An Exercise: Awe location
This exercise in the location of awe can be done anywhere, but you need to have time to not be distracted or pulled away to a task. Set aside a fixed amount of time, say, 5 minutes to start.
I’ve gotten to thinking about the experience of awe, especially in how it figures into the project of dismantling depression and anxiety. So the question for this essay boils down to: how does awe affect mood?
Ok. If we start with a brief definition from Websters, we get:
“Awe: an emotion variously combining dread, veneration, and wonder that is inspired by authority or by the sacred or sublime.”
So, here’s the starting point for this article, a contention about overwhelm: It’s impossible to feel safe in our lives if we cannot manage overwhelm. If we are either often experiencing overwhelm, or we feel that if we let our guard down, we’ll get overwhelmed, we will adopt one of the primal and rigid defenses to guard, in an overgeneralized way, against this terrible experience.
Which then, of course, begs the questions, “What is safety?” and, “What is overwhelm?”
Today in San Francisco was one of those days that make the Minnesota tourists contemplate emigration. Blue sky, temperate weather, a solicitous sun, and even my typically shivering and jaded fellow citizens were smiling and starting to rethink humanity. I had ridden my bicycle to an appointment, and then with a gap in my schedule, thought I’d take advantage of the day to ride down to Crissy Field, a long public beach just inside San Francisco Bay, overlooked by the Golden Gate Bridge. The place is iconic, majestic. It has boats, people strolling with their dogs, mothers playing with children. And joggers.
Our nervous systems are things unto themselves. They have their own logic and memory and needs, and have to be attended to as we would our bodies. As the body needs its fill of exercise, set mixtures of proteins, carbs, minerals, so too the nervous system needs its own kind of nutrients, in the form of stimulation, novelty, meaningful relationship, positive thoughts, truth. This is a really important perspective to have on one’s own self, because seeing the nervous system as having its own needs and integrity allows us to relate to it much more skillfully, precisely, and therefore, effectively.
One of the most important needs the nervous system has is to experience what the neuroscientists refer to as “self-regulation,” which means that its capacity to channel energy and information is kept within its “range of tolerance” (another neuroscience term). More colloquially, it needs to not get too stressed and overwhelmed, and to trust that it can self-regulate, can indeed come back to it’s regular, normal functioning.
It’s a bit analogous to an electrical circuit. A wire in the wall at home can only take so much electrical current before the wire begins to melt or burn out (become unable to transmit the electrical energy, its purpose). Circuit breakers are built into these lines in order to stop the destruction of the wires, by “blowing” when the current becomes too strong for that circuit. At a mechanical level, this is a way of “self-regulating.” An energy surge is “understood” by the circuit breaker as dangerous to the overall system, and therefore “regulates” by breaking the circuit (by breaking a filament in a fuse, or tripping a shut-off mechanism). The circuit ceases to function, to carry energy, but the overall system is protected from damage.
Which is also the way that depression is intended to protect the human nervous system. When we get flooded and can’t “self-regulate” in a modulated way (like gradually turning down the current), then the backup regulation kicks in and shuts us down totally. Functioning diminished (we’re laying in bed all day) but nervous system protected. I.e., depression.
So practicing with self-regulating before the circuit breaker of depression blows is critical to preventing repeated relapses of depression; or, elegant self-regulation prevents the need to regulate inelegantly.
Since the nervous system (the brain, the spinal cord, the peripheral nerves) essentially serves to process information (from external and internal sources), then any “channel of input” is a place that we can intervene to change the “output.” All the five senses as well as the different aspects of mind (primarily, thought and imagination), because they are sources of information that are then interpreted, made sense of, and “outputted” into behavior, are places where we can intervene to produce better “downstream” outcomes. Which results in a relative ease of self-regulation, and therefore, diminished intensity and time in overwhelm.
So, here’s a checklist to use when feeling overwhelmed (or headed in that direction). Use this checklist as a reminder of ways to change your experience (“output”) by changing you internal and external environment (“inputs”). But treat each possible change as an offering to the nervous system, allowing it to have the final say on whether it’s useful or not, without demanding anything “should” be calming. What works, works.
Ok, so having that checklist (which I’d encourage you to take and fill in with strategies or changes that often work with you, to remind you when you’re sinking), I’ll give an example below.
