Learning to read and write your Cells and DNA to heal thyself

How do the trillions of cells that make up your body stay in touch? Apparently The same way we used to: 

sending notes through the post.

Learning how to read and write “letters” and post them through our intra-body postal system running through our blood, could give us early warning about cancer and Alzheimer’s and potentially finding a cure!!

What we need to do is to work out how to read the mail,  says University of Sydney associate professor Wojciech Chrzanowski, and understand our bodies at a cellular level.

This is how the Prof says it works :- 

All the cells in our body are constantly producing tiny bubbles which the body (or something) fills with a cocktail of DNA and other molecules and are sent into the bloodstream. 

These cells are called extracellular vesicles 

These Cells have special receptors to read the data in the bubbles. The data lets cells send messages to each other. 

Those messages can tell our body what to do.

Professor Chrzanowski is particularly interested in the Stem cells that heal damaged tissue – without physically touching the damage. 

He theorises they are sending out tiny bubbles filled with DNA. When the damaged cell receives the bubble, it follows the DNA instructions and heals itself.

Professor Chrzanowski and teams at the CSIRO are trying to decipher and potentially write or code those messages. 

Imagining being able to inject these regenerating cells into patients with cancer or autoimmune conditions.

It’s like force-feeding the body a message that says: heal thyself.

Want to win a Nobel prize? 

All we need to do is work out how to read the mail.

“You could envisage this cellular system as a post office system – a letter is sent from one cell to another. And the letters contain programs for the cells to run,” says University of Sydney associate professor Wojciech Chrzanowski.

We still don’t quite know how the system works – “If we can figure that out, we’ll probably win a Nobel, to be honest,” says Professor Chrzanowski – but here’s how the leading theory goes

HOw we are trying to solve the puzzle 

This is how Professor Chrzanowski and doctoral candidate Sally Yunsun Kimthey have been learning to read these letters .....

The pair warmed a group of extracellular vesicles with a laser, and then measured their vibrations using a tiny needle about 100,000 times thinner than a human hair.

Hot molecules vibrate at different rates depending on what they are made of. By measuring the vibration, the team could tell exactly what was in each bubble.

It was like reading someone else’s mail without ever opening it.

“This is going to be a pretty important development,” says Professor Andrew Hill, president of the International Society for Extracellular Vesicles.

Long lost Cuzzin

From my friend Paul Mirbach (PEM)

I was a young boy in Bulawayo, when a man walked into my father's photographic shop. He asked for Boris Mirbach, my grandfather, who had died a few months previously. My father introduced himself and told the man that my grandfather had passed - and the man burst into tears. 

His name was Irving. He walked with a limp. Irving was a few years older than my father and as it turned out, my father's second cousin, the son of one of my grandfather's sisters, who had remained in Kovno, Lithuania.

One day, while sipping his gin in my father's study, he told me his story. They lived in a two storey house in Kovno, when one day the SS came to the street and banged on the door, until they broke it down. He was in the attic, playing. While they were rounding up all the Jews in the street, he opened the attic window and crept out onto the roof, to the back of the house, and jumped. He broke his leg in the fall, but he managed to drag himself away and finally made his way to a forest.

After the War, he made his way to America, believing that his entire family had perished in the Holocaust. He started a successful clothing business, and one day once he had made enough money, he decided to travel the world, to look for survivors of his family. He found none, until he came to Rhodesia, following a lead he had picked up somewhere. 

My father was the first family he had seen in in thirty years! From his visit, he learned that my late grandfather had a sister who survived Auschwitz, who lived in New York - where he lived, and he didn't even know. Her name was Sonia.

I will never forget that story. I will also never forget what he said afterwards. He said to me, sipping his drink, "Paul, the thing about gin is you never know when you're drunk, until it creeps up behind you and knocks on your door".

Dedicated to Irving and all families who found long lost relatives, years after being torn apart in the Holocaust.

The Pesach story according to Johnny

Nine-year-old Joey finished Hebrew school and hopped into his mom's car for the drive home. "What did you learn today?" she asked. 

"Well, Mom, our teacher told us how G‑d sent Moses behind enemy lines on a rescue mission to lead the Israelites out of Egypt. When he got to the Red Sea, he had his engineers build a pontoon bridge and all the people walked across safely. Then he used his walkie-talkie to radio headquarters for reinforcements. They sent bombers to blow up the bridge and all the Israelites were saved." 

"Now, Joey, is that really what your teacher taught you?" His mother asked.

"Well, no, Mom. But if I told it the way the teacher did, you'd never believe it

Man goes to a dentist

Man and wife came rushing in to the dentist..... 

he said that he needed a tooth extracted urgently...!!! 

Man said to hurry as he’s got a golf game at 10 and didn’t want to wait for the anaesthetic to come into effect - no gas, no Novocain  - no time..... just extract in the quickest possible time. 

Dentist said - it will be really painful .... 

Man said no problem ... it’s an important game! 

Dentist said - “you’re a man with balls .... Show me the tooth that needs to be extracted....”

