Dear Friends, Family, Neighbors, and Those of You I Don’t Yet Know —
Happy Winter Solstice to you (and Merry Christmas, if you celebrate it)! From Thanksgiving onward, I look forward to hearing holiday music by my favorite ancient music group, Mediaeval Baebes. The Baebes are a British group founded in 1996 by two women who love medieval music — Dorothy Carter and Katharine Blake. In performances, the group has between six and twelve members, depending, I guess on which medieval music lovers with lovely female voices are available. Here is their version of my favorite Yuletide carol, “Good King Wenceslas.” If you’ve never paid much attention to the lyrics, give it a try now. The words tell a story of remarkable compassion.
Officially, tomorrow is the winter solstice, at least in the northern hemisphere — at 7:59 a.m., PST, for those who like exactitude. Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about the longest night of the year. There has been so much darkness in 2021. But, at least in terms of the sun and our planet, things will start getting brighter now. The days will lengthen and the nights shorten until the first day of summer, when we’ll reach the longest day of the year.
The most memorable winter solstice of my life took place on June 20, 2008. That’s right. June 20th. “But,” you’ll be asking, “isn’t that summer?” Well, yes, but only in the northern hemisphere. That day, I was aboard the National Science Foundation’s icebreaker Nathaniel Palmer, in the Weddell Sea about 500 miles from the tip of the Antarctic Peninsula. And what was I, a simple writer, mostly of fiction for children, doing on a science voyage, you might well ask. I was trying to make water chemistry fun and engaging for kids. (A challenge, as you might guess. The mixed results were a couple of blogs, still online, though getting a bit dusty now. If you’re curious, they can be found on my writing website, The Weird Worlds of Nancy Etchemendy.)
By the day of the solstice, we were three weeks into a month-long voyage. We were too far north for eternal night, but as I recall, we had only seen the sun for two or three hours that day. I would have forgotten about the solstice if not for the fact that we received a shipwide email from the overwintering residents of Palmer Station wishing us a happy Mid-winter’s Day. I felt an odd and immediate kinship with the Palmerians, even though they were a good 500 miles away. Such is the isolation of Antarctica. Their message explained that they were all dressed in their best clothes and were having a party with lots of champagne, which was to be followed by a naked dip in the Southern Ocean. (Well…they *had* to tell someone.) Which may bring to mind sandy beaches and palm trees, but this was the Seriously Southern Ocean. Owing to its salinity, the water temperature was just below freezing. Luckily, our captain would have none of this aboard the Nathaniel Palmer, and anyway, it being a government ship, there wasn’t so much as a bottle of cider aboard. Nevertheless, we sent back our warmest greetings and toasted the Palmerians with hot chocolate, of which there was plenty.
The cycle of the seasons is one of my favorite parts of life on planet Earth. There is a certain comfort in knowing that winter always fades into spring and then into summer, onward into autumn and back to winter again. Global warming has slowly eroded this comfort. This, I think, goes some distance toward explaining the undercurrent of anxiety and ill temper that seems to be sucking now at too many human interactions. It takes a great deal of presence — more than most of us possess — to remain serene and accepting when everything seems to be changing at once. In fact, most years it takes more presence than I possess just to be okay with the darkness of winter. I know people who find wintertime restful. I once heard a resident of Fairbanks tell of how he nearly fell asleep outside in temperatures nearing -50 degrees F, mesmerized by the northern lights. I guess that could happen if you have the right clothes. But for me, the long darkness of winter is a continuous opportunity to practice over and over again gently pulling myself away from dreams of summer and into gratitude for rain, the brilliant stars of a cold night, and full moons ringed by a ghostly circle of frost.
So what are we to do, in these challenging times, when a difficult conversation starts to head south? I don’t mean “south” toward Antarctica. Nosirree. I mean “south” toward shouting and verbal barbs. The key to it all is presence.
In recent weeks, I’ve been enjoying “Behave,” a book by the Stanford neuroendocrinologist Robert Sapolsky. I’ve probably mentioned it at least once in past issues. It’s the kind of book I like to read slowly, thinking about each page for a while before turning to the next one. “Behave” is about the physiological factors that contribute to various human behaviors. This is a hideously simple version of Sapolsky’s nuanced explanation. But briefly, emotional responses to situations are handled in the amygdala region of the brain — what Tai Chi Dan calls the “lizard brain” — one of the first brain areas to develop in a fetus, and also one of the oldest regions from an evolutionary standpoint. Rational decision-making occurs in the prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain that is newest from an evolutionary standpoint. It’s also the last to develop in a normal human being. We don’t have full command of our decision-making functions till we’re about…oh…21 years of age, when the PFC finishes its development. Funny how we knew that and even created laws around it before we understood the reasons.