I’m going to fictionalize my experience of writing this newsletter (this time, anyway, I’ve actually stayed within my “range of tolerance” throughout).
So: Let’s say I’m sitting at my office, at my desk, dressed in my usual work clothes, writing away. Let’s say it’s winter and it’s a typical overcast San Francisco afternoon. My thoughts are flowing, I’m feeling good about the content, I’m focused and concentrated. The room feels warm and cozy, and the background traffic noise is a pleasant hum.
Then I check my email in between thoughts, and there’s a letter, let’s say from a famous psychiatrist who also specializes in depression and anxiety, to whom I’ve sent the piece of writing I’m most proud of. (I.e., this would be a person who is important and meaningful to me.) I excitedly open the email and the first line of his response is, “I’ve never read greater drivel in my whole career.” From there, it then it gets worse.
So, email read, how am I feeling? Well, emotionally, probably some mix of humiliation, shame, and fear. Cognitively, the thoughts may have changed from, “Hey, I’m a pretty good writer, and I’ve got important things to say, etc.” to, “I can’t believe I thought I could write, or that any of it was important, and he’s going to tell everyone, I’ll be laughed at, etc.” Physically, I notice a fierce tightening in the gut, tension along my upper back, and feel nauseous, heart suddenly racing, skin flushed. At the level of the nervous system, I feel hyper-activated (as if a car just hit me), jumpy, and notice a kind of electrical twitching throughout my body. I’m having, it would seem, a very strong reaction.
Actually, I’m overwhelmed. Meaning, my nervous system can’t handle, within it’s range of tolerance/capacity, the stimulation it’s receiving (mostly internal, in this case, in the form of thoughts and images that are translating into body). But I’m not so flooded with reaction that I don’t notice it happening (this spontaneous “noticing” being one of the supreme values of a mindfulness practice), and therefore the nascent depressive shutdown (“See, it’s really all futile!”) can be caught and worked with.
Ok, so how can I work with it? Well, let’s say I have the checklist in a drawer, so I pull it out and go through it. I first acknowledge to myself, “Wow, that sure felt like a sucker punch, so what would help? [itself a change in thought, implying acceptance of the situation and my reaction, and relationally, that I’m non-judgmentally with myself].” Starting with the visual field, I look around the room and ask myself, would I feel more comfortable (i.e., more self-regulated) if I changed anything in the visual field? I notice that, in the state I’m in as opposed to before I read the psychiatrist’s email, the sunlight seems dingy and depressing. So, I close the shades and turn on another lamp. Then I notice what that feels like (i.e., I’m experimenting with what works) and there is a kind of somatic soothing effect that I can feel in my body, and feel as a slight decrease in the sense of overwhelm. (When we start working with ourselves in this way, focusing on the nervous system as an aspect of ourselves to be nurtured on its own terms, we start to be able to measure where we are on the “overwhelm scale,” which then shows up a bit like how we notice humidity, kind of a sense unto itself.)
Then I think, aurally, what would be soothing. Checking into that sense, I think, “Maybe some music?” I imagine turning to iTunes, but when I conjure that image, some part of me (you could say my nervous system) kind of wrinkles it’s nose. “Ok, not music.” Nothing else comes to mind in terms of the sound-scape, so I move on.
Physically, anything more comfortable? I notice–again, my nervous system state has changed, as it is being activated differently, as the flight-or-flight circuitry is flipped on–that now I’m cold, where a minute ago it felt fine. Rather than fight it or try to be heroic, I grab the blanket from the corner and wrap it around my shoulders. Then I check in, and find, “No, that’s not it, too hot, but around my legs would feel good.” I try that, and sure enough, notice a soothing sensation, and notice a flash of memory when Mom used to wrap us as kids in warm laundry. (That thought becomes another input which produces a soothing output, and the sense of overwhelm decreases a little more.)
Taste? Nothing is available–I forgot my lunch–though my mind, dutifully experimental, considers licking the fichus. Rejecting that idea as probably not comforting (my mind imagines the scenario for a second), I move on to touch. The blanket, now on my lap, has tasseled fringes, so I try rubbing that between my fingers. No memories come to mind this time, but sure enough, the new tactile input produces another bit of soothing, so I keep that up. Smell? I notice that the air smells a little acrid from the car fumes–being somewhat overwhelmed, my senses are heightened and less tolerant–I get up and shut the window.
