Pond by Oughtonhead

Two big benefits before even starting the real walking come from doing yoga every day and going in to the outside world whatever the weather. The first has brought renewed flexibility of body and heightened my spirits and the second surprising pleasures amidst rain, frost, snow, thick mud, bare trees and winter sun. Today there is thick mud everywhere I look. It attaches itself and forms a heavy clod on each boot like two inch platforms underfoot. The rain is heavy and continuous under a thick grey cloud squeezing all light out of the day. Under my coat, hood and protective gear I am warm, dry and snug inside right next to the immediate contact of cold, wet, gloomy surrounds. It is important to stop along a path and take in what is around me. I do that on my walk today as I stand beside a pond on Oughtonhead common. The surface is being bombed with droplets of rain. They must be different sizes from the look of the ripple effects formed. Some form big circles that take a while to settle in to the surface. Others are quickly consumed, absorbed and now part of the pond. I look and watch the different patterns as big and small send ripples crashing in to each other with the strong pushing the weak away. The surface of the pond is very much like our minds. Different stimulus hit us and bash in to each other as they are absorbed inside our heads. A smell, a taste, a touch and a sound all landing on the surface and somehow absorbing in to us. Never quite achieving the unity we seek. I think of the pond as our total mind doing its work to reach harmony and a calm flat boundary between above and below. Rain and wind amass their forces wanting waves and disturbance and anything but calm in their game. Most of the work taking place below the surface using its knowledge to oppose the forces sent against it. Just like our unconscious mind doing most of the work for us as we work to survive in this world. Our conscious layer like a spotlight searching the surface of the pond for something that might be important to protect us or meet the needs we have. This pond will not be still today or for many days to come. It will try everything it can to sleep happy, content and flat but only when the wind stops and the rain stays above will it get its chance. I look away from the pond to the path ahead. I am back in the world ready to catch everything disturbing my calm and make my best efforts for the still mind I want. An exciting year ahead about to start in which walks, talks, thoughts, people, places and paths will take me somewhere new.

What's that?

Some thoughts for Rob and I to talk about on one of our walks. We will let you know where we get to.

A lot of noise between two silences is how Isabelle Allende refers to the time between birth and death. Who am I and what is it all about wander round our minds throughout this noise. All there is is now is confused by what has gone before and what is yet to come. The filter of judgement feeding our emotions and letting us know if what we are experiencing is good or bad. We cycle through purpose and wondering what is the point with no real understanding of how we shift from one to the other. All of us spending time thinking there must be a better state than we are currently in. Leo my two year old grandson says all the time now 'what's that?' nods approvingly if the answer makes sense and looks quizzically if it doesn't quite fit. I love the phrase and wish there was someone to answer the question for me with more than fifty years behind me. What is it all about?

Some things are clear. We are here to perpetuate our species and improve its ability to survive in the environments of the day. Survival and reproduction are two of the objectives of the human organism. Survival is a tricky business with the requirement of a very limited range of atmospheres and environments that can sustain us. Change the quality of our air or move our body temperature outside a 5 deg range and we struggle. Most of the survival job is done automatically with our bodily systems bringing our heartbeat, blood pressure, temperature and physiology back in to balance when they go astray. This all happens below the surface with little or no participation by our conscious mind. Then there is the conscious layer contributing to the task. There are debates that will run awhile about the role it plays in volition. In one camp Libet and his followers seeing the conscious layer as a post event rationalisation of what occurred to file a memory of understanding for future survival tasks. The other camp Wegner seeing it as the instrument of free will and our ability to choose what we are going to do. Experientially it is the most present with over 60,000 thoughts a day whizzing round our minds, analysing, judging, learning and deciding. The two camps deep in conversation about the role of the conscious layer in any decision made. I think I can live with either argument being true. If my unconscious mind has actually made the decision before I consciously think about it I should be ok with that as it controls most of the important physiological decisions for my survival. If it is my conscious mind in control there is some comfort there also as it consumes so much of my waking time. It would be good to know which one is true as it would allow us to increase the enjoyment of the good aspects of being conscious.

