"One man's trash is another man's treasure," or woman's or child's... and so on.
I recently learned that the reverse is also true. Our treasures, the things to which the most extraordinary of meaning is attached, are only clutter to unknowing others. I wonder how many times it has happened that the treasures of our inner beings have become unwelcome and misplaced refuse in the life of another person. Our sincere desire was to share that which we believed to be remarkable, something uncommon, of great worth... but our investment was regarded as trivial, or even worse -- unwanted. There is perhaps no more crushing a disappointment than to see something deeply valued become worthless in the estimation of another person.
In his book "Love Beyond Reason", John Ortberg pens the story of a ragged, soiled toy that was surprisingly found to be one family's greatest treasure. It wasn't the toy in itself that indwelt such incredible value to this family (they had belongings of far more material measure); it was the person this toy represented. One member of the family had loved the toy so much that its newness had prematurely dissolved to frayed ends and stained, torn pieces. Unknown to any onlookers, something fit for rumage was regarded as gold... because the one who loved it was regarded as more valuable even still. While perhaps something so unsightly could have been viewed as an embarrassment, to part with it would have meant causing great hurt to the person who knew the stains by memory -- memories of something loved and tested rather than something unbecoming. Truly, a "Love Beyond Reason".
If only we, in our human limitations, could love and be loved so well. If for a moment, a veil could be rolled back and the things we value in the secret of our hearts could be understood as valuable to those once unknowing. Or better still, to be treasured inspite of our frayed pieces, the unfit garments, the unbecoming fatigue from times that tested and left us broken.
Yes, John Ortberg's book is about the love of Christ for broken humanity. It insists the immeasurable love of God for humankind because of God's inseparable love for Christ, who chose us and covers us in Himself.
It feels as if I'm writing this today from the garbage heap. Unaware that I was marked for disposal at the slightest flaw, I sit disillusioned among the "seconds". My comfort is my company -- remembering the rejection that marked Christ because He chose to associate with the unbecoming... with me. And my hope is knowing that there is One who esteems me not of myself, but because -- like that child's treasure -- I am valuable to His Son. Maybe I will find the courage to extend the same mercy to another.
Showing posts with label Attachment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Attachment. Show all posts
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
Finding Archie
I have grappled with a way to begin this post for a long time. It is a precious story, one due reverance and acknowledgment of a son's honor and a father's love. This morning, I realized that this story is about both attachment and the price of freedom; thus, as the fizz of sparklers and constant crackling signal the coming Fourth's celebration, I add my part today.
I have met all of my grandfather Carl's brothers, with exception of one. I never met my great uncle Archie in person; I know him only from letters and stories, expressions on faces, and a framed military portrait displayed in my grandfather's house.
Archie was the oldest of six boys. His story, along with that of the other five, began a while before in Manhattan, KS, where my great grandfather and his brother attended Kansas State Agriculture College in the early 1900's. (A photo of Merrill [L], my great grandfather, and his brother, Byron [R], in Manhattan. C 1916.)
College was an uncommon achievement in those times. My great grandfather would have told you, likely, that he considers the crowning glory of his time in Manhattan rather to be a run-in with a lovely, dark-haired girl named Erma. So began the story of the boys.
Backing up a bit, my great grandfather Merrill and his brother deployed for World War I shortly after their college days. It was a dark time -- the world at war, and rumors of a mysterious Summer flu spreading with indiscriminant lethality across military and civilian populations. (We now know that Summer "bug", The Great Pandemic of 1918, was a virulent strain of H1N1 hypothesized to have originated at an Army Camp that is now part of present-day Fort Riley, outside of Manhattan, KS.) Merrill and Byron both survived their deployments and were among those fortunate enough to return home to families who had survived the Pandemic.
Although the art of agriculture in practice was a relentlessly difficult endeavor, the family grew and prospered in life, love, and (with six little boys in one house) what has become a legendary sense of humor and carefully planned misadventures. (Photo of the boys: [Back] John, Archie, Carl, [Front] Herman, Lloyd, and Ray. C mid to late 1930's.)
But, despite the ferocity with which it is defended, peace is a most fragile state. In the early 1940's, Archie and John deployed for yet another World War. The remaining four brothers would follow in service to Korea and other assignments, quite literally spanning the globe. Their stories and commitment are celebrated throughout the family's collective memory to present day.
Archie's story is celebrated differently; woven as tightly into the fabric of treasured memory as the other five, his story of honor and rare courage came to us in fragments over decades, priceless but frayed threads of hope from a father's unwavering search.
