Tonight, I return to the topic of attachment. While this post still fails to follow the previous attachment-related entry with the promised research tidbits, it is saturated in human relatedness all the same. An advisory: this is one of those "1/3 shared experience" posts on the topic.
I am undecided as to whether or not I am one who wears my heart on my sleeve; regardless of its daily positioning, the sum of my emotional governance has somehow migrated to the screen before you now.
I wrote earlier that attachment theory describes our connection to other human beings as the very foundational layer (post-DNA, of course) of our neural development, our physiological organization and regulation, and our subsequent responses (molecularly and behaviorally) based upon the relative continuity or dissonance of our attachment experiences. As corny as the concept sounds, even neurologists specializing in brain development are musing at the undeniable imaging proof that human relationships have the mysterious power to both create and destroy the frontier parts of our brains that allow us to feel and somehow be human.
In a season of life when so many of my own "pillars of human relatedness" are migrating out of my inner and everyday circles (for unavoidable circumstances -- some welcomed, some not), I am evermore nostalgic about times shared, wisdom proven worthy, and joys multiplied -- praying from inmost places that the priceless gains of "together" will suffice to pay the toll when paths diverge and "separate" divides. Ultimately, our paths diverge in permanence when life disequitably portions the sands -- the hours dissolving away grain by grain, with no way to lend our days to another. It is a painful reoccurrence on our journey -- separation intrudes and asks no permission. As if a surgeon's knife of severance was not cruel enough, the remaining awareness of our treasured other ebbs away less precisely -- one sensation gone (a familiar scent), then the next (the feel of intertwined fingers). Yet, standing at the dark borders of inconquerable despair, an ember flickers... of times shared, wisdom proven worthy, and joys multiplied. A prayer from inmost places that we will honor love by loving still, loving better, loving another in the way we hoped to know forever.
Stepping out of eternity and back to measurable science, it is with bittersweet acceptance that I acknowledge even science's take on attachment -- why is it so necessary to our survival to be in relationship and form a mental model (internalized existence) of our significant others and their regard for us? The answer -- so that the patterned responses we learned as a result of loving and being loved well can make us more adaptive and resilient, propel us to seek out new and deeper meaning in our becomings, and sustain us through the separation. (This goes clear back to experiments about separation anxiety in infants!) In our finer moments, we nurture our human affections for the same reason a mother robin nurtures her hatchlings: to watch them fly untethered by earthly limitations, choosing to view love's investment as sustaining currents -- not an earthen fetter.
To this end, I choose the "looking up" tonight. I celebrate the adventures that beckon some and the rest that comforts others. And I pray, from inmost places, for remembering to light the beacons... until "together" comes again.
For Grampy, Grammy, Fred, Mandy, G., my nursing girls, and so many beautiful "lights" to guide me -- with love and celebration for you always.
Isaiah 61
Monday, June 28, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
"Post-Partum" Pin Up
Some of you may have read my previous post about falling off the "mature" wagon for the Summer between semesters. Three days ago, I might have said more accurately that I had... well, jumped overboard, burnt the wagon, and danced on the ashes of adulthood to some window-shaking jams.
My Friday, however, began with a redemption of my former old-for-years self. I had my first day of orientation at the hospital's gift shoppe as a fledgling member of the auxiliary. Being safely returned to structure and the predictable mundane of procedure, I breezed through my checklist. I even managed to re-stage some of the product in between compulsive dusting. It was a refreshingly productive morning, which bore no hint of the ego-deflating accusation that would come only hours later in the form of sharp confirmation that my previous fling with youth revisited was nothing more than an illusion of days (and legs) gone by.
The continual wrestle for identity that we all face was in tilt, and I decided to balance my peach apron experience with an outing to help a friend shop for vacation clothes. My friend (who is a celebrated style guru, dedicated to pop couture at all costs) needed some serious beach bling. To this end, we visited a store that will remain un-named, but is a popular staple of celeb-like, rocker glitz styles in almost every mall across America. It is not a store I frequent, although I fully acknowledge it's legitimacy in the race for fashion forward. While my friend was wearing evidence of previous visits and looking the part of a true patron, I was still in "volunteer mode" (auxiliary dress code = 1950's definition of office chic). A pause....
At this point in the story, I can only explain the store clerks' interest in me by hypothesizing their recognition that my once-couture mary jane shoes were a hot item back in the day.
