I get it. I’ve spent years studying trauma, and in recent years Porges’ polyvagal theory has pulled much thinking together. I understand that when we are caught in the dorsal vagal system, that ancient life-preserving mechanism that allows us to become almost invisible, to freeze, or play dead, we cannot also be in the ventral vagal system. That’s the part we use to scan faces, to separate friends from foes, to feel connection. I know that the sympathetic nervous system enables us to mobilize ready to fight or flee in response to fear. So, I understand why people look away these days, few smiles, little real connection, and why I surprise myself with my moments of anger. Being out in the world doesn’t feel too safe for many of us. Even if some of the fears may be a little irrational, or at least somewhat exaggerated, they are there shaping vagal responses. No arguing with that survival mechanism. In myself I feel the anxiety and the lack of connection, note it.

Then I pull up on the three dots marked on the pavement at the stop lights on Lakeshore Boulevard where it crosses with Colbourne Lodge Drive. Those dots and the large sign “Cyclists stop here” tell me what I must do. I stop exactly on the spot that will activate the sensor to get me a light to cross the highway. Even so, when the little illuminated bicycles light up green, just for me, I’m startled at how my nervous system receives this mechanical attention. My body settles, feels the difference. I have been seen and taken account of, even if only by a sensor. No human being saw me, switched that light just for me, for exactly long enough for me to cross those broad eight lanes. I’m giddy with delight and surprised by the strength of my reaction

When I tell the tale, a friend points out that humans did design the system, set it up to register a cyclist’s presence. True, that may well be part of the feeling. but I don’t think that’s the key, I believe it’s simply the power of feeling “seen,” having a need met, that settles me, eases something deep down.

This special crossing is less vital in these times, for I could probably dodge the few cars, find my moment to cross with ease. Yet it is simultaneously more important when people avoid my eye, to be acknowledged, even if only by a mechanized sensor. My nervous system reacts, is soothed and settled, warmed as if a smiling person had stopped the traffic and ushered me across the road in a glorious grand gesture of attention, sweeping cloak, deep bow and all.

I repeat the move most mornings now to feel its power again, marvel at the effect. It’s my new route home that avoids the narrow bridge, for that agitates my nervous system too much now. I’m enjoying this tiny pleasure each morning instead.

I am fascinated by the heightened reality of these times and what they are helping me to see. I’m hoping this Interruption of normal, this intense time, may help others too to learn more about what makes the nervous system settle as is needed to make learning possible for them, and for their students or others they may help to learn.

Perhaps we are like fish who have not seen the water we swim in, but in these vivid times when everything is changed, we might see our “water” sharply in all its dimension, its new colours and textures.

I wonder what new things you are noticing? Have there been surprises for you too?

The post Fear, it’s the way it is now appeared first on Jenny Horsman.

Dan Siegel used a version of this image to illustrate mental health. He explains that when we are stuck on either side of the river, or flip between the two we may be given labels of mental illness. Susan Tiihonen redrew it to help reveal that all of us—whatever race, class, gender, or ability—can get caught in overwhelm or chaos, or equally easily on the other side: in rigidity and control.

The image helps us see there is no big divide between those of us with labels and those without – it’s more of a continuum of whether we can find our way back into the flow without too much delay. In the current in the river we must accept we have some control, but not total control. When we understand a little about how our brains work to help us survive and learn, we can move more quickly out of shame. We can stop feeling bad, stupid, wrong—like we don’t belong—and become more creative about what will help each one of us return to the flow and learn what we hope to learn.

Do you notice your own patterns? Do you help your students become aware of their patterns? Do they learn how these patterns, or habits, help survival, and how they can get in the way of learning what we choose when we choose. Do you teach students how our brains work? How do you help those you support to explore what works for them to calm old patterns and return to learning? 

(Dan Siegel and Tina Payne Bryson (2012) The Whole Brain Child. New York: Little, Brown Book Group)

Illustration Credit: Susan Tiihonen

The post Conscious Awareness appeared first on Jenny Horsman.