GOT TOUCH?: The Oxytocin Connection

My version of an oxytocin molecule-- DaVinci days

Known as the "cuddle drug", the"superglue of relationship", and "the connection hormone", oxytocin is secreted when we love and touch.  It's the chemical catalyst for community.

Studies found that when women gather in community, oxytocin levels increase-- and so does cooperation.  When persons were given internasal doses of the hormone, they were more likely to extend trust to sales pitches-- the proverbial "want to buy some swamp land" type, which has some sinister implications for the misuse of this powerful molecular concoction.  On a more positive note, oxytocin levels jump when devoted women imagine their husbands, or nurse their child.  Increased levels of oxytocin encourage intimacy and bonding by ramping up trust and reducing fear.  Sounds like my kind of drug.

a proposal on Mary's Peak

Lack of touch can stunt growth in babies, increase anxiety in all ages, and decrease calmness, connectedness, and safety.  Remember those terrifically sad pictures of monkeys clinging to the foodless warm terrycloth mom model over the cold wire cage milk-dispensing "mama monkey?".  They'd starve for food before starving for tactile connection.  Traumatized people need touch too, but it's got to be expected and the giver sensitive to tolerance levels.  Hand pats to the shoulder are usually acceptable where a hug would feel threatening.  Some who wouldn't tolerate a hug are ok with therapeutic massage.  When even that level of human touch is too fraught, humans can raise their oxytocin levels by cuddling a non-threatening pet.  In nursing home residents, blood pressures go down and perceptions of happiness increase when therapy dogs and cats are around for pettings.  To avoid the messiness of live animals, Japan is working on fuzzy robots to fill this role.

When circumstances dictate, even self-touch works.  And I'm not even talking masturbation. We rub our own neck, wring our hands, scratch our heads to self-sooth.   Physical therapists teach clients to curry themselves with ultra soft brushes.  It's calming, seems to raise oxytocin levels and desensitizes these hyperalert/tactically defensive folks to accept safe touch.

So get your touch on.  Dancing, petting animals, holding hands with a friend, rocking a baby, yours or anothers'-- not all touch is sexual.  But it is essential.


 More resources:  http://www.reuniting.info/science/oxytocin_health_bonding?

Articulation: When Art Talks for Us

Copyright Jason deCaires Taylor

Say what you will about the evils of Facebook--info junkies like me find much to be loved there.  My last blog was prompted by friend Marilyn W's link to a 9 page NYTimes article
I wouldn't have otherwise seen.  And last night, a Serbian mail-artist posted a beautiful picture of an underwater installation that led me to the website of artist Jason deCaires Taylor.  How could I never have heard of this guy?  I spent a very long time looking at his amazing works.  I am so moved by them.  There is much going on here-- the beauty and poignancy of the models, the interactions of the living environment in the moment, and the inevitable deconstruction/remaking of the statues as nature moves in.  Take a few minutes to visit his website, or view the film below.

We are lucky to have artists who can articulate what we feel but can't explain.  Thank them by visiting galleries, museums and especially by investing in their work.  If you're from the valley, this weekend's a good time to start.  Come to Corvallis's Fall Festival, where over 160 artists will be displaying their efforts.  Stay for the Saturday night dance!

The Kids Aren't Alright: The Pressure for Excellence

I began counseling teens while I still was one.  I still do and I still love it.  But the kids I see today are battling different demons.  Perfectionism and anxiety have replaced the semi-angsty depressions and predictable adjustment issues of the past.  Every November and April my answering machine is inundated with calls from stressed out teens and parents.  The timing isn't coincidental.  That's peak pressure period for college decisions, SAT/ACT and  extracurricular events.

When I was in high school, there were maybe two or three "honors" courses.  It was assumed that not all of us would go to college, and for those that weren't inclined either temperamentally or academically, there were reasonable options for making your way in the world.  It wasn't necessarily a badge of honor to go the vo-tech (vocational/technical school) route, but it wasn't a badge of shame either.  And most of those that did made a fine enough living, getting a two to four year head start on building a life while the rest of us chalked up some student loans and debts.  At 25, most were settled into careers whether or not they had a graduate degree.

My parents didn't talk to me about college, though there was an assumption I'd go.  There were no late night marathons of form filling, or many of homework for that matter.  I went to school-- most days-- and did the work, and graduated, and went to a college 25 miles from my hometown mostly because my sister broke her neck that summer (she's fine now, BTW-- no thanks to me transporting her home from our day at the lake in the back seat of a VW bug).  I'd thought I'd be going to Iowa, but KU worked out fine, and I learned from some great profs and from immersing myself fully in what I wanted to learn.  Maybe it helped that I'd known I wanted to be a therapist since I was 12 and had some great local mentors.  But on the whole, a lot of my learning occurred outside of the classroom-- from volunteering at a crisis center, working as a psych ward aide, working with the sexual assault response team, and reading like crazy.

I was an exception.  Most kids don't know what they want to do when they grow up, and that's just fine. It's developmentally quite appropriate.  The benefit of a liberal arts education is supposed to be to expose people to all kinds of things, so they can decide-- decide what sets them on fire, and where their individual strengths are.  I think my high school served that function, and I knew I loved biology but pretty much sucked at math, and I loved social sciences and did well there.  My course was set and it was fine with me.

Now, I see kids under immense pressure to know in advance what they want to do for a living.  They seem less concerned with vocation (from voca-- get it?  Voice.  A calling, not a command) and more with how to get into the Right School and earn money.  I don't think there's anything wrong with the latter.  But there's a whole lot wrong with how we tell kids they need to go about it.  We've raised a generation of kids thinking that self-worth is based on GPAs, AP classes, extracurricular activities that "count" (read: look good on the college application) and getting into the Right School.  We've reduced intelligence to IQ scores, and success to academic achievements.  What good does it do to get to Harvard but be so emotionally wrecked you cannot sustain an intimate relationship, sleep at night, or find any peace and pleasure in the life you lead?  To graduate from the Right School with $100K plus of debt and little prospect of finding a decent job, with decent hours and pay, that also allows you to have a life?

And the big lie is now there are hardly any jobs anyway.  Most young people today are not going to have the standard of living their parents had.  They aren't going to get going on careers as young, or even earn livable pay with benefits for the most part. Apprenticeships for teens are gone. Vo-tech is gone.  Even community colleges require minimum standards in English and Math that will deny some very bright students the ability to complete a 2 year degree.  And 2 year degrees are barely acceptable for jobs that pay minimum wage.

