“A person’s identity,” Amin Maalouf wrote as he contemplated what he so poetically called the genes of the soul, “is like a pattern drawn on a tightly stretched parchment. Touch just one part of it, just one allegiance, and the whole person will react, the whole drum will sound.”
February 3, 2017 by kristalklear
The Psychology of What Makes a Great Story
The Psychology of Time and the Paradox of How Impulsivity and Self-Control Mediate Our Capacity for Presence
“Consciousness is tied to corporeality and temporality: I experience myself as existing with a body over time.”
Lizards don’t plan for the future and learning to wait is central to how children develop self-reliance.
31 rolls of film from a WW2 soldier are discovered and processed. And the results are breathtaking. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OBHwNH7iHsE [10:32]
[Note that, like many of these offerings, these come from a producer with a channel or newsletter subscription process you can explore and embrace.]
It was 42 years ago this week when I drove down out of the country district where I held down my first full-time post-college job to a university educational conference/retreat center in a small town near where they start the Boston Marathon. I’d written and produced a college student’s final project in video production for a degree in mass communications in which I enlisted the help of friends, co-workers, and others and spliced together a 30-minute narrative about what a top-quality EMS system was supposed to look like.
It was the era of Vietnam in which Army surgeons received patients who’d suffered severe injury burped out of Medevac choppers in which they’d been intubated, given IV access for drug and fluid and plasma push, and perhaps even placed in inflatable rubber shorts for anti-shock treatment.
In the States — where I’d stayed, having been first introduced to entry-level training as a soldier with hand-to-hand combat skills, some survival training, rudimentary firearms training using an M-1 and blanks, and lots and lots of backwoods through-the-brush-and-swamps marching and bivouacking — I was a probationary firefighter during one of those periods in which I’d dropped out of college, having been dismayed by the quality and nature of teaching, having been told by the dean of the pre-med program that I lacked sufficient excellence in the sciences to even entertain admission let alone complete a program.
As a full-time paid probationary firefighter in a town where there were rarely any fires, I was given an advanced 40-hour course that was a precursor of the curriculum developed and approved by the American Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons which became THE standard of care for that decade. I could not become a paramedic; there were no paramedic programs nor even medical acceptance of their value; first I had to build the system, and find the physicians and others who did.
I was on the cutting edge of the social engineering scalpel that turned an uncoordinated approach that offered virtually no applied skills to one that was eminently capable of saving someone’s life across a wide swath of accident and illness. I flunked ladders but excelled at the space-time response parameters in ambulance work. And now I was going to spend a week in this conference center to become part of the state’s second wave of approved instructors for the mandatory 81-hour course for emergency medical technicians.
I had already become one of the state’s first EMT’s and worked for the premiere private ambulance company in the Western half of the state; every other day, in a 24-on/24-off cycle, I was the operational commander of a fleet of 14 ambulances serving an area that extended from Palmer to Westfield, from Longmeadow to Goshen and Hatfield.
On an evening that featured a soft snowfall, I parked my 1974 white Fiat X1/9 and walked into the reception area on a Sunday night to meet the faculty and students with whom I would spend a week. I was three-quarters of the way through my first assignment in establishing a local council, assisting towns in the acquisition of new ambulances, organizing EMT associations, winning consensus on memorandum of agreements, etc. We would hold our first disaster drill later that spring. But here was an adventure, an opportunity to learn and to meet new people.
As student EMT instructors, we were expected to have already mastered the skills and passed the exams (both paper and skills-based stations where you performed under the watch of stern evaluators). Our instructors were experts in training. And as a student instructor, you were expected to teach a short section of topical material of their choice. There were probably 35 other students enrolled; some of them were nurses.
By Tuesday, we were becoming more at ease with the process and with the instructors. The chief instructor would eventually become my boss when I was cycled into the state office to help him write the state’s first responder regulations and training guidelines and where I helped his boss write the first statewide EMS plan. But on Tuesday we were focused on finding and building confidence in our ability to present ourselves as knowledgeable experts to a room filled with firefighters needing to learn about the emergent presentation of heart attack, diabetic crises, or people who’d fallen off their roof, or who had had a severe car accident. We were called upon to critique our co-students. After class, we were free to go out and find a bar and grille just as long as we were back in time for lights out.
On Wednesday, I got put in a group of folks for a second round of student teaching practice assignments; I had a good deal of confidence. I worked my way through college, having returned with some focus, by working for a private embulance company. My first call brought me to a car accident, two blocks from HQ and six blocks from the hospital, in which the young woman driver suffered a penetrating skull impalement; the quarter vent window pillar had been driven up through the cheek behind the eyeball, the wound oozing grey matter, the pillar de-impaled on recoil. Luckily my task was bandaging, not neurosurgery. Teaching with a set of pre-approved high-quality slides, a curriculum synched to bright orange textbooks, and equipment paid for by major foundations and the state government was, relatively speaking, going to be a piece of cake. The worst thing that could happen was that a student could ask a question I couldn’t answer in a situation in which I could say ‘I’ll have the answer for you next time we meet’.
One student, however, was obviously nervous about public speaking, despite an even greater level experience. She represented the individual on the team who was the recipient of patients wheeled in on stretchers by brash young firefighter types who grabbed clean sheets and went on their way; she became the organizer and first level of hospital-based care, assessing, calming, overseeing her own team. This nurse that day had drawn the long straw and had to present on the complexities of diabetic emergencies like insulin shock and diabetic coma. Her nerves stemmed not from her lack of command of the material but from the typical and human fears of public speaking.
I passed her a note that said she needn’t be nervous .. most students would be focused on her beauty.
The rest, as they say, is history.
We went out together for the first time the next night and parted knowing that “we were an item” that Friday, February 14th, a date we celebrate as our “anniversary”.