Call us toll free: +1 4062079616
How To Be Spiritual In A Material World
Call us toll free: +1 4062079616
06 Aug 2024
Comments: 0

Too much sleep results in cognitive decline, researchers find

We’ve been hearing about the dangers of too little sleep for years. With 70 million Americans suffering from sleeping disorders, risks of depression, obesity, anxiety, and psychological disorders increase when we get less than seven hours a night. Even memory problems form when we don’t dream enough, which relies on achieving enough cycles of REM sleep—also dealing with duration.

There’s always two sides to every story. You can die of thirst or drink too much water. Same goes for sleep. The world’s largest sleep study has just wrapped up, offering balance to how we usually treat sleep: Too much is no good either.

Published in the journal Sleep (where else?), the researchers gathered data from over 10,000 people from across the planet. Western University Brain and Mind Institute researchers launched this study in June 2017; over 40,000 volunteers initially signed up. They filled out questionnaires and performed a series of tests to monitor their cognitive abilities. As Western researcher Adrian Owen (located in London, Ontario) says:

 

People who logged in gave us a lot of information about themselves. We had a fairly extensive questionnaire and they told us things like which medications they were on, how old they were, where they were in the world and what kind of education they’d received because these are all factors that might have contributed to some of the results.

 

The study cites a survey of over a quarter-million people, in which 29.2 percent of respondents claimed to sleep less than six hours per night; even partial sleeping disorders cost the Canadian economy $21.4 billion each year. Since basic cognitive functioning requires collaboration from numerous systems, reasoning and verbal skills suffer when you sleep too little—or too much, they note. Sure, less than seven hours per night is problematic, but so is more than eight hours, they found.

The Cambridge Brain Sciences 12-point online test covers a wide application of cognitive abilities, including spatial working memory, reasoning, planning, cognitive flexibility, and visuospatial working memory. A total of 10,886 participants, including 6,796 women and 4,013 men (average age of 41.7 years), were assessed. The optimal amount of sleep for reasoning, verbal, and overall abilities, turned out to be 7.16 hours.

Interestingly, despite a popular myth, age does not have an impact on required sleep. We don’t actually need less sleep as we grow older; in fact, the authors write, sleeping less as you age could aid in diseases of dementia and age-related cognitive decline. As researcher associate and lead author Conor Wild says, it’s all about how long you spend unconscious.

 

We found that the optimum amount of sleep to keep your brain performing its best is 7 to 8 hours every night and that corresponds to what the doctors will tell you need to keep your body in tip-top shape, as well. We also found that people that slept more than that amount were equally impaired as those who slept too little.

 

One bright spot for those who like to sleep in: A single night of “oversleeping” results in better-than-usual performance on these tests. And the bad news for those suffering from lack of sleep continues: Sleeping less than four hours per night is the equivalent of aging almost eight years.

These results matter, not just for one’s general health, but for the functioning of society. As the authors conclude:

 

These findings have significant real-world implications, because many people, including those in positions of responsibility, operate on very little sleep and hence may suffer from impaired reasoning, problem-solving, and communications skills on a daily basis.

 

Original article here

 

 

31 Jul 2024
Comments: 0

The science behind why some of us are shy

Does the idea of mingling at a party send cold fingers of dread creeping up your spine? Or the thought of giving a presentation in front of a room full of people make you feel physically sick?

If so, then you are not alone.

Akindele Michael was a shy kid. Growing up in Nigeria he spent a lot of time indoors at his parents’ house. His parents, incidentally, are not shy. He believes that his sheltered upbringing is linked to his shyness – but is he right?

Partly, says Thalia Eley, professor of developmental behavioural genetics at Kings College London.

“We think of shyness as a temperamental trait and temperament is like a precursor to personality,” she says. “When very young children are starting to engage with other people you see variation in how comfortable [they] are in speaking to an adult that they don’t know.”

She says that only about 30% of shyness as a trait is down to genetics and the rest comes about as a response to the environment.

Most of what we know about the genetics of shyness comes from studies that compare shyness in identical twins – who are perfect genetic copies of each other – with non-identical twins, who only share about half of the same genes.

In the last decade or so, scientists like Eley have started to look at DNA itself to try and find genetic variants that might have an effect on personality and mental health.

Each individual genetic variant only has a tiny effect, but when you look at thousands in combination, the impact starts to be more noticeable. Even then, the influence of genes on shyness can’t be taken in isolation.

“There won’t be one, ten or even a hundred genes involved, there’ll be thousands of genes,” Eley says. “So if you think of the entire genome for both parents [of a child] there are hundreds of thousands of relevant genetic variants.”

 

A shy child may be more likely to isolate themselves in a playground and watch everybody else rather than engaging

  

So the environment is almost more important for developing these sorts of traits, she says. And one of the interesting things about genetics is that it drives us to extract aspects of the environment that match our actual predispositions.

For example, a shy child may be more likely to isolate themselves in a playground and watch everybody else rather than engaging. That then makes them feel more comfortable being on their own because that becomes their common experience.

“It’s not that it’s one or the other; it’s both [genes and environment] and they work together,” says Eley. “It’s a dynamic system. And because of that, you can always change it through psychological therapies that can teach you techniques to cope.”

Is shyness necessarily a bad thing?

Chloe Foster, a clinical psychologist at the Centre for Anxiety Disorders and Trauma in London, says shyness in itself is quite common and normal and doesn’t cause problems unless it develops into more of a social anxiety.

Foster says the people she treats seek help because “they are starting to avoid a lot of things that they need to be doing”. It might be not being able to talk to people at work, difficulties socialising or being in a situation where they feel they’re going to be judged or evaluated by other people.

 

Cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) is the most effective psychological therapy for people who have shyness and social anxiety

 

Eley says that there may be evolutionary reasons for people to develop shy personality traits.

 

 

“It was useful to have people in your group who were off out there exploring and engaging in new groups but it was also useful for people who were more risk averse, [were] more aware of threat and would do a better job protecting young offspring, for example.”

She says that cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) is the most effective psychological therapy for people who have shyness and social anxiety. This evidence-based therapy works by trying to change your thought and behaviour patterns.

CBT helps you to identify these sorts of negative thoughts as well as realising that certain behaviours we think help us, such as rehearsing what you’re going to say in advance or avoiding eye contact, might actually be making us feel more socially anxious.

“It’s often that little critical bully that will pop into your mind before, during and even after a social event,” Foster says.

Sometimes the problem is that people who struggle with something like public speaking due to shyness often set themselves very high standards for how they should perform in such a situation, she explains.

“They may think they shouldn’t stumble their words… or they should be very, very interesting and that everybody should be totally rivetted in what they’re saying the whole time.”

 

The more you can involve yourself with social situations, the more confident you’re going to become — Chloe Foster

 

If they are able to relieve some of the pressure on themselves, allowing themselves short pauses to take a breath might help alleviate some of that anxiety.

Another thing that could help is to try to focus externally on what’s happening around you, rather than internally on how anxiety makes you feel physically. Focusing on the audience rather than yourself can help you be less caught up in whether you stumble over your words.

She also suggests challenging yourself by being more open to new situations. “The more you can involve yourself with social situations, the more confident you’re going to become,” she says. “But remember to approach the social situations in a new way.”

This means changing your script. Ask yourself what you fear most about social situations. Are you worried about appearing boring? Or running out of things to say? The more you know about your anxiety, the more you can start to challenge it.

 

 

Jessie Sun, a PhD student at the University of California Davis who researches the psychology of personality, stresses that shyness and introversion are not the same thing.

She explains that people often think that introversion is about being introspective or having an interest in exploring thoughts, but to psychologists that’s part of a different dimension of personality referred to as openness to experience.

Shy people are often introverted, but they might also be extroverts whose anxiety gets in the way of being sociable. And non-shy introverts might be socially adept but just prefer their own company.

Sun says “personality is consistently one of the strongest predictors of happiness and extroversion has especially strong relationships with wellbeing”.

“People who are extroverted tend to experience more feelings of excitement, enthusiasm and joy, whereas people who are introverted tend to experience those feelings less often,” she says.

 

They found that for people who were pretty extroverted anyway, acting consistently extroverted over a week meant they experienced more positive emotions

 

But could introverts get in on some of that joy and enthusiasm – by just acting extroverted?

Sun and her colleagues did an experiment. They asked people to act extroverted for an entire week – which is a long time for someone who is shy. “We asked them to act bold, talkative, outgoing, active and assertive as much as possible,” she says.

They found that for people who were pretty extroverted anyway, acting consistently extroverted over a week meant they experienced more positive emotions and they felt more “authentic” – more like themselves.

But the people who were more introverted didn’t experience as much of that boost in positive emotion. And the people who were extreme introverts actually felt more tired and experienced more negative emotion.

