Poor Little Brain
I didn’t read a book this month. I started two—THE ROAD WE TRAVELED, by Jane Kirkpatrick, and HILLBILLY ELEGY, by John Vance. But I, like many of you, got clobbered by the presidential election, “clobbered” as in scared and depressed and anxious and “off”, and, instead of reading my books, I’ve been reading articles and videos and tantalizing, terrifying tidbits that feed my fear like oxygen feeds a flame.
Our brains have terribly inefficient circuitry for inhibiting impulses, especially ones that serve to protect us against threat and possible danger. “Poor little brain,” I sometimes say to myself, when I get tweaked by yet another stunning story that sends me on a search for whether it’s true or manufactured hogwash. Unfortunately, too much of today’s horror is true.
I’m always looking for the pearl in the gritty oyster, and, in the midst of my fatigue and fear and snappishness, I managed to find a few. Here are the things I’ve learned so far:
That hurt in my chest is heartache, not a heart attack.
Enough rage, however warranted, could give me a heart attack.
Walking the thin, wavery line between feeling empathy for people who elected a monster and wanting to shake some sense into them will be a continuing struggle.
My energy is finite. Acting to support social causes is a better use of that energy than railing at the people in power who threaten to derail those causes.
Comfort comes from venting with trusted friends.
I’m not in charge. But I matter. So do you.
Peace to you, and, if you’re going through anything similar, blessings on your aching heart and on your poor, perplexed, little brain.
Our brains have terribly inefficient circuitry for inhibiting impulses, especially ones that serve to protect us against threat and possible danger. “Poor little brain,” I sometimes say to myself, when I get tweaked by yet another stunning story that sends me on a search for whether it’s true or manufactured hogwash. Unfortunately, too much of today’s horror is true.
I’m always looking for the pearl in the gritty oyster, and, in the midst of my fatigue and fear and snappishness, I managed to find a few. Here are the things I’ve learned so far:
That hurt in my chest is heartache, not a heart attack.
Enough rage, however warranted, could give me a heart attack.
Walking the thin, wavery line between feeling empathy for people who elected a monster and wanting to shake some sense into them will be a continuing struggle.
My energy is finite. Acting to support social causes is a better use of that energy than railing at the people in power who threaten to derail those causes.
Comfort comes from venting with trusted friends.
I’m not in charge. But I matter. So do you.
Peace to you, and, if you’re going through anything similar, blessings on your aching heart and on your poor, perplexed, little brain.