Forehead Bulge 2

Insights are sudden moments of lucid understanding that pop into our consciousness. In the past they were perceived to come primarily from divine intervention, but recent brain research shows that certain parts of the brain appear to cooperate, communicate, and dig up the awareness; to bring us insights. I’m not sure but what it might still imply that we get a little help from something greater than we are—call it what you will.

Science researchers have been making fantastic strides in brain studies. Tools like magnetic resonance imaging allow researchers to identify specific parts of the brain that become active when certain cognitive activities occur. It tells us a lot about where in the brain things happen and which parts cooperate to perform various high-level functions. We are developing a wonderful understanding of how this forehead bulge—and all the gray matter behind it—works.

Preparatory to an insight, for example, research has found that the prefrontal cortex—the brain’s conductor—draws upon many corners of the brain. It’s as if the answer is in there somewhere, and has been all along; it just takes the right “search engine” to find it.

It seems to me that there are various levels of insight. Some are quite easily accessible, if we simply are mindful and pay attention to our world. How often do we go around in a preoccupied state of mind, oblivious to what’s happening? Pay attention! Meditative disciplines train us to become mindful, and when we do, lots of modest but insightful wisdom is our reward. It ain’t that hard!

Deeper insights, deeper truths, however, require more work, more discipline. Truths that came to the saints and mystics usually did so after long periods of dedication and devotion. Einstein’s revelations came to a brilliant mind—but only after many hours of grinding effort, followed by a detached state of mind. Jesus came to his insights after wrestling with the problem and then spending many meditative days and nights in the desert.

So insights come in various levels and can be spiritual, personal, or scientific (natural truths). They all entail our seeing some sort of truth—about ultimate reality, ourselves, or the world around us.

A beautiful message I take from the insight process is that it’s accessible to every one of us who carries around that forehead bulge. In that sense, the insights do come from within—we needn’t wait for some authority to tell us the truth, coerce us into believing their spin on it, or lead us into delusion. Yes, we have many wonderful teachings available to us, in the form of writings and speech, but we can also access much truth and understanding from within ourselves.

But within where? Does insight reside predominantly within our brain? The brain seems to know much more than we do, but is it that vast a storehouse? How is the brain related to the mind? The former is stuff, the latter is immaterial. The former is confined to our physical body, the latter is not. If the mind is not bounded by our skin, do some insights arrive via some connection to the universal consciousness, or from God?

Science may be finding some fascinating things about various parts of the brain that light up, but it can’t yet say much about the extent or workings of the mind. All those questions can become a little “mind numbing” to me. The brain—or the mind—doesn’t care what we think or believe about it. It just does its marvelous job, and science sometimes tells us some fundamental things about it. The biggest truths still await our discovery.

Forehead Bulge 1

We humans (I’m presumptuously assuming that it’s only humans who might be reading this) possess something no other creatures have: a bulging forehead that encases the prefrontal cortex (PFC) of the brain. We have the biggest brain (relative to body size) of any living creature on Earth. We are unique. What’s more, the PFC has exploded in size, the last few million years of our evolution. It’s grown six times bigger, while the brain itself has grown only three times. The growth of this forehead bulge is, in fact, almost out of control.

Science still is not certain what the PFC is and what it does. Most basically, it seems to act as the brain’s conductor, or as its executive function. It is in constant touch with various areas of the brain, coordinating and guiding their activities—often without our conscious involvement. The prefrontal cortex is responsible for our higher cognitive abilities, such as planning, discerning right from wrong, moderating social behavior, abstract reasoning, the use of symbols, making choices, and creating (often imperfect) memory.

The PFC integrates the two halves of the brain—effectively balancing the left brain’s analytical and denotative capabilities with the right brain’s intuitive, connotative, and emotional capabilities. When we chew on a problem, the PFC, like the conductor of an orchestra, draws upon various parts of the brain, seeking harmonious answers. It knows best which corners of the brain to probe. It even creates new connections, if need be.

The PFC plays the lead role in the creation of insights—those moments when we have an Aha! experience; when we leap from the bath water, exclaiming, “Eureka!” Many of humanity’s breakthroughs in understanding followed an individual’s long period of puzzling over a problem, with no progress. Stuck. Then, following a period of relaxation or of mundane distraction (while the PFC continued its background search), the answer popped into mind… as if on its own.

Newton, Einstein, and numberless other scientists had such sudden insights. Many saints on the spiritual path experienced similar breakthroughs about ultimate truths. Sophisticated brain research is showing that the PFC, in its conductor mode, literally creates the insight—as it searches diligently and patiently around the brain. Suddenly the symphonic answer comes blasting forth in one glorious trumpet blare.

What is curious about the insight process is that when it comes, there is no doubt but what it’s true. The person having the “Aha” experience is certain the problem is solved. The answer is there. It is simple, elegant, and right. (Note: this is very different from answers we get by dogged analysis. We may reach a solution that way, but we know that it requires thorough checking out, before we’re really sure it’s right.)