“I think the main lesson,” says Sun, “is that it’s probably too much to ask introverted or very shy people to act extroverted as much as they can for an entire week [but they] might consider acting extroverted on fewer occasions.”

We’ve seen how our environment plays a big part in whether we are shy or not – but could culture also affect how happy you are if you are a natural introvert?

The United States is said to value confident, extroverted behaviour over introversion, whereas studies have found that in parts of Asia, including Japan and China, being quiet and reserved is more desirable.

Attitudes towards eye contact also varies hugely from country to country. Kris Rugsaken, a retired professor of Asian studies at Ball State University, says “while good eye contact is praised and expected in the West, it is seen as a sign of disrespect and challenge in other cultures, including Asian and African.

 

Extroverts tend to be happier even in the countries where introversion is more respected

 

“The less eye contact these groups have with an individual, the more respect they show.”

Despite these cultural differences, Sun says the research seems to show that extroverts tend to be happier even in the countries where introversion is more respected but the degree of happiness is less marked in those countries.

So while research suggests that extroverts end up being happier wherever they may be in the world, being introverted isn’t necessarily negative – any more than being outgoing is always positive.

“Don’t think of introversion as something to be cured”, Susan Cain writes in her book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking. “There’s zero correlation between being the best talker and having the best ideas.”

 

 

 

Original article here

22 Jul 2024
Comments: 0

6 key signs you’re in a toxic relationship with yourself – and what you can do about it

 If you’re anything like me, the think-pieces you’ve read on how to spot red flags or deal with a friend’s trauma dumping will have become imprinted on your brain. However, it’s also true that sometimes we need to look at the relationship we have with ourselves before analysing the relationships we have with others.

“Being in a toxic relationship comes from the belief you hold about yourself; you deserve love and respect from yourself,” writes psychologist Dr Lalitaa Suglani in an Instagram post on the subject. “It can go beyond just engaging in constant negative self-talk. It can also mean you ignore your health and personal wellness and blame yourself for everything.”

You frequently talk down to yourself and criticise things you do

Negative self-talk is something a lot of people struggle with, and your inner critic can feel incredibly difficult to silence.

“If you find yourself saying something to yourself you wouldn’t say to a friend or even a stranger, that’s something to be aware of,” suggests Dr Suglani. “You have to catch yourself because it starts to feel so normal you don’t even realise you’re doing it.”

You ignore your own boundaries 

If the rise of therapy-speak has taught us anything, it’s the importance of boundaries. Without boundaries, we can feel depleted, taken advantage of, taken for granted or intruded upon.

But if we’re not respecting our own limitations, how can we expect others to do the same?

Whether it’s prioritising rest, allowing yourself to say no or tapping in to your internal monologue to figure out how you really feel, it’s crucial to maintain mental wellbeing.

You struggle with self-care and putting your needs first

Let’s be real: self-care is never as easy as Instagram makes it look. Baths, face masks and candles all have their place, but rarely have a lasting impact.

Instead of relying on sporadic gestures, you could try ‘everyday mental maintenance’ – a technique that takes a proactive, bite-sized approach to looking after your mental health.

It involves setting aside dedicated time to look after yourself, whether it’s a few hours on a Sunday evening to prep meals or a regular exercise class that makes you feel buoyant once you’ve completed it. Taking a few moments to focus on what makes you feel calm, centred and ready to tackle what lies ahead is always a good use of time.

You engage in unhealthy coping strategies

Nobody’s perfect, and we all have less-than-desirable traits and behaviours that we’d rather not see the light of day, even if they do slip out from time to time.

But we owe it to ourselves to do what’s best for both our minds and bodies, in whatever way we can. Holding yourself accountable and committing to a positive action or change is key.

However, if you’re concerned about the way you respond to stress or trauma, it’s advisable to seek professional advice and help from a therapist, counsellor or doctor.

You thrive on drama and chaos

Living life to the wire, with no plan, direction or headspace might feel exciting and vibrant, but there’s something to be said for choosing peace, calm and tranquillity.

You don’t have to give up beloved nights out or start practising daily meditation, but a huge part of protecting your energy and maintaining your boundaries involves stepping away from anything that drains you.

Instead, learn to prioritise the things, people and situations that give you energy rather than take it away from you.

You can be really hard on yourself and feel like nothing you do is good enough

There’s a reason why imposter syndrome has become a mental health buzzword over the past few years. More of us are suffering from it than ever, and it can easily lead us into a spiral of negative thoughts and self-punishment.

If you feel disconnected from yourself, or emotionally burnt out, who can blame you? There’s so much going on in the world that is difficult and painful for us to process.

Overcoming these feelings starts with recognition and acceptance. Remind yourself: “I’m not perfect; I’m a human being and I have my own vulnerability,” while leading from a place of self-compassion.

How to change your relationship with yourself 

If you’ve identified with any or all of the above, don’t panic. According to Dr Suglani, the steps below can help you to begin to improve your relationship with yourself.

  • Don’t dwell too much on the past, even if repairing the relationship will likely involve addressing past events
  • View yourself with compassion. Think: “Would I say this to a friend?”
  • Start therapy
  • Journal your thoughts to start becoming aware of what/how you think
  • Practise healthy communication with the people around you
  • Hold yourself accountable
  • Be patient with yourself
  • Hold space for yourself to change. Healing is a journey

 

 

Original article here

 

 

 

 

 

15 Jul 2024
Comments: 0

Why Am I So Tired All the Time?

 

Al Herpin of Trenton, New Jersey, died on January 3, 1947. He was 94. Herpin spent a large chunk of his adult life making a peculiar claim: that he never slept.

It’s unclear whether Herpin had a sleep disorder, or was confused, or was just a weirdo liar, but he made headlines regardless. “The man’s story is sustained by physicians who have examined him,” The New York Times first reported in 1904. This admittedly came at the tail end of the Yellow Journalism era, but let’s for a moment entertain the idea that Herpin never slept. How’d he manage that? And why are the rest of us, even though we (presumably) don’t share Herpin’s purported superpower, so dang tired all the time?

There are two universally dependable subjects of small talk: the weather, and complaining about perpetual exhaustion. In your teenage years, that manifests itself as some iteration of “OH MY GOD I’M SO DEAD” in between classes; in adulthood, it takes the form of the subtle head nod exchanged when you and a co-worker converge at the coffee machine to gorge yourselves on caffeine and talk about…the weather. Everyone, everywhere is officially resigned to perpetual sleepiness. Here’s what we know about why this problem exists, and what you can do about it.

The science of sleep

This part you probably know: To be less tired, you need a consistent amount of sleep. Not necessarily eight hours, but that’s ideal, and it must be uninterrupted, complete with several REM cycles. Otherwise, you’ll accumulate sleep debt, which is like credit card debt, except physically draining instead of financially ruinous.

This part you might not know: The typical sleep schedule for humans in WEIRD countries (Western, educated, industrialized, rich, and democratic) is wildly different than it was throughout the rest of human history, according to David Samson, Ph.D., a sleep anthropologist at the University of Toronto. By default, early primates adhered to a rigid system that involved falling asleep when the sun went down and waking up when the sun rose. Hunter-gatherers figured out how to use fire and thus weren’t as beholden to passing out at dusk, but they often slept in shifts to watch for predators. Only since the mid-19th century have post-industrial humans aligned their sleep around the ol’ nine-to-five day at the office.

“When you want to look at ‘normal’ sleep, you can’t look at us,” Samson says. “In our society, where we have 24/7 access to light and to temperature regulation, we have basically just muted our circadian amplitude.” In other words, we’ve stuffed nature’s blueprints for sleeping in the trash, which could have something to do with why we’re so bad at it.

No one knows for sure, though. “It might be that post-industrial sleep is by far the healthiest way to sleep,” Samson says. And by comparing WEIRD-country data to data collected from studies of the world’s few remaining hunter-gatherer groups, researchers are reasonably sure that on balance, our ancestors indeed got fewer ZZZs than we do; they had more napping opportunities during what Samson estimates to be a roughly 18-hour “work week,” but weren’t keen on long, monophasic blocks of uninterrupted sleep. They also didn’t have comfy mattresses at their disposal.

Samson is sympathetic about the whole Ugh, I’m exhausted thing—to a point, because relatively speaking, we’ve got it pretty good. Mouse lemurs, for instance, sleep 15 hours a day. “Being a mouse lemur would probably make you feel way more tired than you do as a human,” Samson says. “We’re reliant on high-quality sleep, but we’re remarkably resilient to sleep deprivation.”

Get enlightened

To slow down the accumulation of sleep debt, wear blue-wave-light-blocking glasses, which can help promote sleep onset at night, Samson says. Any method of reducing the amount of light around you at night is a smart approach, actually; he even tried an experiment where he walked around his home only by candlelight, which worked pretty well, although he admits it wasn’t so practical.

