Chapter 1: A Walk Through Memory

As I strolled down the long, brightly lit corridor, the sounds echoed around me. The glaring lights illuminated the handrails and the pristine, light-speckled industrial tiles that sparkled like ice. I had just concluded a delightful visit with my grandfather, who was approaching ninety and had been living independently for about five years. As time passes, it is natural for the body to begin to decline—his eyesight, hearing, joints, and even his grasp on social norms seemed to fade. Perhaps, in his old age, he simply chose not to care anymore. Regardless of the reasons, our visits were always enjoyable, and seeing familiar faces brought me solace. If someone was absent from their usual spot, a slight sadness would wash over me, yet an underlying calmness remained. I understand that our existence on this earth is transient, yet the connections we forge, even with mere acquaintances, shape who we become. This brings us to the essence of the right brain.

While I may not be a neuroscientist, I possess a brain, and as the years pass, I increasingly grasp the intricate connections between the brain, the soul, and the essence of our being. If we strip away achievements, failures, and our relationships with others, we begin to unveil our core selves, often reflecting the actions we've taken with our hands.

Let's confront a disheartening reality early on: Are we witnessing medical facilities and nursing homes filled with individuals, seated in chairs, staring blankly at their phones or pretending to engage with them? I sincerely hope not. Imagine being confined to a wheelchair or lying in bed, with our lives reduced to the motion of scrolling through an imaginary screen in our laps. I, too, am guilty of this. Are those really the best ways we spend our days? How do our brains react on imaging scans after an hour of mindless scrolling compared to the imprint left when we immerse ourselves in creative endeavors? I don’t need to conduct a lengthy cross-cultural study to recognize the disparity; a simple walk through a nursing home is enough.

Mary, for instance, was stationed in her wheelchair halfway down the hallway, next to a blank wall and a handrail. She was beaming and softly humming a sweet tune as I approached. Although her back was turned, her joy radiated as she gazed at the light before turning to me when I reached her. “Hi Miss Mary, how are you today?” I asked. She swayed gently in her chair, continuing to smile and sing. Reaching her right hand toward her left elbow, she pretended to pull back an imaginary blanket, saying, “See my baby girl?” My heart swelled at her words. I nodded and gently touched her shoulder, replying, “She is beautiful, Miss Mary. What is her name?” After rocking her a few more times, she smiled broadly and replied, “Her name is Sarah.” She then turned back toward the wall, humming what sounded like “You are my sunshine,” and resumed her day.

In that moment, she held onto the sensation that connected her hands to her heart, the nurturing act of caring for Sarah. I briefly wondered if Sarah was a daughter she had raised, one she had lost, or perhaps a child she never had. Whatever the truth, Miss Mary was blissfully unaware of the distinction between her reality and what her mind and body perceived as real. That was what provided her comfort.

As I approached the end of the corridor, I knew I was close to re-entering the world outside, where my life awaited. But first, I passed Mr. James's room. It was vibrant and full of life—evidence of regular visits from family members. His space was adorned with plants, photographs, and keepsakes that held deep meaning for him. A triangular wooden box displayed an American flag, meticulously folded, while a bulletin board showcased a graded spelling test decorated with stars and stickers, alongside a picture of a cheerful young boy holding a puppy. I knew what Mr. James would be engaged in; he was always farming when I walked past.

His son had crafted a small wooden frame, about three inches deep, resting on a table that allowed his wheelchair to slide underneath. Inside this frame, he tended to a miniature farm almost every day. Sporting a cap tilted to the side, he skillfully navigated the painted landscape within the frame. Crops were planted, toy tractors dotted the barn area next to a silo, and the barn lot was filled with cows and their calves, along with a cat perched atop a straw bale in the loft. Each morning, Mr. James would wake, enjoy a hearty breakfast delivered to his room, and then make his way to his farm to start the day’s work. His family was thoughtful enough to change the decorations according to the seasons, bringing miniature pumpkins in the fall and plastic corn and tomatoes in summer. They even provided him with tiny tools to tend to his farm, allowing him to maintain the spirit of his labor.

As I stepped out into the sunlight, I began to ponder: What will my life's work with my hands be? I hope it doesn't involve endlessly typing on a keyboard, scrolling through a phone or tablet, or counting money. Instead, I wish for my life's work to encompass creating birthday cakes, weeding my flower bed, arranging photographs in an album, or shaping a piece of clay into a pottery bowl to gift someone for Christmas. And if luck and blessings come my way, I will sing “You are my sunshine” to one of my dear children as I rock them to sleep in the warm light.

Reflecting on how our brains process creativity and emotion, this video discusses the myth of left-brained versus right-brained thinking, emphasizing that we all utilize both hemispheres in various ways.

This video contrasts the roles of the left and right brains, exploring how each hemisphere contributes to our thoughts, emotions, and creativity, highlighting the importance of engaging both sides.