While I was looking through racks for things my friend might like, I was frequently interrupted by sales people proposing that I "just need to try [this or that] on". My consistent dismissal was to tell them I was not buying and wasn't even shopping for myself. But when approached with a strapless, leopard-print bubble dress, I finally said, "No, thank you. This isn't my style, and I need to lose a few pounds before I buy any clothes." To my shock, amusement, horror, and almost every other human emotion under then sun, the store clerk responded, "Why?! I think you're adorable. Did you just have a baby?" Another pause....
I thought it was common knowledge that, not only do you never concur that a woman is "fat", but you also never ask ANYONE not in active labor if she's pregnant! These are sanctified rules of human relational engagement.
My response: "Well, I suppose that would have been fun, but no." Add to the unspoken, "I think your outfit is sagging on top. Maybe you should try that stretchy dress." As if committing a social mishap of that magnitude had no effect on the drive to sell, I was still harassed by more options -- the most obscene of which, for a "woman in my [apparent] non-condition", being a form-fitting, silver-sequined tube shirt. Again, add to the unspoken, "Sure. Let's cover me in foil and draw MORE attention to my aging and neglected abs. We'll call it a tribute to the Hindenburg disaster."
At any rate, my friend found her island digs (and looked equator-worthy hot, by the way), and the mall walk successfully re-aligned my orientation to life's irreversible homage to the chronological nature of things. Thus, today I eat veggies, tan in the sun like a beached whale, and lament for my former self -- knowing that, beneath the "3rd degree [as in college] blubber", I'm still in there somewhere. And for your information, [store remaining un-named], I will not be wearing your tacky-shack stretchy dress or sequined blimp-maker when I emerge.
My Friday, however, began with a redemption of my former old-for-years self. I had my first day of orientation at the hospital's gift shoppe as a fledgling member of the auxiliary. Being safely returned to structure and the predictable mundane of procedure, I breezed through my checklist. I even managed to re-stage some of the product in between compulsive dusting. It was a refreshingly productive morning, which bore no hint of the ego-deflating accusation that would come only hours later in the form of sharp confirmation that my previous fling with youth revisited was nothing more than an illusion of days (and legs) gone by.
The continual wrestle for identity that we all face was in tilt, and I decided to balance my peach apron experience with an outing to help a friend shop for vacation clothes. My friend (who is a celebrated style guru, dedicated to pop couture at all costs) needed some serious beach bling. To this end, we visited a store that will remain un-named, but is a popular staple of celeb-like, rocker glitz styles in almost every mall across America. It is not a store I frequent, although I fully acknowledge it's legitimacy in the race for fashion forward. While my friend was wearing evidence of previous visits and looking the part of a true patron, I was still in "volunteer mode" (auxiliary dress code = 1950's definition of office chic). A pause....
At this point in the story, I can only explain the store clerks' interest in me by hypothesizing their recognition that my once-couture mary jane shoes were a hot item back in the day.
While I was looking through racks for things my friend might like, I was frequently interrupted by sales people proposing that I "just need to try [this or that] on". My consistent dismissal was to tell them I was not buying and wasn't even shopping for myself. But when approached with a strapless, leopard-print bubble dress, I finally said, "No, thank you. This isn't my style, and I need to lose a few pounds before I buy any clothes." To my shock, amusement, horror, and almost every other human emotion under then sun, the store clerk responded, "Why?! I think you're adorable. Did you just have a baby?" Another pause....
I thought it was common knowledge that, not only do you never concur that a woman is "fat", but you also never ask ANYONE not in active labor if she's pregnant! These are sanctified rules of human relational engagement.
My response: "Well, I suppose that would have been fun, but no." Add to the unspoken, "I think your outfit is sagging on top. Maybe you should try that stretchy dress." As if committing a social mishap of that magnitude had no effect on the drive to sell, I was still harassed by more options -- the most obscene of which, for a "woman in my [apparent] non-condition", being a form-fitting, silver-sequined tube shirt. Again, add to the unspoken, "Sure. Let's cover me in foil and draw MORE attention to my aging and neglected abs. We'll call it a tribute to the Hindenburg disaster."
At any rate, my friend found her island digs (and looked equator-worthy hot, by the way), and the mall walk successfully re-aligned my orientation to life's irreversible homage to the chronological nature of things. Thus, today I eat veggies, tan in the sun like a beached whale, and lament for my former self -- knowing that, beneath the "3rd degree [as in college] blubber", I'm still in there somewhere. And for your information, [store remaining un-named], I will not be wearing your tacky-shack stretchy dress or sequined blimp-maker when I emerge.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
"I'm A Loser, Baby..."
