Session #2 of The Story Under the Story with Robyn Gobbel -- On Noticing

This morning I taught The Story Under the Story with Robyn Gobbel, and afterwards I received this email: 

I wanted to ask about noticing. I've been trying to wrap my mind and body around that for quite some time and I don't fully get it. It seems like there is so much there -- kind of a sense I get that I am missing something and want to know more. I'm wondering if you can give me some thoughts about it to ponder, or if you could write about it in a blog post, or talk about it further in our class. I need some help knowing more about the depth, significance, connection of "noticing." 

I have heard a quote by a somatic therapist that was, "We talk to our brainstem by noticing." That sounded so powerful to me and I don't fully get what that means!

 Some people say you may cry when you are doing yoga or after a massage. That hasn't happened to me, even though sometimes I wish it had because maybe I could unfreeze or thaw or connect mind-body more. I find myself having tears after our class and I don't even know why. But for now, I will welcome that part, and notice that.

Pam Cordano does this thing when we are out for a walk and I am talking about something in a going-down-the-rabbit-hole kind of way. “Look at that tree,” she’ll say. “Those two red leaves look like birds.”

I used to fall for this shit. I’d look at the tree, get caught up in how pretty the leaves are, and the next thing I’d know I’d be less invested in the rabbit hole, more invested in the world around me.

Now I’m not so easy to trick. “I don’t care about stupid leaves,” I mutter. “I want to swim in misery. I do not want to shift gears. I like driving in stuck and unhappy.” 

Okay. I have never said those things out loud. But I have thought them as I lift my head to look at the leaves, to see that they do in fact look like mittens, to realize that the world is not actually trying to eat me alive, to see that the world around me is a safe place, and that, right there and right then, I am okay. 

Sometimes I hate this realization. I want agony. I want noise and disruption and an unsettled gut. I want my brain to spin, unable to find a place of stillness. I want trauma. 

The place of noticing can be so…quiet. So…boring. So…safe.

The place of noticing can also be like the moment of quiet before the other shoe drops. 

Better to just get the waiting over with and feel shitty preemptively. That way I don’t have to deal with the disappointment of watching good feelings disappear. 

Our brain stem is the megaphone of fear, and it gets to talk first. THE SHIT’S ABOUT TO HIT THE FAN it screams when you notice a sun spot on your skin that wasn’t there before. YOU HAVE CANCER AND YOU ARE ABOUT TO DIE. It takes the part of your brain that is closer to your face a moment to pipe in and to say that the spot looks like a freckle and that, in fact, it may well have been there for years and years. The problem is that the brain stem talks in capital letters and so its message hogs your attention. So there you are, freaking out over a mark on your skin even though part of you realizes that, actually, you were born with it. 

The stress chemicals are coursing through your body at this point; your breath is shallow; your sight narrow and tight. 

YOU ARE OFFICIALLY FREAKING OUT OVER A FRECKLE. 

This is when noticing comes in. It’s the life buoy someone throws to a drowning person. Grab hold of it and just hang on. Look up from the dot on your arm and focus on the bird that is flying across the sky. What kind of bird do you think it is? Where is it going? Is it hungry? Why is it alone? If you could name it, what name would you give this bird? 

What you are doing with these questions is engaging the part of your brain that can bring you back to planet Earth. It’s the reasonable part, the part that is about taking note rather than saving your life. It’s the part that doesn’t believe there is a tiger behind every bush. It’s the part we have to cultivate, however, the part we need to intentionally pay attention to since the back part, the brain stem part, gets a megaphone and this one has a softer voice. 

When a baby is having a tantrum, a useful trick to disrupt the crying is distraction. Look at my waving fingers! What’s the puppy doing? Look at how blue the sky is? Who painted the sky for us today? Why didn’t they paint it green?  If a baby is on fire, distraction is not the answer: putting out the fire is, but if the baby is tired and cranky or upset that someone took the machete out of their hands, then distraction can be so useful. 

Distraction = noticing. 

For years and years and years my head would spin when I was dating someone and the relationship failed. I would go to the dark place: What is wrong with me? How will I survive losing this person? Why do I feel like I’m going to die when I don’t even really like him? I was operating from a place of terror, a place where I feared annihilation, a place so unreasonable—it was a breakup not a death sentence—that logic was not helpful. (Anne, you called him a robot. Do you really want to spend your days with a person who makes you feel like ripping out your hair, or more truthfully, his hair?) What was helpful was getting out of my own spin, getting a chance to reassess, to catch my breath, to break the pattern of thoughts that had me so upset. 

I need to notice what I feel like. I need to notice if my skin feels cool or hot. I need to notice where the sun is in the sky, what shoes I am wearing. Noticing brings me back into my body, pulls me from the desolate field of terror the megaphone voice has sent me.

Noticing is being in your body, looking out. Noticing sometimes brings tears. It’s like noticing begins to defrost something frozen in us, and the waking up can feel uncomfortable, like a foot that has fallen asleep but now has bloodflow and prickles. You don’t even know why you are crying often when you are waking up, and, if you don’t react in fear or embarrassment, this kind of crying can be such a relief: you are coming home. 

The reason (one big reason) I am taking a three-month break (maybe a year) from social media is that I noticed how I am when I’m scrolling through Facebook or Instagram. I barely breath. It’s like I’m in a light coma, stunned, quiet, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. Someone could maybe pull a splinter from my foot when I was in this state and I would not feel much pain because I am buried in the interned. 

My head is up my internet, and I am blind to the world that is right outside of my skin. I am actually blind to the world that is in my skin, also. I am focused attention on a dreamworld. 

This, you could argue, is a fine way to spend your time. Slightly numb. Entertained.

And, yes. I mean, look at the movie Wall-E. Those data-hungry, stuck people were fine in their chairs. It’s a life.

But I live at Spirit Hill Farm. I live in paradise. And paradise is out. Paradise, is also, if the sages and gurus and holy figures are right, in.

I need to notice. I need to notice how my heart feels. I need to notice how the skin on the inside of my elbow feels. I need to notice when the chickens sleeps in the sun, when the breeze makes the leaves on the olive tree dance. I need to notice because I want to have lived when I die. 

All of this may sound obvious, but when you have lived a life marked by a kind of dissociation that is so systemic you think it is normal, you think it is how everyone lives: slightly numb, slightly confused, more not here than here, noticing is dangerous. Noticing is asking you to participate, to be real, to claim the space in your shoes and to go out into the world a feeling person. If you experienced significant trauma in your life when you were young, going out into the world a feeling person can seem insane. Better to buttress, to shut down, to not notice the things that are not dangerous. If you think you are about to die, you generally don’t stop to smell the flowers because you don’t care. You don’t see the beautiful blue sky when you are drowning. You just see the shark’s fin headed your way. When you think your house is going into foreclosure and you are about to be homeless, you don’t sigh happily over the toasted edges of your grilled cheese sandwich. You notice there is just one sandwich on your plate and that soon there will be none.

Noticing is a luxury of the safe. I recognize that.

But if you are safe, and your brain is telling you that you aren’t, noticing is your ladder out of the stormy waters onto the dry dock. Noticing pulls you out of terror and into real time. 

The irony is that noticing is work. It’s intentional. It’s a decision: I am going to override this megaphone voice that is telling me I’m about to die and instead I’m going to enjoy how smooth my hair feels under the palm of my hand. I’m going to stroke this sweet head of mine into the present moment. Hello, Head! You came out from the internet! Welcome to the day! You’re alive! What do you want to do now? Nothing? How fun! Let’s do nothing and see what happens!