Our family learned what we can only cling to as being the account of Archie's last engagement from a letter written to Merrill and Erma in 1968 -- 23 years after Archie was determined unrecovered. The letter was sent by a comrade who had been in Archie's Company and, knowing that Archie was officially recorded among those "Missing In Action", was compelled to bear witness to the last hours. The report was overwhelming in both the depth of depravity and courage it described -- Archie was considered a hero who exchanged his own safety to cover a friend in the final moments of a merciless firefight in the Phillippines. Being left without cover, he himself was hit. Another friend was seriously wounded trying to retrieve his body. The occupation was too entrenched, and further recovery efforts could not be made for a number of weeks.
For over 40 years, it was presumed by the family that the letter came somewhat randomly -- a fellow soldier honoring the memory of a friend and hero lost. It was only this Summer, 42 years after the letter arrived, that artifacts indicating a different origination emerged. When sorting through old photos with my grandmother, we found the rest: a record in great grandfather Merrill's own handwriting of efforts to contact anyone who knew anybody who may have been with Archie. Writings received about Archie's courage and character, and ultimately the last battle were there, all dated along with a brief log and notes great grandfather Merrill had added. It was a decades-long testament of a son's honor and a father's love, largely unknown to the rest of us.
Perhaps the most heartrending entry in the documents was the last inscription. Written on the original copy of the letter describing Archie's last engagement are these words: "1984 - Ray visited the cemetary in the Spring of 1984. Archie was listed there among the missing." The entry was made only a few short years before Merrill died at the age of 92. He was still looking.
Despite the question of Archie's whereabouts most certainly lingering, my great grandfather Merrill was remembered as an unusually funny guy who loved life and found a story to tell the grandkids about almost anything. I have my own faint memories of him, although frail then, as a very kind and contemplative man whose sharp mind seemed to have more life left than his body. Even those closest to him wouldn't have guessed the daily burden he carried for his last 44 years. Although, long before the other documents were found, a clue to his unfailing love and commitment to a son lost was uncovered in a most unusual place. In one of his outbuildings, written on the very walls in charcoal, chalk, rock, and whatever else... were poems about the soldiers who never returned, the monuments never made, the despair unrequited by a place of remembrance. We never really figured out why he wrote them on a building and not paper --mostly for privacy, we assumed. No one else had gone into that old shop for years. But now, after reading "the rest of the story", I think it was a fitting tribute. He wrote them on something too big to ever be lost, too permanent-seeming to be forgotten. They were his monument to Archie in the solitary places of the soul, on the sacred grounds of a father's heart.
Sometimes artifacts have new meaning when we can see "from the end back to the beginning" -- recognizing the sanctity of a time when wholeness existed in our treasured other's presence, their safety, their closeness to us. We look at those artifacts not only seeing them, but seeing an "us" that solely existed in between and will never come again until eternity is unveiled. In honor of this, I share a final photo -- one I formerly never took much notice of. It has, however, become my favorite to see "from the end" backwards. In this photo are my great grandparents with Archie on their first homestead. It is the smallest house in any of the pictures, but the value in the moment can never be summed.
I have met all of my grandfather Carl's brothers, with exception of one. I never met my great uncle Archie in person; I know him only from letters and stories, expressions on faces, and a framed military portrait displayed in my grandfather's house.
Archie was the oldest of six boys. His story, along with that of the other five, began a while before in Manhattan, KS, where my great grandfather and his brother attended Kansas State Agriculture College in the early 1900's. (A photo of Merrill [L], my great grandfather, and his brother, Byron [R], in Manhattan. C 1916.)
College was an uncommon achievement in those times. My great grandfather would have told you, likely, that he considers the crowning glory of his time in Manhattan rather to be a run-in with a lovely, dark-haired girl named Erma. So began the story of the boys.
Backing up a bit, my great grandfather Merrill and his brother deployed for World War I shortly after their college days. It was a dark time -- the world at war, and rumors of a mysterious Summer flu spreading with indiscriminant lethality across military and civilian populations. (We now know that Summer "bug", The Great Pandemic of 1918, was a virulent strain of H1N1 hypothesized to have originated at an Army Camp that is now part of present-day Fort Riley, outside of Manhattan, KS.) Merrill and Byron both survived their deployments and were among those fortunate enough to return home to families who had survived the Pandemic.
Although the art of agriculture in practice was a relentlessly difficult endeavor, the family grew and prospered in life, love, and (with six little boys in one house) what has become a legendary sense of humor and carefully planned misadventures. (Photo of the boys: [Back] John, Archie, Carl, [Front] Herman, Lloyd, and Ray. C mid to late 1930's.)
