Sue Vincent's Blog: Echoes of Life, page 1035

Regarding memory

Image:capitalotc.com

“Macrophages.” His expression was smug. “I’ll never forget the macrophages.” We had just had a discussion about memory and how things learned since the attack fail to stick unless he uses them.

“But you remember macrophages.”

“Of course! That was important!” The macrophages are his talisman. He brings them up every time. My son has acquired an uncommonly good knowledge of physiology through his determination to recover. He also has the impression I am a walking Wiki-thesaurus. I suppose from his perspective I am a bit of a dinosaur … and I hope to God he doesn’t read this or I’ll have another new nick-name…

Every so often though, I surprise him. The macrophages were one such moment when, to his delight, I didn’t know the answer. For the past three years they have come up fairly frequently, as they did the other day in one of the odd conversations that we share. I’d been explaining the anatomy of his dishwasher to him, its innards being pretty much a mystery to him.

“…but you know what the ‘trap’ is in anatomy?” My puzzled expression lit his face with something approaching beatitude. It fell again as I answered,

“Trapezoid.”

“Just for a minute I thought I had you… you had to go and spoil it…” The mock glum expression descended and that’s when he started muttering about his beloved macrophages.

It is surprising really, given the level of brain injury that Nick sustained back in 2009, that he can even enunciate the word, let alone have an intelligent conversation about these particular cells. Even more surprising, on the face of it, that he can remember their name and function. But, as he said, they are important … one of his cherished victories… and so he has stored the memory in what you might see as a top level file. Details of other things often slide into obscurity… recent memory is one of the very few blips that remain in Nick’s mind from the injury.

We are in a rare position where many things are concerned. Most of us take our minds, senses and bodies for granted. We know that some of those senses may fade as we age and we accept that as an inevitable part of getting older. We even accept that the memory does odd things as we age. Nick, on the other hand, woke from the coma paralysed, mute and with both his hearing and sight impaired. The thought processes of his quicksilver mind were slow and laboured, his memory disorganised and unreliable, the prognosis appalling.

His recovery has been damned near miraculous, brought about largely through an utter determination to defy every negative prediction. His mind and his wit are, to all outward appearances, as sharp and as quick as ever. The only visible problems relate to his reduced mobility and those he continues to address on a daily basis with a dedication that has to be seen to be appreciated.

The invisible scars are a different matter. Though minimal in functional terms in comparison to what they were, there are still areas, such as his sight and his memory, where Nick himself can see the problems even if others do not see them. We have learned to watch memory working and understand how things that have an emotional resonance and relevance are filed at the ‘top’ level, whilst minor or bland details are buried in the depths.

Bodies have memory too and much of Nick’s physical recovery is based around repatterning, reminding the neurological and physical connections of what they once knew. It is odd that things we have not done in a very long time… like that first waltz in decades or riding a bicycle… come back easily once we allow the body to move into them, even if we believe we have forgotten how…

You can see this yourself as you look back on your life so far. The highlights that spring to mind are all rooted in emotion. We seldom remember the grey moments, but the times of joy and sadness stand out. Those we recall first. Other times come back as we delve, almost by an emotional ranking based on intensity, whether good or bad.

It occurred to me that most of us spend most of our time simply moving through a monochrome life of vague emotions shaped by routine, habit and duty. There are few spots in most days where we are conscious of a strong enough emotion to forge a first level memory. Others… second level recollections… seem to need a trigger to bring them back to the surface of the mind. The vast majority of our lives as we have lived them slips into utter oblivion, buried so deep that recalling those moments becomes nigh impossible.

Having seen first-hand how easy it is to lose so much in a single split second of a horror beyond our control, I was obliged to take stock of how I was filling the filing cabinets of my own memory. It was a wake up call, long before I began to understand the process. Literally a wake-up call… the intensity of those first days was raw and terrible. But those days are etched in sharp relief in memory.