When I worked in a community counseling center in southeast Texas, I had clients who could barely read or write but who made adequate incomes to raise families and buy a home.  They were mechanics, or worked in oil fields, or raised cattle.  They were smarter than me by far, but today most of them would be unemployed because of minimum standards for jobs. The workforce has changed. The requirements don't seem to have much to do with the actual jobs in many cases.  I see bright people stuck in low-end jobs not because they lack experience or ability but because they lack a degree.  I see very competent 40 somethings being supervised by 26 year olds who have no real idea what they are doing, but they do have an MBA.  I see 25 year olds with master degrees working as waitresses because no one wants to pay them for what they DO know.

And I see way too many 16 and 17 and 18 year olds torn up because they aren't completely sure already what their paths should be.  Doing 5 hours plus of homework a night.  Who don't know how to socialize, play or be curious.  Who have no idea what it is to simply ponder and putter.

I'm not blaming the parents-- I got sucked in too.  In the whole No Kid Left Behind testing marathon, we ditched the kids completely and went for the scores.  We were told these were the most critical  fill-in-the-blank (years/tests/elasticities/applications/choices) our kids would make; and if we let them slack, their failure would be our fault.  We would have hamstrung their future.So we pushed and nagged them into frenzied versions of midlife adults completely undone by premature decision making.

There is something very wrong here.  And it is up to us, the adults, to put it back in order.  The kids don't sure as hell don't have time.  They are too busy being tutored, cramming for tests, writing entrance essays and worrying about getting accepted to the Right School.  Grown-ups are going to have to do what grownups are meant to do, and take care of them.  Teach them kindness, curiosity and balance.  Teach them to live with failure and imperfection.  Remind them that many of their heroes took various paths to greatness.  And even remind them that the definition of greatness is considerably debatable.

There's a movement afoot.  I'm hoping to bring the movie in the trailer below to Corvallis, and to talk to parents about how we can advocate for our kids to have a childhood instead of an entrance exam.  Please take a minute to watch the video below.  It should break your heart.  Want to help?  Send me a note.

More nonscents

Went today to hear the venerable Sam Keen, author of so many fine treatises on the human condition I can barely bare to pare it down to a favorite.  I first heard of Dr. Keen in the way way back, maybe through the CoEV Quarterly.  He's a philosopher, academic, poet, Eagle Scout (youngest in Delaware history!) and Johnny-come-lately trapeze artist.  Now 80, he is brilliant-sexy, about the only kind of sexy I seem to notice.  He waxed on for several hours and I filled up a moleskine with notes.  I'll be doling out gleamings from this wisdom-packed day for weeks to come.  But tonight it is late, and I've just returned from the quarterly wine-tasting/food gathering with my sweetheart's colleagues.  I surprised myself when I approached this plethora of smell memorials with some hard-core denial.  Within minutes of seeing the plates and plates of tastes and all those carefully selected french wines I was in tears. 9 gourmet cheeses I could not smell.  Elegant plates of muskmelon and nectarines drizzled with...who knows...and blueberries and rosemary; it might as well have been a plate of Red Delicious-less appple slices covered with jujubes for all the scents I could make out of it.  Wine after wine was presented with labels going on about terroir, and as far as I could tell  they could have been subtle different off-brands of weak kool-aid.  I spun into sadness and went for a walk and tried to pully my ass up from its deep crevasse pity party.

Isn't that a bit how grief is-- we put it off to the side and go back to the daily, only to be yanked by our petards each time we re-remember our loss and how it has changed the predictable?  I am making progress, truly I am. I am working hard hard hard on getting into textures. I now love salt and sugar  and chili paste and fat, which I never did before when I could actually taste food.
But I don't like it. Tonight I just wanted to taste the 47 textures and sensual pleasures of that one late summer perfectly perfumed nectarine.  Instead I need to accept it being the pleasant, in the most banal of the word, piece of fleshly texture that it is.  It'll get tolerable.  It already is, most of the time.  But when I get a new experience of the not-smelling world, it's a tiny and sharp death I want to resist.  There's a loss of common language and experience I haven't figured out how to bridge.  A guilt over not having any idea why this wine is interesting, knowing a dear friend picked it out especially to please us. A chagrined anger that everyone is having so much more out of this experience than I can.

It'll shift.  It already is starting to shift. Like my fellow anosmiacs I am  very into texture in foods now.  But I haven't transitioned out of the disappointment that this is all I'm going to get.  I look forward to that peace.

Sam Keen talked today about vowing to sit with discomfort until it resolves. Literally sit down, and look at the feeling in curiosity and compassion until it transforms.  I remember advising an angry Muslim to do the same once, and quoting him Higher Evidence on the wisdom of this exercise straight from the Prophet's mouth as written in the Koran.  It's good advice:  stop doing/craving/fuming/crying, and just sit until you figure something out.
So I am sitting, and writing too, and waiting to come to that place of serenity about that which I cannot control or change.  Waiting for the wisdom, or the acceptance that is not approval but a compassionate acknowledgement of what is, whether I like it or not.

But for the time being, each new experience of a smell memory that is now gone is a bit of a punch in the gut. What a lesson.

I hate it when I am resisting my lessons.

The Defective Terrorist

Another September 11th is over.  Despite reports of "increased internet chatter", there were no 10th anniversary attacks, only sighs of relief and disbelief that it's been so long since "everything's different now."

We do what we can to hold onto our structures-- our belief that life will continue on a fairly reasonable, mostly predictable path.  We have to.  Otherwise, how could we ever kiss our children or sweethearts goodbye in the morning as they headed for school or work?   We'd be doing no one good to cling each time, wailing, forcing them to peel us off their legs, on the off chance it's our last meeting on this earth.  After all, the odds are high we'll be seeing them again in a few hours, nagging at them about some annoying behavior, or just carrying on with a mundane evening.  And life will go on, pretty much as it has.  

For the 2800+ people killed ten years ago by a few misguided idealists/sociopaths/terrorists, life didn't go on at all.  Had they some prescience to know it was to be their last day on earth, they might have played their cards a little differently.  Taken the kids to breakfast.  Skipped the morning report.  Hell, maybe not gone to work at all. But that sort of insight usually only comes as hindsight.  And it makes no sense to act on it in foresight:   nothing would get done if we "what if" d ourselves into terrorized paralysis each day.  

