Where does our human soul reside? In our own consciousness of being (present, through sensation, the physical world, interaction with others), in our memory of being (past, fragments of memory, whole recitations, a library of experiences tucked away but seldom retrieved), or in our creative being (imagining what our sensate selves have not encountered, extrapolating from the “seen” and leaping into the “could be”)?
For most people, it’s not necessary to contemplate a splitting of any of these selves. We grow, naturally, from infancy to adulthood, the multiple parts of our brains weaving together a consciousness that takes in the enormous amount of data from the world and turns it into judgment, narrative, and art.
I’ve been re-reading Oliver Sacks. If you’ve never read his works, they are science and soul, side by side. As each patient case comes to him “presenting” with symptoms, he proceeds with the neurological evaluation, but also reveals the deeper ways in which each individual lives within the context of his/her life. In the story arc of each diagnosis, a sorrow, a victory, in some cases both, are revealed.
A colleague once told me she worked for a beloved boss who was unrelentingly perfectionist. She had high expectations, and demanded everyone meet them. A mutual friend had a different experience with the same boss, and found her relaxed, charming, and motherly.
“That’s because you worked for her after her heart attack,” said the first colleague, slightly exasperated. “And I worked for her before."
And it’s true, a significant illness and brush with mortality changes everything in your life, not the least of it is your perspective. The illness and its memory is a new part of our selves, a companion of sorts.
“How are you doing? How is Jon doing?”
He is doing great. Time is a great healer. The therapies are at an advanced level now, and ramping up in speed, duration, and complexity. He’s taking rehab seriously, and following up on exercise, tasks, and medical advice. We are lucky in so many ways, not least if which is that we live in a city with one of the best acute care and neurological therapy departments in the country, if not the world—we are a Keck Medicine of USC family, now and always.
How are we doing? How are we really, really doing?
Well I can only speak for myself. I pack up all my troubles in my old kit bag at the end of the day, and put them aside in an imaginary locker in a railway station with a million things that need to be done, and just go home where someone is waiting for me. Sometimes inspiration or duty calls, and I plop down a note or an idea for work, in between the lull of reading, cooking, napping, walking, browsing, contemplating, meditating, etc., while Jon reads, does therapy, cooks, tinkers, naps, contemplates, browses, picks up on building management projects, etc. We make plans with friends, with family. We watch crime dramas. (His are American, mine are British.)
Love, work. Work, love. More love. This is where we have found our humanness (thank you, Dr. Freud.)
What would you do if you could stop everything, and choose what you wanted to do every day?
Start a ripple that makes the world a slightly better place.
Be of service to others, and to a greater purpose than just yourself.
Live life fully, with joy and kindness, and laughter and gratitude.
Limitless love, gratifying work.
I can say, we are both walking with purpose, literally and figuratively. Making each step count. Looking forward, hearts open to the endless sky.
Patient in waiting.
Waiting patiently.
Loving.
Every day.
Namaste.
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