who read the "translated" versions of the same text written in a more straightforward and modern language.  Turns out that unusual words, surprising phrases, and difficult sentence structure cause more brain activity and shift the brain to do more thinking and reading.

Poetry had an especially strong effect. Here is a Wordsworth passage, and its translation, that was used in the study:

She lived unknown and few could know,
when Lucy ceased to be.
But she is in her grave and oh,
the difference to me.

She lived a life in the country,
and nobody seems to know or care,
but now she is dead,
and I feel her loss.

The first passage activated both the left hemisphere, associated with language, and the right hemisphere related to emotion and autobiographical memory.

I really liked the fact that poetry was particularly good at opening a part of the brain associated with autobiographical memory, helping the reader to reflect on their own experiences.  Here is a quote by Prof. Philip Davis, "Poetry is not just a matter of style. It is a matter of deep versions of experience that add the emotional and biographical to the cognitive.  This is the argument for serious language in serious literature for serious human situations, instead of self-help books or the easy reads that merely reinforce predictable opinions and conventional self-images."

The original summary was published in the Telegraph 1/13/2013. It was reprinted in the Dana Foundations newsletter, "Brain in the News."  Vol. 20, No. 1. January 2013.

Amour

I am not a movie critic. I am not well-versed on cinematography, camera angles, the use of lighting and such. But, I do like movies. I like seeing movies in a movie theater. I like the darkness, the big screen...I like the popcorn.

Over the last month I have witnessed many losses. None were particularly close to me, but the cumulative effect has been profound.  Spouses, lovers, and parents of friends and family have exited this life. The hardest has been the death of a friend's child. Hardest to understand, hardest to find any words of comfort. I have thought deeply about how we grieve, about how to help, about losses my own, those from the past and those yet to come.

So perhaps it was not the best frame of mind in which to view the movie, Amour. Or, perhaps, it was the best.  What a miraculous film.  It is a story of aging, of decline, of loss, but, more than anything, a story of love.   A love that has lasted the years, and now faces its final moments. It was one of the most powerful endings to a movie I have ever seen.  Now that I have spent time visiting in the nursing home, the movie contained so many familiar scenes. The indignities of incontinence, the anguished cries of pain, the harshness of some caregivers.  But, I also saw the healing power of touch and of story. How a soft hand and gentle voice can calm. How difficult love can become and how powerful our memories can be.  Oh, and the music was great, too.  Go see it.

Take nothing for granted

We have all suffered losses in our lives. Profound losses like the death of a parent,a child, a grandparent, a friend. Smaller losses like the end of a relationship, a job, a home. Loss changes us forever. We manage, we cope, we adjust, we survive. But we carry those scars forever. When I hear of someone else's loss I am sad. Sad for the pain I know they will feel, sad for how little there is to do to ease the pain, sad for my own sense of helplessness.

 Each day I'm grateful for what I have and what I have had in my life. But more so today.

Courage to accept

The "Serenity Prayer" is quite well-known:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.

Most often attributed to Reinhold Niebuhr, the prayer was adopted by Alcoholics Anonymous as a guiding mantra. While I won't quibble with the last line, asking for wisdom to distinguish those things that can be changed from those which cannot, I would tinker with the first two lines. 

I imagine most of us think about the first line as an admonishment to let go of the things we can't change, to accept that some things are beyond our control. I most often would apply that to accepting things about others that are beyond my control. I would guess most of us think of those words, too, as being about something negative.  After all, why would we need serenity to accept something positve? 

Lately, though, I've been challenged to look at those words in a different light. Much as I came to an understanding of the idea of sins of omission late in life, I now see that acceptance is not only accepting things in others, but in myself as well. And, not only about accepting the negative, but the positive as well--in both myself and others.  We have strengths and weaknesses, it can be as hard to allow the strengths as to acknowledge the negatives. Which brings me to my quibble--does that require serenity or courage?  Maybe we need courage to accept the things we cannot change. Courage to allow ourselves and others to be who we are.