What about at work? “There’s some evidence that if you want to keep your circadian rhythm nice and tight, actually getting some exposure to your environment—going outside, sitting out there for a half an hour in the sunlight, even if it’s cold out—is good for strengthening your circadian rhythm,” Samson says. Light and temperature are the two biggest factors that affect how tired you are on a day-to-day basis. Keep tabs on them, and you’ve got a fighting chance.

Naps: not just for kindergartners

Around 3 P.M., our body temperature starts to drop, and we get super sleepy. When that happened to our ancestors, they shamelessly curled up and passed out. But in order to achieve MAXIMUM WORKER PRODUCTIVITY, the United States has generally pooh-poohed this tendency, which is a shame. When you start to fade, a nap is always helpful, should you have the luxury of being able to take one; the practice is normal and not a sign of laziness, unless you’re doing it to put off all the errands you have to do on a Sunday afternoon. And even then, you probably deserve it.

Blame your parents

To a certain extent, your drowsiness isn’t totally within your control, because humans encode their preferred sleep schedules in their children. “If you look at things like REM, it’s very heritable,” Samson says. “Things like homeostasis—whenever you’re sleep-deprived, and how strong your drive is to go back to sleep—are 90 percent heritable. Your chronotype, and where you are on the ‘lark versus owl’ continuum? That’s moderately to highly heritable.” Next time you nod off at work, remember that it’s really mom and dad’s fault. Your boss can’t argue with science.

The promise (?) of a less sleepy future

David Prober, Ph.D., a professor of biology and biological engineering at Caltech, is studying zebrafish—these little guys—as part of an effort to improve sleep for humans who suck at it. “Their brains are structurally and anatomically similar to ours but much simpler and smaller, and we can use them to identify genes and neurons that regulate sleep,” he explains.

What Prober has uncovered thus far is that specific neuropeptides in zebrafish brains—and probably our brains—regulate whether it’s time to go to sleep or not. “Activating” the neurons that produce these neuropeptides, he says, made the zebrafish get sleepier. Prober believes in 10–20 years, it’ll be possible to identify which neuropeptides have the same effects on humans. “If we can target pathways that specifically regulate sleep, hopefully we’ll be able to mimic a natural sleep state and get the benefits of sleep without the side effects that you might get from something like Ambien.”

Prober cautions that while sleep disorders might be treatable, a Herpin-like, Limitless-esque goal for everyone is highly unlikely. “It could very well be that sleep is doing many beneficial things,” he says, “and it may not be possible to find one drug that will take care of all those things without us having to spend eight hours asleep. I think that’s pretty far in the future, if ever.”

This unfortunate reality check is one of many things that call Al Herpin’s story into question. “Humans have always had better things to do than sleep,” says Samson—but that doesn’t mean we don’t need it. “I bet he was getting microsleeps throughout the day. He’d get deep delta sleep for 15 seconds and then wake up. But you can’t not sleep.” To those who wish otherwise: Keep dreaming.

 

 

Original article here

12 Jul 2024
Comments: 0

Everyday Philosophy: Is it better to forget your past or keep revisiting it?

 

I have conflicting thoughts about letting go of the past and repressing negative feelings. Does documenting our bad experiences in personal writing, a diary, or poetry actually help us in the long run?

~ Dee, US

 

 

 

 

Immanuel Kant had a manservant named Martin Lampe, whom he cared deeply about. Kant was a strict and austere man, but he committed to his relationships with the resolve of a man whose entire philosophy was based on doing the right thing. For forty years, the two wedded their lives together. The peculiar Kant and his dutiful servant. But then, one day, things turned sour. History is unclear on the details—it might have been drunkenness or theft—but Kant had to let Lampe go. Kant was devastated. Living hand in glove with another human for 40 years is a kind of love, and this was a kind of divorce. And so he pinned a note above his desk saying, “Forget Lampe.” Every day he would not forget to forget Lampe.

Of course, this is ridiculous. You cannot easily force yourself to forget something or someone. In fact, the more you try, the harder it becomes. But you can stop yourself from reliving those memories. This is what lies at the heart of this week’s question. When something bad happens to you — something traumatic, even — how far should we try to move on and how far should we try to unpack our past? I do not have a psychology degree, and I am not a psychotherapist, so I will approach this from a philosophical point of view and ask: How important is our past to our future? Should Kant try to forget Lampe or carry his memory as part of him? Should Dee let go of the past or dig it up and face it down?

To answer that question, we will look at two radically different answers. The first comes from Friedrich Nietzsche, who says that, sometimes, forgetting is an act of self-creation. The second, Edmund Burke, offers a curious, and possibly controversial, opinion: Sometimes reliving our past is a beautiful experience and worthy of that alone.

Nietzsche: Live like the beasts

Philosophers have a curious relationship with animals. Some, like John Stuart Mill, see them as a source of pity. When he wrote, “It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied,” he was arguing that human intelligence and higher faculties are what allow us to be supremely happy. But, roughly around the same time as Mill, Nietzsche was arguing the complete opposite. He wrote:

 

Observe the herd, which is grazing beside you. It does not know what yesterday or today are. It springs around, eats, rests, digests, jumps up again, and so from morning to night and from day to day, with its likes and dislikes closely tied to the peg of the moment, and thus neither melancholy nor weary. To witness this is hard for man because he boasts to himself that his human race is better than the beast and yet looks with jealousy at its happiness.

 

There is an innate in-the-momentness to being a beast. They are unworried by the past. They do not care about their past mistakes and wrong turns; they just keep moving forward. The beast is not bowed low by the “invisible and dark burden” of their memory, but rather they live what Nietzsche calls “unhistorically.” Of course, no one can meaningfully live without remembering things to at least some degree. Cows might enjoy chomping on grass all day long, but I am not a cow. I cannot change that. Nietzsche’s answer is a kind of mental realignment and a useful self-help strategy: View the past as a resource to be mined.

You have a whole library of memories. Some are traumatic, and some are happy. Some are pointless, and some are deeply important. For Nietzsche, we should “appropriate or forcibly take from the past” what we can. We use the past and bring it into ourselves like an elixir. But if that past is poison and weakens us, then forget it. Move on.

So, Dee, Nietzsche would ask this: Does your diarizing about your hard past make you better, stronger, and fuller? If yes, go on and do it. Breathe it in and “transform it into blood.” But if it leaves you broken, scared, or worse, forget it.

Burke: The beauty of trauma

 

Writing a century or so before Nietzsche, the Anglo-Irish philosopher Edmund Burke offers an interesting take on this: What if there’s an aesthetic benefit from remembering our trauma? For Burke, the “sublime” is an aesthetic experience that is “capable of producing delight — not pleasure, but a sort of delightful horror, a sort of tranquility tinged with terror — which, as it belongs to self-preservation, is one of the strongest of all passions. Its object is the sublime.” The sublime is when we stand at the foot of a huge, crashing waterfall or in the middle of a flashing thunderstorm. It’s the booming chant of a stadium in song, and you’re staring at the enormity of the night’s sky. It’s appreciating the terrible from a safe position.

Traumatic experiences and a broken past are terrible. They are life-wrenching and often life-breaking. But they are in the past. They are no longer, in and of themselves, a threat to us. So, when we dig up and stare at these experiences, we encounter a moment of the sublime. We are pulled to the terrible beauty of the darkness inside of us. We pick at scabs and relive past trauma because we enjoy the aesthetic experience of the matter. The masochistic pleasure we get from digging up our past is not new wisdom — it’s found in ancient philosophy and in Freud — but Burke’s spin is interesting. It treats our past as a kind of artifact to appraise — an item in a museum to enjoy, safely behind the rope.

Dig it up or bury it deep?

As is almost always the case in these kinds of dilemmas, so much depends on what we do not know. We do not know exactly what “bad experiences” Dee is talking about, and we do not know what’s going on in her mind when she relives them.

Ultimately, I think Nietzsche’s advice is sound. It amounts to the saying, “If you’re better off forgetting, do so” and, “If it makes you stronger, remember.” This is true for everyday acts like keeping a diary and talking with friends. It also applies to therapy. Anecdotally, it therapy seems to work. Almost everyone I know who is in or has come through therapy says the experience is a good and healthy one. But the Nietzsche test ought to apply here as well. After six months, a year, or whatever, it’s useful to ask, “Am I a better person after talking about all this?” If not, then perhaps it’s time to try something else. Perhaps it’s time to forget instead.

 

 

Original article here

09 Jul 2024
Comments: 0

Why Being Near Water Really Does Make Us Happier

 

Every time my brother crosses the Sagamore Bridge from mainland Massachusetts to Cape Cod, we all know where he’s headed: a sandy spot off an ocean road on the Nantucket Sound, home to the little beach club my family has belonged to for over 30 years. On clear days, you can see the shores of Martha’s Vineyard in the distance. That’s his water.

