Reflections on Death, God, and Sunshine

A friend of mine, a software engineer, faced the death of two loved ones in a single month. It was a rough time. She told me this:

"I'd like to file a bug report. In fact, I'd like to switch to a competitor's universe."

That reminds me of one of my favorite Terry Pratchett quotes, in which he says that the presumed extant Supreme Being seems to be lacking a moral compass.

I once asked a Sufi teacher "Does God exist?" His reply: "yes, but bear in mind that he loves mosquitoes just as much as he loves you."

And lastly, this from my dental hygienist: "Life's not fair. But the sun's come out."

"Sorry" doesn't change it

I've been using email longer than almost anyone I know, thanks to an early career on the net. There are some email subject lines that I've come to view with a certain amount of gravity.

The first is a person's name. It almost always means they're dead.

The second is "Sorry." This isn't always a suicide note, but recently that's just what it was.

There's something especially agonizing about losing someone to suicide. The pain ripples out in circles around the person to family, friends, communities. It affects far more people than they could possibly have guessed.

Every time I'm touched by a suicide, I want to reach out to all the people in my circles, just in case they might be thinking that way. I want to say this:

Friend, I don't dispute your right to check out early. Your body and consciousness belongs to you as much as anything can. I know life can be some hard shit, and yes, there are times to consider bailing.

But I want you to know something first.

People will suffer. You killing yourself causes deep emotional pain in more people than you realize. Even if you're considerate and avoid leaving blood on the walls, even with your thoughtful final instructions and that nice note about how it's not our fault -- even then, my friend, suicide is a violent, shocking, and brutal act.

We take the loss of you hard. Far more of us will be affected than you suspect. We'll be angry. We'll be hurt. Some will hurt a lot. Some our whole lives.

Given that you're considering throwing it all out anyway, I'm asking you to consider some other answers first. You think you've tried it all, but a sudden exit is evidence you haven't. Instead, throw out your career, your city, your clothes, your assumptions. Shake it up. Why not?

Listen, I've been where you're standing. I'm don't claim to know your pain, but I've stood at the edge of the cliff and looked over. I found other ways.

So I ask you to look for other ways. Find someone who understands. Ask for help. Take new risks. Seek out cohorts. Even meds. Why not? You've given up all other approaches anyway, right?

It's your choice, of course. But if you decide to take your life, be very clear that you're also taking parts of other people's lives with you. Being sorry doesn't change that.

Confidence, Competence, Stress, and You

If you feel good, you'll act empowered. Yeah, you already know that. Better posture, smiling -- that sort of thing. The body language that says, yeah, I've got it goin' on.

You might also have heard that if you act like you're feeling pretty good, even when you're not, your physiology follows suit. No?

Hear it now: researcher Amy Cuddy talks about success, social competence, and influence. This isn't just about appearance, either - she's also talking about how you feel inside, about stress, about taking action in situations where you might otherwise freeze up.

Her recommendation is simple, fast, and requires no purchase, which is why you might not have heard about it. Here it is: take two minutes to stand or sit as if you're on top of the world. That means unfold, expand your body, grab some great posture. Smile a bit.

Turns out there are measurable results. Brain chemistry changes. Risk tolerance goes up. Testosterone and cortisol increases. Stress coping improves.

What? We're back to "fake it til you make it"? Yes. Adds Cuddy, "fake it until you become it" because doing this again and again actually changes you physically as well as habitually.

Doesn't quite seem fair, does it? But to hell with fair. Cuddy's research says it works.

Have I mentioned dance lately? See the connection?

Subvert the Script

how are you fine thanks and you

"Hi, how are you?"

"Oh Fine thanks. And you?"

"Good!"

You hear it every day, yes? What the heck is this repetitive script really about? Ah, glad you asked.

It's a tribal affiliation assertion: I'm extending you temporary membership in my tribe. Probably only for this encounter, but who knows.

I'm saying "I see you". Most of us live in a world of way too many people, and that means we have to treat them like trees or rocks because they can't all be human beings. So -- I see you. You're not just a rock.

