Surprising the Brain

June 20, 2014 |

The Brain Bucket. I’m told that’s a thing. I’m told that by a guy named Jon Acuff, who makes me laugh enough to believe that everything he says is true.

So the Brain Bucket. He said our brains are wired in such a way that when we see or hear something we’ve come across before, we Bucket it. “Yep, been/seen/heard that before.” And we continue on with other distractions.

This. Is. So. Me. I used to drive professors crazy because once my brain got something, it placed it in the bucket and was done with them and their teaching. I was known for playing solitaire in the back of the room (back in the days of dinosaurs when the internet was not in every classroom and solitaire was all I had). And it really wasn’t out of disrespect, it was just because my brain wanted to move on to something else once the brain bucket was full of that topic. You can imagine how much my husband loves this feature whenever he’s sharing his heart with me.

So, says Jon, getting past the Brain-Bucket-tune-out for things like spiritual lessons and lifetime truths requires a way to “surprise the brain”. Keep things interesting. Introduce an old truth in a new way.

Backs of books? Hate ‘em. Movie trailers? No, please. I want to be surprised.

So a few Sundays ago – one of those gloriously leisurely mornings – we lounged our way through YouTube videos and MY BRAIN GOT SURPRISED.

Oh my gosh. Oh my GOSH.

Exhibit A: Holy vocal pipes.

Chills, right? I mean, I was crying. CRYING. See, everyone’s brain – including mine, and most definitely Simon Cowell’s, had Brain-Bucketed this guy. Heavy guy shows up on stage wearing sweat pants and floppy hair. Sure, go ahead and wow us. He’s shy and nervous and you can just feel yourself bracing for the mockery. The crowd is snickering already. He’s been Brain-Bucketed as someone who does not have talent. And then he puts the microphone to his mouth. And the room is literally blown away. The power. The MAJESTY of this guy’s voice. Are you kidding me!? HE just did THAT!? Everyone’s Brain got Surprised. Ah-maz-ing.

Exhibit B: Am I allowed to, umm, laugh?

A boy with cerebral palsy. And he thinks he’s a comedian. And his parents have brought him here to audition. It’s cute. And heart warming. But you can almost feel yourself cringe as you hope he might be good but you’re pretty sure he won’t be. I mean, let’s just hope that Simon isn’t too mean to the sweet handicapped boy, right? He’s been Brain-Bucketed in the sympathy bucket, but there’s no bucket for “funny handicapped kid”.

And then he comes out on stage – to a vicious audience that has just destroyed the auditioner that came before him. Rightfully so, but still brutal. The cringe-factor in your heart intensifies.

But his first joke is funny. You dare to chuckle. His next line is even funnier than the last. Hey, this kid may be onto something. By the time his audition is done, everyone – including Simon – has a general laugh in their heart because The Handicapped Kid is Really Funny. Their brains got surprised.

Exhibit 3: Shadows aren’t just for puppets.

Yes, total coincidence that this post is dedicated exclusively to Britain having Talent. This is not a sponsored post.

But the shadows. HELLO!? How are they doing that with their bodies!? I mean, I know how they’re doing that – it’s light and dark and there’s a screen, blah blah blah. But my brain has no bucket for people making a shadow picture with their bodies like this. The beauty, the drama, the ELEPHANT.

YouTube is a playground for brain surprises.

Life is a playground for brain surprises. When I don’t relegate someone – including myself – to a predesigned brain-bucket, but am ready to hear or experience something new, I can actually have fun on life’s playground.

Now don’t get me wrong – not all surprises are good. Last year I had two brain-surprises collide in on me all at once. I was sitting at a conference having just learned that my husband had been fired. From a Church. I had no Brain-Bucket for that. There was no scandal, no job performance issue or moral failing to lead this Church to fire my husband, so my Brain was trying to process this whole new idea, and I have to confess that my dominant concern was expiring health insurance benefits.

Lost in my own health insurance woes, I was vaguely aware of something being set up on stage. A microphone and a chair and a guitar. And then a guy came out on stage. With no arms. No. Arms. This fact will be important in about one sentence.

He sat down and began to play Amazing Grace. With his feet. On the guitar. Beautifully. Not a modified-for-the-feet version of Amazing Grace, but a fully strummed, gorgeous rendition of this hymn. No. Brain. Bucket.