So, I’ve covered the five senses and am feeling less of the sense of overwhelm. I notice, too, that even though I was not focusing directly on the mental or relational realm yet, just going through the checklist itself feels like an act of self-caring, which implicitly carries with it memories and sensations of love, being valued, being noticed, etc. The primary focus is the senses, but the secondary meaning also carries potency, in terms of returning my jangled nervous system back to the range of tolerance.
I then think about the relational realm: do I want to be alone or with others? I imaging calling a friend, or going to the coffee shop, and the visceral response is kind of like I’ve put my finger in a light socket. Ok, I get the message that my nervous system wants to be alone, that being in relationship to others right now would be more dysregulating. (That said, I am relating caringly to myself and my nervous system does, in fact, register this as a real relationship, a real input relevant to self-regulation.)
Ok, so now the mental realm: I notice, feeling physically more comfortable, the immediate negative thoughts are a bit quieter, less overwhelming to my rational side. I see that the “I’m terrible” thoughts are still there, and I think, “Ok, maybe, but is this psychiatrist’s feedback the only I ever get?” A part of me, grudgingly, says, “Well, no, not usually…but the positive feedback you do get, it’s probably all lies.” “Ok,” I respond, “perhaps, but if we think about those who have given that positive feedback, would they lie?” Again, grudgingly, “Well, no, not really…” What I notice then is a softening of the overwhelm, and a kind of energetic outbreath. Some relief.
Then, enlisting the imagination, I think, “Ok, who among those people who really appreciates and values me and my writing, do I trust?” Who comes to mind is a long-time colleague, very respectable and genuine and trustworthy, and as I let myself visualize her and feel into our relationship, her imagined self winks at me and says, “It’s all good.” (Writers often talk about how their characters take on a life of their own, which happens because the elements of our imagination actually represent real dynamics and people, and given attention, will play out their own logics.) With her wink, I notice myself having a big outbreath, and the tensions in my body settle out and I feel safe and lovable again. Shame recedes. Then the feedback from the psychiatrist suddenly appears as just one opinion, not the definitive statement on my eternal self.
Thus, I’ve gone through this process: from self-regulated calm (within my “range of tolerance”), to hyper-activation (triggered by the email), overwhelm, then methodical attendance to “inputs” (the checklist), attending to how my nervous system “likes” those input changes, and then a gradual return to “self-regulation,” which is characterized by a return to the range of tolerance, to safety, and to a sense of basic “ok-ness.”
Admittedly, it doesn’t always go so smoothly, and the ability to self-regulate in this way is actually a skill, a kind of muscular learning that is not simply about new insight. The nervous system has it’s own rules and “tensile strength” that is not dependent on what we think of our belief systems. Just like the physical system of, say, the femur has a breaking point, so too the nervous system.
Working with the different “inputs” into the nervous system–the five senses, the mental realms (of thought and imagery), the physical realm of body posture, the relational realm–one is able to modulate the outputs, i.e., overwhelm and the attendant depressive shutdown.
Having these repeated experiences of successful self-regulation then has the attendant effect of building one’s sense of (and belief in) one’s own self-efficacy, changing one’s self-image in a way that itself works against overwhelm. Knowing that we can work with overwhelm, and that treating the nervous system as an object in and of itself actually works to feel better, builds a different self-image that itself helps us feel safe, and therefore, less prone to overwhelm. The ripple effects of practicing with such a Nervous System Salve is profound and pervasive, and in a way stems from engaging the basic question, “What would feel better?”
There’s an exercise that the Rabbi Marc Gafni often has his students do, called “The Confession of Greatness.” I’ve seen many people find it more difficult than gold old fashion confession (of sins, etc.); for various reasons, we can find it harder to tell another what’s great (not just, well, “kinda nice”) about ourselves than it is what’s supposedly wrong or broken.
We humans really like to fix things, and while that’s great for bridges, businesses, and broken bones, it does not work very well with depression and anxiety.