And it's an initiation protocol. It acknowledges that we're not just walking by but beginning some kind of exchange or transaction between us. We're engaging.

When taken literally the question has complicated ramifications. But it's not a literal question and few people want detailed (or long) answers.

"I didn't sleep at all well and I'm feeling some vague sense of underlying dread or maybe it's existential ennui or maybe indigestion and really is this all there is and I wonder whether I'm getting enough fiber. Thanks for asking."

No, I don't recommend you answer in detail because it breaks the (lightweight) social protocol and, frankly, I've done it, and I can assure you that it doesn't make you popular. Also, it defeats the multiple, socially essential purposes of this ritual.

But yes, also, I am indeed suggestion subversion. Subvert the script in your own head. Listen to yourself say the words. Notice what's really going on.

A Good Day to Eat Chocolate

I am eating chocolate today. Since I'm a semi-professional (heh) in fine chocolate, what with teaching tasting classes and writing newsletters, Valentine's Day seems a good day to indulge. (Unlike other days. Ha.)

What, you may ask, am I eating? Glad you asked.

Nova Monda's Gold Label. 80% yet powerfully floral with a bite and a coffee and nut tail -- a good wake up chocolate...

Dandelion's Madagascar 70%, which hits me with cherry-berry and carries on for a while, leaving me feeling bright.

Rogue's Hispaniola 70% -- a heavy hitter and not for the faint-hearted. Tones of bitter orange peel, ash, and, sure, licorice I guess (see liner notes). The right kind of bitter, anwyay. I save this bar for special occasions.

And, believe it or not, Amedei's Toscano White, because it was recommended as an exemplar of the breed and I'm trying to understand white. Not sure I get it, even with this sample. Ah well.

Finally, Zotter's Labooko Sheep's Milk, with a whopping 55% chocolate -- we're talking serious milk, folks -- a best-of-breed. The sort of milk that gives lie to the snobbery I used to have about how milk chocolate could never be as good as dark. As this melts oh-so-smoothly in my mouth I'm so very glad to be wrong.

Eat chocolate today, my friends. Yes, do. But go up, up up: find something quality, something extraordinary. Go pay $10/bar -- you are worth it. Think of it as a Valentine's Day gift to you. For the cost of 2 high-end lattes. Toss a few more bucks at the barmaker struggling to bring you the best of Theobroma cacao from the rainforests and jungles of your beautiful planet.

As you unwrap and nibble, think romance: listen to the chocolate. Take your time. Caress with your tongue. Let the flavors roll through your mouth, your mind, your spirit.

Because that's what really good chocolate does.

An Adventure in Terror

I don't know what I was thinking.

Actually, yes, I do. I was thinking I didn't like my choices. To me skiing is uncontrolled falling down a frozen mountainside, hurtling toward trees and humans who don't get out of the way. "Tubing" isn't much better and sounds vaguely dirty.

I considered the zip-line forest tour. Online comments included: "amazing!", "so much fun!" and "do it!" But flying through the air in a Canadian winter? Sounds cold. Skip it.

But then while packing I realize I have some excellent winter clothes. It dawns on me that the cold problem is solvable. And I do like trees and forest.

That's how, when at the last minute there is a cancellation, I end up on the zipline tour. What am I thinking as I get into the van to go up into the mountains? That I've solved the cold problem. With layers. Clever, me.

We walk into the woods under towering snow-clad hemlock pines. We cross a swaying ice-encrusted bridge between two tall trees. It's a bit high up, I realize, looking over the side. But at least I'm not cold.

Our first platform is built around a 150 year-old hemlock pine with bark rippled like frozen rivers. Very pretty. I look over the edge. The ground is far away. Very far away.

The plan is this: the guide clips your harness to a metal line connecting our tree platform to another one. He opens a gate and you step off into space. The zipline catches your weight. Gravity accelerates you down and then across hundreds or thousands of feet of open air to the other platform. You see the forest in a unique way. Like a bird. It's tons of fun, we're told.