It boils down again, doesn't it, to that middle path--living each day as if we will live forever or possibly die.  We muddle through it the best we can.   We forgive ourselves our trespasses and try like hell to love our enemies, or at least to understand them so we don't go mad.  We try to simultaneously remember and forget our own mortality, so we can cherish/bear being alive.
 

I just finished John Ronson's ThePsychopath Test.  He's the author of Men Who Stare at Goats, later made into a love-it-or-hate-it movie.  In his latest book, he investigates the idea that the socially conscious-less (estimated to make up about 1% of the population but causing much of  the trouble for the rest of us) are neurally atypical.  Something's funky in their brain.  They're the polar opposite to the Troubled Trifecta folks, at least when it comes to degrees of empathy and sensitivity.  According to researcher Bob Hare, author of the checklist the title references, psychopaths just don't feel what the rest of us feel or worry about the consequences.  Human suffering-- hell, most emotions-- don't compute.  Others who are undone by emotions seem weak or crazy to the sociopath.  Ronson says a sociopath might view a gruesome murder photo as you or I would ponder a particularly difficult Sudoku-- intriguing, a puzzle to be solved, but there's no humanizing impact.  It was reassuring to hear him mention that readers who worry a lot they may meet the criteria for psychopaths are pretty much automatically safe from inclusion in the category.  

The mirror neuron research mentioned in the last post is probably involved.  Sociopaths truly aren't feeling what the average person feels; if feelings matter at all, it's only on an academic level. And lacking that emotional connection to others, it really is all about them, and what they want in the moment.  That's why they can rip off their grandmother without blinking, or repeat a behavior that caused them great personal inconvenience in the past.  They may express regret in the moment of being caught in a misdeed,  but they aren’t good social learners, having no emotional anchor for the memory.  The lesson’s lost on them.  Strong memories are stored via physical protein links, created via emotional reactions linked to physical experience. That's probably not happening with these folks.  Structural differences in the hippocampus, seat of memory and learning, have been observed in brains of sociopaths-- lesions, atrophy, other grim defects.  

Like other genetic differences, psychopathy has some evolutionary advantages.  Sociopaths tend to be superficially charming, articulate and persuasive.  Small wonder they are over-represented in populations of politicians and executives. Power and the resources it brings are aphrodisiacs for many, and ensure the spread of those genes.

 

Ronson's book doesn't seem to glamorize sociopaths, but his premises do suggest their behavior is less consciously willful than one might like to believe. What if it is true that some people are born lacking in the capacity for empathy and social learning,  and it is no more their choice than if they had been born blind, or without a limb?  These "first degree" sociopaths are no less harmful than who become remorseless through experience and trauma-- such as kids who have had the love beat out of them.  Containment (jail) may be a necessity.  Punishment, however, is unlikely to do much more than satisfy our own need for revenge.  

Sept. 11th and sociopaths seems a pretty reasonable association, but what's my point?  Maybe it's about learning to love, or at least have compassionate curiosity about our enemies.  I am curious about how anyone can do so much intentional evil.  I want to understand it.  I also know that my desire to do so is part of that human desire for more predictability and less anxiety.  And that my desire is unlikely to strongly impact my outcome, but it's the best I've got.

Check out Ronson's book if you have a chance. It's an easy read, a good combination of meat and sweet. He's a humorous writer, charming self-deprecating in a less-neurotic-version-of -Woody-Allen sort of way. 

I don't know that there are many conclusions in to be found there.   In fact, it seemed to end in a "I've got a deadline to meet" sort of way.  But it's thought-provoking and entertaining, could spark some great conversations.  I hope you'll give it a look. Then tell me some of your thoughts about it.

Movies Worth Watching: The Help

It's been an unusually hot week in the valley, and seeking air-conditioned respite we looked for the longest movie playing at local cinema.  The Help, based on Kathryn Stockett's 2009 bestselling novel, clocks in at 137 minutes, so off we went.

It was time well spent.  The story centers on three women living in Jackson, MS in the early 1960s .  Two are  African American maids; the third an idealistic white aspiring writer recently graduated from college.  Skeeter, (played by a wide eyed actress Emma Stone) comes back to her hometown to find her childhood Mammy absent and her cancer-stricken mother concerned only with her impending spinsterhood.  Witnessing the cruel injustice her high school girlfriends dole out to their hired help, and on the hunt for a story, she decides to interview the poorly paid domestic staff and find out how they feel about raising other people's children and being forced to use outside toilets. Actresses Octavia Spencer and Viola Davis play the maids who tell their story despite the real physical and financial threats it will pose to them.  (Editorial note: the director seems to have a fascination with elimination--  there are prominent scenes and references to peeing and defecation.  Freud would have a field day with that). 

The movie draws a heavy-handed but powerful portrait of the racial tensions and inequities of the times. 

Set in the days just prior to the March on Washington, there are multiple references to Jim Crow laws, including a reference to the Mississippi code declaring that no white child shall have a school text previously handled by a black child.   It's not perfect.  The Help seems to reinforce stereotypes even as it rails against them, and some of the dialogue and plot twists are pretty over the top.  It's typical Hollywood, and probably Oscar material.  You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll feel slightly manipulated.  But like a Cliff Bar or a gummy vitamin, sometimes we need these sorts of simple disguises to get the important stuff into us. This is recent history, folks.  And as much as we'd like to think racism is behind us, we have to have laws to convince people to treat each other as human beings.

I lived in SE Texas from 1985-1993.  Moving from a liberal college town, I was astounded at the degree of openly expressed racism.  When we looked for housing, the agents talked about the "exclusivity" of the neighborhoods and balked when I told them I would tell my husband Tyrone that exciting news. A few miles to the north, in the hometown of the Grand Dragon of the KKK, the government's efforts to integrate were snuffed out as one black family after another was moved in and then ran out.  The only African Americans at the country club were the minimum wage workers.  And when I asked what the preschool would be doing to celebrate Martin Luther King's birthday, I was told that the curriculum was full, because "it's community helper's month."  They were unmoved when I said I felt Dr. King was a most excellent example.