I had no way to explain to my brain that a guy was playing the guitar with no arms.

His story was then shared – he was born in Eastern Europe, where no arms was seen as a curse. Not only on him, but on his family and anyone who touched him. The result: He was turned over to an orphanage, but received virtually no touch, no cuddling, no attention beyond the absolute basic essentials of food and water. At eight months old, his medical file had not only his date of birth, but also his anticipated date of death. He was languishing, his body too weak to survive for long. He had been Brain-Bucketed as the cursed child with no arms and no future.

But a couple here in the United States got word of his file. They applied to adopt him. They were told they were crazy, that he’d probably die before they got him home and most assuredly thereafter. Still, they surprised everyone’s brains by saying “we want him.”

At age 8, his mom saw that he loved music. So she bought him a drumset and hired a drum teacher. This is the part of the story where, as her friend, I would have lovingly reminded her that HER SON HAD NO ARMS. So drums might be, you know, not as practical as, say, a set of headphones to feed his musical interest. My Brain has no Bucket for buying drumsticks for a boy who doesn’t have fingers to hold them! Thankfully hers did.

Because he thrived. He now plays eight different instruments, all of which traditionally require oh, you know, ARMS. It kind of put my health-insurance woes in perspective. It was still a hard year to rally from a job loss and the pain of separating from your home church, but I can’t tell you how many times my mind went back to that boy on stage. Playing Amazing Grace. With his feet.

He surprised my brain. His mom surprised my brain. Life surprises my brain.

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I get really comfortable with my set of brain-buckets and everything fitting within “what I already know”, but really, really I’d far rather live a life that my brain has to catch up to.

The Day A Puppy Crawled Into My Heart

May 29, 2014 |

I laid there in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of my responsibility-free life, and voiced out loud to my husband You realize, right, that these things can live up to, like, 15 years?

Yeah, why did we say yes to this, again?

I don’t know. But my mom said we can give it back if it doesn’t work out.

The next day, we met my mom to pick up our puppies – she had two “picks” from a litter as she finished up her chapter as a dog breeder. She had pre-picked a possible pup for us. And she was the cutest by far. But shy and timid, too. My husband spotted a rambunctious sister hopping around the yard and asked if we could consider her, too.

Since my experience in puppy-picking had last been exercised around age 10, I didn’t exactly have a game plan, but we stepped away from the people and the other pups to see which one of these we’d experimentally take into our home, again reminding ourselves that if it didn’t work out, no matter which one we picked, my mom would take her back.

We placed both pups down on the ground and I walked a few feet away before turning and saying “Here, puppy … “ to which the small one eagerly trotted over, while the rambunctious one wobbled her head and looked around.

Almost convinced, I tried one more test. I placed them both side by side again, walked a few feet away, and said “Here, Abby … “. Sure enough, as though she already knew that was her name, the small one trotted my way and the rambunctious one bounced and hopped in clueless circles.

So, did we choose our pup or did she choose us? I’ve often wondered.

Everyone likes a puppy. I mean, really, they are one of the cutest things this side of heaven. And a cavalier puppy – oh stop it, I mean there’s just no way to even describe the cuteness. Gone were the doubts of the night before.

Until the night after. When this adorable ball of fur Would. Not. Stop. Whining. My responsibility-free life had just been rudely interrupted.

We stumbled through the first few nights with Abby in our home, charmed enough by day to try one more night, growing in sympathy for parents of newborns that have to wake up every two hours. But wary – very very wary – that even when she was full-grown and house-trained, she would still need things like food and water and attention, and we couldn’t just pack up our bags for a weekend without, you know, thinking about her.

I know, I know, the life of the childless is so easily interrupted.

Three days in, I sat my exhausted self down on the cold tile of my kitchen floor. And this little three-pound ball of fluff crawled right up into my lap, and into my heart. I can still see the moment so clearly, because she knew exactly where she belonged, and she’s insisted on that spot ever since.

She crawled into my heart that day as if to say that I wasn’t as carefree as I’d thought. As if to say there was a little puppy-shaped hole inside my heart that she was ready to occupy. I’d never thought of myself as a dog person – things like drool and barking and feces aren’t really my thing. Ironic since I’d been trying to have a baby, but at least they don’t bark.