I look over the edge again. I don't feel so good.

It turns out there are two sorts of people in the world. Those who think heights are cool and do things like parachuting and ziplines, and those who know heights are not cool and don't. My group is made up of the first sort. A bit nervious maybe, but no one is going into a full-blown panic. Except maybe me.

I've done ropes courses. Even a bit of ziplining. But somehow the memory of how petrified I was has vanished until this moment. What the hell had I been thinking when I signed up for this?

That I would be cold. Having solved that problem, I had somehow missed the other now quite urgent problem: I am about to die.

"Hey," I say to John, one of our two guides. "I'm thinking of bailing. What do I need to do to get out of here?"

"Oh," he says in his heavy English accent, "you'll be fine!"

"Seriously," I say. "I don't want to do this. I didn't realize it would be so --"  I know I sound like an idiot now but that's okay. Idiot compares well to dying. "So high."

"The next one's a bit higher," he admits, "but you'll be fine! A woman on this morning's run was as scared as you are and she was fine."

I don't bother asking how he can possibly know how scared I am. I look over the edge again. This is insane. It's hard to think clearly through my primal, unreasoning terror. My lizard brain is screaming.

"Ah, just give it a try!" John says. "You'll like it!"

I'm pretty sure he's wrong.

The group is going now. Clip on, step off into air. A loud buzzing "zzzzippp-pah!" sound. "Next!" John calls brightly.

I want to throw up. I want to grip the railing and never let go.

"I don't think I can do this," I tell one of the remaining guys. Only much later do I realize that my ability to speak sensibly despite being wretchedly sick with terror is giving the erroneous impression that I'm actually okay.

"Perfectly safe," he says unhelpfully.

"I know. I just don't think I can do it. I'm really scared."

I can bail on this, I remind myself. Sure, it's trouble for the guides, but that's their problem. Mine is staying alive.

"Well," he asks, "what are you scared of?"

Good question. If I'm going to bail, I decide, I want to know why. Quick, like a racecar mechanic, I take my mindset apart.

It's not the safety; I can see how the harness and redundant clip system works, and the process is pretty safe. It's not the accelleration either, which, while impressive, is no worse than an airplane taking off, something I regularly risk and actually enjoy.

It's the height. If this were 10 or 20 feet off the ground, as I absurdly imagined, I'd be okay. It's the stepping off into 80 feet of empty air from a perfectly good platform. I try to reason with my lizard brain, but it's having none of that. An horrific future awaits, it tells me.

One by one my group goes -- zipppp-pah! -- off to the other side.

I'm a software engineer. I like to solve problems. What's going on in my head is a problem. I don't have time to fix it but can I make a fast patch? A few moments later I have a plan. I still don't want to do this but I do want to see if my brain-hack workaround will fly. So to speak.

And my time's up. Step up or bail. I walk to the gate and John clips me onto the line. Now the patch: I shut my eyes and imagine the ground only 10 feet down. My lizard brain is screaming so I do it again. It doesn't believe me, but it can't see anything with our eyes closed, so it can't be sure.

In that split-second of plausibility, I bend my knees, feel the harness catch, and step forward into air.

I go. Down and fast. I want to see, so I open my eyes. There's forest sailing by and snow covered land 100 feet below. I'm okay, and oddly, no longer terrified. I was right: it was the step off the platform, not the ride. The brain-hack worked.

The next platform starts higher, some 160 feet up, and I'm freshly terrified. So we -- my lizard brain and I -- go through it again: eyes closed, visualize, step forward. Again, enroute, I look around. A river snakes through deep snow banks. Trees fly past. I come to the other side.

It gets easier each time. Not easy, but easier. On the final zip I step off with my eyes open to see if I can. Someone takes a picture.

While I wouldn't call it fun there's something powerfully satisfying about pushing through impassable terror with a brain-hack I built myself, on-the-spot. That's some cool real-world engineering.

As we're driving down the mountain I realize something else: I wasn't cold. Not once. FTW.