Racism persists today, although for most educated Americans it is not considered publicly acceptable. A recent study found a significant gap in grant funding for African American scientists-- unexplained by education, achievement or experience.  And if you've stomach enough to read the comments section of online news websites, you'll find stereotypes, bigotry and calls for violence against minorities that are hopefully much over-represented.  Racism is at this point mostly institutionalized and subtle.  It requires a higher level of internal investigation and vigilance to acknowledge and redress than the more blatant segregation of past years.  It takes courage to stand up for injustice, and wisdom to understand the fear and ignorance behind it.  It's important to keep the conversation fresh, and The Help does that.  Go see it.   And then go talk about it a while.  Maybe have a revelation, and make a commitment to not let slide that innocent, kind of funny joke that perpetuates the problem.  Befriend an "other."  Don't forget or ignore the cruelty  and courage of which all persons are capable.  Show up and Stand Up.  


Related blogs: 
Xenophobia
Darkeness Cannot Put Out Darkness
Sermon: The People That Scare Us

Door Number Two: Resolution #16: Use Your Voice

On the bedstand: Print Surfing

Im a died in the wool info junkie.  Print works best for me; TV is too intrusive and I like to make my own images, especially if they are going to be disturbing (ie news).  As a result of temperament or neurological quirkiness, I print-surf the way others channel surf.  I like to read and I love esoteric tidbits.  When I was a kid I spent a summer reading the Encyclopedia Britannia and the subsequent school year boring the pants off any one within earshot.  I also loved Ripley's Belive it or Not, World Almanacs, my mother's lurid Nursing textbooks (esp. infectious diseases-- elephantitis and testes do not mix well) and my father's collection of psych books (Fritz Perls's In and Out of the Garbage Pail was a favorite, maybe because like the ID textbook, it also had pictures.)

I usually have 6 to a dozen mostly-non-fiction reads in rotation next to my bed.  Here's a peek from one weeks's playlist.

The Emperor of Scent, by Chandler Burr.  Part investigative journalism, part academic muckwrecking and part fawning biography, the author delves into the world of the brilliant mind of perfumophile/scientist/madman Luca Turin and his hopes to shake up acadamia with a new theory of olfaction.  It may sound dry-- and I expect it was, for some-- but there's human drama aplenty.  And to this recent anosmiac, the immersion into the world of smells and Turin's vivid word-pictures describing them were welcome Nose Porn. Chandler's a great writer.  I can't vouch much for his scientific scrutiny pedigree but it all made sense to me, and his ability to weave an intoxicating sentence inbtween the lengthy descriptions of chemical coding and how molecules vibrate their way into olfactory experience was fascinating, even if loudly decried by the Shape Theorists.

For a nov

Saved

el introduction to Anosmia, local author Keith Scriber's new book The Oregon Experiment starts with a scent scene-- rising mint in the air on a dark night drive.  The protagnist's wife is a Professional Nose (perfumeir) recovering from anosmia.  It's a side story but an important one.

 Escaping my current obsession I read

Self-Care for Caregivers: Tips and Tools Chapter One

Every caregiver needs a toolkit to prevent or remedy compassion fatigue.  Here's several ideas for self-care to keep you in balance.  Some require time, practice, or props; some can be done in seconds during a meeting. Many of these have been covered in previous blogs and portions are reprinted or linked below.  The best of what I know is in these hyperlinks; it's a lot to read but I hope you'll dip in.

Managing the Monkey Mind 

     Oh the nerves, the nerves; the mysteries of this machine called man! Oh the little that unhinges it, poor creatures that we are! --Charles Dickens

 Don't suffer twice. When we worry about something in our future, (and there's nothing to be done about it) it's a lose-lose situation. If it happens, we get to suffer twice. If it doesn't, we worry for nothing.

 Mind your stories. A Swedish proverb says: Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow. We can tell ourselves pretty alarming stories that have no real basis in probability. Check for facts. How many times have planes crashed at PDX today? This week? This year? Chances are that same pilot who's already landed the plane safely 8 times this week will also do fine today. 

Take a breath. When we are fretting, we are often literally holding our breath. We don't breathe out all the used up air, and we end up in a bit of an oxygen deficit-- which does nothing to soothe our anxiety. Try "box breathing"-- take as much time to breath out as in, and make sure to pause for a reasonable time between inhalation and exhalations.  For more info on the power of breath, click here.

Get some distraction action. Since what you feed (your mind) grows, look for healthier places to invest. Listen to some music, taste a lemon, do some art.   Here's some info on how music can heal:  http://www.janasvoboda.org/2011/01/resolution-24-make-joyful-noise.html

Fire up a more logical part of your brain. Think of your brain like a power grid. If one part-- say that pesky amydala, which is all about emotion-- is all lit up, chances are the areas that access logic and reason are a bit dimmed down. Shift the resources by engaging in a few minutes of algebra, or even sudoku. Firing up those neurons will take a load off. 

Accept your emotions and remember they are transient and (in their moment) valid, so judgment isn't helpful.  (More here).   But feelings aren't facts-- or based on them-- so you don't have to react to them. Let them rise up, use them as data, and let them pass.  

Befriend your body.  Give it some rest, good food and some exercise.  Exercise is a chance to dump all those fight-or-flight chemicals that have nowhere to be of use, and it's neurogenerative too-- rebuilds those brains cells that stress kills off. 

Use Visualization:  here's two I like.  1) Imagine yourself as a mountain, fully rooted and stable, big and strong.  The yoga pose Tadasana is all about this rootedness but I find just imagining the way I feel in this pose is nearly as good as doing it-- and a lot more reasonable if I'm in the middle of a tense meeting.    2)  Imagine you have a Teflon force field and all that negative stuff just slides off away from you.  Don't pick it up!

When we are stressed, our self-talk and thinking can spiral in bad directions.  Here's an except about getting that in line.

Don't feed Ethel.

Most of us have a loud and annoying bully in our head who tells us Bad Scary Stuff.  I've decided to name it "Ethel".  Please forgive me if you are or have an Ethel in your life that you love.

Ethel says things like:  "You can't do it.  You're a loser.  Why try?  You don't deserve to (fill in the blank:  be happy, healthy, out of debt, in a good relationship)."  She tells lots of scary stories with an authority that is quite convincing.  Ethel gets bigger and stronger every time you listen to her.  

When that doubting voice shows up, don't even bother talking back.  It's OK to talk to yourself.  (Tip:  Unless you're alone, don't do it out loud.) Tell yourself: "That's just Ethel, doing her deal."  Tell yourself some facts, like "I've been scared before and done fine anyway."  Or "I don't really know how this will turn out, and I won't know anything more if I don't try."  When Ethel has no attention, she tends to wander off.

Make use of the healing power of nature.  It's restorative, restful, oxygenating, and less impinging.  Take a walk in a forest, lay on a beach, wander a meadow.