The other curious thing is that the “Aha” solution cannot be forced; it cannot be arrived at by a purely intellectual effort. We cannot will the insight to come—it’s as if it’s somewhere in there, waiting to be discovered, but we must let go and open up to it. It is readily available to us, but it will not be manipulated or ordered around. In fact, if we try to bull our way through it, a mental block will be met. It’s fully within our reach, but not our control. It’s grace.

So, does the insight come from solely from within our brain, or must we open to the universal consciousness to receive it from without? Does it come from us or from God? More next time…

Lazy as a Beaver

For many years now we have seen signs of beaver activity, at various spots down along the creek. A dam will appear, then many saplings will get gnawed off, then we might see a very large tree tackled. They really clear out an area of underbrush.

In all that time, I just once briefly spotted a beaver. Just one momentary glance. They are private little critters. I've admired their ability to gnaw big trees down (gracious, what sharp, powerful teeth you have, Mr. Beaver!), to doggedly repair damage after flood waters blast through their dam, then to suddenly abandon their efforts and move on to new locations when the time came (all good trees gone?). But never did I get a chance to get more than a quick glance at one beaver.

Until last year, that is. I meandered down to the creek one day. We were at our driest point in several decades and the creek bed was essentially dry. I was able to walk down the center of the bed of the creek, for the first time since we've lived here. It gives one sort of a beaver's-eye (or a fish-out-of water) view of the area.

I came upon a new dam, that I'd not noticed before. It was a wonderful opportunity to examine the construction of a beaver dam—above water. What marvelous engineers they are! The circular dam wall bowed gracefully across the creek. It was a mixture of branches and rocks. (And one imbedded beer can. Did he can plant itself or get lodged there by one of the dam’s builders?) I was impressed by the size of the many rocks that they had placed on the dam wall, but then remembered that they hefted them there when the rocks were much lighter, under water.

Then a couple of weeks later we got some decent rains, so the creek was once again running a little bit. I wondered how the beaver dam might now appear, so I sauntered downcreek to check it out. The dam was now mostly submerged and the pool behind it had grown. As I approached, I glanced down and saw a beaver, lazily swimming along. I froze, lest it see me and dive. It either didn't notice me or decided that I was no threat, as it continued slowly to swim in circles around its pool. It was a fantastic sight: its cute nose protruding from the surface, sending V-shaped waves outwards, as it swam lazily along. Every now and then I could get a glimpse of its body and a hint of its size. They aren’t small critters!

Suddenly, PLUNK!, it dove under. I thought it had spotted me and had smacked the water surface, in warning to its family and friends, that a two-legged threat was near. But it quickly resurfaced and continued to paddle along, unconcerned.

Shortly, it crawled up on the bank; but down among some weeds, so I could barely see what it was doing. It appeared to be grooming itself. (The next day I returned and got a closer look at the spot and noted many bark-stripped twigs laying around. I'm thinking it was chowing down on lunch.) As I waited to see if the beaver might soon reenter the water, I noted some activity out of the corner of my eye. Another beaver had entered the pool! It began lazily paddling around, as its friend/spouse/relative sat munching up on the bank. Then I saw another beaver, then yet another! There were three of them swimming around, while and one played on land.

What a treat they gave me! After awhile I was beginning to get a little stiff from standing like a statue, so I slowly wandered homeward. The guy/gal on the bank spotted me, slipped ever so silently into the water, then smacked the surface loud and hard, with that flat, leathery tail. It and the other three beavers instantly vanished. I never saw them again.

Love & Hate

Two words we find used in a wide variety of situations are “love” and “hate.” Without knowing something about the context in which they’re used, it’s not often clear to me what the user means by either one of these words. There are many forms of love and an equal range of hate. In particular, I find myself sometimes quite uncertain about how someone is using the word hate. While the dictionary might tell me that hate means “extreme aversion,” or “to detest,” I’m often unclear about the sentiments or actions behind the word that are meant by the user.

It seems reasonable to consider love and hate as antonyms, so it might help if I start from the standpoint of love—which I do understand better. For years I have found that Erich Fromm’s definition of love is helpful for me. He was writing, in The Art of Love, about altruistic or unconditional love (not romantic passion). He described the art of love as exemplifying four qualities: care, respect, responsibility, and understanding the other.

So starting with Fromm’s definition of love, its opposite—hate—comes better into focus for me. If to love someone is to care for them, then to hate them is to be indifferent. Second, to love someone means to respect them; to appreciate them for who they are. To hate someone, therefore, is to reject them, to demean who they are, or withhold acceptance until they change into someone I might value.