If you talk to Wallace J. Nichols, Ph.D., a marine biologist and the author of Blue Mind, a book about the physical and psychological benefits of water, for long enough, he’ll eventually ask you what your water is. And as it turns out, nearly everyone has an answer.

Since humans started exploring the planet, we’ve followed the water. Crossing oceans gave way to new discoveries and changed the course of history; chasing rivers opened our horizons. As travelers, we seek waterways on vacation, driving new coastlines in search of wild surf spots. We return to familiar “blue spaces” we grew up around. Month after month, water graces the covers of travel magazines like ours.

The immeasurable sense of peace that we feel around water is what Nichols calls our “blue mind”—a chance to escape the hyper-connected, over-stimulated state of modern day life, in favor of a rare moment of solitude. Research has long found that humans are pulled toward Mother Nature’s blue for, in part, its restorative benefits. Take the Victorians for example: Doctors in that era prescribed “sea air” as a cure for all sorts of issues, from pulmonary complications to mental health conditions.

More recent studies—including those out of a UK-based project called Blue Gym—have found that people who live near the coasts are generally healthier and happier. Other studies find that when shown photographs of natural green spaces, people’s stress levels drop, but the more blue spaces in the photos, the more people prefer them. Nichols, who has spent the last 25 years studying our relationship to water, has heard of everything from a drop of dew on a flower to the vastness of the Pacific Ocean, providing a sense of calm.

Real estate data even suggests a water view tacks a 116.1 percent premium on a property; and real-world figures suggest we’re willing to pay 10 to 20 percent more for the same room with a sea view in a hotel. For the ultimate in luxury, we seek out overwater bungalows in the Maldives, and underwater hotels all around the world. And even in places where water isn’t always a given, such as urban metropolises like Pittsburgh and Austin, crowds frequent refurbished river ways and gather in fresh water pools. Paris, too, now has its long-anticipated canal swimming pools, where tourists and locals alike can take a dip.

Our love of water is pervasive, and the reasons behind why we travel—and rack up vast credit card bills—to be by the water can be hard to articulate. “You’re paying for a feeling,” Nichols tells Condé Nast Traveler. “When you ask people to describe that feeling, it’s hard for them to describe other than to say they really like it, need it, and are willing to pay a lot of money for it.”

Take travelers by their own words. Cassie Abel, 34, a communications manager in Sun Valley, ID grew up on Vashon Island, WA, the largest island in the Puget Sound. “I love the water because it’s so much bigger and more powerful than anything else on Earth,” she says. “It’s moody—sometimes it’s the most calming presence, sometimes the most turbulent.”

 

 

Lara Rosenbaum, a 38-year-old writer and editor based in landlocked Nashville shares a similar sentiment. “Water pulls on me the way the moon pulls on it. It’s just in my blood and bones. It makes me feel alive in a deep, calm way. It sort of brings me in.”

Rosenbaum isn’t wrong, either. While water makes up about 70 percent of the human body (and about 70 percent of Earth), it also comprises 31 percent of our bones. “When we are by the water it…cuts us off from the rattle and hum of modern society,” says Nichols. “Moving water is expert at masking noise, especially the sound of the human voice,” he says, noting that the human voice is considered the number one source of workplace stress.

Offering us an auditory break, water even helps us fall asleep. “There is some research that says people may sleep better when they are adjacent to nature,” explains W. Christopher Winter, M.D., author of The Sleep Solution. “No wonder sleep machines always feature the sounds of rain, the ocean, or a flowing river.” One small study out of Northwestern University found that people who fell asleep listening to “pink noise”—sounds like rushing water or rain falling on pavement—not only slept more deeply but the experience also boosted their memories.

Jim Tselikis, co-founder of Cousins Maine Lobster, grew up in a small coastal town in Maine where everything from the rising and lowering of tides to the smell of fresh salty ocean air plays a role in the everyday. He remembers a fog horn from Portland Head Light, a mile from his bedroom. “The sound was so soothing. It represented the ocean, where I loved to be on muggy summer days, when I wanted to get away from the stress of school or work, or where I wanted to find peace.”

Currently living in Los Angeles, Tselikis says: “Every time I drift asleep I think of that fog horn back home and my need to someday return.”

 

 

When we physically enter the water, our body can rest muscles used every day, and work others that are used far less frequently. Not only that, but we give up gravity, something that’s somatically a break for your brain. For some, time spent in the water is an opportunity for insightful thinking, creative output, and quality conversations.

“If we are close to someone, they join us in that private bubble and conversations become more intimate; an intimate conversation while walking the beach with waves nearby becomes more private,” Nichols says. “People a short distance away can’t hear our words, and 180 degrees or more of our surrounding is open blue space.”

When Jenn Lawson, a 33-year-old member of San Francisco’s South End Rowing Club starts her days swimming in the Bay, she says, “Everything pulls into perspective—my divorce, work worries, anxieties about the future. The world focuses down to the next breath, the feel of the water on my skin, the glimpses of the foggy skyline, or the Golden Gate bridge glowing with the morning sun. In the water, everything becomes clear.”

The Science of Wanderlust

Are some people genetically predisposed to travel? Science says maybe.

Marie Stanislaw, a 69-year-old who lives on Vashon Island, WA adds: “Swimming in lakes and oceans, the water encompasses me…I can float for long stretches in salt water and feel totally peaceful.”

Charlie MacArthur, of Aspen Kayak & SUP in Aspen—who grew up surfing in Southern California and Hawaii, but moved out to Colorado for the snow—says that in his early days in the landlocked state, he returned to the coast when the snow melted. “I could not fathom living inland during the summer.” Then he discovered mountain rivers and started raft guiding in 1983. “Soon I was teaching kayaking for the Aspen Kayak school. I also took my surfboard on the river to surf big standing waves that would form during the spring floods,” he says. MacArthur has since traveled the world—New Zealand, Australia, Japan, Mexico, Costa Rica, and Peru—paddling and surfing new rivers and oceans.

 

 

So, what do we miss when we miss out on water? Ask Andrew Gray, a 25-year-old from Oklahoma City. Growing up in a landlocked state, he didn’t see the ocean for the first time until college.

“I had watched so many movies, documentaries, and shows and was always fascinated with the idea of not being able to see land on the other side of the water,” he says. “I think the fact that there is this feeling of being ‘trapped’ in a land-locked state just made that desire so much stronger to breathe in the ocean air and lose yourself in its vastness.”

That’s why he signed up for Semester at Sea during college, a four-month-long study abroad program that takes place on a globe-roaming ship. While drifting out of the port of Southampton, England he finally saw the sea up close. “It had such a still and calm presence, but there was this overarching feeling of being in awe and feeling completely tiny and helpless—that there was this force of reckoning beneath my feet. I was completely speechless, just staring off the aft of our ship for about 30 minutes,” he remembers. “It was very humbling, I will never forget it.”

Without water, then, we miss a part of ourselves, perhaps.

A California resident, Nichols recalls natural disasters such as the state’s multi-year drought. “Simple things like taking a shower made you feel bad,” he says. “But if your shower or bath was your moment of solitude and clarity and disconnect—if that was your ‘blue mind’ moment—it was taken away. It became a source of guilt and stress and fear and anger.”

‘Our oceans, waterways, and the life they contain are so much more than their ecological, economic, and educational value. They have vast emotional benefits. They make life on earth possible, but also worth living,’ says Nichols.

Issues like pollution, oil spills, and droughts don’t just have ecological and economic costs, then, but emotional ones, too, Nichols argues. “Pollution shatters our ‘blue mind’ experience—even in beautiful places,” he says. “The beach can become sad. The ocean can make you angry or frustrated.”

During a U.K. study last year, researchers observed people during a visit to the aquarium: Participants watched an empty tank of water, a partially-stocked tank (home to fish, crustaceans, and plants), then a fully-stocked tank, containing double the number of species. Other experiments involved measuring people’s heart rates and blood pressure while watching either an empty, partially-stocked, or fully-stocked tank. As it turned out, even just looking at an empty body of water at an aquarium proved to be relaxing. But the experience grew boring after time. The antidote? Biodiversity.

As wildlife, flora, and fauna increased in the tank, so too did the therapeutic benefits of standing there. With more wildlife, people’s blood pressure and heart rates dropped; and the longer they wanted to stay. It’s a poignant argument for keeping our planet healthy.

“Our oceans, waterways, and the life they contain are so much more than their ecological, economic, and educational value. They have vast emotional benefits. They make life on earth possible, but also worth living,” says Nichols. “I like to imagine the world would be a better place if we all understood just how true that is. Water is medicine, for everyone, for life.”