But, despite the ferocity with which it is defended, peace is a most fragile state. In the early 1940's, Archie and John deployed for yet another World War. The remaining four brothers would follow in service to Korea and other assignments, quite literally spanning the globe. Their stories and commitment are celebrated throughout the family's collective memory to present day.
Archie's story is celebrated differently; woven as tightly into the fabric of treasured memory as the other five, his story of honor and rare courage came to us in fragments over decades, priceless but frayed threads of hope from a father's unwavering search.
Our family learned what we can only cling to as being the account of Archie's last engagement from a letter written to Merrill and Erma in 1968 -- 23 years after Archie was determined unrecovered. The letter was sent by a comrade who had been in Archie's Company and, knowing that Archie was officially recorded among those "Missing In Action", was compelled to bear witness to the last hours. The report was overwhelming in both the depth of depravity and courage it described -- Archie was considered a hero who exchanged his own safety to cover a friend in the final moments of a merciless firefight in the Phillippines. Being left without cover, he himself was hit. Another friend was seriously wounded trying to retrieve his body. The occupation was too entrenched, and further recovery efforts could not be made for a number of weeks.
For over 40 years, it was presumed by the family that the letter came somewhat randomly -- a fellow soldier honoring the memory of a friend and hero lost. It was only this Summer, 42 years after the letter arrived, that artifacts indicating a different origination emerged. When sorting through old photos with my grandmother, we found the rest: a record in great grandfather Merrill's own handwriting of efforts to contact anyone who knew anybody who may have been with Archie. Writings received about Archie's courage and character, and ultimately the last battle were there, all dated along with a brief log and notes great grandfather Merrill had added. It was a decades-long testament of a son's honor and a father's love, largely unknown to the rest of us.
Perhaps the most heartrending entry in the documents was the last inscription. Written on the original copy of the letter describing Archie's last engagement are these words: "1984 - Ray visited the cemetary in the Spring of 1984. Archie was listed there among the missing." The entry was made only a few short years before Merrill died at the age of 92. He was still looking.
Despite the question of Archie's whereabouts most certainly lingering, my great grandfather Merrill was remembered as an unusually funny guy who loved life and found a story to tell the grandkids about almost anything. I have my own faint memories of him, although frail then, as a very kind and contemplative man whose sharp mind seemed to have more life left than his body. Even those closest to him wouldn't have guessed the daily burden he carried for his last 44 years. Although, long before the other documents were found, a clue to his unfailing love and commitment to a son lost was uncovered in a most unusual place. In one of his outbuildings, written on the very walls in charcoal, chalk, rock, and whatever else... were poems about the soldiers who never returned, the monuments never made, the despair unrequited by a place of remembrance. We never really figured out why he wrote them on a building and not paper --mostly for privacy, we assumed. No one else had gone into that old shop for years. But now, after reading "the rest of the story", I think it was a fitting tribute. He wrote them on something too big to ever be lost, too permanent-seeming to be forgotten. They were his monument to Archie in the solitary places of the soul, on the sacred grounds of a father's heart.
Sometimes artifacts have new meaning when we can see "from the end back to the beginning" -- recognizing the sanctity of a time when wholeness existed in our treasured other's presence, their safety, their closeness to us. We look at those artifacts not only seeing them, but seeing an "us" that solely existed in between and will never come again until eternity is unveiled. In honor of this, I share a final photo -- one I formerly never took much notice of. It has, however, become my favorite to see "from the end" backwards. In this photo are my great grandparents with Archie on their first homestead. It is the smallest house in any of the pictures, but the value in the moment can never be summed.
For Great Grandfather Merrill, Byron, Archie, John, Grampy Carl, Herman, Lloyd, Ray & Uncle Richard -- thank you for being "a watchman on the wall" (Ezekiel). With love and celebration for you always.
"Play it again, Sam...."
Admitedly, the last post on attachment was extra-gooey -- a pendulum's ride through attachment's peaks and troughs. Tonight's commentary is a little less... well, nauseating (and less brain-researchy); still of the "1/3 commentary" variety, but with a few references for further reading if you so choose. As always, a random introduction will preface....
An "occasional practitioner" means different things, depending upon which of my various "professions" is in discussion. Student = daily. Nursing = weekly during semesters. Human Development = about weekly when I have time to do lit reviews. Therapy = very occasionally... I generally spare friends, family, or members of the public by refraining from "therapizing" anyone but myself.
