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.

Uff Da

Ter and I went to see the Vikings exhibit at the museum on Monday. Aside from being über-cool in general, the set up was clustered into themes rather than running a chronological sequence—describing how they operated in society, religion, war, shipbuilding, etc. I’m no sailor, but from an engineering perspective, how they accomplished what they accomplished on the water is as astounding as the Egyptians building the pyramids. Crossing the north Atlantic now is dangerous; packing the wife and kids into a longboat and trying to skim the surface to Newfoundland 1000 years ago … what’s the Viking word for “crazy”? We took a break halfway through to hit the IMAX, then finished up by pillaging the gift shop. Well, I didn’t buy anything, but I’m a cheap Scot, not a Viking. Ter maybe kinda halfway sorta is, as we suspect her maternal grandfather was of Swedish descent. They didn’t make 6' 5" Finns in his generation and he was a big dude. Mind you, Ter was a little girl when he died. Everyone is big to a six-year-old.

It was helpful to see the artifacts and whatnot, though, as we’ve been watching the TV series Vikings on History channel. The series is produced and written by Michael Hirst, whose fast and loose play with historical facts in the name of fiction made me immediately suspicious of what he might try to pass off as an accurate depiction of 10^th century Scandinavia. Turns out he’s not that far off the mark, though the series itself makes me scratch my head because the characters are regrettably either ho-hum or out-and-out unlikeable. The main character, played by Australian Travis Fimmell, consistently has me torn between worshiping him and knocking him in the knuts—and don’t get me started on the female characters. His first wife is awesome, but why he dumped her for the second still escapes me. They had princesses in Viking times, too, and I don’t mean of the royal variety.

Today is Thorsday, named for the God of Thunder, which is eerily appropriate given the headache that’s beating a tattoo against my frontal lobe this morning. I hate when life happens on vacation. Can’t let it stop me, though—I’m on a roll with the Russians, so Tylenol is down and I’m eager to delve deeper into the unfolding tale of Viktor and the royal family. The ballroom didn’t get done yesterday; the third scene took a hard left and dumped me into an unexpected and very emotional recollection. I’m at the stage where I’m wondering where this is going and it has me mildly panicked about the purpose of the piece. After much mulling and mental wrangling, I believe I see an ending—hopefully happy, but knowing my style, probably not. Best I can foresee is bittersweet. I’m trying to keep everyone alive except for the one who, ironically, is emerging as the main character. So it appears that this story is about love, loss and healing. Nothing new in the literary world, I guess, but it’s foreign turf for me because there are no vampires and no magical powers along to give it some supernatural pizzazz. It’s all about the people. Plain, normal, fragile mortals. I really hope I can do it—do them—justice.