Man says .... “Honey, show the dentist what tooth you want extracted “ 

The talking duck

A duck walks into a pub and and asks for  a pint of beer and a ham sandwich.
 
The barman looks at him and says, "Hang on! You're a duck."
  
"I see your eyes are working," replies the duck.
  
"And you can talk!" Exclaims the barman.
  
"I see your ears are working, too," Says the duck. 

"Now if you don't mind, can I have my beer and my sandwich please?"
  
"Certainly, sorry about that," Says the barman as he pulls the duck's pint.

"It's just we don't get many ducks in this pub.. What are you doing round this way?"
 
"I'm working on the building site across the road," Explains the duck. 

"I'm a plasterer."
  
The flabbergasted barman cannot believe the duck and wants to learn more, but takes the hint when the duck pulls out a newspaper from his bag and proceeds to read it.
  
So, the duck reads his paper, drinks his beer, eats his sandwich, bids the barman good day and leaves.
  
The same thing happens for two weeks.
 
Then one day the circus comes to town.
  
The ringmaster comes into the pub for a pint and the barman says to him

"You're with the circus, aren't you? Well, I know this duck that could be just brilliant in your circus. He talks, drinks beer, eats sandwiches, reads the newspaper and everything!"
  
"Sounds marvellous,"says the ringmaster, handing over his business card. 

"Get him to give me a call."
  
So the next day when the duck comes into the pub the barman says, "Hey Mr. Duck, I reckon I can line you up with a top job, paying really good money."
  
"I'm always looking for the next job," Says the duck.

"Where is it?"
 
"At the circus," Says the barman.
  
"The circus?" Repeats the duck.
  
"That's right," Replies the barman.
  
"The circus?" The duck asks again.

“With the big tent?" "Yeah," the barman replies.
  
"With all the animals who live in cages, and performers who live in caravans?" says the duck.
  
"Of course," the barman replies.
  
"And the tent has canvas sides and a big canvas roof with a hole in the middle?" persists the duck.
  
"That's right!" says the barman.
 
The duck shakes his head in amazement, and says ..... ........

 

"What the f**k would they want with a plasterer??!"

105 year we ltd with sage advice

Bulawayo Musings - Aleh Uv’neh

PAUL MIRBACH

PEM captures the essence of growing up in Bulawayo and Habonim

Republished courtesy of The Rome’s Of Israel 

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/aleh-uvneh/#.Wpm88l-cuhE.facebook

Paul, Arik and I left Bulawayo at 15 (overnight) for Capetown in 1976 - after a law was made forcing boys to sign up for the army at 16.

What does a young boy living in a small town in Southern Africa do on a lazy Sunday morning in the late 1960’s? He gets dressed up in a blue shirt, khaki shorts, a blue and white scarf rolled up with a leather toggle and goes off to the shul complex to be with other young Jewish boys. That was Habonim in Bulawayo, when I was ten. Little was I to know that from those Sunday morning meetings this youth movement would have such a profound influence on my life.

My elder brother, Nick, started going a couple of years before me, and I would remember watching in fascination as he would get dressed in the uniform. I could not imagine what he did there “at Habonim” but it always intrigued me. What I could not understand, although at the time I couldn’t put it into words, was why after an entire week wearing school uniform, would you want to also wear a uniform on a Sunday, your day off? But, he seemed to do it without objection, and that was enough for me to want to do it as well. So, it was with barely concealed excitement that I waited to go to my first meeting.

I loved it. Our madrichim were young and friendly and most of my friends from school were there. It was a fun mixture of learning about knots and learning about Israel, but mostly it was the social group that I liked. They tried to teach us Hatikva. I got the tune pretty quick but the words were a mystery. I found myself mimicking sounds which I later learned was gibberish, but nobody corrected me. A couple of years later, I got the words right, but the meaning of the lyrics continued to evade me. What I do remember, was that we would stand in a triangle at the end of every meeting and our madrich would say, “Aleh uvneh” and we would shout back “Aloh Na’ale”. I thought it was a kind of a password, and I felt a sort of pride to be a part of it. As we progressed in years, we started talking about Judaism and Israel more and did less “stuff”, but by that time, I was hooked. That was also where I met my first Israeli. He was a Shaliach. He spoke funny, but everyone looked up to him with a kind of awe, so I did too.

The highlight, every year, was “Big Camp” – three weeks spent by the sea, with Habonim members from all over South Africa. Imagine a thousand young Jewish teenagers gathered together to build a mini society for three weeks. Just thinking about it again and I feel a twinge of nostalgia. In all, I went to nine camps. Each one more addictive than the last. For those of us living in Rhodesia, the two day train ride down to the Cape was just as much fun as the camp itself. We would pile into the compartments together and pass the time singing songs and playing cards, getting to know new faces, who would later become dear friends. The guitar players ruled the roost and Nick, my talented brother and his friends, held court in his compartment. The corridor was jammed with people, pushing to get closer to the music. We would listen and join in the chorus, while we rocked to the clicketty clack of the wheels on the tracks. I remember standing in the corridor with barely any place to move while they played “Locomotive breath”, and thinking how appropriate as we sang along, feeling the vibrations below us and watched the plumes of smoke in the air. The sense of anticlimax when we pulled into the station, was quickly overcome by the excitement to get to the campsite and reunite with friends whom we had not seen for an entire year. Oh, how I miss those moments of anticipation and reunion.