And there I sat in my fuzzy white robe on the cold kitchen tile, realizing that there really was a space just for her. That I wasn’t really afraid of losing my responsibility-free-lifestyle, but I was afraid of caring for something too deeply, including a dog – or maybe especially a dog. Having a wee little life in our house that wasn’t the baby we’d been hoping for was at once comforting and alarming – I did not want to become “that couple” that treated their dog like their child (spoiler alert, that plan didn’t work. My last shred of personal dignity is that I don’t put my dog in people clothes).

All at once, I remembered my first dog – Heidi. She was a blonde cocker spaniel, with wild bangs that gave her personality. I got her when I was five years old. I can still see the sun shining through the trees as my mom and I went to pick her up. My very first dog.

When I was ten, my sweet, precocious Heidi was hit by a car. We were out of town when it happened and she had survived the hit, but was curled up beneath our porch in pain – her pelvis had been crushed. The vet gave us two options: she might survive a surgery, but it would mean losing at least one hip and back leg. The only tri-pod dogs I’d ever known were objects of jokes between my brothers, so I couldn’t imagine that life for her. The other option was to put her down.

In that moment I had to grow up a little bit. Do I put my dog down or try to save her?

I wish we had tried to save her.

But I didn’t know that until I sat on a cold tile floor and held this new, precious, vulnerable pup. I cried tears for my Heidi in that moment.

I have been governed by practicality for many years and many days. Little did I know that on the day this pup crawled into my heart, she was nudging out parts of my practical self. She would teach me to make decisions with my heart and not just my head. I would spend enough money on her little self to make someone say “e-gads” (also, I think “e-gads” should be reintroduced to our language). I would miss her when I left town. I would delight in the ways she loved me and others. I would marvel at the idea of a dog providing therapy. And no, not just to me. But maybe starting with me. And that’s okay.

She crawled into my lap and straight into my heart that day. After I picked myself up off the cold tile and crawled back into bed with my husband, I said Do you realize that she might live for, like, ONLY 15 years!?!?

Norway, Yes-Way

May 27, 2014 |

What’s not to love? Water? Good. Mountains? Good. Waterfalls? Good. Snow-capped mountains? Good.

A few eyebrows raised when we told people we were going to Norway. Norway? What made you choose that? Well it all started with a fjord, and back to the day I didn’t even know what a fjord was. Fjord (pronounced Fi-yord) was just one of those words I would have nodded along with if someone was talking about it, eyes glazing over because I didn’t really know what they were talking about.

But a few years ago I made it to my first Fjord, which is basically a steep canyon cut by glaciers and plunging a mountain into the sea – or, put another way, a sea inlet surrounded by steep mountain cliffs. Translation: my idea of perfection.

My first Fjord experience was in New Zealand – another land rich with, well, EVERYTHING GOOD AND LOVELY. Including a Fjord called Milford Sound. Words fail to describe the happiness I experienced in that majestic place, especially amazing considering the deep unhappiness that had settled in my heart in that life-stage.

I was basically spinning and dancing in glee in that magical place, and my amused husband laughed as I exclaimed “Fjords are my new favorite!” With a twinkle in his eye, he introduced me to a whole new wonder: There was a LAND of Fjords called Norway. Norway? As in, my place of heritage? (My mother’s name was Berg, Norway’s second biggest city is Bergen, so basically, I might be a long-lost Norwegian Princess. All things are possible.). At the least, perhaps a love of mountains and ocean plunged together is just part of my DNA.

And so was born the dream to come to Fjordland, Norway.

We didn’t know if we’d pull it off on this trip, but a string of luck and google diligence and hope all blended together to get us on a cruise ship heading TO and THROUGH Norway’s Fjordland at a fraction of the cost it would take for us to backpack our way through the majestic landscape. We booked the tickets under a “last minute special” about a month prior to sailing, and it took all of my willpower not to mentally check out between the time of booking until the time of embarking.

I was going to Norway. To Fjordland. On a boat – a LUXURY boat! That would carry me and my love and all our STUFF and FEED US and oh heaven smile down.

