Neuroclimaterialising

Jimblog1The other night I dreamed I was some kind of warrior-poet, wandering up and down a mountain range like a madman, singing my head off without knowing the words …

Exciting at the time, and liberating to lose my head – though all the while telling myself there must be proper lyrics to go with this. The mountains would speak to me, they would reveal their ancient and magnificent secret, if only I could get the words right. Suddenly I knew my life depended on it. Things got intense. But the louder and more fiercely I sang, the less my language mattered. Before long I started screaming wildly – and woke up.

I recall it now as a dream about climate breakdown (more precisely: about my struggle to write something here about climate breakdown). Or about my potential for having a psychological microclimate crisis. I imagine millions of people are having dreams like this. Let’s call them visions. And let’s also consider them as stories flowing from a mysterious and distant region of time and space. To be clear, I’m saying this as a dream agnostic. Therapeutically, I don’t work a lot with dreams – it’s more a case of dreams working a lot with me. Our psyches come out to play constantly, and if you take life itself to be a dream, if you take yourself to be the dreamer of your reality, to be one of the exemplary dreamers of our collective dream, then I’m up for that as a psychotic possibility.

We radicalise our subjectivities, not by our thoughts but by our not quite having had them.

The evident urgency of climate breakdown can bring up and break down deeply rooted substrates in our seemingly separated psyches. There are things we like to get hold of together – objects, mostly, and facts, sometimes – and there are thought-droughts and thought-fires and thought-waters, which hold us. There are fleeting universes, which transfix us. We know the mountain range that holds our Earth-time attention now so magnificently is in cosmological time a flickering wave – making it even more magnificent, therefore, and utterly unholdable.

Because we are disrupted by what we hold onto, we become held by disruption. There is a form of ‘being held’ (a phrase therapists use a lot, mostly in a metaphysical sense), which is more like being considered, remembered, pondered. Climate anomalies hold our attention like a series of bad dreams. Your gripping nightmare is an extreme psychic weather event, almost unattended.

In this neurocloud, you and me, conversationalists of a type right now,

regarding each other’s immaterial presence respectfully enough.

Aroused by the frequency of looking around, even when we’re sitting still,

settling into the sensational silence of all that passes for thought.

We’re unsolid, anti-dense, semi-detached, forever under reconstruction,

sending elemental signals of therapeutically unscrewed awe.

The silent signal is ordinary, momentous breathing. Inspire, expire – simply attend and repeat. You’re breathed by this act of attending. Now, where to direct your inspired attention? If I could know everything there is to know about climate change, including all the latest scientific analyses and all the forecasting models and every wonky public argument and scholarly debate about the entire massive problem – the hyper-object, some say, of nightmarish proportions – how would I be acting differently? To have perfect and complete knowledge of everything would be to have no opinion at all. Your breath is not a matter of opinion. Keep breathing then, one by one, sigh by sigh, let’s be sure to keep breathing well – that’s good science and good mysticism right there.

Concentrate! Don’t concentrate! Your knowledge is no use until you’re free of it. The oldest philosophies say we already know profoundly what’s what but we scream and moan and forget about it all – even foregoing our own precious identities – at the orgasmic moment of ultimate truth. Climate justice, migrant justice, water justice, every kind of humane justice you can conceive of is brutally compromised by nature’s supreme amorality. We are not the keepers of the keys to the riddle of the cosmos, only agonised bodies in a puzzle of our own screwy design.

The crunch of science, like concussion or awful bloody facts,

grinding its way through our busy shopping brains so unpoetically.

Everything seems too much for us and never quite enough for us,

climbing down at last from the fat neurotic mountains of our minds.

Hard-wired like-mindedly, we generate this almighty hard-edged world,

forging its language within our worried skin and warrior bones.

Good therapy embodies us soulfully while scientific mysticism dematerialises us. There are no things, there is only thinging. This is the feeling of what happens, whether I’m awake or dreaming – and I act as if I know there’s a difference. The truly climactic part of sleeping is the waking up. What’s it like, that transitional momentary world when the waking mind simultaneously recalls and dissolves the dreaming mind’s visions? Sometimes I sense the beginning of a wild argument between the waker and the dreamer. A brilliant fight could break out for the rest of the day.