Reproduction presents its own challenges. Floods of estrogen and testosterone course through our bodies in cycles driving us to take the species forward. Moods, misunderstandings, orgasm, moral questions and societal norms all fed by this pre programmed cocktail mix. The interaction of these chemical balances with the conscious and unconscious mind determining how we feel at any moment in time. The problem for us is we do not understand the formula for this brew. We experience the state as frustration, anger, pleasure, happiness or some other emotion and boy do we feel it. Whatever the feeling we then need to explain it and create all sorts of stories to find a reason. These are at the heart of many of our unhappiest moments as we explain away an internal chemical recipe by having a go at ourselves for something we have done. The reality is probably something else and we feel as we do because of the current chemical balance we hold.

It could all be about the life of a plant. We respond to the environment seeking sunshine, salt, water, air and sustenance growing roots, leaves and moving towards helpful stimulus and away from harm. Buddhist advice to see our thoughts as just that and a route to something better could be so wise. The natural processes of the mind fight or question this idea as it searches for meaning and gives its quizzical look when dissatisfied with the answer to 'what's that?'.

A lot of noise between two silences is how Isabelle Allende refers to the time between birth and death. Who am I and what is it all about wander round our minds throughout this noise. All there is is now is confused by what has gone before and what is yet to come. The filter of judgement feeding our emotions and letting us know if what we are experiencing is good or bad. We cycle through purpose and wondering what is the point with no real understanding of how we shift from one to the other. All of us spending time thinking there must be a better state than we are currently in. Leo my two year old grandson says all the time now 'what's that?' nods approvingly if the answer makes sense and looks quizzically if it doesn't quite fit. I love the phrase and wish there was someone to answer the question for me with more than fifty years behind me. What is it all about?

Some things are clear. We are here to perpetuate our species and improve its ability to survive in the environments of the day. Survival and reproduction are two of the objectives of the human organism. Survival is a tricky business with the requirement of a very limited range of atmospheres and environments that can sustain us. Change the quality of our air or move our body temperature outside a 5 deg range and we struggle. Most of the survival job is done automatically with our bodily systems bringing our heartbeat, blood pressure, temperature and physiology back in to balance when they go astray. This all happens below the surface with little or no participation by our conscious mind. Then there is the conscious layer contributing to the task. There are debates that will run awhile about the role it plays in volition. In one camp Libet and his followers seeing the conscious layer as a post event rationalisation of what occurred to file a memory of understanding for future survival tasks. The other camp Wegner seeing it as the instrument of free will and our ability to choose what we are going to do. Experientially it is the most present with over 60,000 thoughts a day whizzing round our minds, analysing, judging, learning and deciding. The two camps deep in conversation about the role of the conscious layer in any decision made. I think I can live with either argument being true. If my unconscious mind has actually made the decision before I consciously think about it I should be ok with that as it controls most of the important physiological decisions for my survival. If it is my conscious mind in control there is some comfort there also as it consumes so much of my waking time. It would be good to know which one is true as it would allow us to increase the enjoyment of the good aspects of being conscious.

Reproduction presents its own challenges. Floods of estrogen and testosterone course through our bodies in cycles driving us to take the species forward. Moods, misunderstandings, orgasm, moral questions and societal norms all fed by this pre programmed cocktail mix. The interaction of these chemical balances with the conscious and unconscious mind determining how we feel at any moment in time. The problem for us is we do not understand the formula for this brew. We experience the state as frustration, anger, pleasure, happiness or some other emotion and boy do we feel it. Whatever the feeling we then need to explain it and create all sorts of stories to find a reason. These are at the heart of many of our unhappiest moments as we explain away an internal chemical recipe by having a go at ourselves for something we have done. The reality is probably something else and we feel as we do because of the current chemical balance we hold.

It could all be about the life of a plant. We respond to the environment seeking sunshine, salt, water, air and sustenance growing roots, leaves and moving towards helpful stimulus and away from harm. Buddhist advice to see our thoughts as just that and a route to something better could be so wise. The natural processes of the mind fight or question this idea as it searches for meaning and gives its quizzical look when dissatisfied with the answer to 'what's that?'.