And Norway delivered. Amidst both rain and shine, in true Nordic fashion, my heart was lulled and wooed by its ever-changing landscape. It felt like cruising through a storybook – with up to ten waterfalls sometimes in view, with my heart and mind racing to catch up with what my eyes were seeing, with days of sun for my feet to traipse and days for my heart to be quieted by the rain.

Our first stop was in Eidfjord, a small town with big views.

And perfectly marked hiking trails. Their slogan should be “Welcome to Eidfjord. If you get lost here, you’re an idiot.” But seriously. Trail after trail, some back to mountain lakes, some alongside the river, some winding through farm and field, and some stumbling through ‘rough pastureland’, filled with too many colors of green for me to count, where the loudest sound was my own footfall. Where, as I took in the new landscape, I actually said out loud “I wonder if this is how babies feel all the time – when they are seeing something new for the very first time?”

Oh, and the red homes – painted that way because once upon a time it was the cheapest color you could get your hands on. Left over waste from copper mines or something. Don’t quote me, but something like that. And here I thought it was a way to compensate for the often gloomy weather. Nope, just good economic sense. But still, a cheery and distinct flavor of many Norwegian homes.

The next day brought us further north to Alesund. The clouds were high, but ever present, keeping us close to town instead of exploring the further wildlands of this area. Which was okay because Alesund’s true claim to fame is its Art Nouveau architecture.

Here’s the story: In 1904, the town burned down. The whole thing. All of it. Charred to bits. Because an oil lamp was knocked over. The Germans were among the first to respond with help, and determined to help them rebuild. Art Nouveau was apparently “the rage” with its intricacies and distinctions, and that became the dominant focus of their new architecture. The effect has stood the test of time. It’s truly whimsical. A town of 40,000, it’s one of Fjordland’s biggest cities, but their downtown still has the fairytale feel. Our big event of the day was a 418-step climb to a viewpoint that really did pay off.

And then, oh then … Geirangerfjord.

We were on the first tender boat off to explore this great land, and before the sun had risen over the tallest mountain peak, we were a-climbing. Again, as in France, giving me the heights in meters is so helpful because I always say “that’s nothing”, until I’m huffing and puffing my way up a serious climb.

Oh the glory. AND THE SUN!!!!! Every ray was like a hand-wrapped gift. Even the locals were exclaiming about what a rare day it was. AMEN!

Geirangerfjord was like melting Switzerland into the sea.

Also, the baby goats. Took a bit of time to catch this little fella, but he cozied up after a few bleats of complaint while Mama-goat contentedly ate on nearby.

We climbed a total of 750 meters (see, doesn’t that sound way better than 2500 feet when you’re standing at the bottom and looking up?) to Losta viewpoint and then to something-something-fossen, which means Waterfall. My Norwegian is pretty awesome. After then RACING back down the mountain (ouch), we caught a local bus to experience the famous “Eagle Bend Road” with 11-hairpoint turns

so you can see THIS. Seven Sisters Waterfall just behind us there. Or something-something-fossen in Norwegian, if you prefer.

THEN (yes, Geiranger was a FULL DAY) we stayed on the bus up towards Mt. Dinalsnibba, which was still closed for the season due to snow still being unstable, but we made it about 2/3 of the way up, to about 1000 meters, and enjoyed a few minutes in a winter wonderland, where yes, Jason got smacked with some snowballs due to my awesome aim.

That night’s cruise through the Fjord was just beyond words. I mean really. We eventually stopped taking pictures and just soaked it in because it was just like “Really? Really? Just more and more of the pretty.”

And then Bergen. Bergen only gets 60 days of sunshine A YEAR, so my expectations were pretty realistic there. Actually, I was kind of excited to experience it in the rain because it’s known as one of the wettest cities in the world. And boy was it! Poured on us the whole time, so we didn’t go too far, but we did have fun sloshing through its streets, picking up a Christmas ornament, one of our favorite things to collect as we travel, and shaking off the wet as we returned to our “cozy” ship.

All that, and every night on a luxury liner with five-star food, four-star accommodations, and the best company of all. And no, I don’t just mean the chocolate martini and the live violin music. Though that was also a nightly favorite.

Norway? YES-WAY!

Brooke Mardell

where sass and sacred collide…

you’re welcome

Surprising the Brain

The Day A Puppy Crawled Into My Heart

Norway, Yes-Way