Jim recommends …

Handbook of Climate Psychology (available free): http://www.climatepsychologyalliance.org/handbook

 

All rights reserved © Copyright Jim Holloway 2020. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author of this post is strictly prohibited.

Dying twice

Portrait_002This year, and for the first time, the anniversary of my father’s death some years ago passed by without me remembering …

It had been a short drive to the nursing home my father had moved to eight days previously. My wife and I had been his primary carers for close to a decade but when, fourteen weeks earlier, he had fallen and broken his hip, his move away from his home and into the healthcare system sparked in him a serious decline. There was also a touch of guilt at the freedoms his move was affording to us.

As we neared the care home, an ambulance on an emergency call passed us. A minute later we drew up behind it and a paramedic vehicle already parked at the home. My wife said to me, ‘It’s for your father.’ I winced; I felt her to be right.

As we strode down the corridor of the second floor suite in which my father had taken residency, a member of staff addressed us: ‘Are you here to see Brian?’

‘Yes,’ we both smiled.

There was already a temporal shift occurring – odd, I thought, no one has addressed us in such a way before. A nurse blocked our path to my father’s room: ‘You’re Brian’s relatives?’ Somehow, in a moment, we were all in her office. My wife looked pale: ‘You’d better sit down Mrs Stafford.’ But there was a dreadful tension and confusion in the space. With my psychotherapist’s hat on I honed in on the emotion – there was huge anxiety being broadcast from this experienced nurse. After a few words she left us saying, ‘I’ll just check on your father’s condition.’ It hit my wife and me at the same moment and we rushed along the corridor.

Bundling into my father’s room we saw a paramedic ‘shouting’ at the prone and half naked figure: ‘Come on Brian … stay with us.’ My father’s chest heaved in physical distress as a bag covered his mouth and another medic prepared to shock him. His skin had the waxy hue and paleness I’d seen on my mother as she passed away.

In the small living space that had become my father’s whole world the paraphernalia of modern emergency support was strewn all around. My wife was first to enunciate her horror: ‘What are you doing this for?!’

For several weeks in three separate medical establishments my father, despite his communication difficulties caused by a stroke some years earlier, had made himself understood – he wanted to die. For the long years before he broke his hip my wife and I had cared for my father, it had been difficult to watch his almost daily decline; he had been a proud, principled and independent man, a teacher and an artist. At eighty, long overdue, he become a published poet. Difficult as it was to watch, we respected that this was a man fading out at his own request. And yet here we were, thrust into the most terrible of moments – a man who wanted to die being forced back into a world he no longer had an interest in. Our protestations that my father be allowed to pass away brought yet more tension into the room. The ‘shouting’ stopped, but our fourteen weeks of frustrations at the NHS care system were too much for me and my wife.

In counterpoint we made our cases aloud to the six medics about respect and civilised treatment. But apparently, my father’s DNR (do not resuscitate) wishes had not been recorded in the requisite manner. Procedure and regulation were in the way of care and welfare, and overrode my father’s desires.

For his entire adult life, my father voted for a system that respected people, treated them well; a welfare state, a national health service, free at the point of need – one of the marks of a civilised and mature society. Those entrusted to administer NHS continuing healthcare had already attempted piracy with his rights and, now, these paramedics were clearly having to apply procedure rather than the human care they so obviously wished to dispense.

My father was being denied his wish to die peacefully and with respect. This was a system seeking to revive him so that it might take him back to a hospital he had already refused to be taken to, in order that he could ‘die’ once more, probably on a trolly in a corridor in A&E.

Before all was lost, the senior paramedic took control and through several different stages and conversations that involved myself and my father’s GP the paramedics were allowed to ‘withdraw’. And then the room was quiet and my father once more calm. His beloved Radio could be heard in the corner of his room and death once more began to claim his body. Peacefully and with us as comforters for his passage he was able to complete his life, with respect and dignity.

Duncan suggests …

… reading the book ‘Staring at the Sun: Overcoming the Terror of Death‘ by Irvine D. Yalom,

 

All rights reserved © Copyright Duncan E. Stafford 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author of this post is strictly prohibited.