 

 

Original article here

02 Jul 2024
Comments: 0

The loneliness trap: it is said to be as bad as smoking. So will it shorten my lifespan?

I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about a lonely old age. Closing in on my 61st birthday, eight years into a very happy marriage, I’ve got a wife, two teenage stepkids, an older daughter by an ex, a grandson and four siblings. Most of them at least tolerate me; a few even tell me that they love me. But maybe I’m taking too much for granted. People die, drift apart, fall out – and anyone who knows me will tell you that I can be very irritating.

Fifteen or 20 years from now it’s not inconceivable that none of my family will want to have much to do with me.

As for my close friends, some of whom I have known for more than 40 years, well, a) they’re obviously getting on a bit, and b) I’ve done a terrible job of keeping in touch with them. What with the lockdowns, and giving up booze, I have almost forgotten how to socialise. Almost four years after I stopped drinking, I’m not afraid of relapsing, but the sober me finds it just a little harder to enjoy pubs or wine bars, and has just a little less to say for himself. When I’m feeling charitable, I remind myself he’s also less likely to end the evening spouting bollocks.

 

What with the lockdowns and giving up booze, I have almost forgotten how to socialize

 

Maybe I’ll just be left with a dog or two. That might not be so bad. I’m a late convert to the waggy-and-licky cause, but for the past six years I’ve been lucky enough to look after two Romanian rescues. Sienna, a fatheaded staffie-dalmatian, and Stevie, a bogbrush-tailed quarter-alsatian, are always glad to see me, always good company. I talk to them more than you might think healthy. Is it wrong to call a dog darling?

Just out of curiosity (I talk to dogs!), I decided to see how I rank right now on the UCLA loneliness scale, introduced in 1978 and, after several revisions, still one of the most popular measures. How often do I feel alone, asks the online test. Never, rarely, sometimes, often? How often do I feel my interests and ideas are not shared by those around me? Never, rarely, sometimes, often? Twenty questions like this and I score 37 out of a possible 80. This represents a “moderate” degree of loneliness, as opposed to “low”, “moderately high” or “high”. That’s a little worse than I expected. Stevie, Sienna, you’re not pulling your weight.

We should probably pin down what we mean by loneliness, as opposed to solitude, aloneness, social isolation, disconnectedness etc. For Henry Rollins, the former Black Flag frontman turned writer, it’s something that “adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better.” I’m going to file that under Poetic Nonsense. The Campaign to End Loneliness (CEL), more usefully, defines it as “a subjective, unwelcome feeling of lack or loss of companionship. It happens when there is a mismatch between the quantity and quality of the social relationships that we have, and those that we want.”

This mismatch can ruin lives, especially as we get older, the grim reaper scythes his way through our loved ones, and retirement or infirmity undoes all the weak ties that come with the daily commute or weekly shop. Almost 4 million Britons are chronically lonely, according to the CEL, meaning they feel that way “often or always”. In 2022 Michael, a 58-year-old who had lost his mother a couple of years before, told the Mental Health Foundation his life was “like being on a desert island”. “When you have someone who really understands you,” he said, “who really gets you in a deeper way than other people, when you lose that person it’s quite a hole.”

“People who are often or always lonely,” the foundation noted, “have a higher risk of developing certain mental health problems, such as anxiety and depression. This kind of loneliness is also associated with increased thoughts of suicide.”

 

Loneliness follows a U-shaped curve, with a peak in young adulthood, a trough in midlife, then another rise after 60

 

It’s hardly surprising that one manifestation of misery encourages another. But loneliness is as bad for our bodies as it is for our minds. The US’s top doctor, surgeon general Vivek Murthy, is so worried that last year he issued an urgent warning about the “epidemic” of loneliness and social isolation. (These are not quite the same thing, though there’s a big overlap. Social isolation describes an objective lack of social connections, while loneliness is all about perception. You can be lonely without being socially isolated – and, if you’re lucky, vice versa.)

Murthy didn’t mince his words. “Loneliness and social isolation increase the risk for premature death by 26% and 29% respectively,” he wrote. “More broadly, lacking social connection can increase the risk for premature death as much as smoking up to 15 cigarettes a day. In addition, poor or insufficient social connection is associated with increased risk of disease, including a 29% increased risk of heart disease and a 32% increased risk of stroke. Furthermore” – you’re spoiling us, Dr Murthy – “it is associated with increased risk for anxiety, depression and dementia. Additionally, the lack of social connection may increase susceptibility to viruses and respiratory illness.”

Loneliness can hit at any age: Joe Harrison, a campaign manager for the Marmalade Trust, the charity that hosts the current Loneliness Awareness Week, describes it as “a natural feeling that kind of ebbs and flows across our lifetime”. According to researchers from the US’s Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine, it follows a sort of U-shaped curve, with a peak in young adulthood, a trough in midlife, then another rise after 60, becoming particularly steep around 80.

Looking back, my own loneliest moments were in my teens and 20s – at school, in my first year away from home at university, as an English assistant in France, during a couple of unhappy relationships. I felt much more connected to the world in my 40s, even though I was mostly living on my own, in a mountaintop shack where I could go for days without seeing another human.

There’s something particularly brutal about loneliness striking in your 70s, 80s or 90s, when there’s so little time to grow through it. It seems so final. How do you get your head round Ruth Lowe’s observation that “3 million older people say that TV or the radio is their main source of company”? Lowe is the head of loneliness services for Age UK, and many of the risk factors that she cites seem more intractable than, say, settling into a new school or a different job.

“Things like bereavement, having physical and mental health conditions or needing to care for a loved one mean that older people are very much at risk of loneliness,” Lowe says. “And other life changes, such as losing the things many of us take for granted – like having good eyesight and hearing, or having the ability to walk to the shops – can lead to people spending countless hours alone with no one to talk to and ending up feeling isolated and invisible.” That’s why Age UK has an actual head of loneliness services, as well as a 24-hour Silver Line helpline for the over-55s, a telephone friendship service and face-to-face befriending.

 

Many of us struggle to admit we are lonely. ‘There’s a tremendous stigma,’ says Mark Rowland of the Mental Health Foundation

 

I do wonder how bad things would have to get before I accepted I needed help. Mark Rowland, the chief executive of the Mental Health Foundation, says many of us struggle to admit that we are lonely, even to ourselves. “There’s still a tremendous stigma,” he says. “As a society we’re more fragmented, there are factors that individually we can’t control, but we internalise the cause of loneliness as being a defect of our personality – we’re not interesting enough, we’re not valuable enough. That can develop into a spiral of lack of confidence and withdrawal.” In other words, you feel lonely, you avoid other people, you feel more lonely …

 

 

To quote Michael again, loneliness is “corrosive”, “eats away at your self-image”, “makes you question the value of your life”.

As I learned from my long-ago experience of depression, when I spent months thinking it was everything around me that was falling to pieces, rather than my mind, naming what you are feeling can be the first step in doing something about it. “One of the messages we want to get across,” Rowland says, “is that loneliness is not insurmountable at any stage of life. But it’s very difficult when it’s, let’s say, rusting away at your mental and emotional life without you even naming it. Bringing it into the light and sharing that with yourself and then with others is really the first step to breaking that cycle.”

A plan for loneliness

Eight suggestions from the Mental Health Foundation:

Try to keep busy

This might involve a hobby such as gardening, going to the gym or even sorting out your kitchen cupboards, jigsaws, puzzles or knitting. Small activities can give you energy and positive feelings. It’s important these things are fun or fulfilling – be careful about working too hard or watching TV shows simply as a distraction. This will only delay or suppress your feelings and could actually make your mental health worse.

Stimulate your mind

This could include taking courses or listening to podcasts about anything from comedy to fitness. Just listening to the voice of someone you like can help you feel less lonely.

Get moving

Physical exercise can help with loneliness. It can be as simple as having a walk in the park when you’re feeling a bit overwhelmed. Alternatively, you could listen to music and dance around your living room. (Be aware of your neighbours, though.)

Try to engage with the people you meet

It can be hard to talk to others when you’re feeling lonely. However, trying to connect with the people you meet as you go about your day can be helpful. Even catching someone’s eye and saying “Hi” as you walk along can make you feel better. By sharing a polite greeting, you might find you give someone else a lift, too.

Find people who ‘get’ you

There are great benefits in finding people who have been through similar experiences to you. Look for connections in local groups or on social media.

Spend time with pets

Not only do animals provide us with unconditional love and support; they also help to give structure to our days and even encourage us to get out and connect with others. Interaction with pets is also shown to help reduce stress levels.

Try to use social media in a positive way

Social media can help your mental health – or harm it. Try to find digital communities that share your interests and passions. Most importantly, be aware of how you feel when you use social media and focus on topics and activities that work best for you.