Easily Amused

"It's funny how the printer only runs out of paper when you're trying to print something," I say, refilling the hungry little bugger.

My companion was distracted by something, probably by reading the document I'd printed half of, so it took him a moment to register what I'd said.

"Yeah," he answered finally, "but at least it's in the last place you looked."

We both laughed.

Hungry Little Bugger

There are moments when I'm pretty glad to be alive. A lot of those moments seem entwined with humor and backed by laughter.

That's just the sort of comment that would have made me roll my eyes in disgust when I was younger.  I must be growing up; I'm more and more easily amused.

All we want to do is

It's relentless. Even my go-to song isn't working. That's my most insidious,  earwormy song, the one I only use when I'm desperate because it's also pretty sticky (and no I'm not telling you what it is) so it's the heavy for kicking out songs that have a solid hold of my --

eat your brains. We're not

Arg. Maybe if watch it just one more time, I can shake it off.

unreasonable, I mean, no one's gonna eat yer eyes. All we want to do

Is to eat my brains, I know.

is eat your brains! We're 
 
I've thanked the friend who sent it to me and he laughed at me. Maybe he's already a zombie.

at an impasse here

I am fascinated not only by the video but by my fascination. Sure, the contrast beteween the catchy lyrics and up-beat tune, a zombie signing ASL, spewing office-speak -- it's all delightfully incongruous, besides --

maybe we should compromise

-- I did study ASL and the best way to reinforce language is with song, the way we did as children, so maybe that's where the thing is --

if you open up the doors

-- grabbing my attention. Attention!  Not brains! Not brains!

we'll all come inside

Argggh!

and eat your brains!

I give up. A little late to the scene, but I'm there.

Haven't seen it yet?  Consider this warning. But go ahead and watch it. Why I should suffer alone? We like company.

Brain Train -- Woo!

It's a pun.  I'll explain in a moment.

We serious insomniacs -- the no messin' around totally committed kind -- know life as days of unpredictable exhaustion and nights as endless battles. As we mature we come to accept that well-meaning non-insomniac friends will inevitably suggest earplugs, meds, naps, foods, removing foods, no coffee, coffee, no chocolate, chocolate, sleep studies, and the ever-popular "if you're tired, why don't you just sleep?".

binaural beats require stereo

We know things, we insomniacs: we know we can't win, we can't quit, and we can't break even. We dread the night.

But we can't give up the dream that some day, when tired, we could just, you know, sleep.

So when I find something that helps, even a little, it's cause for real celebration.

A month ago I tried binaural beats again. I dove into this odd little sound-hack, and downloaded a handful of apps, most of them free. I started building my own.

The idea is this: you've got tones at different frequencies in each ear and the delta between them is a "beat" that correlates to specific brain waves. So, goes the theory, if you start with a normal wakeful beat frequency of, say 30hz, and you move that down to, say 3hz, your brain goes from beta to theta, and you go to sleep. This transition is called "entrainment." (There's your pun. Brain. Train. Woo.)

I didn't expect it to work. I tried it years ago and it hadn't really clicked.  We insomniacs get cynical. But we are also persistent -- we'll try anything once. Or twice, or even three times. Just in case.

It worked.

It's been a month or so, and I'm sitting on top of some seriously improved sleep. It's hard to explain to my more normal friends how exceptionally cool this is. How amazing it is to just lie down and sleep.

Woooooo.

Or win, as the kids say.

The 2012 NW Chocolate Festival and More

That chocolate festival you missed last month in Seattle? Here's my review at Chocolate Atlas. 

And here, for extra added specialness, are all the links to barsmiths I mentioned in that review that aren’t there due to publisher restrictions:

• Fran's Chocolates
• Lillie Belle Farms
• Nova Mondo
• Pacari Organic Chocolate
• Fresco Chocolates
• Intrigue Chocolates Company
• The Fine Chocolate Industry Association
• Chloe Chocolat
• The C-Spot
• Rogue Chocolatier
• Amano Artisan Chocolate
• Steve De Vries
• Madre Chocolate

Lastly, here is the list of award winners for chocolately excellence determined by a blind panel of judges (not a panel of blind judges, come on): One Golden Ticket's Northwest Chocolate Festival Awards

booster-ow-gr

I had a tetanus booster a bit ago.  The doctor and nurse had to talk me into it.