Now, the second line, courage to change. This must clearly apply to ourselves, after all, how can we change others? We can't. We can change circumstances--feed the poor, heal the sick--but we don't make a fundamental change in others, that can only come from within.  I've been thinking a lot lately about change. Do we really change in our lives, or is it better explained as learning to work around our weaknesses and play to our strengths?  We can try new things--new clothes, new hair, new behaviors, new friends.  Some we may like, some we may discard.  If we adopt a new behavior have we changed? What part of us unchangeable?  

I will admit that some attempts at trying something new will require a certain amount of courage.  It can be scary to venture to the unknown (to the edge). But, maybe there is a certain amount of serenity required, too. A sense that we will be at peace. Maybe confidence is closer to the feeling than courage. 

God, grant me the courage to accept the things I cannot change,
The confidence to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.

Being in the Middle

I had lunch today with an old friend...that is "old" as in age, not in the length of our friendship.  Bill has memory problems and although we've had lunch together nearly every week for a couple of years, he doesn't clearly know me anymore. Our conversations drift along, meandering through his memories of growing up, playing in the park, spending summers at the shore. One thing he loves to talk about is helping his father who was a tree surgeon. Bill remarks on how fearless he was as a boy, climbing "200 feet or more" up a tree. (I have to admit, it is only recently that I realized how improbable that height is.  I guess he is making the point that it was "high.")  Today that comment took us on a conversational trip through phobias.  He shared that he had no fears--not of heights, spiders, mice, water, enclosed spaces.  I could not name a fear he would claim.

When I revealed that I wasn't so much afraid of height as of "edges,"  he laughed, shook his head, and said, "Chris, that is weird!"  I tried to explain that I didn't mind climbing a ladder, even looking down, but I didn't like crossing bridges. I told him that when you cross a bridge you might fall off the edge. I didn't mind being high, I was afraid of falling. That may sound like a fine distinction, but seems to be an important one to me.

There is a songwriter, Cheryl Wheeler, who wrote that she didn't live in the Midwest because she didn't like "being in the middle."  She went on to write a whole song about her desire to be at the edge, always having one side free.  There is excitement at the edges, that rush of adrenaline, and some thrive there and search out more and more boundaries to cross. I like to visit the edge, step up and peer over.  Sometimes the risk of a fall is worth it.  But, living at the edge can wear you out, I know that as a certainty.  And there is a lot of work to be done in the middle, too, many discoveries to be made and adventures to seek.


One Side Free...Cheryl Wheeler
......
I am living on the coast
'cause it's the edges I like most
I don't know, it's just my style
Always sitting on the aisle.
.........

Houses and Homes

There are two regular columns in the NY Times that I enjoy reading--Modern Love and Anxiety.  Both are sort of "human interest" essay features, where known and unknown writers reflect on some aspect of life. While many of the stories in Modern Love deal with romance, the topic is much broader addressing parenting, families, pets, and all sorts of relationships. Similarly, Anxiety, while focused on the issues that make us anxious, often drifts into the land of Modern Love, and, too, is about our relationships and their meanings in our lives. This week there was an entry in Anxiety titled, "You Are Going to Die." Written by a middle aged man, it is a story of all the emotions that go along with watching your parents age.

I've started to look for a new house and have been thinking a lot about what it is I want in my abode, what features are important, what, if any, things are essential?  Do I need a garage?  I think so.  Do I need 2 bathrooms?  Pretty sure.  One story or two?  Brick, vinyl, wood?  Fireplace would be nice. Modern or colonial?  Light or dark?  Lots of decisions.  What will this house say about me?

Thinking of the house I grew up in, a patchwork of odd sized rooms and mismatched levels, I can't imagine any other home really being "mine." So, I was struck by this line in the essay, referring to the author's childhood house, "However infrequently I go there, it is the place on earth that feels like home to me, the place I’ll always have to go back to in case adulthood falls through."

"...in case adulthood falls through."  What a great phrase.

My siblings and I sometimes talk about what will happen to our childhood home when my father dies or can no longer live there. My dad moved to that street nearly 70 years ago, living first with his parents and then, after marrying, moving next door. The house itself has undergone many transformations. Rooms added on, color changed, landscaping altered.  But, it is the place on earth that feels like home to me.  And the place I would still want to turn to if adulthood falls through.