To love someone, by the third Fromm definition, is to feel responsible for them; to take action to help them when they are in difficulty, or at least to curb my actions so as not to harm them. Hatred in this sense is to turn away from them, to ignore them, to sever any connection we might have. The Good Samaritan showed admirable responsibility, when he stopped to help.

Finally, we show love by wanting to understand the other—by going out of our way to break down barriers of misconception and false impressions. Empathy is a form of understanding, when we show love by standing in the shoes of another. Hatred is denigrating the other to the point that they’re seen as not worthy of attempting to understand them.

And it all comes full circle when I realize that to be disinclined to want to understand another person is to reject them. It implies not caring, not respecting, and having no sense of responsibility. So the boundary into hatred territory is not as far away as I might think. I can quickly slip over the line, if I lack care, respect, feel no obligation, or harbor misunderstandings (that I don’t feel inclined to resolve) of someone.

A Titmouse Rebuke

In late summer I sit out in the tub as dusk comes on; sunken deeply into the soothing hot water, listening to Mother Nature’s varied sounds. In the evening at this time of year, it is mostly the calls of birds that enter the ear; but soon it will also be the incessant calls of katydids and crickets. I prefer to listen to birds singing their melodious tunes.

On this evening I gradually become aware of the non-melodious chatter of a titmouse—not his simple, whistle-like call, but his raucous, ear-grating squawk. Both the titmouse and the chickadee rant this way. They use it to rebuke one another, in my imagination. The scolding I hear this night is different, however. It persists, and it begins to be picked up by more birds. When I hear a badgering, raucous chorus like this, my first thought is that a predator is near, and the birds are joining forces to chew out the intruder. I have seen them berate and even attack a snake that might be going for babies in a nest.

The scolding sound I hear tonight does not indicate to me the presence of an attacking predator, however. It doesn’t seem that threatening. It is more like the sound of a parent chewing out a child. As the chorus adds more voices, I begin to wonder what the object of their attention is. The noise gets louder and more insistent. I turn around in the tub to see what is happening. Is it possible that they are aiming their diatribe at Cecil the cat? I had seen him in the vicinity a little earlier. He’d be a perfect target for such a diatribe.

I spot several birds flitting around in the branches of a white pine just above the tub. They are working themselves into a fine lather, and seem to be directing their attention down towards the ground, under the tree. I follow their gaze and there’s Cecil, lying placidly and immobile. Turning back to the birds, I can see that nearly a dozen titmice are gathered on the lowest branch of the pine, fluttering around and squawking loudly. Is Cecil really the target of their tirade? I look at him again, noticing that he is absolutely ignoring them, as if they did not exist. He’s completely unaffected by the raucous group.

I turn again to the birds. I notice that as they chatter, they look down at him with baleful stares (OK, I may be reading something into their demeanor, but it sure looks that way). Their raspy chorus rises in intensity even more. As I tune into them, I begin to notice that their pulses of noise come into sync with each other—like the vibratos of singers who blend tightly. The scolding pulses periodically surge in a hypnotic manner, drawing me deep into their chatter. It seems to build and sustain itself for a long time. I am getting woozy from the spellbinding sound.

I look back towards Cecil. How is he reacting? He appears to notice absolutely nothing, as if the only inhabitants of this corner of the woods are himself (his royal self) and me.

The birds, meantime, are really getting into it, as if participating in an old-time, call-and-response revival meeting. They spur each other on, encouraging every member to blast out in his best fashion. It’s as if they are trying to outdo each other, to see which one wins the prize for chief denouncer. After a time their chatter slows and even begins to break up a bit.

As their rebuke fades, one bird insistently begins anew, pushing on his comrades once again to take up the challenge. It’s as if he was saying, “Don’t stop, brothers! This cat must be dealt with. We must chew his ass into shreds, comrades! We must put him down, tell him off. Remember when he attacked Brother Fred a few days ago? We must let him know that he cannot escape our wrath. Make him realize his lowliness, lying down there in the dirt, while we superior creatures fly about up here in the heavens. To the ramparts! Let us fling our sarcastic arrows at him until he repents or slinks away in shame!”

Meanwhile, Cecil lies there, unperturbed, acting as if the tree is empty. I envy his ability to ignore them. Soon the intensity of their tirade fades once again. One final attempt is made by the titmouse provocateur. “Don’t stop, brothers! He’s beginning to feel intimidated by us. We must persevere. Look, I saw him glance at me out of the corner of his eye. We’re getting to him. Don’t stop! I can see him begin to tense up and worry. Go after him! Chew out his feline butt!”

But the brotherhood begins to weary. Other distractions come to their wee bird brains. The “wiser” ones realize that they’re just wasting their beautiful voices on a stupid cat. It’s time to move on. Maybe a few more bugs can be caught and eaten before dark fully descends. One by one, they depart the battle scene. The last couple of birds sling one final shot at Cecil, then depart.

