Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 7 May 2025, 09:42
Image generated with the assistance of Chat GPT
The
Watchmen at the Gates of Dawn
They
are shaped like almonds. Not nutritious as, but invaluable for cognition and functionality.
I say “they” because we have two. Divided by a great wall, and yet, they share
my thoughts.
Deep
within the human brain lay the amygdalae. Though humble in size, they
carry the weight of our life’s memories as they scan the horizon for anything that
can potentially cause harm. They are the emotional watchman at the gate of our
consciousness, standing guard in the shadows, alert to threat.
But
like any faithful guards, it can be shaped by trauma.
In
my own life, the amygdalae have become attuned—some might say over-attuned—to
danger. A trauma in childhood trained it to keep the gates sealed tight, to be
suspicious of certain tones, glances, and energies. Malice, aggression,
hate—these now trigger deep internal signals: retreat, protect, withdraw.
And I have listened. Not because I lack courage, but because I have learned,
over time, the cost of leaving the gate unguarded to such humans.
The
amygdales don’t use language. They speak through bodily sensations—a racing
heart, a tight chest, the urge to flee. It remembers what the rational brain
forgets. Even when the mind tells us, “You’re safe now,” the watchman may still
see the shadows of the past cast over the present.
This
is the paradox of being human: that our greatest protectors can also become our
prison guards. That what once saved us might now isolate us.
And
yet, the brain is not fixed. The amygdalae, like any seasoned gatekeepers, can
be retrained. It listens—slowly, cautiously—to love, to safety, to consistency.
It can learn to soften its alarms. Through prayer, silence, and the gentle
presence of those who mean us no harm, the watchman may one day look out from
the gate and find the landscape changed. Not a battlefield, but a garden.
I
no longer fault my amygdalae for their vigilance. They have earned their scars.
It remembers what I cannot bear to revisit. But I invite it to look again, to
watch not only for danger—but for goodness too.
Because
being human is not just about surviving the night. It's about learning,
eventually, to trust the dawn.
He who dwells in
the shelter of the Most High
will abide in the
shadow of the Almighty.
I will say to the
LORD, “You are my refuge and my fortress,
The Watchmen at the Gates of Dawn
Image generated with the assistance of Chat GPT
The Watchmen at the Gates of Dawn
They are shaped like almonds. Not nutritious as, but invaluable for cognition and functionality. I say “they” because we have two. Divided by a great wall, and yet, they share my thoughts.
Deep within the human brain lay the amygdalae. Though humble in size, they carry the weight of our life’s memories as they scan the horizon for anything that can potentially cause harm. They are the emotional watchman at the gate of our consciousness, standing guard in the shadows, alert to threat.
But like any faithful guards, it can be shaped by trauma.
In my own life, the amygdalae have become attuned—some might say over-attuned—to danger. A trauma in childhood trained it to keep the gates sealed tight, to be suspicious of certain tones, glances, and energies. Malice, aggression, hate—these now trigger deep internal signals: retreat, protect, withdraw. And I have listened. Not because I lack courage, but because I have learned, over time, the cost of leaving the gate unguarded to such humans.
The amygdales don’t use language. They speak through bodily sensations—a racing heart, a tight chest, the urge to flee. It remembers what the rational brain forgets. Even when the mind tells us, “You’re safe now,” the watchman may still see the shadows of the past cast over the present.
This is the paradox of being human: that our greatest protectors can also become our prison guards. That what once saved us might now isolate us.
And yet, the brain is not fixed. The amygdalae, like any seasoned gatekeepers, can be retrained. It listens—slowly, cautiously—to love, to safety, to consistency. It can learn to soften its alarms. Through prayer, silence, and the gentle presence of those who mean us no harm, the watchman may one day look out from the gate and find the landscape changed. Not a battlefield, but a garden.
I no longer fault my amygdalae for their vigilance. They have earned their scars. It remembers what I cannot bear to revisit. But I invite it to look again, to watch not only for danger—but for goodness too.
Because being human is not just about surviving the night. It's about learning, eventually, to trust the dawn.
He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say to the LORD, “You are my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”
Psalm 91:1-2 BSB