Talking therapies can help

Talking therapy can be hard to get – but if you can find a counsellor or therapist, this will provide you with a safe space to work through your feelings and thoughts without judgment.

 

 

 

Original article here

27 Jun 2024
Comments: 0

Do you find the 21st century overstimulating? Try ‘longstorming’

 

Our experience of time is changing. For the philosopher Byung-Chul Han, the early 21st century has left us ‘whizzing without a direction’. Our world is shaped by the restless, disorienting rhythms of near-term deliverables, social media impression counts, technological obsolescence, shallow electoral cycles, rapid news cycles, frenzied culture wars, sudden stock market shifts, gig economy hustles, and occupational burnout. Though it all seems exhausting and unmanageable, the whizzing isn’t slowing: digital platforms now bombard us, minute by minute, with fragments of information that fail to cohere into meaningful narratives, and algorithms that hijack our neurochemical reward systems.

As the treadmill of post-industrial society speeds up, some of us have become so addicted to the stimulation that we struggle to imagine another way to live: psychological research shows that most people would rather receive electric shocks than sit quietly alone with their own thoughts. In his book The Scent of Time (2017), Han borrows a concept from Marcel Proust – une époche de hâte – to describe our overstimulated moment. The ‘age of haste’ has arrived. And its problems are pervasive.

When time whizzes by, individual moments blur together and we stop contemplating how each fits into broader arcs of history. We forget, Han laments, to engage in slower-moving forms of cognition such as wonder, curiosity and introspection. We forget how to reflect and be still. But what can we really do about the age of haste? For many of us, a slower, more contemplative life often feels unattainable. You may feel trapped by the directionless whizzing of the 21st century – trapped on an accelerating treadmill. Can you forge a new relationship with time?

Perhaps your first impulse is to find ways of escaping the age of haste. This is a mistake. We cannot simply break free by ‘exiting’ the world we inhabit. Confronting time requires moreengagement with the wider world. This world, however, is not the one defined by near-term deliverables and neurochemically disrupting algorithms. It is the one that reveals itself when you glimpse the Milky Way on a cloudless night. It is the world that becomes clear when you gaze upon a mountain.

 

Venturing into breathtaking outdoor spaces helps us step back, slow down and think in the long term

 

Encountering spectacular natural environments can cause a radical shift in how we think about ourselves and the world. According to the psychologist Dacher Keltner, feelings of awe, especially those inspired by natural scenery, can make us feel more collaborative, less egoistic, more altruistic, and more open to social connection. Over the past two decades, Keltner tested this idea through a series of experiments that examined how a person’s attitudes and behaviours change after experiencing awe-inspiring places or things. He found that natural splendour seems to put us in a headspace that lets us reflect on our short lives as ephemeral organisms dwelling on a fragile planet floating in a vast cosmos. This way of thinking can be transformative, but its power is not a recent discovery. Greco-Roman Stoic philosophers, for instance, encouraged retreats into the countryside to proactively ponder life. Venturing into breathtaking outdoor spaces seems to help us step back, slow down and, most importantly, think in the long term. I call this style of thinking ‘longstorming’ because encounters with sublime geophysical and ecological environments can invite the mind to brainstorm about our long-term futures and pasts.

Brainstorming is a technique that was developed by the advertising executive Alex F Osborne in the 1950s. This technique, as Osborne explains in his book Applied Imagination (1953), involves generating a stream of new ideas by riffing about bold plans or even proposing outlandish hypotheticals. Osbourne’s goal was to help employees come up with creative proposals for advertising campaigns, but brainstorming has since become a widely used tool for generating new ideas in all types of contexts. Brainstorming also works well – perhaps even better – out in the wilderness, under vast constellations of stars, where the mind is calibrated to contemplate the deeper timescales of our planet and universe.

I believe that purposefully longstorming can help us retool how we relate to time itself. Outdoors, in a headspace better suited to imagining possible scenarios in hypothetical past and future worlds, we can find a way beyond the immediacy of the age of haste.

In this case, a ‘scenario’ is created by weaving together ideas about trends (social, ecological, economic), possible events (the creation of new species, the movement of tectonic plates), and potential detours (such as the unexpected asteroid that collided with Earth 66 million years ago). The scenarios we imagine need not even be scientifically accurate. The simple act of temporally extending the intellect across time is enough to change how we experience the here and now.

 

Towering above the canyon like silent guardians, I saw the tallest living things on Earth: coast redwoods

 

I recently tried longstorming while hiking through Fern Canyon in Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park in Northern California. Standing inside the canyon itself, which a tiny stream had carved out over aeons, I thought about the fern species covering the 15-metre-high stone walls beside me. The ancestors of these leafy plants dated back 325 million years. Climbing over the tangled roots of a downed redwood tree, itself several hundred years old, I watched the rays from our 4.6 billion-year-old sun filter through the foliage, casting a soft dappled light. As I walked, I saw a tiny waterfall sprinkling over pads of moss as it fell from the high canyon walls. Towering above the canyon like silent guardians, I saw the tallest living things on Earth: coast redwoods. The ancestors of these trees have been growing in the region for about 20 million years, and their relatives thrived in the Jurassic period, roughly 160 million years ago. The scene felt like a portal to an earlier world – a reminder of the vast chain of life, and of my fleeting moment within it.

As I longstormed, I envisioned other moments from the past. Imagining how the nearby waterway would have looked hundreds of years ago, I pictured the redwood-plank homes built on its banks by the Indigenous Yurok peoples, who were some of the earliest inhabitants in the region. My mind drifted even further back. Tens of millions of years ago, redwood forests grew from Greenland to Alaska, France to the Czech Republic, England to Svalbard. The redwoods bear witness to the depths of time.

As I wandered, the canyon’s sprouting ferns and trickling water proceeded at a slow, deliberate pace. This invited me to ponder Earth’s ongoing dance of creation and erosion, growth and decay. Boundaries between the natural landscapes of the national park and the inner landscapes of my thoughts blurred. I thought about the impermanence of human endeavours, and how soon the digital equipment I had with me – phones, cameras – would become obsolete. I thought about the redwoods absorbing our emissions from the atmosphere, taking in carbon dioxide as they continued to grow. I pondered how climate change could reduce the coastal fog upon which the trees depend, or how reduced snowmelt could someday hinder the redwoods’ access to water. And I thought about my own life, my ancestors, and the intergenerational chains of connection that bind us to Earth and each other.

When I left the redwoods, and stopped longstorming, I found myself in a different frame of mind than when I arrived. I felt more tranquil and open to time. And I’m not the only one. In 1969, Claudia Alta ‘Lady Bird’ Johnson, then the First Lady of the United States, noted a similar experience in a Californian redwood forest. What she describes is a simple form of longstorming:

 

One of my most unforgettable memories of the past years is walking through the redwoods last November – seeing the lovely shafts of light filtering through the trees so far above, feeling the majesty and silence of that forest, and watching a salmon rise in one of those swift streams – all our problems seemed to fall into perspective and I think every one of us walked out more serene and happier.

 

Sublime outdoor spaces, such as a redwood forest, can offer a temporal perspective that is rare in contemporary consumer societies. Longstorming acts on this by creating a contemplative headspace in which the fleetingness of the present and the vastness of deep time mingle in harmony. This underscores the importance of conserving outdoor spaces not just as charismatic ecosystems or natural resources, but also as ideational resources for connecting our minds with the deeper timescales of our planet. For some, contemplating these settings may evoke a sense of planetary connection that makes the restless whizzing of our daily lives less oppressive, less urgent. For some, this may also be confronting, as we realise how insignificant our daily concerns are in the grand timelines of the universe. For others, it may shed light on hopes, fears, dreams, anxieties and desires.

By longstorming, your mind becomes a theatre for viewing possible planetary events across time. This is similar to the geologist Marcia Bjornerud’s concept of ‘timefulness’. Thinking about geological events on Earth, she writes in her 2018 book, can help us become more ‘mindful that this world contains so many earlier ones, all still with us in some way – in the rocks beneath our feet, in the air we breathe, in every cell of our body.’ Longstorming is also related to the poet Arthur Rimbaud’s concept of Robinsonner, in reference to Robinson Crusoe, from his poem ‘Romance’ (c1869-71). This invented French verb denotes the act of daydreaming by wandering mentally to distant places and times. Such plays of temporal imagination are essential to resisting the pressures of our age of haste.