I never want to feel that way again. But I realised I did want to live my life with that level of passion. I wanted to be alive while I live. Perhaps, after all, it is no so strange that it was from this point my own life began to change. External events seemed to take a hand and unfold to bring me to the School and the life I live today. Nor is it coincidence that I work with a school whose techniques seek to bring vividness to everyday life.

Both our conversation and my reverie were brought to a halt by a delivery arriving. As I unpacked my son’s purchases he explained that he had bought them for a joke… a set of Nunchaku, way too lightweight to be used for anything else. Except, they proved to be a trigger for a memory I had buried deep enough to need the reminder of their physical presence in my hands.

I wandered out into the garden with my son watching from the door to see what I was up to. He laughed as I took the jacket off, realising what I was at, and folded his arms in preparation for enjoying the opportunity to heap ridicule upon his mother. He stopped laughing and I watched in, I admit it, unholy glee, as his face went through every stage of shock and horrified disgust as I swung the nunchaku with a 30 year old skill I had, apparently, not entirely forgotten. Once upon a time I had made myself a set and taught myself to use them as part of my morning meditation… the body does not need to be still for the mind to fly free.

“You can’t do that!” he said as I passed the chained sticks around my body.

“Why not?” Being an evil hobbit I could only grin at his crestfallen face.

“Cause you’re my Mum!”

Dew

Nine Deadly Sins with Coffee – Part Four

Originally posted on The Silent Eye:

“It’s the fear thing, isn’t it?” Alexandra had me pinned into the corner of the coffee shop as though she was about to administer the final legal blow in a key case. I was even worried that my glass of water, bought to wash down the final sip of coffee, Italian style, would get spilled.

“Whenever you really think about fear, you realise that it’s at the heart of so many things that people–that I–do!” She continued.  I watched her become conscious, not just of what she was saying, but of how defensively she was saying it.

Seeing this happen to her, sharing the act of deeper consciousness, was a catalyst. It always was with people taking this path for the first time. Still saying nothing, I looked on, a passive and friendly observer, letting her have the space to come to terms with how central ‘fear’ was…

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An open letter to Aylesbury Vale District Council ;)

Dear ladies and sirs, I would like to report

That I have just had an unusual thought;

You’re missing a trick with this tourism lark,

It’s all very well having jazz in the park

And teddy bear picnics for kids to have fun…

But what about culture when all’s said and done?

You may have considered, but then you may not,

All of the unnoticed talent we’ve got,

Just hiding their light under bushel and tree

And quietly hoping that someone might see.

You may have dismissed it… perhaps I’m too late…

Should we not appoint a poet laureate?

I know that we’ve got one at national level

Who crafts clever ditties for banquet and revel,

But come on now gentlemen, let’s keep it local,

You just need a wordsmith who’s happily vocal…

Who at the proverbial drop of a hat

Could come up with versicles… simple as that!

The new town next door’s got their poet already

Composing its praises, production is steady

And given the concrete and bitumen vista

(That not half as pretty as Gawcott or Bicester)

He does a good job in his new occupation

Considering that the town lacks inspiration.

What ‘s needed is someone who’d do it for free

(But who wouldn’t object to a nominal fee)

Who could extol the Vale with its stories and beauties

(While making the mayor look good in his duties…)

But a hardworking poet just isn’t enough

They must be quite fast and produce ‘off the cuff’.

You can’t wait all week for the stuff to be written

You want an adventurer, who has been bitten

By bugs that enslave them to poetic metre

(You don’t want their poetry cured in saltpetre),

You want it delivered immediately…

(If nobody else comes to mind, then I’m free…)

You may not be bothered, it’s just an idea

(Of course, if you’re down with it, I’d volunteer…)

If not I can promise you I won’t be bitter

(I’m easy to contact on Facebook and Twitter)

So thank you for giving your consideration

To this small and innovative peroration.

Yours, (hopefully…)

Sue Vincent

;)

Memory

Love in ten lines

The Love you seek

Is a Love within,

Love that is calling

To a Love without;

Yet the Love without

Is the Love within.

A Love that yearns

And knows Love’s home,

For Love is lost,

When we Love alone.

