Friday, October 22, 2010

Hummingbirds

There seems to be much talk about the brain these days. It's like deep science and the foreign language that describes it are being demystified so we can all get a reasonably accessible picture of what happens up there, if we so choose. As someone who will be hovering in mid-50's for not much longer, and whose memory keeps dropping small things (not pennies), there's some comfort in learning that our 'plastic' brains keep doing the business of spurting new connections and synapsing (new word for the people's neuro-dictionary), and is not a growing pool of dead and dying cells.
I haven't retained much detail of what I've read or heard about brains in my own lively jungle, but one piece of the information that has gone in keeps reverberating. Apparently the part of the brain we use when we talk about ourselves autobiographically, ie tell stories about our own experience, is that same part that's activated when we improvise music. I find this fascinating. All sorts of things spring to mind (thank you brain). One is the sheer beauty of the notion that as I recount my own story, I sing a song. Not necessarily a melodious or even-tempoed (sp?) song, but one that is spontaneous and creative - in much the way that dreams are.
I love this idea in relation to my work as a counsellor, when I sit with a number of people who are feeling their way into their own story, finding ways to articulate and integrate their own experiences - perhaps (with this in mind) not so much to make sense of them, as make a song of them. It also re-minds me of the unique facility we have as creatures to speak the stuff of our lives. (Elisabeth's rich blog is themed with this idea.) Linking it to improvisation, can we look at recounting our own life tale as an act of creative surrender? Like birds at sun-up perhaps, but with an infinitely variable tune, and the the dubious ability to choose whether we open our throats or swallow our song. (I've enjoyed Marylinn's eloquent exploration of this territory in her last two blogs.)
And finally - away from the metaphor and back to making music, it's good to know that for those times when there are no words, no right person to hear, there's something about the act of humming that's more than just a hum.

6 comments:

  1. Speaking as someone who spends a lot of time at the piano improvising, maybe the corollary of your link of the two is to say that improvising is telling stories about yourself. Because it's true in a way. You improvise things that suit you or are you, as well as being music (as far as you are able). Quite a leap though from "same part of the brain" to When I..., I ..." - but I see where you're coming from, and the mind doesn't find it so hard to see how the two could tie together. Good (imaginative) thinking!

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  2. Dear Pam, lovely post, I think it's singing too. I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to say goodbye for now. I so appreciated your moving responses to my posts at Vespersparow's Nest. When you wrote, I knew I'd gotten the poem right. Someday when I have the strength, I hope to open a blog again and will invite you to be part of making living in the world possible. Be well, be strong. Much love, Melissa

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  3. Hello, and not goodbye dear Melissa, I'm sorry to hear what has happened in Vesperspearrow's nest. It's been a place I loved to visit, and have come away with some delicate and indelible treasures. Your writing touches me, and I hope these recent experiences have not interrupted your access to and expression of the deep gift you hold. I wish you all the best and all of what you need for the time ahead. I will definitely be ready to join you when the time is right for you to blog again. Love Pam

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  4. Pam, dear, I had no idea I would return to cyberspace so soon, but I've reopened a different-looking blog, but I hope you will return, and that whatever I've been able to give you in the past will still be something you can treasure. With love and gratitude, Melissa

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  5. Hello, dear Map. Have you lost yours? I could lend you mine, or draw you one to help you find your way back to Cadence where I know I'm not the only who misses you and looks forward to your musings. Wander on back, won't you? Just as soon as you feel able. Much love in the meantime, Erialc x

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  6. Thanks for your encouragement clarab. I love that you've thrown me a line / pencil mark. My map's out of the knapsack, back in hand. Your markings are very much in evidence. pmx

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