With wild moods, trying to control them through fixing leads, ironically, to a diminished sense of control (check this in your own experience to see if it’s true). What actually works is more akin to how you might handle a wild pony: if you give it a small coral, it’s going to kick out fences, knock over troughs, bruise up trainers, etc. But if you give it enough space, a large paddock to run around in, it has only so much energy to burn and eventually becomes tame, simply through the lack of resistance.
A: Last month I responded to the first part of this question, so this month I’ll give some thoughts on the second half, the connection between “figuring it out” and unhappiness. It’s a critical question both in terms of understanding the nature of depression, and also the nature of “curing” depression.
On the eve of the start of my next Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy for Depression class, I have been reflecting on the connection between mindfulness practice and the healing of depression. It’s an association that I’ve seen over and over, and which the research on MBCT bears out: people who practice mindfulness are less vulnerable to falling into slipping into, and staying in, a major depression.
What I’ve also seen beyond this research, is that practioners are also generally happier, more resilient, more able to find motivation for their lives, and especially, are able to make meaning out of even the experience of depression (which is characterized by a sense of meaninglessness).
So why is this?
One way of understanding this goes back to Freud’s favorite topics, and the psychologists oft lampooned preoccupation, your mother.
There’s a field of psychology that’s been around for about four decades, which studies this very relationship, called “Attachment Theory” (technically, it studies the relationship of the child to the “primary care giver,” and the results of that relationship on into adulthood-but that usually means, primarily, Mom).
One of Attachment Theory’s conclusions (there’s been a lot of research done in this field) is that the quality of this relationship determines whether a child, and then an adult, is either “securely” or “insecurely” attached. Securely attached children believe, through their testing of their mother, that the world holds what they need, that their caretakers understand their needs and can consistently provide them. Insecurely attached people, through the same testing, basically believe the opposite: the world is depriving, their caretakers are clueless about their needs, if not actually threatened or hostile towards those needs.
Now, you might ask, “So what’s the connection between MBCT and this attachment stuff?” The connection is essentially in what happens to a person’s ability to freely attend to their experience, when they grew up without their needs being consistently met. Which is: attention get’s pinched.
Attachment, you see, is not optional. A child is wired up to attach to Mother in order to feel a base of security in the world. An animal might go to its warren when scared; a child goes their own “place,” being Mom (and as an adult, to the very deeply symbolized and encoded “image” of Mom). And if a child has that base, then they feel secure enough to then take in the view of the world, trusting there is somewhere to go to feel soothed and taken care of.
But if you never felt that you had that base of safety, but are biologically required to try to find safety, then you’re going to have to pick a strategy to deal with the lack. Which means you either deny your painfully unmet needs for security (“Mom? Who needs her?”), or you cling desperately to your contact with your caregiver (“Mom! Where are you!”). In other words, your attention is not freely deployed. Rather, it’s locked up in the search for safety, or in denying the longing for that very safety.
So then, what’s mindfulness practice, that which is at the heart of MBCT, about? In a nutshell, it is the practice of deploying attention freely, of cultivating the ability to observe one’s own experience (inside and out) without trying to either shut it out, or get lost in a particular aspect of what you’re seeing.
With depression, the non-mindful approach (which feeds depression) is: “I’m a horrible person. Well, duh! Horrible. Now, how am I going to be a better person. Or maybe, how will I just ignore the truth of my horribleness.” With mindfulness: “I’m a horrible person. Huh. That’s a curious thought. Let’s explore what that’s doing in me. How’s my body reacting when I have such a thought? How about my heart? Huh, curious.”
You see how the first approach automatically jumps a person to either action or denial, but never questions the initial thought/belief? And the latter allows the person to open up their attention to be curious and question? The latter is the mode of the “securely attached individual,” and it’s what mindfulness practice cultivates.
In other words: practicing mindfulness builds a better Mom. Not identical; it seems that if you didn’t get that safety as an infant, that’s pretty much gone. But you can earn that security as an adult, through practice which builds the same qualities that are there in the securely attached individual: resilience, a sense of safety, and an exploring mind. Practicing mindfulness builds these qualities, this trust in the world and in one’s self.
So, perhaps to sum it up in a way that challenges the voice of depression: since virtually everyone can practice mindfulness, no one is doomed. What’s been lost as a child can be found as an adult. The way of the world, and our basic natures, provides an escape clause.
And, well, how cool is that?