Lighten the heck up! Yes, life is full of suffering.  As Buddha says, One life: ten thousand joys, ten thousand sorrows.  Make sure you are getting the joy part in.  Read more about play and laughter-- then get some.

Don't forget the importance of community.  On the whole, Americans have never been lonelier than we are in the "connected" age.  Online isn't enough.  We need real people who can really see us and accept us for who we are, warts and all.  We need touch (more on this in a coming article), witness, and to know that if we need tangible help there is someone who will.  If you are feeling isolated, know at least that you are in good company and there are others like you wanting to connect.  Take the risk and reach out.  

Reset your happiness baseline by shaking up your routine and practicing gratitude.   Learn more about happiness research here  and in this blog on Happy Factors.

Remember that YOU COUNT TOO!
Most natural caregivers cannot help but attend to the needs of others.  They would never intentionally neglect a being in need of attention, love and kindness.  Except for themselves. 
They-- you?-- need to remember the Silver Rule:  Treat yourself as you would have others treated.  And as Thom Ruttledge says, remember "You are not an exception to the rule that nobody's perfect."  So give yourself a break, some love, a kindness.  Acknowledge and accept your human limitations and feet of clay.  "Put on your own oxygen mask before assisting others."

And that's important.  Because if you burn out, there is one less person who to help.
Take care of yourself, sweetheart.
-----
photos for this blog taken at this year's Oregon Country Fair, now in its 42nd year of creative community.

SelfCare for the Caregiver: Compassion Fatigue

 Last week, I was in Kansas City talking with the staff of a large animal shelter about compassion fatigue.  Wayside Waifs was started in the 40s by a woman who purchased land in the hopes it could be resold as a farm after the city's animal welfare problem was solved.  Then, the shelter operated in a 3000 sq foot building.  65 years later, it's bursting at the seams at 30,000 square feet, and adopting out 5000 pets a year.  Despite aggressive campaigns on spaying and neutering and other aspects of responsible pet ownership, the problems of animal abuse, neglect and abandonment are not likely to be solved anytime soon.  

Animal shelter workers and other workers in fields where needs outweigh resources, and where empathy is a crucial part of the call to service are at high risk for compassion fatigue.  Like burnout, CF can suck the joy out of doing important work.  But while one can burn out at any job, compassion fatigue is associated with jobs in which the worker is exposed to suffering and trauma.  Also known as secondary traumatic stress or vicarious trauma, one doesn't have to be the victim of life's precariousness to feel the effects of witnessing it.  Hearing about or seeing seeing suffering of vulnerable beings (yes, animals too) triggers sympathetic reactions in our own nervous systems.

Not surprisingly, the persons most drawn to caretaking jobs tend to be highly sensitive.  I'd guess they are way over-represented in the Troublesome Trifecta category-- those folks who have Big Radar (take lots in); Big Sensitivity (feel it deeply) and Big Brains (analyze/ruminate a lot).  Such traits are common among people who rate high in anxiety, and as noted in the TT article, it's estimated that anxious predisposition occurs genetically in about 15-18% of us.  The biological advantage is that these hyperalert and vigilant types will notice environmental dangers and thus avoid them, staying alive long enough to reproduce and keep that gene in the pool.  The downside, of course, is all that feeling and thinking can be exhausting.  Faced with a particular trauma, the brain has three routes of defense:  flight, fight or freeze.  When there's no one to beat up and nowhere to go, freeze eventually becomes the default.  And that can translate into Compassion Fatigue.

Freeze is misleading-- it can be paralysis, but often is just of an emotional zone-out, a sort of flight of feeling.  It's basically dissociation:  you are of the world, but not in it.  Like all defenses, this can be handy and helpful.  And like all defenses, it can become habitual and limiting.

It's well known in therapy world that "exposure" is the treatment of choice when dealing with phobias.  If for some reason your brain fires up wildly every time, say, you are on a bridge, a cognitive behavioral therapist will gradually expose you to bridges (first imagined, then represented, then real) until your brain figures out there is no real threat there. And in fact, there really wasn't a threat in the first place, or if there was, it was isolated and unusual.  You can also desensitize to more visceral and universal threats, such as the sight of blood, vomit, broken bones-- ask any ER worker. 

But for the ER worker, the first responder, the child abuse worker, and others, there can be a cost to the exposure.  The brain has to protect itself.  It can compartmentalize and figure out all the ways the situation doesn't apply to it/you.  It can try to solve the problem by working harder at caregiving.  It can check out.  All of these are effective in the short run, even without our conscious minds engaging-- in other words, we don't realize that's what we are doing.  But without some conscious intervention, we eventually get tapped out.  Brain says-- enough.  I can't take caring about all this anymore. And then we either stop caring, or we stop working.  Sometimes we stop working before we quit our jobs.  That's burnout.  Sometimes our bodies stop for us-- giving us the break we will not take for ourselves.  None of these is a good outcome-- not for us, not for the beings we set out to serve.

In compassion fatigue, there is burnout, but there is also emotional numbing, or intense emotional triggering and dysregulation.  Watching suffering activates empathy.  Persons who are more empathetic are more highly activated and affected.  It's not just in your mind-- it's in your body.   The brain has mirror neurons that activate as if one is engaged in an activity even when only observing it.  For an obvious example, watch what happens when a man sees another man kicked in the testicles.  That wince-- and sometimes grab-- is instantaneous.  And if you happened to have the observer in an brain scanner, you could watch portions of his brain light up with activity.  Interestingly, and logically, persons with higher levels of empathy seem to have more of these mirror neurons-- their "lighting up" in response to observing pain in others is more intense.  They are literally feeling your pain.  Here's one paper on this phenomenon (there are many): StuartDerbyshire/Pain_sensation_evoked_by_observing_injury_in_others


Symptoms of compassion fatigue are myriad. Reluctance to engage, irritability, compulsive use of drugs/alcohol/shopping and other numbing and distracting agents are a few.  For a more complete list, see compassionfatigue.org. 

Risk factors are myriad as well.  As you can see, the very people drawn to being caregivers are the sorts that do not screen out others' pain well-- the very reason they are led to try to reduce it.  Many have come to their empathy through personal trials and suffering, which has enriched their capacity for compassion and understanding.  Unresolved personal suffering, however, increases the risk of burnout and CF.  And watching others' suffering can change world-views.  As a crime detective once told me, "I see a small, very bad portion of the world way too often and way too close.  And it's hard to remember that's not the way the whole world is."


