Brain Reflections

Poet Emily Dickinson once wrote:

Sparknotes translates Dickinson's poem as:

“[It's about] the mind’s capacity to absorb, interpret, and subsume perception and experience. 

The brain is wider than the sky despite the sky’s awesome size 

because the brain is able to incorporate the universe into itself,  

and thereby even to absorb the ocean. 

The source of this capacity, in this poem, is God.”

This poem makes me think about how the human brain is so complex...its capacity for understanding is so impressive.

Over the course of hundreds of millions of years, it evolved tailored by the environment, and we developed handy tools like feelings, learning, and memory. 

Then after humans evolved a questioning brain, they naturally began searching for answers to the  mysteries around them. But to what end?

In a book called Chess Metaphors, author Diego Rasskin-Gutman says,

"During the last 30 thousand years (at least), the human species has incessantly questioned its own nature and it's position within the universe—an overwhelmingly empty enterprise because of the paucity of valid answers and always led by a search for religious meaning.   

Little by little, this search has been stripped of its divine sense as attitudes evolved through the influence of the scientific community and by the transformation of societies in modern nation-states. 

Thus, a huge role has been played by scientists:

•  Copernicus and Galileo showed that we are not the center of the universe, 
• Darwin recognized the animal with our being,
• Freud placed consciousness at the center of the scientific quest,
•  and Einstein equated matter with energy and showed nature's dependence on point of view."

It's all about perspective.

And the evolution of not only our brains, but of our shared experience.

How one defines God is a very personal journey, but the collective pursuit of that definition influences our relationship with the world and our relationships with each other.

Any path taken is both personal and shared. Am I open and feel awe? Am I closed and feel fear? Am I confused?

So then why is Western society so "mum's the word" about the discovery of a higher truth in the secular context?

I very much respect Dickinson for expressing her inner reflections via poetry, like past poets Rumi and 寒山.

In Dickinson's opinion, the mind is a manifestation of God, or the individual is an instrument of God. 

[here's a little poem response dedicated to her]

----

hey, brain. 

you may be wider than the sky...

swallowing endlessly 

for total absorption

but why

resist the ocean's deafening roar

participate with silence

Then witness 

the love within 

-also boundless-

our own reflection(s).

simple reflection.

----

"Mindful" by Mary Oliver

Today is a beautiful, sunny day in Seattle which means that everyone is flocking outdoors to soak it all in. To honor everyone's energy, here is one of my favorite poems by Mary Oliver.  

I'm off now to Volunteer Park where I'll be turning Oliver's words into reality. 

Every day

I see or hear

something

that more or less

kills me

with delight,

that leaves me

like a needle

in the haystack

of light.

It was what I was born for -

to look, to listen,

to lose myself

inside this soft world -

to instruct myself

over and over

in joy,

and acclamation.

Nor am I talking

about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,

the very extravagant - 

but of the ordinary,

the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.

Oh, good scholar,

I say to myself,

how can you help

but grow wise

with such teachings

as these -

the untrimmable light

of the world,

the ocean's shine,

the prayers that are made

out of grass?

(Why I Wake Early)

An Unexpected Gift

My mom is my best friend. We share nearly everything: laughs, smiles, stories, ups and downs. She is a wise woman and I owe my identity to her.

These things have always been well known to me, but it didn't dawn on me until today just  how similar we truly are...

One thing I've always kept private is my passion for poetry. She knows I loved writing as a kid, but over the years I've struggled to maintain my voice. Chalk it up to focusing on work, being distracted by fun, and fear of putting myself out there.

Today on Christmas, I decided to reveal that unknown side of myself to my parents. I showed them some of my work as well as this very blog.

My mom listened intently, teared up with pride, and showered me with compliments. I was expecting that. :) But what she did next was a total surprise.  She got up and went to a kitchen drawer. She pulled out a private journal...and to my utter disbelief.... she read me HER poetry.

Beautiful, rhythmic, hidden lines I never even knew existed. Handwritten in a floral journal, marked up and dog eared from re-reads and revisions. All these years I have been struggling to nail down my style in a vacuum, scared to share it with anyone. And while I felt alone with my inspiration, the answer to my struggles was in front of me all along: in my loving mom, in my very own genes, in my family history. Ironically, it was intimate for the both of us and we been sharing in the same experience unknowingly for many years.

For those of you who understand Spanish, here is a special treat - Elvira Abate's first ever written poem with my translation below. I hope you are as inspired to follow your dreams as I am, and equally as  inspired to share those pursuits with your family. Family is really where the heart is.

Merry Christmas from the Abate Family.

Mi Tristeza 

 De esta vida
Al fin he podido rescatar
a mi alma dormida que
no queria despertar.

Despues de su letargo
ha podido comprobar que
tambien las amapolas
se cansan de esperar.

Que los perros lloran
cuando estan dormidos
y le duele el hambre
que tienen muchos ninos.

Me ha dicho que las
tumbas necesitan flores
?o a caso no vivieron  con lagrimas y amores?
o a caso no se fueron con lagrimas y honores.

De unas ella escucha
clamores de perdon
de seres que perdieron
su vida en el error.

De otros que vinieron
en total indiferencia
ahora es el silencio
su mas cruel penitencia.

---- Translation (which of course loses the rhythm and flow)----

My Sadness 

From my soul
finally I can rescue
my sleeping soul
that didn't want to wake.

After the lethargy
I finally realize
that even the poppies
get tired of waiting.

I now see that dogs cry while sleeping,
and it hurts that children go to bed hungry.

My soul is telling me
that the graves need flowers.
Perhaps they didn't come with tears and love.
Or perhaps they didn't leave with tears and honor.

For some of them I hear
cries for forgiveness
for souls that lost their lives in mistake.

For others that lived
in total indifference
now its the silence
which is the most cruel punishment.