The Biology of Belief - Bruce H. Lipton [7]
To further compound my stress levels, I was in the midst of an emotionally draining and economically devastating divorce. My financial resources were rapidly depleted as I tried to feed and clothe my new dependents, the judicial system. Economically challenged and homeless, I found myself living pretty much out of a suitcase in a most abysmal “garden” apartment complex. Most of my neighbors were hoping to “upgrade” their living standards by seeking accommodations in trailer parks. I was particularly scared of my next-door neighbors. My apartment was broken into, and my new stereo system was stolen in my first week of residence. A week later, six-foot tall, three-foot wide Bubba knocked on my door. Holding a quart of beer in one hand and picking his teeth with a ten-penny nail held in the other, Bubba wanted to know if I had the directions for the tape deck.
The nadir was the day I threw the phone through the glass door of my office, shattering the “Bruce H. Lipton, Ph.D. Associate Professor of Anatomy, U.W. School of Medicine” sign, all the while screaming, “Get me out of here!” My meltdown was precipitated by a phone call from a banker, who politely but firmly told me he couldn’t approve my mortgage application. It was like the scene from Terms of Endearment when Debra Winger aptly responds to her husband’s hopes for tenure: “We don’t have enough money to pay the bills now. All tenure means is we won’t have enough money forever!”
The Magic of Cells—Déjà Vu
Luckily, I found an escape in the form of a short-term sabbatical at a medical school in the Caribbean. I knew all my problems would not disappear there, but as the jet broke through the gray cloud cover above Chicago, it felt that way. I bit the inside of my cheek to prevent the smile on my face from evolving into audible laughter. I felt as joyful as my seven-year-old self, first discovering my life’s passion, the magic of cells.
My mood lifted even more on the six-passenger commuter plane that took me to Montserrat, a mere four-by-twelve-mile dot in the Caribbean Sea. If there ever was a Garden of Eden, it probably would have resembled my new island home, erupting out of the sparkling aquamarine sea like a giant multifaceted emerald. When we landed, the gardenia-laced balmy breezes that swept the airport’s tarmac were intoxicating.
The native custom was to dedicate the sunset period as a time of quiet contemplation, a custom I readily adopted. As each day wound down, I looked forward to the heavenly light show. My house, situated on a cliff fifty feet above the ocean, faced due west. A winding path through a tree-covered fern grotto led me down to the water. At the bottom of the grotto, an opening through a wall of jasmine bushes revealed a secluded beach, where I enhanced the sunset ritual by washing away the day with a few “laps” in the warm, gin-clear water. After my swim, I would mold the beach sand into a comfortable recliner, sit back, and watch the sun set slowly into the sea.
On that remote island, I was out of the rat race and free to see the world without the blinders of civilization’s dogmatic beliefs. At first my mind was constantly reviewing and critiquing the debacle that was my life. But soon my mental Siskel and Ebert ceased their thumbs up/thumbs down review of my forty years. I began to re-experience what it was like to live in the moment and for the moment. To became reacquainted with sensations last experienced as a carefree child. To again feel the pleasure of being alive.
I became more human and more humane while living in that island paradise. I also became a better cell biologist. Almost all of my formal scientific training was in sterile, lifeless classrooms, lecture halls, and laboratories. However, once I was immersed in the Caribbean’s rich ecosystem, I began to appreciate biology as a living, breathing, integrated system rather than a collection of individual species sharing