I vividly remember my last one, some ten years ago and yeah the one before that, too. I remember keenly that it hurt so bad, just getting the shot, never mind the ongoing pain, for days and days. Sore arm, deep resentment. Like that.

But the world moves on, things change, and something weird happened this last time. It didn't hurt. Not the shot, not the arm, and not the next day.

A new formula, the nurse said. And I'm really good at giving shots, too, she added smugly. But no matter how good you are at giving shots, tetanus shots usually hurts like someone is shoving paper cuts into your veins.

Not this time.  The world has... changed. And my resistance and resentment along with it. It was no big deal. Just another simple, nearly painless shot, by a smug and competent nurse.

So then, rubbing my arm, amazed at how it didn't hurt, I felt slightly bad for having growled at them when they first suggested it.  I sometimes growl when I feel threatened. Started happening when I started learning to speak Dog.

"Sorry I growled at you," I mumbled to the doctor.

"No problem!" She said brightly. "And now you're good for another ten years!"

While you Were Out

As an early adopter of email (seriously early -- early like "what is email?" early), an avid IMer, and an enthusiastic SMSer, I luxuriate in the certain knowledge that anyone who needs to contact me can do it.  When I walk away from my (primary) computer, my phone provides this certainty, allowing me to leave home without that nagging feeling -- remember those days? -- that someone might call, write or text and I might miss it.

You youngers don't realize what it was like with phones attached to walls. Before answering machines and voice mail when you missed a call it was missed forever.  No caller ID, no call-back, no clue. Tough.

I remember hearing the phone ring through the door, struggling with the key to get the door open, and diving for the damned thing only to have it stop.

"Hello? Hello?"

Then hours of wondering who it might have been. How your life might have been different if only you'd come home a few seconds earlier.

You start calling people. "Hey, did you just call?  No? Oh, okay. Fine. You?"

Along came answering machines. Along came the Internet. Along came cell phones. Now my cell phone *is* the internet. And everything else, too.

I can glance at my phone and know, without question, that no one called, wrote, texted, tweeted, or facebooked me.

Finally, I have certainty. It's like being free, only a lot noisier.

And then I went camping in the Mojave desert. No cell towers. No internet. Completely cut off from email, voice, SMS.

Wow.  Serious wow.

If someone needed me, they would have to wait.  Think about it: if it's not important, it can wait. If it is important, it still has to wait.

For a handful of days I traded that certainty for a smoky, crackling fire, the coyote pack over the rise, nights of relentless cricket serenades, and a sliver of moon in a white river of star-drenched sky.

Something interesting happened: I had silence. Beautiful, exquisite, deep silence. No phone, no voices, no words.  No noise.

I've heard about people choosing to take a night a week internet-free to reconnect to what it is to not be connected. But there is a huge difference between trying to stay away from the net and phones -- the lines of chatter -- and being forced to.

While I was out I also gained a fine appreciation for the luxury of running water. Add to the list: shelter, soap, privacy. We don't need these things, and they are indeed luxuries.

I've been to the desert.  It was, truly, a whole other sort of luxury to be there.

Ah, the quiet. It didn't feel like I was out at all.

Dance is Brain Food

A 21-year long study in the New England Journal of Medicine shows that dancing increases cognitive acuity. Significantly more than crossword puzzles. The article is nicely summarized here, on the Stanford social dance site.

Not just any kind of dancing, either. It has to be the kind that requires improvisational work, the styles that require you to make lots of decisions on a split-second basis.

And mostly women benefit.  Why? You probably know that most partner dancing is pretty sexist. Men are expected to "lead" and women are expect to "follow".  I put those words in quotes because there are no really good words describing what those two roles are doing.