The long and atypical (rarely 9-5) hours of most service jobs, the incredible feeling of personal responsibility (“I should have done more!)  often coupled with little agency or authority, and the inevitability of poor outcomes in caregiving jobs are part of the unavoidable risk factors that can lead to Compassion Fatigue without support and intervention.  There is also the physical toll of brain’s instant chemical response to hearing/seeing threat without having the avenues of true flight or fight to make use of them.  Such chronic exposure to stress chemicals can lead to real illness.

In the next blog, I’ll talk about ways to mediate these very real risks.  We want caregivers that care—that’s a win-win.

Getting Real in Relationship and Communication-- a small start

A Boar in a China Shop:  looks like trouble.

Thanks to colleague and anxiety genius psychiatrist Dr. David Hart, I am enjoying the exploration of authenticity in communication within personal and professional communication.  He introduced me to FAP, aka Functional Analytical Psychoanalysis, in which the relationship between therapist and client is but a mirror to client's extended relations out of the office.  Old news, right?  Psychoanalysts have explored that for decades.  But in FAP, that dialogue is happening live in vivo, not just in the shrink's heads or notes.  I've always said I'm an open book for my clients-- if they are wondering what the heck that last comment meant, or why I'm encouraging a certain homework, I encourage them to just ask.  But now I am mindfully (hopefully!) censoring less about counter-transference, and saying things like "When you do X, I feel Y rise up, and I wonder how often that happens for others in your relationships".  I am encouraging them to investigate and take accountability for their impact. That's hard to hear, but can be powerful insight. I try to do a good job of acknowledging my own filters; eg I could be way off.  And I want to be respectful and indicate understanding for the behavior coming from a positive intent.  But we are all defensive of our personal versions of reality, so it's hard work, for therapist and client.

For better or worse, it's a loaded endeavor when one chooses to risk being respectfully honest about one's internal reaction to what's happening in real time.  Perhaps my grace for that will improve with practice.  Bear with me and extend trust my heart is in the right place and I will struggle through it in partnership with you. 
To hone my skills, I am also reading Susan Campell's
SAYING WHAT'S REAL: 7 Keys to Authentic Communication and Relationship Success, another recommendation from Dr. Hart.  It's important to me to keep learning if I want to teach.

 Next week I'm giving workshops on compassion fatigue to Kansas City animal shelter workers.  Tonight I watched Sundance Award Winner documentary "Buck" and it's a powerful piece of film.  Head to the Darkside for a beautiful example of a person finding and living vocation (Buck is a gifted horse trainer) despite a difficult childhood.  There is much to be learned in here, and you don't need to know a thing about horses to get it. A lot is about communication-- checking to see you are clear and consistent in what you say you want from the other.  Applies to horses as well as people.

Speaking of gaining awareness of of impact-- I continue to obsess about the multitudes of subtle and chainsaw-type impacts of Letting Go of Nose.  Found this article tonight and love this paragraph.  Author Jennifer Boyles has likely been anosmic from birth, which is a different ballgame from those of us struck down after years of taking the olfactory world for granted,  But she has some powerful things to say.  I particularity related to this paragraph:

"While anosmia is not as life-altering as blindness or deafness, I am still missing one of my five central senses. Many people don’t take this seriously. They say that I’m “lucky” because I can’t smell car exhaust, dog poop, smelly socks, etc. True…but I also can’t smell dangerous things like smoke, burning food, spoiled food, noxious fumes, gas leaks, and other danger signals... Besides, at what expense am I “lucky” to be in a dog poop-less world? At the expense of flowers, perfume, candles, and so on! Is it worth it to not be able to smell dog shit if it also means that I can’t smell baking cookies? Of course not! And nobody would say to a blind person, “You’re so lucky you can’t see. It means you don’t have to look at garbage, dog shit on the sidewalk, and polluted rivers!”

If you get a chance, check out her honest and thoughtful blog here:   http://www.jenniferboyer.com/main.html.
She's a wise soul.
Jana

Picky Eaters: Spoiled, Weird or Simply Supertasters?

persimmons:  love em now!

You may know one:  a friend or relative that turns their nose up at the dish you've lovingly prepared.  You may be one:  afraid to accept an offer to dinner because you don't want to offend the host by picking at your food.

I was one.  As a kid, I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for more meals than I could count.  Here's a short list of the foods I would not get near before adulthood.  Pizza, tacos, any Italian or Mexican outside of crusts and tortilla chips.  I'd have spagetti, but only with butter.  White rice with sugar and milk for breakfast, but if you added anything else to rice, I was out of there.  Salad was too "mixed up".  Same with casseroles, meatloaf, all Chinese and Japanese foods-- anything with more than a couple of ingredients.  I couldn't stand mayonnaise or salad dressing (still can't-- well, that may be changing thanks to the noselessness deal); olive oil was much too strong.  I had my first slice of pizza (cheese only, of course) at 20, and my first burrito at 21.

A couple of decades later I was a nearly full blown foodie.  There were still things I couldn't bear-- the smell and taste of coffee, even in desserts; olives in any form.  But I loved, or maybe learned to love, exotic cuisines with all their layers of taste and fragrance and textures. My weight sure tells the difference-- I was 115 lbs when I graduated high school, and it wasn't anorexia.  I just didn't like most food.  But boy, did I learn to!

I have a niece who's just starting to expand her palate as she nears 20.  For years she lived on white rice, egg whites, plain noodles, american cheese.  She's still not a fan of most fruits.  Like me (ok, a former me, and if you are lost, read the last two blogs) she's a super-taster.  And for those with hyper-developed olfaction and taste, foods that perfectly palatable to others are wholely horrible to her.

RoadKill Birthday Cake:  Thanks, Rosie!

There have been some informative articles recently about picky eaters.  Long thought to be a childhood problem, adults are coming out of the white-food closet to tell their stories.  There is even a website devoted solely to information and support: pickyeatingadults.com/. 

True supertasters have a lot more papillae (taste-bud structures) than the average Joe. They taste bitter flavors with a much higher, and less pleasurable, intensity.  Counterintuitively, a study found ST to love salt-- and perhaps it is because it changes the taste sensation of foods to which it is added.  If American, they're unlikely to love exotic cuisines, because the chances of avoiding a bitter vegetable or component in a sauce is small.  Other STs are actually SSs:  super smellers.  Since about 80% of taste is actually interpretation and response to odor, these people are also getting three-ring circuses when you are getting the one clown with the big flower.  It's just too much information.

fungi are not everyone's cup of tea

There are other reasons for food aversions.  For many, it's the textures that get them, and these people may also have more complicated responses to clothing (can't stand tags, elastic, certain materials) and touch.  Swallowing disorders and certain genetic conditions make up most of the rest of the picky eaters, though I would argue that the latter (including persons with Asperger's, autism, and Tourette's) are likely having sensory issues as the root problem.