The View from Pegsdon Hills

In 18 days we start our first walk clocking up real miles in our 1000miles4hope. Around midday yesterday I thought about going for a walk as part of the preparation to be in good shape. I looked outside as it started to snow. I stepped outside and it was bitterly cold. I made a cup of tea and sat beside the fire enjoying the snug inside warmth. Half way down the cup a nagging thought of 'where is your commitment?' wandered round my mind and grew inside with each sip. With the last sip I had no answers other than to go for the walk. Loading on several layers I set off along Wood Lane heading for Pegsdon Hills. Light snow falling and settling on a cow I passed who looked so cold and looked at me as if to say 'you must be crazy setting off in this'. Walking is much harder this time of year on the wet and slippery mud. One step in the summer feels at least two now. As I ascend the hill I feel surprisingly warm and take in the bleak grey scene around. It feels good to be in the outdoors with the crisp air freshening my mind. At the top of Pegsdon Hill I turn and look at the plain below, whitening as I watch. I now realise I have walked 4 miles away from home with the wind on my back. Now in my face the bones freeze and breathing is hard (like on Formby Sands on another walk). The wind is bitterly cold and strong as I feel my contact lenses wobble. The 4 miles back is going to be a test but there is no choice. Snow falls more heavily and I feel the cold bite in to my face and tears run down my face. I discover how to use my hood properly and enclose me fully except for about an inch and a half slit I can see through. All of a sudden I am in a protective cocoon, surrounded by warm breath and as snug as by the fire with my cup of tea. I look ahead of me through the driving snow at the wonderful views I can see. Whistle harder wind and snow heavier snow I am ready for what you wil do. There is something invigorating and being at one with the world when you are in the middle of powerful natural forces so close to you but the opposite side of your protective shell. I think and smile at how different it would be if I were in my summer shorts and now snuggle into the warmth of my inside world. The snow is now settling deeper and falling heavily. My commenting cow has a thick white coat on her back wearing the same expression as on a summers day with buttercups all around. She still thinks I am mad but shows no surprise as so many humans seem that way.

Home and an hour of yoga and pilates, a hot bath and settle down with another cup of tea. This one I enjoy more with the added taste of pleasure from commitment confronted and confirmed. I feel alert, stimulated and at ease with the world. Time for the best bit and go to give Karen a hug.

Len

No Hope

At a moment in time when Isabelle Allende was sitting by her 28 year old daughter, Paula, who was in a coma from porphyria she wrote ‘Now I am in a blind alley with all doors closed to hope, and I don’t know how to handle so much fear’. I feel so connected to these words as I experience deep sadness and fear living with Karen and MS. Karen is my soul mate, best friend, mother of my children and the love of my life. Every day MS is taking a little more of her away from me. Walking one step is now a difficult and painful manoeuvre and her body is in pain in many places. Sometimes she cries out in the night as sharp pains shoot through her body. She constantly has pins and needles all over her body and often has one foot burning hot while the other is ice cold. If I look back I see that each month that passes she has got progressively worse. In the moment it is heart rending to watch her struggle with no ability to do anything to help. The future looks bleak. The specialists look on with their serious face and tell us the best outcome may happen and Karen will not decline too fast. She is declining fast and there appears no hope its tortuous path will be curtailed. It is certain she will get worse with many of the outcomes too horrible to contemplate.

How can I handle so much fear and sadness? For once in my life I don’t know the answer to a hard question. The rational and creative gifts I have been given have no solutions. Attempts to live in the moment, keep positive, build on what is good and to be active give temporary relief but the sadness and fear soon return. They visit more often and for longer now and turn their screw deeper each time. It is difficult for friends to know how to help. When we meet they say how well I look with my outdoor tan and the smile I paste on the outside. Few see the pain and sorrow inside. I can start a day full of wonder at new flowers on the scene, the scent of a new season or admiring the sun rise with the busy birds on the way with their day. Then all my strength is sapped as I watch tears, pain and the tortuous destruction of the person I love most in the world take place before me. I hold her in my arms, stay by her side and seek a new distraction to find some joy we can share in some way. We recycle our useless statements such as ‘it is not fair’, ‘why me’ and ‘this is just so cruel’ and often cry as we pass through another day without hope.