So, this post isn't about attachment -- although, it could be considered a commentary on human development. I am in the process of living through what has to be one of the most shocking regressions of modern times. My Type-A left hemisphere has officially denied existence of my more... well, "artist colony" personality traits for the past 15 years, but being in between formal jobs for a Summer at my ripe old age has confirmed it. Managing myself without a schedule of regular work commitments is basically like herding gerbils. An unrelenting case of "cabin fever" in June was a confirmed diagnosis this afternoon when I realized I was doing barre exercises to Beck's "Loser" and contemplating calling my relatives to ask if I could do their laundry. My greatest fear is that soaking in internet re-runs of "Glee" and "Wipe Out" will magically transport me back through time to about 16-ish, minus the extreme make-over. If Type-A turns its back for even a minute, my too-creative, sensory-seeking side persuades my left brain to go to lunch without me... and it's all glitter and disco balls from there. Thankgoodness the cat destroyed the pom-poms in the mid-90's and the arches in my pointe shoes were officially demolished by my "increased functional load under gravity" during the previous semester break. To combat my "Summer funk thang", I've enlisted with the local hospital auxiliary to shed some idle hours and prevent too much irreversible mayhem (i.e. tattoos, anyone?). Hopefully a peach apron and regular contact with people over 60 will hold back the technicolor tide that wants to sweep away my ivory tower of OCD-ness. Two months plus one day until Fall semester convenes... call in the troops, or in this case the show choir.
Click to hear Glee's version of Beck's "Loser"
Click to hear Glee's version of Beck's "Loser"
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
To "Feel" A Memory (Attachment)
I embarked on the recent Memorial Day weekend with the goal of visiting the graves of my grandfather and all four great grandparents. I had not been to visit my grandfather's grave since his death two years ago, although many times since the funeral I had driven to the cemetary in hopes that my resolve at composure would sustain at least 30 seconds of standing by the marker. Defeated by my own avoidance of remembering the burial, I had been unable to exit the car on previous visits. And while my drive last weekend brought more of the same (composure predictably evaporating at a block before my destination), I guess you could say that, by now, I have begun to miss him more than caring if I cry in public... I just wanted to see his name and trace the letters.
This experience brought keenly to my mind the concept of attachment theory (a theory that has absorbed nearly 8 years of both formal and independent study) -- this notion that people who have loved us well are imprinted within our minds, seared into our souls, and even patterned in our physiology in the way our brains respond to cues of both their closeness and distance (or absence, in the case of my grandfather). This same concept is one that now informs a pioneering branch of Neurology to examine brain imaging scans concurrent with vital measurements while patients respond to cues of significant others. Their findings are remarkable -- the mental constructs of our connection to attachment figures (our parents, spouses, children) somehow seems to evoke a "reflex" of sorts throughout our physiology that is every bit as salient and instantaneous as a rapid-acting pharmaceutical. Even more amazing to consider -- those responses remain within our make-up, a cascade of person-specific neurotransmitters responding to memory, long after our treasured other is absent.
As hours fade and I'm wrapping up this post (accutely aware of its incompleteness), I extend a sincere invitation for you to join me on a journey chronicled as roughly 1/3 commentary, 1/3 literature review, and 1/3 shared experience in attachment theory. Until then, take care.
This experience brought keenly to my mind the concept of attachment theory (a theory that has absorbed nearly 8 years of both formal and independent study) -- this notion that people who have loved us well are imprinted within our minds, seared into our souls, and even patterned in our physiology in the way our brains respond to cues of both their closeness and distance (or absence, in the case of my grandfather). This same concept is one that now informs a pioneering branch of Neurology to examine brain imaging scans concurrent with vital measurements while patients respond to cues of significant others. Their findings are remarkable -- the mental constructs of our connection to attachment figures (our parents, spouses, children) somehow seems to evoke a "reflex" of sorts throughout our physiology that is every bit as salient and instantaneous as a rapid-acting pharmaceutical. Even more amazing to consider -- those responses remain within our make-up, a cascade of person-specific neurotransmitters responding to memory, long after our treasured other is absent.
As hours fade and I'm wrapping up this post (accutely aware of its incompleteness), I extend a sincere invitation for you to join me on a journey chronicled as roughly 1/3 commentary, 1/3 literature review, and 1/3 shared experience in attachment theory. Until then, take care.
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