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What the heart keeps · insyed; cozy psychology

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  You're now listening to Insyed. In this podcast,
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  I slow down and take you on a reflective journey
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  to find the psychology in everyday, ordinary
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  moments. Each episode is also published as an
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  essay on Substack, where you'll find the artwork
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  that goes with it, and links to the research
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  behind it. So get comfortable, and let's take
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  a peek insyed. What the heart keeps. You don't
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  need to understand a moment to keep it. I was
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  at home scrolling through social media and I
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  came across a video I normally wouldn't pay too
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  much mind to. A chameleon, resting on its side
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  on the floor of a lush rainforest, breathing
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  its last breath. With a cover of radio heads,
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  no surprises, playing in the background, the
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  small reptile sat on a pile of leaves and began
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  bursting with color. So many beautiful shades
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  of gentle hues, all in a final farewell to life.
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  When the little video progress bar concluded
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  and the music disappeared, Time moved as if it
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  was shined on with a spotlight. Moments felt
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  like minutes, and it made me wonder what exactly
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  four years of studying psychology had actually
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  given me. I was never taught what caused anxiety,
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  why we laugh as a coping mechanism, and how the
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  heart has its own neurons. But that was months
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  ago. A few weeks later, I was having lunch with
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  my friends, sharing delicious plates of homemade
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  food. when one of us shared that he was randomly
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  selected by the university to visit their mental
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  well -being services. This wasn't a referral
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  for any pre -existing condition, so he told us
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  that they suggested he try journaling, which
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  would at least help him reflect and face the
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  everyday struggles of being a student so far
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  away from a place he called home for most of
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  his entire life. With an uncertain tone, he told
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  us that he wasn't sure if he would even want
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  to try because You didn't know what to write,
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  or even how to. But I told them, not knowing
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  how is the point. There's no universal template.
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  Journaling isn't something you make to be polished
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  or presented after the fact, but is instead something
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  that you speak from in your heart. The electricity
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  that flows through the spiderweb of neurons in
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  your brain is, figuratively speaking, how your
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  body journals. Everything the human experience
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  has to offer, and then some more. all gets coded
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  and written in the diary that is our memory,
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  sometimes forever. But this electric chemistry
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  goes beyond our brains, way further than I had
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  ever thought. Now with my final assignment complete,
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  it was time I leave my accommodation and the
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  place I temporarily called home and move back
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  to the home I once grew up in. But as I was dragging
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  my luggage across uneven pavement, My friend
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  and I shared a laugh at how it was far too heavy
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  for one person, half joking about whether I'm
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  even allowed to board the plane home as he himself
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  was hauling another suitcase, which was also
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  mine and also far too heavy. But on the way to
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  the train station, we'd have to pass by this
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  shop. I'd normally walk by this store almost
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  every single day without much thought. I don't
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  really remember anything about that store. I've
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  never gone in. I don't even know what they sell.
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  It might have been a record store or a cafe.
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  I don't even remember if they opened at 6. But
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  on that afternoon, I remember looking up for
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  a moment and seeing something floating above
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  me, playfully dancing around me. Bubbles. Dozens
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  of them. Drifting through the air and onto the
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  street I'd always walk on but never once look
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  up from. At first, I thought my brain had completely
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  burnt out from carrying such heavy luggage. But
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  someone on the second floor of that store was
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  blowing bubbles out their window. I didn't realize
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  it then, but I stopped for a moment to first
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  catch my breath, but then to also write it down
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  on my phone. Not knowing why nor what I'd do
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  with it later, which was, I think, the whole
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  point. Somewhere between the pain of pushing
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  luggage that weighed about the same as two microwave
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  ovens and the gentleness of stray bubbles refracting
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  and stretching sunlight. something within my
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  chest, within my heart, had already decided this
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  afternoon mattered long before my brain thought
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  about why. Tens of thousands of neurons creating
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  a judgment that the rest of the body hasn't even
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  caught up with yet. Without permission or explanation,
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  these signals are a large part of why one ordinary
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  afternoon gets written down in our internal diary
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  while a hundred others don't. I didn't remember
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  the bubbles because I understood them. I remember
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  them because something in me had already decided,
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  before I had a single word for it, that it mattered.
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  Just like the chameleon whose body now rests
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  on the forest floor, giving back the atoms it
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  borrowed to the ecosystem it once needed to survive,
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  we don't change colors to teach anyone anything.
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  We create a supernova of life because it's what
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  we do best. We are a mosaic of everything we
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  have ever loved, millions of different pieces
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  up close. All together, writing one scripture.
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  We find these moments the same way bubbles catch
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  light. Unpolished, fragile, and fleeting. It's
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  always been this way. For those who were there
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  at the beginning, and even those who will be
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  there at the end. Now as I write this at my desk,
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  my next moment will arrive soon. With the sun
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  falling under the blanket of the horizon, I understand
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  that we are incapable of remembering without
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  reminiscing. For our hearts and minds are eternally
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  bonded through electricity. So reminisce, hold
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  your heart bare, and write down whatever it chooses
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  to speak. You might not get it yet, but you will.
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  Thanks for keeping me company. I'd love to know
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  if any of this felt familiar, so feel free to
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  leave a comment on Substack. That's also where
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  you'll find art and sources for this episode.
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  Until then, remember that there's always more,
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  Insyed.