 

Metals found in smartphones, such as gold and copper, were formed billions of years ago among distant stars

 

Anthropologists and geologists have long advocated that we focus on long-term horizons. In the 1970s, Margaret Mead warned against the modern, Western, hyper-individualistic pathology of being too rigidly rooted in one’s own cultural concept of time – a phenomenon that the anthropologist Robert Textor later termed ‘tempocentrism’. Bjornerud has diagnosed consumer society with ‘chronophobia’: the time denial associated with lives of instant gratification. In my book Deep Time Reckoning (2020), I caution against ‘shallow time discipline’: the way that socioeconomic pressures for short-term gains have created incredibly short-term rhythms in our lives. Tempocentrism, chronophobia and shallow time discipline are all ways of diagnosing our ever-accelerating relationship with the world, which we experience as a hyperactive whizzing that spins us, faster and faster, toward death.

Fortunately, you do not need to visit charismatic ecosystems, like redwood forests, to begin longstorming. Walking down any city street or a country road, you can attune to how the rocks beneath your feet have multimillion- or multibillion-year geological histories. You can attune to how the air you breathe is altered by decades of carbon emissions. You can attune to the evolutionary histories of the chirping birds or even the cells in your body. Contemplating the passage of time is, at some level, available to anyone willing and able to longstorm – to begin wondering about the longer timelines of the universe. When you return to your smartphone afterwards, you might even look differently at the device itself: less attuned to the newsfeeds and pings, and more attuned to the ancient geological histories of the elements and minerals that make it up. After all, many of the metals found in smartphones, such as gold and copper, were formed billions of years ago among distant stars.

That said, certain geophysical features (like mountain vistas or idyllic countryside), certain activities (like hiking or backpacking), and certain mental states (like awe or calm) tend to draw out more enriching temporal experiences than others. This has an unfortunate implication: opportunities to have life-transforming brushes with the deep time of our planet and cosmos are not evenly distributed across society. Not everyone is capable of leisurely neighbourhood walks, let alone treks up to mountaintop vistas. Not everyone has the resources to make such a trip, let alone the time. If we want all of society to resist the age of haste, we first need to reform its entrenched structures of poverty – temporal or otherwise.

In the age of haste, longstorming should be a necessity, not a luxury. Without a deeper attunement to planetary time, the therapies of the 21st century will deliver healing that soothes us only in the moment. The age of haste requires healing of a different kind: longer, slower, planetary.

 

 

 

Original article here

12 Jun 2024
Comments: 0

Basking in the Colors of Noise

 

 

Many of us watch the swirling colors of rustling autumn leaves without thinking much about listening to its pink noise; gaze at the majestic roll of ocean waves or the cascading beauty of a waterfall without considering a spectrum of sonic hues that add to the pleasure and comfort of the experience.

But by paying closer attention to the colors of sound, we open ourselves to richer, calmer, more mindful moves through our daily lives which can also aid in everything from a better night’s sleep and alleviating stress to easing chronic physical ailments.

Hear the rainbow

It’s easy to understand the colors of sound as they are comparable to the colors of light. For example, just as white light contains all the colors of the light visible to the human eye, white noise also emits all audible frequencies to the human ear.

In musical terms, frequencies are spaced out in intervals that our ears find pleasing, and gives a sound to its unique tone or timbre. Everyday noise — such as the sounds of rustling leaves or a truck driving up a street — are sporadic waveforms, which have a random distribution of frequency and amplitude.

Then there are the sonic hues: a mix of varied frequencies, which we as humans can hear, blended with other tonal layers and all playing at the same time in a random, unpredictable chorus that can be heard almost simultaneously, unless the sound is traveling from a distance, as with the far away sound of thunder.

I’ve come to discover that it’s also a wonderful soundtrack for my long days of writing, and is also helpful in calming my mind to get a better night’s sleep.

In recent years, pink noise — which encompasses nature sounds like ocean waves, falling rain, or rustling leaves — has become “the darling of the noise spectrum,” writes Meghan Neal in The Atlantic, upstaging white noise — more akin to a whirring fan, a humming air conditioner or the sound of static — as the preferred sound option for sleep or concentration.

This content is imported from youTube. You may be able to find the same content in another format, or you may be able to find more information, at their web site.

 

 

According to WebMD, pink noise reduces the difference between the background hum and jarring noises like a door slamming or car honking that can jolt you out of your sleep. It may also “help you fall asleep faster and keep you in a deep sleep longer.” So you’ll feel more rested in the morning when you wake up.

Because pink noise has the ability to mask a variety of sounds, it’s great for alert yet relaxed concentration and has been proven useful for those who suffer from tinnitus (ringing in the ears) — myself included.

Brown noise is a deeper version of pink noise, consisting of more bass tones and low-frequency. Think of a low roaring, strong waterfalls, or thunder. It draws its name not from the color but from the fact that the signal is akin to the “random walk” pattern produced by the Brownian motion: the movement of particles in liquid. It was named for the Scottish botanist Robert Brown, the first to study such fluctuations in 1827.

Blue noise, also known as azure noise, is more difficult to discern because of its high frequencies and very few bass tones — like the hiss of a kinked water hose. (And since this sound can be pretty harsh at high volumes, it’s not the go-to color option for most sound therapy machines.)

Audio engineers use blue noise for dithering, a process where noise is added to a track to smooth out the sound and lessen the audibility of distortions.

And then there’s black noise: the sound of silence (or near silence).

Healing with sound

In an article for CNET, writer Amanda Capritto explains that all the different “colors” of noise resonate with different amplitudes at different frequencies — basically the way our ears process sound and drown out unwanted noises. Which is why there are many, with sound bath facilitators to deejays finding ways to use different sounds to aid with sleep and other maladies.

As a certified sound and yoga therapist, Fawntice Finesse works in mental health and recovery and has become among the most sought-after sound bath healers in Southern California. In 2019, I hired Finesse to lead sound bath experiences for a series of women’s wellness and health fairs for APLA Health.

 

 

She has one of the most elaborate sound setups I’ve seen. In her work, Finesse, a flutist, uses a gong and 17 Tibetan singing bowls, among other instruments to create “as many paths of sound frequencies as possible,” a continuous flow of sound which affects the brain and the nervous system.

”That’s what the gong does; that’s what the singing bowls do,” she says, “it all encompasses an infinite amount of frequencies — which is the similarity between white noise and the specific instruments that I use.

“It’s all about the flow of the bodily system,” she continues, “and also waking up what it is in our bodies that has gone to sleep. A lot of times the sleepy part of us is connected to disease, or dis-ease or discomfort.”

She can attest to this first hand. In 2012, while getting her certification in sound, Finesse was in a car accident. She suffered from aphasia — a condition that robs you of the ability to speak, write and understand language, both verbal and written — resulting from a brain injury. Utilizing her training, Finesse turned to sound healing. She mixed a layer of frequencies with singing bowls, rain sounds, wind chimes, and other restorative sounds to treat her brain injuries. She eventually completed her sound healing certification in 2014.

“My car accident really showed me that when you calm the nervous system all other healing can happen,” she says. “So when someone comes to me and says they have tinnitus I’m coming at them with a lot of frequencies that may or may not be able to help them hear clearly again.”

“Or,” she continues, “it may engage another cell or another organ that’s actually causing the symptoms of another physical ailment or touch them emotionally, like Mahalia Jackson does with her voice, where there’s a release, and sometimes it’s tears. That’s the clearing and the flow of the bodily system – the opening of it. A great sound, like hers, a really good gospel voice, there’s so many layers, and that’s what the gong and cymbals are to me.”

The way sound works in the body is all about nerve connection: Sound goes into the eardrum and — even if we can’t hear a particular note or frequency — the sound vibrates in our ear canal which is connected to the vagus nerve, which connects to every major organ and cranial nerve, including the parasympathetic nervous system that controls our relaxation response.

The late actor Chadwick Boseman found calm in the sound of a djembe drum, said Viola Davis in an interview with USA Today. “One of the things that he carried everywhere was his djembe drum, which is called a talking drum in Africa. And he carried it himself,” Davis remembered about her Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom co-star: “He said ‘Viola, wherever I go, I carry my djembe drum. I do it for me. I play this drum for me, for my healing.’ It felt like he was playing that for God, for himself. There are no words to describe the playing because I love the djembe drum, but listening to him play when he had breaks in that trailer was just phenomenal.”

Supersonic

Pink noise videos on YouTube at bedtime have helped ease my ear ringing over the recent months — and I’ve incorporated other auditory hues during the day. Using colors to think about sound “in a way, these are subjective things,” says sonic explorer Mark “Frosty” McNeill whose online library of nature sounds are among my favorites, “but I think it’s a fun way to start thinking of sound in a way that can start engaging the other senses; how can those things have relationships that aren’t on a surface level.”

As the founder of Dublab, a Los Angeles-based online radio station that has been exploring wide-spectrum music since 1999, McNeill has focused on sharing transcendent sonic experiences. His latest project, Nose Music, “is meant to get people thinking about the relationship to their senses and an exchange between senses,” he says.