‘Now I am in a blind alley with all doors closed to hope, and I don’t know how to handle so much fear’. Isabelle Allende wrote the story of her life to Paula in the hope one day her daugher would read it. Her writing is moving, rich in love, honest and although hard for me to read has given me some strength to keep going. Paula never recovered from her coma and I don’t know if Isabelle has yet recovered from her grieving. I will read The Sum of Our Days to see what she says but know the scars of living without hope and in fear will never perfectly heal. Today I am sad inside and full of fear of what is to come.

Robert’s Visit to the Myelin Repair Laboratory, Cambridge University, 2 December 2009

It is a typical wet, chilly December morning when I arrive at the Myelin Repair Laboratory to be greeted by Professor Robin Franklin in his office. The window blinds are down, preventing the miserable English winter dampness from detracting from the mood of hope that pervades the work of research and discovery that goes on inside. Robin’s Jack Russell, Bumper growls at me from her litter, placed in a warm and cosy nook of the office. Robin tells me that Bumper is 11 and that her growl is far worse than her bite, at which point she curls up in a ball in her warm bed and dozes off.

I have interrupted Robin from his morning’s work of reviewing and lining what look like research papers that now lay spread on his desk. One can’t help thinking for a moment that perhaps the breakthrough that could mean so much for so many might just be in those papers. Then I remember that Robin has already told us that the process of research is methodical and step-by-step – one small step at a time, just like our walking challenge in 2010.

Robin offers me a tour of the laboratory. It is set among a complex of research, teaching and medical buildings on this University site on the outskirts of Cambridge. It comprises a maze of corridors, cluttered with filing cupboards and boxes, painted in hospital white, and lined with notices and posters. Around each corner a corridor opens up into various different sized laboratory rooms each with its own particular array of equipment and stores. Some are empty, manned only by pieces of equipment, waiting their turn. In one is an electron microscope, its electron beam not in use today to magnify the molecular world in which the secrets of myelin repair lay. It is on standby, ready to play its part.

In another lab room I meet 3 of Robin’s team – Ilias Kazanis from Greece; David Coutts from New Zealand; and Charlotte Bruce from Cornwall. I am struck at how young they look, or is it me getting older? The room is lined with shelves cluttered with containers, bottles, vials, and pipettes, with leads passing over and between sockets and bits of equipment. The room looks and feels ‘clinical’, an impression enhanced by the white coats and coloured gloves the team wear. They are in good spirits - perhaps motivated by the optimism and inspiration that comes from working on pioneering research.

In another room I find John Stockley from Ireland. This morning John is not so much trying to find the secrets of life but rather to prolong it. He tells me that today he is hoping to extend the life of certain cells that the team have been working with by nourishing them with a cocktail of nutrients. This is not precisely how John put it, but it is my layman’s translation! The red soup of life is carefully added to small containers containing I know not what, conducted under a sharp beam of light and behind a protective screen. It is a reminder that research includes hours of painstaking tedium and not just Eureka moments of discovery.

I visit one more room, perhaps the most inspiring. In this rather cramped, overcrowded cubicle I meet Helene Gautier. She is from France and I am suddenly struck by the international nature of Robin’s team – a world class facility that draws from the world’s best; a lab of all the talents! Helene is staring at 4 monitors and I get a sense that something important, fundamental is going on in here. This feeling is reinforced by Helene’s enthusiastic description of what she is doing and looking at. I pretend to understand – it sounds like cells are being cut and diced, reactions induced and results observed. The very fabric of life is being played with, its mysteries being prised open, its secrets exposed. She points to one screen on which I see a green viscous carpet with a bolt of green light splaying out from its centre. This is a brain stem cell. This is what all the bright minds, all the equipment, all the hours in this research facility are devoted to. You want to touch the green light, introduce yourself and just let it know that you understand how important it is.

I meet more of Robin’s team, including Chao Zhao who Robin describes as the brains of the team. He is reminded by another researcher, his wife Dan Ma who is also part of the team, to put on his glasses for a photograph. He is not sure where he left them, but Dan kindly and patiently produces them for him. Chao has that charming, unassuming air of brilliance. I am inspired by my visit – there is a feeling of optimism that pervades this establishment; in the white interiors, the impressive equipment, the smiles on the faces, the youthful energy and the buzz of activity.

As I drive away, not even England’s dank and drizzly winter worst can darken my recharged sense of HOPE.