I had my first crush on a madricha at Machaneh. Her name was Joanne and I was inafatuated with her. Whenever we broke off into discussion groups, I would feel a pang of disappointment when I was allocated to another group. But, when I was lucky enough to be in her “sicha”, most of the time I found myself stealing glances at her, marveling at how she sat, her exquisite posture and the way she led the discussion. I think it was her presence which made me take an interest in the subject of discussion, just to impress her. At least, that was how it started.

How can I describe the experiences at Machaneh adequately? The feeling of togetherness and friendship was intoxicating. “The group” took on a life of its own and I yearned to be a part of it. As we grew older, the discussions became more serious as we delved deeper into issues of Zionism and social justice, Socialism and Judaism. It was a living, thriving educational experience which we went through together, forming bonds to the movement, its ideology and each other, into a oneness that for three weeks became my entire universe. It usually took me about a week to recover after machaneh. I pined and yearned for that feeling of us all together. I missed friends and the atmosphere terribly. I would spend hours lying on my bed, remembering people and experiences with a nostalgia so intense, that sometimes tears welled up in my eyes. I resolved to go to the next one almost immediately after the last one finished.

My relationship with Habonim deepened dramatically when I was sixteen. As the situation in Rhodesia went from bad to dire, the Rhodesian government passed a law requiring all young men aged sixteen to register for the army. Acutely aware of the inevitable outcome of the war, and the impossible situation of serving in an army fighting against a cause which I believed was right, while at the same time having to deal with terrible antisemitism among my “comrades”, I grabbed at the opportunity to leave Rhodesia to finish my studies in Cape Town. The thing about small town life for one growing up there, is that the sense of security, of everyone knowing everyone keeps you blissfully naïve. Suddenly I found myself left to my own devices in a big city, not knowing anyone and with no one to rely on emotionally. Except for Habonim. Habonim was my safety net. It became my support system. I cannot exaggerate the role the movement had in the development of my character in those initial two years away and how it enveloped me in a cocoon of warmth and security. I’m not even sure that people knew that they did that, and that is what is so special about that. The Shlichim in Cape Town, the amazing Yossi Lior and Michael Lanir became sort of surrogate parents. Whenever I needed someone to talk to, they listened. When I needed advice, they gave it. Their help and guidance helped me through so many periods of despair and self-doubt that people grappling with their self-confidence and identity go through. I owe them so much. While at University, and as a madrich myself, I delved deeper into its ideology and became committed to “the cause”. From about thirteen I knew I wanted to live in Israel, but Habonim gave me purpose and direction.

Perhaps the most valuable attribute that Habonim gave me however, was that it taught me to think critically and not to be afraid to think differently to others. For example, at a meeting one Friday night, a member of the leadership, whose opinion was well respected, equated making Aliya to anywhere other than to kibbutz as “second class”. I was incensed. “How arrogant”? I thought. There is a difference, I thought, between giving ideological guidance and judging people, and he crossed the line. I went straight home and wrote a scathing article for the movement’s weekly paper, criticizing him and his fellow “Aliya garin” members for their arrogance. I questioned their ability to lead, if they were intolerant of others’ thoughts and beliefs. When it came to signing the letter I lost my nerve. So I signed it with my initials P.E.M. I suppose you could say the article caused ripples. For about two weeks, people went round asking who was this PEM guy. I was found out, eventually and was summoned to a meeting with the “ba-Koach” (city head) and the shaliach. With my stomach churning and fearing that I was about to lose my safety net, I went to the meeting. As I entered Yossi’s office, my article was lying on his desk. “Did you write this?” he asked. With a tremulous voice and a dry mouth, I admitted to writing the article, fully expecting to be told to leave Habonim. He nodded his head and then said, “How would you like to be editor of our paper”? Tears filled my eyes with relief and emotion. And, that’s how I got my nickname.

Ironically, after that, I became enamored with the idea of kibbutz. At first I imagined it was a sort of perpetuation of the kind of community and togetherness of Machaneh which I loved, and that is what drew me to it. Later as I learned more about socialism and the allure of making a difference as a Zionist, my resolve to live out my ideals strengthened.

In 1982, together with my own “Aliya garin”, I made Aliya to kibbutz Tuval, in the Galilee. It is my home, which I built together with my committed friends and comrades. Now, after 37 years, it is my little corner of Paradise. No, kibbutz is not a perpetuation of Machaneh and I have moved to the community section, no longer a member of the kibbutz, but I still love it and the community life. And I have Habonim to thank – for this and so much more.