It may seem like a small deal, but food aversion issues can be pretty problematic.  There are social consequences, from teasing to relationship/marital conflict.  It can be hard on self-esteem.  I have worked with clients who years later have issues with eating related to punishments they received for not finishing the food on their plate-- being served the same cold vegetable only for every meal until it was eaten, for example.  Such misplaced "cures" can turn picky eating into full blown eating disorders that last a lifetime.

The Foods That Scare Us

Like many individual differences, picky eating is usually no more a choice than eye color.  Understanding this can be a boon for those of you that love someone who won't eat what you serve.  Instead of arguing, let them choose (and perhaps prepare) their own meal.  If they are a child, limit the choices to healthy ones that are nutrient dense and consider use of supplements. If they are an adult and you are worried about their health, avoid criticism and empathize the concern.  Ask them to reassure you they are getting adequate nutrition.  Encourage them to see a dietician to find out how to protect their body while they are trying to appease their palate.  But don't take it personally.  We often feel that reality is what is true for us, and variations from that are resistance to it.  But each of us pops into the world with very individualized tastes.  Learn to savor the differences.

The Less Nosy Life: Further Notes on Anosmia

Mountian nose-gay.  I cannot confirm or deny its gaying effects, 

   Just finishing a tasteless fresh egg/sharp cheddar sandwich.  It's a little late for dinner, but I realized at bedtime I'd forgotten to eat it.  When nothing tastes like much, it's way easier to do.

I noticed today that I was doing a lot of acceptance talk in the office.  It's not really that unusual that what healers are addressing in their own lives creeps into their work.  Luckily we are talking universal themes here, so no harm done.  But I do want to pay attention when it happens.  That's part of the code of the field, to make sure we aren't just working out our own stuff instead of focusing on our clients'.  So I spent some intentional time thinking about how resistant I have been to this adventure in smell-less-ness.

Social worker and author Thom Rutledge sums it up nicely:  the mathematical formula for pain is the difference between our expectations and our performances.  If you substitute experiences/reality for performance, the equation is equally profound.  As teacher Byron Katie puts it, "When I resist reality, I suffer, but only 100% of the time."

The Buddhists refer to this discomfort of resisting experience as three poisons, aka causes of human suffering:  greed, anger, and ignorance.  When I want what I cannot have, rail against the God/gods because of it, and don't understand the nature of reality, I suffer.  Ruttledge, or was it  DBT theorist Marsha Linehan, or maybe Buddha (there is truly nothing new under the sun) said that pain is inevitable.  But suffering, which occurs out of resistance, is optional. 

Resistance equals grasping. When we try to hold on to what is not there, or attain what is unnatural, or maintain what is transient, we are grasping.  And it causes suffering.

But when we have a loss, it is human nature to grieve.  Whether it's a missed goal, a death, a function-- we are here in these human bodies with these human minds and egos, and it is natural and fitting to give notice and due to what has gone.  And then, sooner or later, we make a choice.  We can continue fretting about what isn't, or we can move forward with this present reality of what is.  When we start that--- when we move a little out of ignorance and anger and greed for what we want but can't or don't have-- we can start integrating an experience and seeing what is valuable and what merely must be tolerated/accepted.

I'd like to claim I do this at least occasionally with grace and dignity.  But truth be told, I often enter into unpleasant realities with kicking and moaning and resistance. 

Last night walking'  I passed a neighbor just as she was sniffing a rose she'd cut.  Immediately tears came into my eyes.  I was a little embarrassed when she met my gaze, but also able to be a compassionate witness to what was true for me in that moment.  I know that anosmia is not a big tragedy on big life terms, so I have gone back and forth about expressing it as an important loss.  But I feel it, and feelings-- well, they are what they are.

What's been sweet:  I've gotten some notes from folks who've read this blog, expressing understanding for what has felt true.  We need witnesses.  It helps to have somebody confirm our experience.  Here are some excepts:

."It feels insufficient to say I am sorry, but I am ..sorry that your olfactory life is on a hopefully brief hiatus.  I imagine your sense of smell is in a safe place, tucked away and protected for its eventual return to you."

"I'm sorry. This isn't whining or trivial in the least.  You talk and think about how things smell more than anyone I've every met.  You must feel a great sense of loss."

"Wow...I'm so sorry to hear about your olfactory tragedy.  I'm going to choose that it will come back."

OK, me too.  But if not, I hope to use it for some sort of growth.  I am currently focusing on increasing mindfulness and appreciation to textures and nutrient value of food rather than flavor.  I've long claimed big interest in the latter, but in a sort of martyr-y way unless it tasted fabulous.  I tolerated for the cause rather than appreciated things like raw radishes and kale.  But since not much tastes much at all, when it's healthy there's more sense of reward in eating it.  And some foods that were ho-hum to me (wheat berries!) have become much more interesting to my newly 2-D palate based solely on texture.

Other perks:  I no longer cringe when someone wears perfume/fragrant cosmetics or cleansing products.  Remember, I was a super-smeller, so what was appealing to others was very infringing to me.  I can concentrate a little better in restaurants and outdoors, because one source of constant stimulation is now quiet.  I am hoping this will take my pinball-like mind down a notch of activity.

Speaking of pinball, I decided to celebrate a deliberate move to more light-heartedness with an evening of same at our local Life-Long Learning Establishment, Squirrels.  I found two willing companions who agreed to let me beat the pants off them (ok, at least the first several games, and yes, J & L, I am still being cheeky about that).  When I was a kid visiting my aunt in Pawnee Rock KS (population 300-odd, depending on if there was something interesting happening down the road), she'd give me rolls of nickles to keep me out of her hair while she ran the county's sole tavern/restaurant.  It would be pitiful to say those were glory years, but I was indeed a wizard for a while.  Being much too schooled in the psychological I am well aware my desire to go beat up a machine was a regressive move to a simpler time, but it's less ridiculous and permanent than getting something extra pierced at my age.  With full acceptance entering my intent, I had a ridiculously delightful time, and my heart lost about 6 pounds of pouty puffiness in the process.

