My mum and dad in retirement lived in a high-rise rental unit in Lotus City for a number of years. There were a large number of rental units for almost exclusively elderly people. My dad in his heyday had grown an abundant number of dahlia and gladiola and they missed the prospect of having cut flowers always available for their home. He spent half of his horticultural lifetime as well giving away flowers to all and sundry. Since I am a chip off the old block and have grown dahlia for a number of years in volume, but not glads, since deer eat those flowers and what's a glad without any bloom?
      I started taking dahlias to my parents in Lotus City once a week. My truck with dahlias was noted by residents of the high-rise and my parents asked if I could bring some to their friends. My donations were well recieived and after a while many of the other renters came for flowers, waiting in the parking lot on Wednesday when I arrived. Bringing dahlias for me was no big deal because  it saved me from deadheading in the plot.in another few days They all called me Dr. Flower.
       I'm not sure I liked the name, at the time, but I was younger and I do now. I was worried  it sounded like Dr. Dolittle or Mr. Rogers. The love of color and beauty by older people without gardens in a concrete apartment made that gift giving for me just nothing more than a continuation of my dad's generosity.
        My dad died, my mother moved to a nursing home, my old truck expired and I ended my flower toting activity.

 " Look" , I said to the pianist that morning,  " There is a flock of American Widgeons that has returned. They weren't here yesterday. " They are the first returnees of our winter ducks. What is it that is so comfortable of the familiar?  Expectations met ! The orb is turning as it ought.
       November is a black month here, but the dark , wind  and cold is familiar and we can rely on the Widgeons and the Buffleheads as part of, it so they are welcome too. The widgeons tell us it is good to be here. They say, "This is where we choose to come and you are our familiar. You can rely on the  Bufflrheads and us and the others to sooth your familiars."
          The older one becomes the more familiars one has and the more they become of value.  My kids, when they were young liked the same story over and over again.  If I changed it a little bit they objected.  "That's not right dad Tell it the way that you are supposed to, " they said .  They were young  so had developed fewer familiars and what they had was precious to them.  Breaking new ground, on the other hand,  is crucial for the young, creating new familiars for themselves, though they may not know it at the time
          Years ago I had a white cable-knit sweater that I really loved.  I wore it a lot , and particularly on my boat with my captain's hat and a scarf: it became a joie de vivre!  It was my statement. As it was in frequent use it became frayed at the wrists and the waist became baggy. It looked a bit like a tent and at times the belly button showed. The elbow yarn thinned and there was a little stain in the front, and after multiple washings the pianist chucked in the bin to discard. I retrieved it and continued to wear it , averse comments notwithstanding.  It was a familiar and I  still felt a certain jauntiness  it imparted despite the disagreeable aspect. After all I was the author of its decrepitude and owed it protection.  My efforts to prolong the life of my cable=knit led to naught when the pianist had it to repeatedly wash and finaly trashing it and having it repeatedly retrieved. One day she washed the  green algae off the greenhouse floor with my treasure. It was a dirty grey green and irretrievable.
        It was like the day when my aunt Mildred took my blanket away when I was three. She said, " You don't need your blanket any more Jim, now that you are three." Another familiar bit the dust. Both Mildred and the pianist were right. I needed to break new ground.
         

Received clusters of designated symbols we call words can be either seen or heard. The Optic nerve ( 2nd cranial nerve ) ,will mediate the seen word to the occipital cortex.  The heard word will be mediated by the auditory branch of the 8th cranial nerve to the cortical temporal lobe. These different entry points and transfers to the different imprinting areas of the brain lead to different perception despite the excellence of the subsequent processing and integrative action of the brain.
       The symbols you learned to see do not reflect exactly the symbols you learned to hear before and after you learned to read. Since these symbols have become the stuff of communication, then oral and written language is the stuff of life. Many people have developed listening skills that commit much of what they hear to memory:  the oral', an older and more primitive tradition. Others,  have highly refined visual skills and are visual learners, so reading and writing  (seeing ) leads to better retention.
       When we read to others we transport the visual symbols to the listeners ear. It will go from our imprinted symbols in our occipital cortex , to the spoken clusters ,to the listeners ear and their temporal lobe. The symbols will be filtered and compounded for the listener by integration neurons both of passion and association intellect. The intellectual read word becomes the affective heard word.
         Whether oral tradition could ever translate in full measure to the written tradition ;  whether the passion and richness of masterly writing is the same as the spoken word by a great actor ; all is a mystery to me. And what of the blind or deaf? Doea sign language penetrate to the core like the sounds in translation, made by orators? Does Braille duplicate the passion of great written poetry. If they do not,  how can we know this without a viable basis for knowing? Are the blind or deaf limited largely to content and not privileged to the full measure of presentation providing a precious extenson beyond content?
         One thing we do know now, is the capacity of the brain and the no longer available senses to develop new pathways. Perhaps a new pathway to passion. Brain remapping towards communication and its wholeness could be the stuff of life.
          Excerpt from Jim Warren  A Braided Cord

