S I g n a l T r a n s d u c t I o n

In the laboratory of my mind, I’ve been researching communication. Internal, external…anthropologist Clifford Geertz says culture itself is comprised of the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. Being sick and traveling to Cartagena gave me insights on both these loops.

My microbiology professor said that if she had to choose one phrase or process to describe the secret of life and the universe, it would be “signal transduction”. In the sciences, that means cells receive signals and translate them into another kind of signal – which usually results in a cascade of events that sets off another signal, and the beat goes on. It’s a means for any organism, no matter how small, to interact with its environment. But even one single cell is an environment in its own right, and by extrapolation, each human body is a universe of environments that requires the stalwart transduction of signals to maintain homeostatic balance.

Illness is an upset of that balance, and it’s therefore a really good place from which to observe how the internal dialogue changes, both in nature and in tone. My sore throat and unquenchable thirst and phlegm-y head and dry cough nagged me only a little at first; they turned up the volume until it dawned on me that in fact I was sick; I started taking herbal medicine, resting more, getting more acupuncture, drinking twice as much water. I saw that those were important signals to send my body: I would give it all of the tools at my disposal to support its amelioration. From the grander interventions to the subtler choices, I was saying This is the direction I want to go in… and hoping it was a quick ride.

My mind’s part in the “Are we there yet?” script started booming in bold: Have we reached our goal? I almost never get sick. Aren’t I supposed to heal quickly? I’m scared I won’t get better for a long time. The stories we tell ourselves… what reality was I creating, or not creating, through that conversation? Or better yet, how did those messages jive with the ones I was sending myself through my actions? Did the crossing of signals create static, or harmony? Was one louder and therefore more powerful than the other?

Physicist Fritjof Capra trumpets the Santiago theory : that communication isn’t a transmission of information, but instead a coordination of behavior through mutual structural coupling. The theory proposes that that coordination isn’t determined by meaning but by the dynamics of the dialogue, be it between birds, pets and their owners, or humans. And that’s what makes me wonder what happens between “Rest a while” and “Hurry up and get better”. Is that an effective way of coordinating behavior between my 75 trillion cells? What is the true goal?

No more pertinent question to ask when I’m attempting to communicate in Spanish - a language I started in college, assumed I spoke because I got A’s, and promptly handed my ass to me on a platter when I arrived in Cuba and faced the reality of uncontrolled interaction. Chaos. I spent seven months on that island, not giving equal weight to the complicated conversations I could have by the time I went home, but clinging morosely to the story line that I had failed: I had not realized my potential to be fluent, and most things that came out of my mouth weren’t good enough.

So the first night I arrive Cartagena, my husband arranges dinner with one of his students. The restaurant is strange and cold, but the people are bright and funny and laid back. At first, I cruise along and my short, well-worn sentences sound good… and then when I have to really explain something or tell a story, I devolve. My mind searches the database of what I can’t say. This does not strike me as an encouraging developmental utensil. It’s like being tasked to feed a bumping crowd of starving villagers, looking in the storeroom and reporting: Okay, we don’t have any steak. We also don’t have milk… hell, we don’t even have rice. Lemme see if I can find a bag of saltines…

The faucet turns decisively to the right, the flow freezes, and I stutter until I just stop. Later, when I’m more relaxed, I’ll replay the conversation and I’ll think of three different ways I could have said _______ with my nascent stock of goodies. It’s not Voltaire, but it would work. And that begs more questions: What signals am I sending when I shut down? To whom? How are they received? Does it matter?

At least I can answer the latter inquiry with a resounding yes: it matters if the goal is connection. The true meaning of that word goes beyond a simple registering of signals from sender to receiver. I believe it means that the energy between the two parties flows together in harmony. Harmony, not in a naïve or idyllic sense; think of it in a musical sense. You don’t have to be able to sing it to hear it: discord is palpable. Harmony is sweet. And it’s the perfect example because it doesn’t imply the notes coming together are the same, or even that the most experienced musicians can always predict what it’ll sound like. It might require Capra’s beloved coupling. But that seems right. Fun, even. A millisecond of that is worth a lifetime of noise.