Nose Music is an album of scents corresponding to 10 classic albums including Another Green World by Brian Eno, Nina Simone’s Wild Is the Wind, King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown by Augustus Pablo, and Alice Coltrane’s World Galaxy.

“So, people can get a box set with 10 fragrances and in your own environment, you can listen to the music and smell the fragrance. Or you might choose to go out on the town smelling like The Velvet Underground & Nico and embody this album’s spirit.”

McNeill says the whole point is to get people to recognize sound not as an invisible entity, but as an ever-present relationship in their lives that connects them to the world.

“A lot of people think about these more static ways of sound existing, like sounds on my radio sitting on the table, sounds on my car stereo or sounds in my living room, but it’s also as you move around a space or the sonic architecture of a space, I like to think about how we as humans can change sound through our movements but also how, in the past year I’ve been thinking about recorded music. In one way you record a song and it’s frozen.

“But,” he adds, “recorded music is not as static as we think because all of us every day, every moment of every day, we’re shifting emotionally, we’re shifting physically — like if you’re cold and your bones are aching or if you’re hungry or totally satiated — as we’re moving through the world it actually changes the sounds. So, a recorded song changes infinitely as the people around time, space and place, interact with it.”

Because, as he suggests, being aware of what you’re putting into your system sound-wise is as important as what you’re putting into your body food-wise. “The more you begin to do this kind of deep listening helps you have a greater awareness of the world around you, and your impact on it.”

 

 

 

Original article here

04 Jun 2024
Comments: 0

Easing the Toll of Long-Distance Grief

 

When Amrita Chavan boarded her plane in Mumbai, India, grief was the last thing on her mind. This was a new beginning. She was 19, bound for Canada, the first of her family to go abroad to pursue higher education. The goodbye was heartbreaking, she recalls; all of her relatives came to the airport for the send-off. But at the time, it was difficult for Chavan and her family to fully grasp the sacrifice she was making. “We had no idea what it meant to leave home,” she says.

Then, inevitably, grief came knocking. Almost 12 years after Chavan’s departure, while she was sitting in her apartment in Winnipeg in early 2020, Chavan’s stomach dropped as her mom called with the news. Chavan’s grandmother, who lived in Sydney, Australia, had fallen sick, and over the course of a few weeks, had passed away. There was no way she could go to mourn in person for her grandmother, one of the most important people in her life. Flights to Australia were expensive, and she couldn’t afford to apply for the visa she would need to even get into the country. So instead, Chavan emotionally shut down. “I felt very frozen for a very long time,” she says.

Migrant researchers and psychologists call what Chavan was experiencing transnational grief, or transnational bereavement. It refers to the unique experience of losing someone you love while in another country. Although grief is already a difficult process, immigrants who experience transnational grief often go through additional layers of guilt, denial, and suffering since they are unable to attend the typical rituals associated with loss.

 

I did not feel like I had permission to grieve, because I had not been there.”

 

The inability to see their loved one in person makes it difficult to achieve closure, and the bereaved may be unable to process the loss and move forward. In recent years, this reality has become more apparent, as COVID-19 claimed millions of lives while simultaneously forcing border restrictions. The pandemic further highlighted the critical role of community support and immigration policy shifts to help those who grieve from afar.

The Toll of Long-Distance Loss

Experiencing grief from a distance has long been the reality of immigrants. Anyone who leaves their family behind also risks being apart from their loved ones during times of loss—and often this grief comes with a whirlwind of complicated emotions.

“There is a strong sense of guilt. There is a strong sense of regret that they weren’t able to be with their loved one as the loved one died,” says Zohreh Bayatrizi, a grief researcher at the University of Alberta. She recalls a conversation she had when she interviewed an Iranian-Canadian immigrant who had lost their brother during the lockdowns in the COVID pandemic. Because they were unable to travel back home, or even see his body before it was buried, they refused to accept that their brother’s death was real.

Chavan recalls similar experiences, being separated by borders. “I did not feel like I had permission to grieve, because I had not been there,” she says.

Without this space to mourn, grief can become difficult to move past—especially for immigrants who are undocumented. Kristina Fullerton Rico, a sociologist at the University of Michigan’s Center of Racial Justice, works with these communities, and continuously hears about how grief affects everyday lives. “People described these experiences of grief and long-distance mourning as one of the most difficult parts of being undocumented in the United States,” she says.

For instance, while studying this phenomenon between 2017 and 2023, Fullerton Rico met a woman whom she calls Florencia (a pseudonym used to protect her privacy) who said, “When you experience grief [as an immigrant], your only option is to accept that you can’t do anything.” Fullerton Rico also shares a conversation she had with a man she calls Felipe: “Felipe told me grief changes you deeply.” The depth of that grief is exacerbated by distance when you can’t get closure from saying goodbye or attending a funeral, he told her. “It’s a chapter with no ending, and it remains unfinished.”

To make matters worse, the weight of transnational grief often remains a burden borne alone. “It isn’t something that people usually talk about,” Fullerton Rico says.

Bridging the Distance

Social rituals, in any culture, are an important part of the grieving process. Wakes and other celebrations of life can help people actively engage with memories of an individual, says Zoe Donaldson, a neuroscientist who studies grief at the University of Colorado Boulder. “Thinking of these memories allows your brain to sort of remodel and think about how these memories now fit into your life,” she says. But for those who don’t witness deaths or funerals in person, this process may be disrupted or made more difficult.

 

They had to sneak away to the bathroom, or hide in a walk-in refrigerator to get glimpses of one of the most significant rituals in somebody’s life.”

 

Gabriela Encina, a psychologist who works with expats, helps clients construct their own rituals so that they can celebrate their relationship with their loved one. She walks them through the process of grieving from afar, through actions like letter-writing, eating a loved one’s favorite meal, or participating in a favorite shared activity. The process takes time. Several sessions of goodbyes and rituals are often necessary for someone to make peace with a sudden death, says Encina.

Similarly, during the pandemic, Chavan found her own turning point for bereavement in creative nonfiction. She had lost her job at the time and decided to attend a writing class, taking on a project that allowed her to dive into her experiences with transnational grief. Through the process of writing, Chavan slowly broke the ice that had encased her for eight months. She sobbed as she remembered all the details about her grandmother: the spirited debates they would get into, how she commanded a room despite her small size, how she brought the family together with her love.

“It was awful. It was devastating. It felt like losing her all over again,” Chavan says.

But it was this act of writing and remembrance that allowed her to reconnect to her memories—and start to heal.

Systemic Solutions

Ultimately, making space for transnational grief requires the restructuring of how we think about immigration and loss. Currently, it takes years for an undocumented immigrant to become a legal, permanent resident in the U.S., and the few who are able to adjust their immigration status typically receive work authorization before the ability to travel back home, Fullerton Rico says. And so the opportunity of visiting loved ones becomes a waiting game, even as family members age or pass away.

“If we pass laws that prioritize a fast path to citizenship, we could avoid having people go through these experiences,” Fullerton Rico says.

Many undocumented immigrants also have inflexible, low-wage jobs, which pressures them to make painful decisions, like watching their loved ones’ funeral on a smartphone in between helping customers or preparing meals at a restaurant. “Instead of being there in person, they had to sneak away to the bathroom, or hide in a walk-in refrigerator to get glimpses of one of the most significant rituals in somebody’s life,” Fullerton Rico says.

Giving time and space for a person to grieve in the form of paid bereavement leave can help. This allows grievers to take time off work without facing the potential consequences of losing a paycheck or their job. Chavan recalls the pressure to continue to work in the midst of her grief because she didn’t have the financial flexibility to lose out on paid hourly work, which gradually degraded her mental health. Currently, only five states in the U.S. mandate employers to give bereavement leave, Fullerton Rico says, only two of which require the leave to be paid.

Most importantly, it’s crucial to “let people know that they’re not alone in this pain,” Fullerton Rico says. She urges more immigrant-serving organizations to recognize this reality and help immigrants get access to counseling, other mental health resources, or religious rituals so they’re less at risk of conditions like clinical depression. She shares the example of a Catholic priest she interviewed in New York City, who has helped perform memorial Masses for transnational mourners since the 1990s. Today, these funeral ceremonies are held and streamed through Facebook Live, YouTube, or Zoom, helping families feel some sense of togetherness.

Experts agree that forming this social support is a key factor in the grieving process. “Grief is something of a social experience,” Bayatrizi says. “It’s an emotional experience that’s shaped through our social interactions.”

Chavan says that the only reason she finally felt ready to face the emotions was because her partner and her in-laws were supportive, giving her a small but strong community in an isolating time. After writing about the experience, she also started having more conversations with family and friends who had read the article, about the struggle of grieving from afar and how they coped.

“It meant that I had this community, this global community that I could reach out to essentially,” she says. “Learning that you are not alone in something that you have gone through can be very powerful.”

 

 

Original article here