The pianist and I once had a 1990 Nissan Axxess that was 8 or 10 years old that was still in good running order, partly because it was softly used and serviced regularly. I tried to start it one time after we had been away for a while and the battery had run down because a ceiling light had been left on. When the tow truck man came and jumped the battery he told me to run it for half an hour to charge up the battery.
    I drove around Lotus Island for a while with the pianist and then took her to her bank. I was feaful about turning the ignition off when I was parked at that stage, so I sat in the car waiting for her as the car ran on idle while she did her business.
     I was musing on nothing in particular when a small, purpose-driven lady in earth clothing came to my window and said,  "You people are all the same. You pollute the earth with your gas fumes and use up a natural resource and do not have any regard for the earth and the people in it. "  She was quiet and intense, and having made a clear statement she left me hanging and crossed back over the road,
      I wondered, " Am I of the tribe of You People and who are the You People,  anyway ? "  I was never given a chance to explain that I was not  One of Them.
       As I cogitated the encounter a man emerged from the bank wearing earth clothing and came to my open window  and said, " You know your car is running . "
      " Yes ", I said, " My battery is flat and I am afraid to turn the car off yet since it is still charging and I may not get it started again if I do. "
       " That's OK then. ", he said.
        I thought, "  Thanks a lot green buddy. "
       It's not that I was being accosted and taken to task that took me aback so much, since this is Lotus Island and contains abundant Ecophiliacs. It's just that I was named ' You People', separated, categorized, held up as a lesson and packaged as an ' Other '. It's hard for all of us,  me too , not to jump to conclusions.

When a leg, or a large part of a leg, is removed for any reason,  the image of the leg remains as a phantom and you may alight from your bed after a sound sleep and attempt to stand on something that isn't there. The cortical imprint in your brain of your leg remains for some period of time despite the sensory input of something that no longer exists. This is called the phantom image.
     The larger map representing the neural areas in the brain for the lower limb are the joints, knee, ankle and the great toe.  These are the phantom images most commonly identified by the patient,  but as the brain adapts to the loss of the limb, recognition occurs and there is perception of a fore shortening of the phantom towards the stump, rather than just fading away. Before it fades away completely the foot may image on the end of the stump.
        If a history of  severe chronic and unrelenting pain has been elicited before the amputation of the limb, rather than just a phantom image,  phantom pain will also sometimes ensue. The brain we know has a self-adjusting capacity to add or delete mapped areas of itself that serve the body parts as need be and it is increasingly understood, but change is slower and less deliberate than we may wish. Despite the impatience we may have this capacity is wonderful adaptation in time. Where chronic pain has been present the cortical representation is larger and adaptation slower.
        Given this problem of pain perceived in our parts generally, there is something to learn from the phenomenon  of phantom limb. Given the mystery of pain where the physical  source no longer exists;  it could follow that, that pain in other parts  of the human vessel we call our own, might also be "remembered" when the part is removed or no  residual pathology remains.  Phantom pain in the low back or empty gall bladder bed or a legion of other painful conditions, corrected, but still slow to be deleted by the cerebral cortex.
           When they say it's all in your head, it would have a different meaning if the analogy to phantom limb is a viable theory. It just might mean that it's still on your cerebral cortical spot in it's usual place for a while  until that three pounds of grey matter remaps itself. It may be my simpleton's theory to a high powered neurophysiologist. but I am long in the tooth and have too little time left to shut up!