Information, and fathoming stress

To a certain extent anyway.
The information part of this post refers to Ted Talks.

                                              
I'd forgotten about these marvels until friend Kim reminded me via a Facebook link to one such mini-lecture on the cheering subject of Hitler.
So, the last few days during any fairly mindless activity: washing up, going through bills, etc, I've loaded up a Ted Talk and have learned and/or certainly deepened any previous knowledge I had acquired on a variety of subjects: why sugar is so bad for us, sleep behaviour, how the brain synthesises happiness, neurosurgical implants to combat depression, environment issues . . . so many talks, so many subjects.
The one I was listening to this morning while clearing up the kitchen was about Stress - not avoiding it as such, more how to look at it. Rather than assuming stress is totally a bad thing, the speaker (who was an eminent psychologist in this field) was describing what happens in our bodies if we learn to accept stress and know that we are in fact equipped to deal with it.
So, rather than panicking and feeling we are about to do damage to ourselves during a stressful situation, we should understand that our heart is beating harder for a reason; breathing faster, important, as we are sending more oxygen to the brain in order to rise to whatever the challenge is. Err . . . probably not so well explained (but then I'm not an eminent scientist, more of a muddled muser). Anyway, I thought I'd try out these theories this morning on a dog walk - often fairly stressful as at the sight of even a pathetically small squirrel will send the hounds into a frenzy with me desperately hanging on to their leads.
We went 'up the hill' and as usual one of the local cats was sitting in the middle of the lane, smirking at our approach. The dogs shriek-barked, gyrated, pulled and did all the usual stuff they do and the cat continued sitting and smirking.
Normally at this point I will swear a lot, get very cross and become anxious about what might happen to my back, arms, etc, and what might happen if the dogs slipped their collars. This time I thought about dog-stress. These dogs have been bred to chase and probably maul furry creatures; their bodies were reacting as they should, I was reacting to their stress and that was okay. I could deal with it and I wouldn't die (hopefully).
I let them shout a lot, and studied the morning's spectacular clouds rather than swearing and when the cat finally went off to find something to be stressed about itself, we peacefully continued the walk.
I'm sure I'll forget these rather Zen thoughts when a particularly appalling bank statement arrives or whatever but . . . maybe not.
Right; in-tray and a lecture on Space, I think.

                                                 

Hidden memories

As I have no doubt gone about many a time on this blog - memory is an extraordinary thing, in particular, why and how certain moments in life are preserved.

Mark recently borrowed the entire works of Pink Floyd (box set the size of . . . well, a small shoe box) from the music library. I am not au fait with the earlier works apart from a rather super-ly titled song, 'Careful with that Axe Eugene' that featured on an album Mum acquired at some point called Relics. But of course I am very familiar with all the later stuff that was so commercially successful - Animals, Wish You were Here, and of course Dark Side of the Moon.
It was a joy to hear this re-mastered version: somewhat different to my old creaky, ash-stained vinyl edition.
Going back to the memory thing . . . On hearing this part of the album, I suddenly had a vivid recollection of sitting with Mum (think I would have been about twelve) in some velvet-clad basement in the centre of London listening to this track as it zoomed in and out of four speakers, and a be-suited man leapt about telling her about the benefits of Quadrophonic Sound. Something, that Mark pointed out when I told him of this recollection, in fact lasted for a squintesimal amount of time once people realised you had to sit stock still in the middle of the room rather than doing the washing up.
The really odd thing is why we were there. Mum was poverty struck enough that buying a pot of marmite was a very serious consideration.
Anyway, I was left with a desire to go and buy the album and play it to death on our very old and crap record player - which I/we did.
Well worth a re-listen if you haven't heard it for years, especially for all the marvellously morose lines such as 'Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way' or 'ten years have got behind you; no-one told you when to run'.