How to Populate a Mind
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A few years ago I worked on a book about attachment disorder. This is a mental disorder you find in children who spend their early months (or even years) in orphanages or who are neglected. Babies need to experience the consistent dynamic of expressing needs and then having those needs fulfilled. And they need lots and lots of sensory stimulation. If babies don't get these things, their brains fail to form connections and pathways, they become troubled, and they have a distrustful, fight-or-flight reaction to later attempts at closeness.
This came to mind when I was baking an apple pie last week. Cinnamon and cloves and caramelized apples are pleasant smells no matter how you slice it. But they evoke so much more for me because some of my best childhood memories with my mom were when she was baking. The apron she would put on, the little one I would wear, the old metal flour sifter (sifting was one of my frequent jobs), the soft linens for cooling cookies, and the smells---so wonderful.
So when I bake with cinnamon and cloves, the smells are more than just sensory. They're filled with associations and emotions that are richer than the most expensive spice. They convey warmth and safety and homeyness. And it's all because my mom populated my childhood with such things.
I felt something similar the other day when I was listening to a lecture about Bach's cantatas, and the instructor played one that contains the melody of a hymn I grew up singing in church. So there's one layer of pleasure that is accessible to anyone with working ears. And there's another layer of meaning that springs from sitting through Protestant services every week for 20 years.
A few years ago, when the Warren Jeffs compound was raided and the children in the polygamist cult were taken away from their parents, my sister Sally watched a program about the experiences of the foster parents. These children usually had a few, identical plain gray dresses and . . . that's about it. Since they and their mothers lived in complete isolation, and the men in the cult devoted most of their meager resources to maintaining control, they were impoverished. They had never even seen a coloring book before. My sister occasionally takes her students on simple field trips; for some kids, even going to the mall is an unusual treat, much less a museum. It's so sad. Especially when flour is cheap, singing is free, and the whole world is at our feet.
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A few years ago I worked on a book about attachment disorder. This is a mental disorder you find in children who spend their early months (or even years) in orphanages or who are neglected. Babies need to experience the consistent dynamic of expressing needs and then having those needs fulfilled. And they need lots and lots of sensory stimulation. If babies don't get these things, their brains fail to form connections and pathways, they become troubled, and they have a distrustful, fight-or-flight reaction to later attempts at closeness.
This came to mind when I was baking an apple pie last week. Cinnamon and cloves and caramelized apples are pleasant smells no matter how you slice it. But they evoke so much more for me because some of my best childhood memories with my mom were when she was baking. The apron she would put on, the little one I would wear, the old metal flour sifter (sifting was one of my frequent jobs), the soft linens for cooling cookies, and the smells---so wonderful.
So when I bake with cinnamon and cloves, the smells are more than just sensory. They're filled with associations and emotions that are richer than the most expensive spice. They convey warmth and safety and homeyness. And it's all because my mom populated my childhood with such things.
I felt something similar the other day when I was listening to a lecture about Bach's cantatas, and the instructor played one that contains the melody of a hymn I grew up singing in church. So there's one layer of pleasure that is accessible to anyone with working ears. And there's another layer of meaning that springs from sitting through Protestant services every week for 20 years.
A few years ago, when the Warren Jeffs compound was raided and the children in the polygamist cult were taken away from their parents, my sister Sally watched a program about the experiences of the foster parents. These children usually had a few, identical plain gray dresses and . . . that's about it. Since they and their mothers lived in complete isolation, and the men in the cult devoted most of their meager resources to maintaining control, they were impoverished. They had never even seen a coloring book before. My sister occasionally takes her students on simple field trips; for some kids, even going to the mall is an unusual treat, much less a museum. It's so sad. Especially when flour is cheap, singing is free, and the whole world is at our feet.
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posted by Anonymous at
10:24 PM
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