“The minute I heard my first love story,

I started looking for you, not knowing

how blind that was.

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.

They’re in each other all along.” Rumi

Dale at A Delectable Life just threw a gaunlet into my inbox… to write a poem about love in only ten lines… though perhaps the most beautiful love poems are silent.

The challenge works like this:

Write about love using only 10 lines.
Use the word love in every line.
Each line can only be 4 words long.
Nominate others who are up for the challenge.
Let them know about the challenge.
Title the post:  Love in Ten Lines
Include a quote about love ( this can be your own)
You may write in any language

So… I have to nominate Richard Ankers, Jaye and Anita, Meredith and Alienora Taylor methinks :) Do join in …if you wish :)

Workspace Blog Hop

Pamela nominated me to take part in the Workspace Blog Hop back in September last year, sharing where we each work and write. Recently Alienora also passed along the baton. And I am afraid, I am going to cheat and share again some of the post I wrote last year… with a few additions… as there are one or two things demanding my attention just at present.

Just minor things… like the upcoming workshop… and the possibility of an unexpectedly-timed house move… My younger son has a small, one bedroomed place and a growing daughter and I have a family home all to myself. We thought we should try and do something sensible about that…

For me there is no spectacular space, just the small corner of the living room that has become my focus. The desk and sideboard, once upon a time, were a modern ‘Welsh dresser’ that was converted to fit in the corner as an occasional space to work. At that point in time it mattered more that the place looked tidy. Comfort took second place; I didn’t spend that much time at the keyboard after all. It was only temporary.

Several years on, that temporary measure is possibly the most uncomfortable desk in the world. My kneecaps sit nicely on the shelf in the centre but as my feet don’t quite touch the floor, the lower shelf does, at least, give me a convenient toehold. I dream of spacious desks and big, padded, leather chairs… footrests and space…

Dreaming be damned. If we manage to pull this move off the desk will remain in the new living room…and I will find one with knee room if it is the last thing I do :)

That centre shelf, by the way, doubles as the gym. It generally holds an assortment of Ani’s toys, stuffed under there periodically throughout the day by a hopeful small dog who has worked out that even when I am typing away I may be induced to throw a ball or squeak a stuffed toy if they are placed within reach.

I can’t see there being any change there…

On the desk itself there are, even given the restricted space, a variety of crystals I have been gifted, a photo or two that make me smile, reference and notebooks, and a small door through which I can escape. There is a story attached to that door… remind me to tell you sometime! There is also a sprig of Yorkshire heather, keeping the colours of home close beside me.  There are candles too. I like to write by candlelight rather than putting the lights on in the evening, and the phone is always handy.

In fact, if the move goes ahead I can’t see me having the lights on much at night. The new garden has open fields behind it… no streetlamps… just stars…

Also within reach is a window onto the garden for procrastinating inspiration, the odd book or two and the kettle for the necessary coffee. And usually a small dog for company, comfort, exercise and dietary assistance (she eats everything). She also doubles as a footrest.

The kettle will be a little further away, but the walk to the kitchen will be good for me. If I can resist the french doors into the garden… which I will have to create. The books? I have no idea at all how on earth I am going to fit them in! I may need a carpenter…

The back door stands almost permanently open, day and night, just behind me. I can hear the birds sing and the flutter of their wings as Ani chases them out of her garden.

If the move goes ahead of course, this will all change. The new living room has large french windows through which the small dog can wander in and out to her heart’s content. Probably still both in winter and summer. She will be able to watch the kites swooping over the field onto which the new little garden opens out. A field which will hold horses and cows in summer… and hopefully not a curious small dog.

On the other hand, I have bits of paper, notebooks and pens in every conceivable nook and cranny these days from handbag to bathroom. You never know when you might come up with something after all and need to write it down before it vanishes!

This too will doubtless stay the same.. though it won’t be so far to hunt in order to find something. No stairs… and I’ll be able to clean all the windows without dangling out of them! Did I mention there were red kites too? They even come down into the garden…

And that is just a blank canvas at present, nothing but grass and the occasional mole. I will have to start from scratch… which gives me free rein once I have the inside sorted… doubtless the small dog will help. If she would only dig holes where I actually want them though, that’s the thing…

It might just be heaven :) Keep your fingers crossed for me!