Tonight, indeed I feel compelled to "therapize" myself. Here's where attachment comes in -- remember those person-specific cascades of neurotransmitters? (And thank you, Dr. Daniel Siegel, for such marvelous research!) Well, as sophisticated as they are biologically, they're really a pill when you're intentionally trying to avoid a person-specific "file" unresolved in your mind's attachment archives. Years into study on the subject, I'm still not sure how you actually close unresolved attachment files (or if you ever permanently close them). I do know that finding a contained window of space and time to intentionally and consciously soak in measurable pieces of the emotions/thoughts associated with your attachment center's "cold case files" is necessary for your sanity.
I personally choose to "therapize" myself with music. I find a song or playlist that is somehow reminiscent of the person or situation I need to remember for a bit... I play it, I make careful mental or journal notes on how I respond (like an attachment form of a treadmill-test-check-up thing), and then I process what steps, if any, are possibilities to take towards either: 1) taking better care of myself around that issue so that I continue to cope well without the attachment; 2) or reaching out to the attachment figure if they are still available and reconnection is appropriate (and beneficial to the present). Then, I pray about the whole ball of wax and commit to myself that I will not take any steps, in any direction, without first convening the counsel (obtaining trustworthy feedback) and living in my own skin with the idea for a while.
[The just-described "intervention" wasn't my own brilliant brainchild, by the way. It is comprised of pieces of a process developed by clinician/theorist, Leslie Greenberg, called Emotion-Focused Therapy.]
Tonight, the subject of my musical reconnection is one around which all of the above options are neither impossible, nor particularly reasonable. And, while I will not unravel this contradiction before the song ends, I have determined that I am okay with the wait for clarity. 3 minutes, 54 seconds is long enough to re-visit, but short enough to say, "Maybe things will be clearer later... but, I'm just fine 'til then," and mean it.
Resources mentioned in this post, and previous ones, are below. Read, learn, enjoy!
On brain research regarding brain development, attachment, emotion, and memory:
The Developing Mind, by Daniel Siegel, M.D.
On Emotion-Focused Therapy:
Emotion-Focused Therapy: Coaching Clients to Work Through Their Feelings, by Leslie Greenberg
An "occasional practitioner" means different things, depending upon which of my various "professions" is in discussion. Student = daily. Nursing = weekly during semesters. Human Development = about weekly when I have time to do lit reviews. Therapy = very occasionally... I generally spare friends, family, or members of the public by refraining from "therapizing" anyone but myself.
Tonight, indeed I feel compelled to "therapize" myself. Here's where attachment comes in -- remember those person-specific cascades of neurotransmitters? (And thank you, Dr. Daniel Siegel, for such marvelous research!) Well, as sophisticated as they are biologically, they're really a pill when you're intentionally trying to avoid a person-specific "file" unresolved in your mind's attachment archives. Years into study on the subject, I'm still not sure how you actually close unresolved attachment files (or if you ever permanently close them). I do know that finding a contained window of space and time to intentionally and consciously soak in measurable pieces of the emotions/thoughts associated with your attachment center's "cold case files" is necessary for your sanity.
I personally choose to "therapize" myself with music. I find a song or playlist that is somehow reminiscent of the person or situation I need to remember for a bit... I play it, I make careful mental or journal notes on how I respond (like an attachment form of a treadmill-test-check-up thing), and then I process what steps, if any, are possibilities to take towards either: 1) taking better care of myself around that issue so that I continue to cope well without the attachment; 2) or reaching out to the attachment figure if they are still available and reconnection is appropriate (and beneficial to the present). Then, I pray about the whole ball of wax and commit to myself that I will not take any steps, in any direction, without first convening the counsel (obtaining trustworthy feedback) and living in my own skin with the idea for a while.
[The just-described "intervention" wasn't my own brilliant brainchild, by the way. It is comprised of pieces of a process developed by clinician/theorist, Leslie Greenberg, called Emotion-Focused Therapy.]
Tonight, the subject of my musical reconnection is one around which all of the above options are neither impossible, nor particularly reasonable. And, while I will not unravel this contradiction before the song ends, I have determined that I am okay with the wait for clarity. 3 minutes, 54 seconds is long enough to re-visit, but short enough to say, "Maybe things will be clearer later... but, I'm just fine 'til then," and mean it.
Resources mentioned in this post, and previous ones, are below. Read, learn, enjoy!
On brain research regarding brain development, attachment, emotion, and memory:
The Developing Mind, by Daniel Siegel, M.D.
On Emotion-Focused Therapy:
Emotion-Focused Therapy: Coaching Clients to Work Through Their Feelings, by Leslie Greenberg
Monday, June 28, 2010
Inmost Places
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
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
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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