House of Light
The human spine is often referred to as a column. Ideally, its appearance from back to front will form a straight line. From an architectural and orthopedic perspective, this linear appearance represents an efficient and balanced relationship to gravity, allowing the head to be stabilized over the foundation of the spine, which is the center of the sacrum.
Viewed from the side, however, the spine has curves. These curves are initially formed in early life as babies learn to crawl and then stand upright. The young spine is maximally responsive to new patterns as it navigates weight-bearing movement in a gravitational world. In mature spines, chiropractic x-ray analysis can measure the angles between the skull and the upper neck and the lower spine with the pelvis. These angles characterize adaptive capacity and structural integrity in the axial skeleton.
All of that being said, I would like to clarify that the spine is not actually a column. I recently climbed the Cape May lighthouse at the southern tip of New Jersey. I carried Violet 194 of the 199 cast iron stairs to the top, spiraling up and down through a pillar of red brick. A lighthouse is a column. It is eminently stable. It is designed to stand tall - indefinitely - and to only stand tall. By contrast, how would you tie a shoe if the 24 movable segments of your spine were organized as a rod? How would a high jumper arc over the bar or a gymnast do a cartwheel? How would a columnar spine handle any amount of horizontal force (e.g. tackles, car accidents)? How supportive is a column when it is parallel to the ground?
Unlike a column, the spine suspends and is suspended. There are complex relationships of connective tissue and curvature. Its shape reflects its function, which is to provide the dynamic support that creates the frame in which all of the other organs can live. The spine can and must be stable yet flexible, straight yet curved, operating as one yet comprised of many.
A paradox is something that invites us out of our usual way of thinking. Just as climbing to the top of a lighthouse offers a new perspective, considering the spine as a paradox can perhaps shine a light on one of the most central aspects of our being.
A House of Light
The Punta Gorda lighthouse was built in 1910 along a stretch of beach that came to be known as the Lost Coast. In the Pacific Northwest, coastal fog and rugged strand made passage by ship dangerous, especially prior to the sonar technologies that only came into wider use in the 1940s.
I had the good fortune the spend a few days backpacking along the Lost Coast and was able to see and climb up the skeleton of this hundred year old structure. The brick, iron, and view are all that remain of a project that was built on an inaccessible coastline. It was placed here not because it was beautiful, not because it was easy, but because it was needed.
Considering the lighthouse this past week and current challenges that face the planet and the life that lives on it, I was reminded of one of BJ Palmer's epigrams:
