Head Cases Micheal Paul Mason, Farrar, Straus and Giroux (page 5 of 6) Page 5 of 6

Mumon, the compiler of the koans, included a brief commentary and a verse with each koan. The verse that accompanies Case 19 offers a delicate hint toward unlocking the koan’s peculiar teaching.

The spring flowers, the moon in autumn,

The cool breezes of summer, the winter’s snow;

If idle concerns do not cloud the mind,

This is man’s happiest season.

Although Case 19 begins simply enough, it appears to fall back on itself with contradictions, pitting action against inaction, the dual against the non-dual. For contemporary readers, though, the koan presents a more literal complexity. What, exactly, is meant by “mind?” The most commonly held belief among neuroscientists is that “mind” refers to the by-product of brain; it is the whir of our cognitive wheels spinning. In academic journals and the common vernacular, the terms “mind,” “consciousness,” “ego,” “soul,” and “awareness,” are all used interchangeably, as though  they refer to the same process.

Tibetans, the great investigators of the inner universe, delineate between multiple types of consciousness—an acceptable number includes about eight kinds in various Eastern philosophies. For decades, our researchers have bemoaned the woeful ambiguity of the terms “mind” and “consciousness,” and they note its tendency to obfuscate the outcomes of serious neuroscience.2 Western science has yet to offer a standardized definition. It is at this semantic junction that we can most pointedly feel the shocking depths of what little we actually know about the brain. We can place shunts in the middle of someone’s head and we can shock depression out of the skull, but we don’t know the foggiest thing about ordinary mind. Science can tell you the molecular composition of each neurotransmitter suspended in your brain, but it cannot tell you who you are.

Melissa drives me to a large hospital where she’s conducting her third study on the effects of mindfulness-based therapy on brain injury survivors. The first two studies yielded such impressive results in areas such as quality of life and the relief of depression that Melissa received a grant from the Ontario Neurotrauma Foundation to continue her research. Although she can manage only two treatment arms in her current location, she already has thirteen hospitals throughout Canada eager to participate in the study.

The research room contains four rectangular folding tables arranged in a large square, and by the time I arrive eight of the participants are already seated. The participants range from nineteen years of age to sixty, and none of their injuries are immediately evident, though several of them wear head coverings. I look around the room and see no wires or electrodes, no fancy sensors or expensive scanners. There are simply eight humans, each with a damaged brain, and their faces are serious. For them, this could be the most important change in their lives. Melissa introduces me to the group, and I smile at everyone and wave a hand, and beg them to ignore me altogether. I just want to observe, I explain, and they return nods and smiles and are gracious enough to let me stay.

Melissa opens the group with a brief review of the exercises they completed last week, and she calls for completed “homework” assignments to be handed in. As part of their responsibilities, the participants agreed that they would dutifully complete assignments given to them. Without exception, each one turns in a form to Melissa that charts the duration of their meditations and the types of mindfulness exercises they conducted at home. Melissa then announces that she’ll begin with the first mindfulness exercise, and all around the room the participants sit upright on the edges of their chairs, each of them poised but relaxed. I decide to join them in the exercise, so I set down my notes and lay my hands in my lap.

Melissa begins talking in a low, calm tone, and she encourages the group to pay attention to their bodies. She tells us to intentionally relax the tensed areas and to notice any painful areas. She directs us to breathe deeply, and her voice, now slow and patient, continues to massage the room. After several minutes of stillness, she resumes her talk and encourages us to pay attention to our thoughts. It’s okay to have them, she says, but it’s not okay to feel bad about them. Just watch them without judging, she says. I rebel and peek around the room. Everyone’s eyes are lowered, and their faces are slack. They look as if they’ve had a long rest already, and we’ve only just begun.

The script Melissa follows comes from the same series of guided meditations she first encountered at the retreat center. In various ways, they encourage and exercise the different tenets of mindfulness, from patience and trust to acceptance and letting go. Participants are then taught how to apply their new insights toward their personal lives. Melissa’s hope is that everyone in her group is able to find some respite from the many challenges that plague them daily. Once this particular eight-week group has concluded, she’ll continue to follow up the research through questionnaires in order to test the durability of her experiment.

Mindfulness has its effect on us. It takes about forty-five minutes for Melissa to narrate the entire meditation, which is no small achievement for several people in the room who struggle with attention deficits. One woman breaks into tears at the end of the exercise, crying out that she’s not sure if she’s doing it right. A younger man confesses that he almost fell asleep during the talk, which was strange for him, because he has problems sleeping. Another woman tells the group how her anxieties are finally starting to let up, and the group nods, as though this is a common sentiment among them. They continue to process their experience for a few minutes, and then Melissa gives them their assignments for the following week and encourages them to contact her with any questions that arise later. Some of them stop to thank her on the way out, and soon they are all gone. From the stillness I draw a curiosity, and I approach Melissa to ask her how mindfulness works.

“It gives you a new way of looking at life,” she tells me. “This type of therapy teaches you how to stop wanting something different than the life you have, and there is incredible freedom in that. We come to realize we are whole, no matter the deficits, and that there is more right with us than there is wrong. To really embrace that is transformative.”

From Head Cases by Michael Paul Mason, published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. Copyright © 2008 by Michael Paul Mason. All rights reserved. To view or the book, go to www.amazon.com. For more information about author and brain injury case manager Michael Paul Mason, go to www.michaelpaulmason.com.

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