Summer

Ronovan’s Haiku Challenge

What is it about the Trickster? Interview with Sue Vincent plus review of Mister Fox: The Legend

Sue Vincent:

When a review of one of your books reduces you to tears.

If ever two writers wanted reassurance that they had succeeded in what they had tried to capture… this has to count as the best review ever.. Thank you Barb!

Originally posted on Barb Taub:

I have seen them write in fire on the darkness…and heard the drums beaten with flaming brands.

Where do they come from?

They come out of the night…

Where do they go to?
Back to the night they return…
They dance in the dark to pipe and drum and fiddle
They dance in the dark with fire and brandished flame…

No-one knows who they are…
But why do they dance?
What is the story behind this magical spectacle?
There are rumours, legends…
Don and Wen set out to investigate.
In a darkened corner of the Waggon and Horses, Langsett, a hooded and enigmatic figure whispers secrets…

Book Title:  Mister Fox: The Legend

Authors:  Sue Vincent & Stuart France

Genre:  Graphic Novel

Length:  46 pages
Release Date:  26 February 2015 (Silent Eye Press)
Purchase Links: Amazon UK | Amazon US | Amazon France | Amazon Canada | Amazon Australia



Why do…

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Dear Don XXI

Ancient of Days, William Blake

Dear Don,

Your lion-headed Aion is also associated with Mithras whose story, in symbolic terms, has close parallels with that of so many later religions including Christianity. He too is often depicted with a thunderbolt.

Mithras. Image source: Wikipedia

Your mention of the thunderbolts reminded me straight away of the Valknut, the triangular knot of Norse mythology that we came across before… the entwined thunderbolts thought to refer… perhaps…to the power of Odin to bind the minds of men with fear or unleash them through inspiration. The double edged sword…

We know the same symbol was found associated with Woden as lord of the dead in Anglo-Saxon cemeteries… the binding and unbinding of the cords of life seems a similar interpretation, albeit operating on another level of being.

The Valknut, triangular thunderbolts entwined. Image: Wikipedia

The thunderbolt is a perfect symbol, really, for those flashes of illumination that seem to come out of nowhere, light us with the utter clarity of understanding… then fade, leaving only an impression and a knowing behind.

It is odd that Thor, whose use of lightning is well known, had the battle with the jötunn Hrungnir… whose heart was a triangular affair of stone. The entwined thunderbolts of the valknut are often called Hrungnir’s heart. He and Thor fought and though Thor triumphed, smashing the stone giant’s head with his hammer… that same hammer that we know from the ancient crosses… a shard of the whetstone of the giant lodged in Thor’s forehead.

The cosmic thunderbolt, Syracuse, 3rdC BC and the crest of the Rothschilds that is all over my village…

The story is very similar to that of Conchobar mac Nessa… which takes the symbolism across to Ireland. Scholars, of course, argue for importation of the tale… or at least a common source. I am of the latter opinion… though don’t discount the former as far as the tale itself goes… but wonder if it goes deeper than that… if perhaps the common source is an innate need to understand the world.

Assyrian warrior, Ninurta with thunderbolt. Image source: Thunderbolts Project

The deeper we delve into the ancient symbols , the more apparent it becomes that all of them are starting from a similar point of need and inspiration. The tales address human themes that transcend place, time and culture and all seem to resemble each other.

Which brings us back to the spokes on a wheel, doesn’t it? All starting from widely different, but equidistant points, yet seeking the same centre. And as you said the other day, the closer we get to the Hub, the less the separation becomes between the paths.

Oh, before I forget, the Beast wants to know if I should bring a copy of the new book…?

Love,

Wen and Anu x

P.S. You know that this weekend of the equinox marked two years since our first expedition to Uffington and Wayland’s Smithy… I still can’t quite believe all we have seen and done in that time or how many books we have written since then!