What’s in a Brain?

Not only is my chiropractor enthralled by my crooked spine, he’s a great audience. I’m guaranteed to get a laugh every time I see him. He’s also a sports therapist, so I like to ask him random questions when I’ve been pondering the unique oddities of my compostable container. I’m so strangely wired, in fact, that sometimes we both learn something.

Lately I’ve had problems with my teeth aching, but rather than going to the dentist like a normal person, I decided it was a nerve issue better addressed by chiro—and I was right. A couple of visits and some postural instruction later, and my teeth are quiet again. It also got me thinking about my nervous system. So I asked him:

“All our nerves are contained in the spinal cord, right?”

“Yes,” he said, “except for seventeen facial nerves. (He knew this because my teeth quandary had sent him back to the manual; boy, we had a laugh about that!) Everything else runs through the third and fourth cervical vertebrae via the spinal cord.”

Now was the time to spring my logic on him, but not before I got his expert take on the subject. “So, where does it start?”

“In the brain.”

So much for logic. “Oh!” I exclaimed. “I thought it started at the base of the spine and spread upward, like a tulip bulb!”

He thought this was hilarious. “No, no. The nervous system starts at the brain and continues from the base of the spine into your legs and feet. I’m surprised at you, Ruth. I thought you were smarter than that.”

“Yeah, well, I guess it shows how much I value my brain!”

I’m really more of a heart person.

Fast forward to the ancient Egypt exhibit at the Royal BC Museum.  It’s a fabulous meander through life on the Nile in the time of the pharaohs, spanning everything from geography to society to the afterlife. I’ve read a bit about the ancient culture and the rituals around mummification, but the exhibit taught me a few things I hadn’t previously known about the process of prepping the body. I knew the internal organs were removed and given their own individual jars—lungs, liver, stomach and intestines—but I didn’t know (or remember) the heart was replaced in the chest cavity and (get this) the brain was discarded. Turns out you don’t need it in the afterlife!

It’s not that important in this life, either, no matter how hard it tries to convince you otherwise. It doesn’t house your soul. It’s the mortal version of Windows: it keeps the compostable container alive, but it doesn’t know a darned thing about life.

Well, maybe it knows enough to fear dying. It runs the machine and houses the self-preservation software. It’s also got an impressive array of tricks to keep us believing it’s smarter than it really is. As the comic Emo Phillips once said, “I thought the brain was the most important organ in my body. Then I realized who was telling me that.”

Sure, when faced with imminent danger, the fight/flight response kicks in, but the brain is part of the standard mortality package that includes motor skills and bladder control. I suppose the intellect resides in the brain as well, as intellect lacks compassion for anything and anyone save itself. Intellect ridicules compassion and empathy. It sneers at getting by on what you need rather than raking in the lion’s share. It’s all about survival of the fittest—but not necessarily the smartest. It believes what it’s told (sort of) and makes up what it doesn’t hear the first time. To its credit, the brain is a good storyteller—the writer in me likes that point—but it does tend to focus on horror rather than hope, keeping itself relevant in the guise of keeping us safe.

I could go on, but I’m not a neuroscientist. I don’t even play one on TV. I do know, however, that my heart is far smarter than my brain will ever be. I suspect this is because my heart houses the innate wisdom of spirit, that which connects me to each of you and to the greater source of All There Is. What resides in my heart is truly eternal, limitless, immortal and divine. What resides in my brain is temporary, transient, subjective and useful only until I reach my carbon-based expiry date. It is utterly fallible, and utterly human. It provides the contrast our spirits need to help us experience this phase of existence. It’s not as smart as it is shifty, but if I’m going to be a true creature of spirit, I will be glad of my brain for as long as I am here. It serves a significant purpose, after all, but let’s get real.

I won’t need it in the afterlife.

The Best Medicine

“I can’t stop laughing.”

Nicole often says this when she’s posted a funny on her F***book page. Whether or not I get the joke, her statement always cheers me. The mental image of my dear poet friend doubled over and howling is a guaranteed smile. And if I happen to get the joke, I do the same thing.

I knew someone who once observed that crazy people don’t smile. If that’s true, then few truly crazy folks have crossed my path. Borderline is another story.

I’ve just survived another fiscal year end at work. It happens every year, and every year I warn my colleagues to beware, for I will lose my sense of humour in the crunch of balancing my budget to my forecast. In fact, it’s practically a given that anyone forced to manage financials on March 31 will do the same thing. I got through it okay this time (I think), but others lost their warmth and charm while struggling to get last-minute payments into a balky system before the books closed at midnight. We will recover. We always do. But man, it’s rough because it permeates life outside the office as well, and when that happens … grim barely begins to describe it.

I’m pretty sure that laughter is a gift that comes with us from before. I sincerely hope that we take it with us when we leave. I can’t imagine any sort of existence without it. I can’t imagine this existence without it, and I am extremely grateful for people who can make me smile or, better yet, laugh until my ribs ache. I appreciate a TV series that inspires one good belly laugh per episode (and it needn’t be a “comedy” series, either). A TV series that does it more than once per episode is gold. When a comic dies, like David Brenner, Robin Williams, and more recently, Garry Shandling, I sense the dimming of the world as a whole, because funny people make it a brighter place.

Laughs in literature are even more precious. Writing comedy is difficult. A lot of humour is in the delivery, so how do you make someone laugh at words on a page? It’s a gift, I tell you!

I was born into a group of very funny people. My sibs are each hilarious in his/her own fashion—even on a red-faced rant, my wee sister will crack me up with an unexpected turn of phrase. My brothers are wry and dry, and my older sister can tell a story with such wit that you remember it years later. And I’m pretty droll, myself. Even when a situation is impossibly contrary, I am able to inject some humour into it.

Except at fiscal year end.

Make ʼem Laugh

The world got a little darker yesterday. David Brenner, my favourite comedian of all time, passed away from cancer at the age of 78. He was a ground breaker in the 70s, with a true gift for pointing out the absurdities in life.

I loved his south Philly accent, his flashy style and big Buick grin; he laughed at his own jokes and to this day, many of his quotes remain relevant; proof that genuine humour is truly timeless.

Regrettably, I lost sight of him over the past twenty years, though I did reacquaint myself with him via YouTube in 2011. I had also bookmarked his website with every intention of visiting on occasion. Just two days ago, I referred to his story about how the female mosquito doesnʼt buzz, but as she is the biter, if youʼre lying in bed on a hot summer night and you hear nothing, be afraid. I have no idea if thatʼs a fact, but the laughs were undeniably real. So many have rooted in my memory, so many belly laughs and hysterical tears. I remember more of his jokes than I do of anyone elseʼs (with the possible exception of my younger older brother). Thereʼs the legacy, right? That his humour is part of my history and part of my joy. A lot of people will be grateful that he lived.

Count me among them.