It’s been a hot and dry summer. We live in a heavily forested area, and the wildfire danger has been at all-time highs. In one weekend, at least six big fires erupted in places we knew and loved. My anxiety about our home was also at an all-time high.
The other day, I was out in the yard, cutting weeds and clearing the pine needles and other flammable materials from around the house, trying to do all the things they say you should do to create what they call defensible space. As I bent down to pull out a huge thistle, I looked at the little hole where I had planted some iris bulbs, expecting to see the shriveled blob of white poking out of the brown dirt. I had been watering it all spring and summer, and unlike the others I planted, this one didn’t take. I was bummed. My dad and I had dug up a bucketful of bulbs last fall, and I hauled them from Iowa across the plains, hoping to create my own iris garden. As I dejectedly tugged at the thistle, I noticed a tiny shoot of green poking out from the dried bulb. I looked closer, and sure enough, my little iris was finally coming to life. I smiled and took a little breath in. It was as if the little shoot was reminding me, don’t worry, life keeps sprouting.
I’m a sucker for signs—those little moments that whisper in my ear a little reminder to pause and feel the beauty and life around me. It can be the tiny alpine daisy at 12,000 feet, somehow surviving in the harsh tundra. Or the blue flash of a Steller’s jay gliding across the yard. I remember the hope I felt when my rose bush bloomed in the weeks after my cancer diagnosis.
I believe these tiny moments make a difference, or I wouldn’t even remember them. They are like little signs of hope. Enough of a break from my anxiety to allow me to see beyond it for a few seconds or a few minutes and keep going. Like a little booster shot of calm.
And it’s not just in my head.
I’m fascinated by the way our brains and nervous systems work—it is amazing. The way we can react in an instant to, say, a hot oven, or the other day I nearly slammed my finger in the car door, but somehow yanked it out of the way at the last second. Our survival instinct is incredible.
But my favorite thing is the notion that little moments of calm can make a difference in our overall sense of well-being. We do not need to be calm and regulated all the time. That is impossible. We just need to be regulated ENOUGH. We just need enough of an anchor to keep us from getting stuck in survival mode or shutting down.
I’ve heard Deb Dana speak on this topic numerous times. She is an expert on our nervous system, and she teaches a concept called Glimmers. Glimmers are small moments that bring you joy, comfort, make you smile, or just bring you a sense of calm. It can be a bird that just landed outside your window, or the smell of coffee in the morning, or a favorite book or song. It’s the little things that can help us anchor even when the world around us feels like a whirling dervish of madness.
She is quick to point out that it is not about glossing over the bad or tough times, but about finding those moments that, even in the darkest days, can be a flash of light. They won’t take away the suffering or pain or fix whatever is bothering you, but they offer a brief respite. And that is in itself beneficial.
The iris shoot did not eliminate my anxiety about wildfires, just as the rose bush did not change the facts of my illness, but they were tiny flickers of light in what felt like a sea of darkness. It was as if the flowers were telling me – You can do this. You’ll get through this.
How many of you have experienced something similar? You see or hear something, and it just makes you smile or remember something or someone special.
I thought it was just me and my sappy search for hope and signs of life, but it turns out, our nervous systems need these little signs. Our brains like to glom onto the negative, and by noticing the little glimmers and soaking in their bits of joy, it helps your brain shift from fight or flight to calm and regulated. And that is the sign of a healthy nervous system. One that can flow between states and not get stuck.
I love when I discover a scientific reason to support my idiosyncrasies! Maybe I’m not as crazy as I wonder I am? And these are the little tidbits that I find so enlightening and want to share.
I am not the only one with an active nervous system. We all worry, get stressed, and can get overtaken by grief and sadness. But knowing these simple little things really do matter – physiologically – seems important to understand. If we can learn to look for and notice the small things, and in doing so, better handle the big things…well, sign me up.