As they scatter, I imagine one bird saying to the others (realizing the ephemeral nature of their brotherhood), “Well, that was great fun. The cat’s been humiliated. Did you see how I told him off? Man, I was BAD! It was great to band together with you guys again and face the enemy. But now we must go our ways. My chick is waiting. And any of you guys get the idea to go after her, your ass is grass! Hear?”

Can I Believe It?

We constantly make choices on how much credence to give to what we hear. If I deem the source to be truthful and trustworthy, I take what I hear to be gospel. If I feel that it may be unreliable, I take it with a grain of salt.

When I was a little kid, everything my parents told me I believed. In contrast, most everything I hear today from the president I don’t buy. My parents stopped being gods some time during my adolescence.

We tend to assign a level of credence to each thing that we hear, or to what we read. Sometimes it’s an automatic process, but at other times I find it useful to pause a moment and ask myself, “What’s the credibility of this?” If I can feel confident that it’s true, then I can open up to it, absorb it, learn from it. If I’m doubtful, however, I need to be cautious. I don’t need to automatically reject it—just be aware. I can listen to what I think might be doubtful, as I simultaneously ask myself if there might be another side to the story. I find it worthwhile to listen respectfully, but then go looking for an alternative viewpoint. If I find an alternative perspective, my understanding may significantly improve. Sometimes the alternative is even more valid than the first voice.

For example, I may hear a mainstream medium (a newspaper) report a story—let’s say it’s reporting what a government official said. These days one needs to be cautious about believing such a report—either because many of the media are biased, or they are acting more like a government propaganda machine, or the government spokesperson has put a spin on it. It pays to be discerning and read between the lines. In fact, a more accurate picture of the event can often be found if I take the mainstream media’s reporting with a grain of salt and go looking for alternative viewpoints.

The internet can be a useful tool, in looking for that alternative perspective. The internet, however, can be very error prone. Specious “urban wisdom” is often flung around cyberspace, before its inaccuracy is discovered.

At times, the voice that I am listening to comes from within. I need to apply the same question to my own thoughts: How truthful are they? What kind of biases do I have? A thought is just a thought—no reason to consider it necessarily valid, even if it comes from me… someone I like to consider reasonably trustworthy.

This may sound like I’m a bit suspicious of most everything I hear. Yes, I often am; but it’s more a case of trying to be discerning. When I was younger I went down a lot of blind alleys—after taking something I heard at face value. Older and more cautious now, I appreciate the usefulness of pausing and asking about the credibility of what I hear, and sometimes looking elsewhere.

Acorn Shrooms

Homestead Accidents

Injurious accidents are events that anybody wishes to avoid. But by their very definition, an accident is “a happening that is not expected,” so they are something that occurs with little notice, and are maybe even beyond our ability to stop them. One’s best shot at minimizing their visitations is to live as mindfully and carefully as possible, and never walk under a ladder. We all experience accidents, regardless of our carefulness, however.

Nearly 25 years ago my spouse and I left an urban environment to take up a life out here in the woods—to follow a lifestyle that is immensely rewarding, but has its particular physical hazards. They are different from those risks that we would have encountered in the city (out here we try to avoid harm to the body, while in the city it was more to the mind).

Country accidents can be devastating. After having taken up a rural, self-sufficient lifestyle, we became aware of numerous individuals in our situation who had had debilitating accidents—sometimes either seriously curtailing their independence or even ending it. When you’re messing around in isolation with chainsaws, ladders, and virulent critters, you can quickly be put out of commission. You need a good degree of physical ability, fitness, and health, in order to pull off living out here; otherwise you may have to hang up your homestead spurs and head back to the city, to a regular job and (hopefully) insurance coverage.

I think that it is a testimony both to our prudence and good luck that we have had no severe mishaps thus far. Many times I have begun a task that I knew was rather dangerous; fully aware that it required me to be alert and careful, lest I encounter one of those incapacitating accidents. I know that the outcome depends strongly on one’s level of attention, as well as luck.

One of those mishaps happened to me recently—while chainsawing a leaning, standing tree. I was probably not as alert as need be, and it fell the “wrong” way (on my head) and gashed a deep cut on my scalp. Luckily, I only lost a good amount of blood, not consciousness, and was able to walk (rapidly) back out of the woods; even carrying the saw.

The chainsaw is a raucous machine; one of the most treacherous tools that a homesteader uses, as well as one of the most productive and necessary. You ain’t gonna clear wind-blown trees or cut enough winter firewood without wielding one of these dangerous beasts. They require an inordinate amount of mindfulness and proper maintenance. I have had many near mishaps, using a chainsaw, but no calamities yet. (Unless one wants to count the time I nearly cut off my son’s finger, 40 years ago.)

Now I will have many indoor hours of rehabilitation to ponder my lesson: Did my luck turn bad or was I a little too impatient? Was my number up or my attention down?