postcards from nowhere

Greetings!

I don't think it's news to any of my readers that I'm just the teensiest 
little bit obsessive, right?  I'm also an ambulance chaser, at least 
figuratively, and very curious about freak accidents.  This week, 
my leftover attention has been completely absorbed by Roy Horn and 
his white tiger, Montecore.  

Each day I scour the Web, reading everything I can find, itching to 
see footage of the 'attack' so I can decide for myself what happened.

I want to see the video because I don't believe what the media is 
telling me.  The way I see it, what actually happened will never 
be known in its totality by anyone, even eyewitnesses.  Including me 
even if I finally do find some video of it.  And this is not just 
because we don't know how to read a tiger's mind.  It's because 
the mind of each person who witnessed the incident immediately 
turned it into a story.  

Milliseconds after it happened, it was seamlessly integrated into 
their individual psyches -- not as a complete and accurate recording 
of all the sensory information available, but as an interpretation 
of that input.  

Here's my greatly oversimplified and maybe outdated understanding 
about how this works:

One of the jobs of the brain, as the captain of the nervous system, 
is to decide which bits information that have been delivered in a 
deluge of sensory input are valuable, and which we should tune out.  

So while I'm typing this, my brain has helped me to concentrate and 
focus by ignoring the drone of the fan on my laptop, the smell of 
decomposing leaves in my yard, and the feeling of pressure on my wrists.  

I'm not sure how it knows that I don't want to pay attention to the 
leaves at the moment, but it does.  And perhaps when someone's brain 
doesn't know what he or she wants to pay attention to, we label them ADHD.

The brain, in its brilliant efficiency, then works with the sensory input 
that does make it through the filter and makes it manageable by 
condensing and packaging it into pre-established categories.  
It 'sorts' it, so to speak, for easy retrieval and expression. 

It can, of course, make new categories for stuff that just won't 
fit anywhere else, but that seems to require more energy than just 
omitting a little bit of detail and sorting it into a preexisting box. 

This system allows us to function in the world without being completely 
overwhelmed.  In fact, I've read that some folks think schizophrenia 
may result when our filters that are not fully operational, thus 
letting in too much input, which snarls up the system.

So the filtering and sorting are great for avoiding schizophrenia, 
and not so great for those of us hearing eyewitness accounts of events 
and thinking we heard the truth.  We didn't.  

The truth will never be known outside of the pure experience of each 
moment.  By the time we try to put words to it, it's already been 
sorted by our minds.  And since the experience itself has passed, 
it can no longer be referenced for a reality check. 

Witnesses says Roy was attacked by the tiger.  Mauled, even.  
It's not a stretch for the mind of an average audience member 
to instantly categorize the visual image of a tiger with a person's 
neck in its jaws as an attack, right?  

But today I read that Siegfried, who I think it's fair to say knows 
a lot more about tigers than the average Joe in his audience, says 
the tiger was protecting Roy in his moment of vulnerability.  

Roy had slipped, and stage hands were rushing out to his aid.  
Montecore instinctively protected Roy by picking him up by the 
scruff of the neck and moving him to safety.  Except, of course, 
that human skin doesn't make for adequate protection from tiger teeth.  

Siegfried also pointed out that if Montecore wanted Roy dead, 
he would have accomplished that quite simply and very immediately 
with one shake of his massive head.  Piece of cake.

I read in the same article that 'animal experts' vehemently disagree 
with Siegfreid, and say it was definitely an attack.  I'm inclined 
to resonate with the Siegfreid version.  Not only does it make 
intuitive sense to me, but I'm putting more credence in the boxes 
in the brain of a guy who has lived with these tigers for the past 
30 years than those of experts who have studied wild animals in zoos 
and books and labs.  

So here's what I'm distilling from my virtual ambulance chase this week: 
Stories people tell about anything that happens are often quite detailed,
very fascinating, and never the truth.  

They reveal only the landscape of that individual's psyche - what kind 
of boxes and categories exist in their minds based on their genetics, 
past experience, education, intention, and probably some other forces 
I don't know about.

Knowing this, I can hold very, very lightly to other people's 
interpretations (including their interpretation of me!), if indeed 
I decide to hold on to them at all.  

This goes the same for my own interpretations, too.  They are not the 
truth.  The truth is gone already, like a leaf that fell into a rushing 
river.  

The memory of it is NOT it, it is only an image drawn in the shifting 
sands of mind by an arbitrary stick.  The stories we tell about 
occurrences, feelings, memories, are just that - stories.  
Entertaining, maybe.  Displaying more than we realize about our 
own inner landscape, probably.  But no big deal.  Not worth arguing over,
seeking agreement by force or logic, or otherwise breaking our loving 
connection with someone who is telling a different story than we are.

I hope Roy hangs in there, and I wish him well.  
Someday I'd love to hear his side of the story.  

-karen

P.S.- one of my clients has begun sending out her own version of 
postcards, which she calls a salon.  in support and appreciation of her 
writing, I've posted her first salon on my website.  if you'd like to 
read it, please go back to the archives page and click on 
'a guest postcard'.  thanks!