The lead -- usually the man -- does what? Directs? Orients? Maybe invites. Offers an idea about how to understand the music with this particular partner.

The follow -- usually the woman -- does what?  Not just does what she's told, that's for sure. Responds? Interprets. The follow interprets the dance based on the music and the guy in front of her.

Now because, as the article says, follows typically make "hundreds of split-second decisions as to what to do next", they gain the most cognitive exercise from dance.  The leads don't have to respond or interpret nearly as often, so they gain less.

In dances like Argentine Tango and Blues and Fusion, where each led movement can have dozens of subtle implications requiring immediate and complicated follow decisions, the cognitive workout is significant.

The article suggests ways leads can improve their cognitive workout. They suggest the lead really notice the subtleties of their partner's actions and respond in real-time, rather than following a pattern.

That is, pay attention. That is, watch and listen.

Hey leads, are you listening now?  Maybe it's a good time to start. Do it for your brain.

Me, mine. Us, them.

I'm at Gasworks, standing atop The Mound (I'm sure it has a real name and that's not it). My companion says, "See that building there, the Columbia Tower? It's the tallest building on the West Coast."

"Huh," I say.

"Yeah, he says. "Taller than anything in SF, San Diego, or even LA."

"Huh," I say. And then an unexpected thing happens: I feel a flash of pride. As if this fact in some way reflects upon me personally, as a denizen of Seattle. As if I had anything to do with it.  Which I didn't.

And yet, there it is, the strange little beast, pinging up inside me, poking a little thumb toward its puffed up little chest, wiggling its hips and squeaking: "Yeah, uh huh, we did that! Us! Not them! Fist-bump!"

This, I gather pensively, staring at the tall building, must be what sports fans feel when their teams win: a sort of senseless, tribal delight that has absolutely no connection to anything they have personally accomplished.

We. Us.

Can't argue with how it feels: powerful, compelling, insidious, pervasive -- tribalism. Wikipedia says: "People have postulated that the human brain is hard-wired towards tribalism due to its evolutionary advantages".

Evolutionary advantages. We win.

Fist-bump.

Could have been so much worse

Heavy traffic, light turns green, starts moving forward, and a guy in a covered pickup changes lanes left, directly into me on my motorbike.

Signal?  Don't be silly.

When this happens there's not much time. You get one reaction, so choose wisely: a defensive move to get your delicate little self out of the way, or using the beep-beep. (It's only a horn if you have an aftermarket add-on. I don't.)

So I swerve left into the shared turn-lane which is, fortunately, unoccupied. Inside my helmet, I yell and swear loudly.

The Oblivious Moron drives forward. Since I'm going that way anyway, I follow, doing what people who've just had a narrow miss with oncoming traffic and the pavement do: I honk and gesture with my best what-the-hell gesture.  Not, I hasted to add, the F-you gesture, which doesn't make anyone sorry. Do you really want to pick a fight with someone in a truck when you're on a motorbike in the middle of traffic? No, you do not.

From his side mirror I can tell that Mr. Moron sees me gesturing, but he doesn't look very sorry. So I follow with what I have come to view as the universal reprimand, the gesture that us riders resort to.

The slow, disgusted headshake.

Unmistakable in meaning but not so challenging as the F-you gesture, it is often the only thing that tells people what you really think of their sloppy, life-risking driving.

I wear highly reflective yellow and white protective gear. I stand out, day or night. But when I've just survived some OM's inability to see me, I find myself thinking that the head shake is a pretty weak tool for social change.

Then I remember. Years ago I was a passenger in a sportscar being driven by someone who, usually pretty alert, inadvertently moved into a lane already occupied by a motorcycle, who -- like me -- was forced to move left to avoid us.  A minute later the motorcycle pulled up even with us, looked in through the passenger window, and slowly shook his dark, helmeted head.

I still feel bad and I wasn't even driving.

So maybe it works. Or maybe it just works on me.

The bottom line is this: I'm mighty glad that I was in good enough shape after that encounter to be able to shake my head at all. It could have been so much worse.