Stressed-out people (that is to say, all of us lately) tend to make terrible decisions. The amygdala sends emotion-heavy information to the prefrontal cortex, where we decide what to do with it. If our prefrontal cortex is already trying to manage the generally high computing load associated with stress, its ability to decide what’s important and what’s not, and then whether to do something about it or not, and if so, what that something might be, gets seriously awful. This can show up in the everyday world as deciding to pick a fight over something that might, on a different day, seem like nothing at all. It can also show up as a shouting match. The key to nipping this type of situation in the bud is presence: the ability to pause, take a couple of deep breaths, and give your prefrontal cortex the space it needs to make a good decision. As our mothers always told us, it takes two to fight. If one party stops to take a breath, the fight loses momentum. It’s like snuffing a lit fuse with wet fingers. The whole dynamic changes.
But don’t you have to be sort of super-human to do stuff like that? In the heat of the moment, how can we possibly stop? I certainly never thought I could develop the ability to do such a thing, but whoa, I could and did! I’m not fabulous at it, but I’m sure a lot better than I used to be. Yep, I’m saying presence is a skill that can be learned. Not that it’s easy. It takes time, and like everything else, it takes practice, practice, practice.
Among the many gifts meditation offers is the ability to develop presence. By sitting quietly for a while each day, taking note of our own thoughts and mental habits, we begin to learn some important skills related to presence. First, we come to know ourself better. We begin to understand where we automatically go when we’re not aware of what we’re doing or thinking. We also learn how to guide the mind back from those well-worn habitual paths into the light of conscious thought. There is something more mysterious that happens, too. The lizard brain’s hold on us loosens, and we become more stable and less likely to lose our equanimity in the first place. This, I personally believe, comes from a sense of our connection with something larger than ourself, which is not just outside us, but is within us as well.
So when our conversational partner tosses a personal insult our way, instead of giving way to the amygdala, we can stop; blink; breathe. And say, “I need to take a minute.” And go get a glass of water, or watch the solstice sun go down while we decide, in a rational, conscious way, how to respond.
Merry Solstice and Christmas, and Happy New Year. I’ll be back again on January 3, ready for another year of whatever comes our way. Can’t leave without posting a solstice poem, though…
WINTER TURNS
The leaves have turned long since
and blown away in drifts,
the harvests cut and carried in,
the fields once green gone brown,
tough stubs beneath first frost,
then snow, and through this snow
and through this darkest dark,
on this long night each year
trails of footprints lead
to a small house
where burns a warming fire
and candles, and a cut tree
rises, adorned, sharing
its last perfume with us
who gather here to drink,
and greet each other,
to watch our children play
and grow and bring children
of their own in spite of grief,
rumors of war, to sing
in harmony the ancient songs
well known to all, and to recall
that even when we’re gone
the days will lengthen
into spring.
Really enjoyed reading Lizard Brain and it reinforced what I have been studying in
the book, "Awakening of the Heart" by Thich Nhat Hanh" which is his translation and interpretation of the Buddhist Sutras, one of which is called "Knowing the Better Way to Live Alone". When I achieve a deep meditative state, I feel that I am in a bubble where I am all alone and yet it expands to include everything. In this bubble I am fully present, awake and alert and there is peace, contentment, and joy.
I often seek meditation to get refuse from a state of upset and strong emotions and in the process always get a relieving insight. As I practice meditation more and more, I am able to stay alone in this delightful bubble during my work, play, sports and daily life, although it still can be easy burst. Nevertheless, recreating the bubble and having the insights is the reward.
The prefrontal cortex is unique in that it has neural pathways that connects it to every other part of our nervous system and therefore entire body/mind. I propose that when I am in this bubble all the pathways are open and I experience a wholistic (Zen) experience via my PFC. This is aloneness with equanimity and spiritual connection. Enjoying more of the comedy of life and less of the tragedy.
Just as the Solstice was happening here, I was reading your thoughtful and articulate column. It was perfect timing as I move from numbness and distractions with the grief of losing my beloved husband of 58 years to being present in the waves of darkness with the joys of the Christmas season. David died three years ago just before the Solstice, and his last words were clear and his face bright as the light toward which he seemed to be going. Thank you for helping me live with my lizard brain..