Here's to more fun, and since it's at least the current reality, less smells.  I'm going to stop railing a against it (poisonous anger) and get into it a while (decreasing ignorance and letting go of graspy greed) and just be a curious observer for what's new in this different world I've plunked down into.

Today's assignment:  when life gives you lemons, build a dopamine model using licorice sticks for bonds, and call it Good Art.  Or at least have a blast in the process.

I think I'll stick with the sensory deal for a while.  Coming up-- SUPERTASTERS EXPOSED:  Excellent Artists and Poets, Annoying Dinner Companions ---Especially if you're cooking..

Ill be smelling you in all the old familiar places (or at least imaging)...
Jana

Song of the day, a paean to times gone by (with buried reference as to why I'm not quite on my game).

The Less Nosy Life: Further Notes on Asnosmia

Just finishing a pretty tasteless fresh egg/sharp cheddar sandwich.  It's a little late for dinner, but I realized around 9 I had forgotten to eat it.  Those of you that know me--or at least have seen me in the last decade or two-- know I seldom miss a meal.  But when nothing tastes like much, it's way easier to do.

I noticed today that I was doing a lot of acceptance talk in the office.  It's not really that unusual that what healers are addressing in their own lives creeps into the office.  Luckily, we are talking universal themes here, so no problem, but I do want to pay attention.  That's part of the code of the field, to make sure we aren't just working out our own stuff instead of paying attention to our clients'.  So I spent some time thinking about how resistant I have been to this adventure.

Thom Ruttledge, a social worker who I believe I've quoted on these pages before, sums it up nicely.  The mathmatical formula for pain is the difference between our expectations and our performances.  I don't know if he says this part, but I substitute experiences/reality for performance, and the equation is equally profound.  As Byron Katie puts it, "When I resist reality, I suffer, but only 100% of the time."

The Buddhists refer to this discomfort of resisting experience as three poisons, aka causes of human suffering:  greed, anger, and ignorance.  When I want what I cannot have, rail against the God/gods because of it, and don't understand the nature of reality, I suffer.  Rutledge, or maybe it was DBT theorist Marsha Linehan, or maybe it was Buddha (there is truly nothing new under the sun) said that pain is inevitable; suffering, which occurs out of resistance, is optional. 

Resistance equals grasping. When we try to hold on to what is not there, or attain what is unnatural, or maintain what is transient, we are grasping.  And it causes suffering.

But when we have a loss, it is human nature to grieve.  Whether it's a missed goal, a death, a function-- we are here in these human bodies with these human minds and egos, and it is natural and fitting to give notice and due.  And then, sooner or later, we make a choice.  We can continue fretting about what isn't, or we can move forward with this present reality of what is.  When we start that--- when we move a little out of ignorance and anger and greed for what we want but can't or don't have-- we can start integrating an experience and seeing what is valuable and what merely must be tolerated/accepted.

I'd like to claim I do this at least occasionally with grace and dignity.  But truth be told, I often enter into unpleasant realities with some kicking and moaning and lots of resistance. 

Last night, walking to meet a friend, I passed a neighbor just as she was sniffing a rose she'd cut.  Immediately tears came into my eyes.  I was a little embarrassed when she met my gaze, but also able to be a compassionate witness to what was true for me in that moment.  I know this is not a big tragedy on big life terms, so I have gone back and forth about expressing this as a profound loss.  But I felt it, and feelings-- well, they are what they are.

What's been sweet:  I've gotten some notes from folks who've read this blog, expressing understanding for what has felt true.  We need witnesses.  It helps to have somebody confirm our experience.  Here are some excepts:

."It feels insufficient to say i am sorry, but i am ..sorry that your olfactory life is on a hopefully brief hiatus.  i imagine your sense of smell is in a safe place, tucked away and protected for its eventual return to you."

"I'm sorry. This isn't whining or trivial in the least.  You talk and think about how things smell more than anyone I've every met.  You must feel a great sense of loss."

"Wow...I'm so sorry to hear about your olfactory tragedy.  I'm going to choose that it will come back."

OK, me too.  But if not, I hope to use it for some sort of growth.  I am currently focusing on increasing mindfulness and appreciation to textures and nutrient value of food rather than flavor.  Truth be told, I have always claimed big interest in the latter, but in a sort of martyr-y way unless it tasted fabulous.  I tolerated for the cause rather than appreciated.  But since not much tastes much at all, when it's healthy it's rewarding in a bigger way to eat.  And some foods that were ho-hum to me (wheat berries!) have become much more interesting because of the sensation of texture they bring to the 2-D palate.

Other perks:  I no longer cringe when someone wears perfume/fragrant cosmetics or cleansing products.  Remember, I was a super-smeller, so what was appealing to others was very infringing to me.  I can concentrate a little better in restaurants and outdoors, because one source of constant stimulation is now quiet.  I am hoping this will take my pinball-like mind down a notch of activity.

Speaking of pinball, I decided to celebrate a deliberate move to more light-heartedness with an evening of same at our local Life-Long Learning Establishment, Squirrels.  I found two willing companions who agreed to let me beat the pants off them (ok, at least the first several games, and yes, J & L, I am still being cheeky about that).  When I was a kid visiting my aunt in Pawnee Rock KS (population 300-odd, depending on if there was something interesting happening down the road), she'd give me rolls of nickles to keep me out of her hair while she ran the county's sole tavern/restaraunt.  It would be pitiful to say those were glory years, but I was indeed a wizard for a while.  Being much too schooled in the psychological I am well aware my desire to go beat up a machine was a regressive move to a simpler time, but it's less ridiculous and permanent than getting something extra pierced at my age.  With full acceptance entering my intent, I had a ridiculously delightful time, and my heart lost about 6 pounds of pouty puffiness in the process.

Here's to more fun, and since it's at least the current reality, less smells.  I'm going to stop railing a against it (poisonous anger) and get into it a while (decreasing ignorance and letting go of graspy greed) and just be a curious observer for what's new in this different world I've plunked down into.

Today's assignment:  when life gives you lemons, build a dopamine model using licorice sticks for bonds, and call it Good Art.  Or at least have a blast in the process.

I think I'll stick with the sensory deal for a while.  Coming up-- SUPERTASTERS EXPOSED:  Excellent Artists and Poets, Annoying Dinner Companions ---Especially if you're cooking..

Ill be smelling you in all the old familiar places (or at least imaging)...
Jana