I'm Out There, Jerry!

I'm writing a book in which I describe precisely how I have managed to recover from the catastrophe of mood disorder without the use of mood-stabilizing drugs. I'm convinced that the techniques I use will work for anyone willing to use them.

I'm one of the almost 70% of people for whom the drugs just don't work. Through my own efforts to regain control of my life, I have learned that we just don't need drugs to live stable, productive lives.

The problem for me is that I don't know how to write a book. I'm not new to writing, however. I've had more than 80 non-fiction articles published in magazines and newspapers, none of them related to mood disorders. I know how to organize and present information--but only in the short format of magazine and newspaper articles. 

I've found that writing a book is very different. The book I'm writing is a short one but it's still much longer than the 2500 words I write for periodicals. I've been working, on and off, on this book for longer than I care to admit--years--and the draft still isn't complete.

I've learned from past experience to do what others do to overcome similar problems. Sticking with the winners I call it. I recently read Austin Kleon's book, Show Your Work. I highly recommend it to any creative type who struggles to get work noticed.

In that wonderful, little book, Mr. Kleon suggests that if we're in the middle of a project, it's helpful to share through social media about our methods or works in progress. He suggests that we share imperfect and unfinished work that we want feedback on.

"The act of sharing is one of generosity," he says, "you're putting something out there because you think it might be helpful or entertaining to someone on the other side of the screen."

He quotes Bobby Solomon, the man behind The Fox is Black, who said, "Put yourself, and your work, out there every day, and you'll start meeting some amazing people."

This idea frightens me a little. Still, Austin Kleon is someone that I consider a winner, so I've decided to follow his advice and start showing what I've got.

All this talk of "being out there" reminds me of a Seinfeld episode in which Kramer decides that jockey shorts are too confining and boxer shorts are too baggy. 

Well, that leaves only one option, of course, and Jerry, shocked at Kramer's decision says, "Oh no! Tell me it isn't so." 

Kramer responds by saying, "Oh, it's so. I'm out there, Jerry, and I'm loving every minute of it!"

So, with this blog post, I'm announcing that I'm out there!

Laugh It Off

I don't know if you've noticed but from time to time as we slog along in life, moments arise that make a lasting impression. 'There's one for the record books,' you say to yourself and you realize that the memory of it will come back to you at intervals down through the years. 

Sometimes, when your head is on the pillow and your thoughts are becoming soft and mellow, up pops the memory, banishing the Sandman, causing you to leap up with that familiar feeling that you're going to die in about two minutes.

One of those remembered moments occurred to me this morning. It was just as I was wakened by Beignet, the orange and white Ragamuffin, when he decided to lie on my face and all that fur clogging the respiratory system brought immediately to mind… well, on second thought, let's not dwell on it. Too morbid. The point is not the memory itself but the effect it has on the limbic system.

This summer has been one for the record books in its own way. The Genome is a sensitive fellow and, what with one thing and another, he's been filled to overflowing with the cortisols that cause depression. When I say overflowing, I mean that the stuff has been sloshing up against the tonsils like the incoming tide. I just don't have room for any more. Full up!

When the hippocampus retrieved the memory and displayed it on the big screen--I'm not so sure it wasn't in 3D--I leaped out of bed, crossed the room to stand in front of the window in what was for me the work of an instant. I was expecting the restorative of summer morning sunshine of course. No good. It's September 11--a cause for more dark memories but not the ones that were suffocating me at the moment. We are mid-month into autumn, the season of mists and fruitful mellowness, as Ms. Wonder puts it. The sunshine wouldn't reach the high hills behind Chadsford Hall for another 30 minutes.

What one needs in times like these, I don't need to tell you, is a higher power and I looked around for Ms. Wonder but the room, though well-equipped with the usual furnishings--one bed, two dressers, about a dozen cats, was noticeably absent of Wonders--Poopsie or otherwise.

What now? is what I asked myself.

Run faster! came the reply and it was delivered in a panicked tone of voice, if I can call it a voice. The words were made without the benefit of sound waves because it came from the almond-shaped little cluster of brain cells that you may know as the amygdala but I call Princess Amy. "You've got to get away from those memories!" she said.

"Peace, Princess," I said, "be still. There's nothing to be afraid of. I can handle this."

"You?" she said. "You can't deal with something as simple as cat fur. What do you think you're going to do about it?"

It was a good question and I had to admit that she had a talking point about the cat fur. I didn't have a ready answer so I asked her to excuse me while I paced the hallway in thought. It wasn't pleasant in the hallway. Confining for one thing. For another, each time I got a good stride going, I came to the end of the hall and had to turn round and do it all over. Then, as so often happens, an unaffiliated thought led to a serendipitous one and everything changed for the better. Here in a nutshell is what happened.

First, it occurred to me that the office window faces the east and if there is to be sunshine, that's the first place to look for it. I removed myself to the office. Once there, I was surrounded by mountains of thoughts affiliated with my book, Out of the Blue. I'm sure you know what happened next. With that book in mind, all the power principles that make up fierce living presented themselves to me like the fruit in Ms. Wonder's early autumn. There you are then--power principles to keep the blues away. I immediately chose one and put it into action.

"Ha, ha, ha," I said.

"What's wrong with you?" said the princess.

"Hee, hee, hee," I replied.

"Have you dropped off the deep end?" she said.

"Ho, ho, ho," I said and was reminded of good ole St. Nick and all those delightful lies we were told as children. Then I began to laugh in earnest.

"You sound like one of those mad scientists that live in the dungeons of upstate New York castles," said the amygdala. "You should get to a doctor."

By now I felt great. I began to toss about cat toys and laughed just because I felt like it. Beignet and Sagi were doing figure eights at my shins. Abbie was looking at me in saucer-eyed amazement. Uma was racing back and forth from one room to another and Eddy was marching around as though he were in charge of it all.

Now I've come to the reason for this story. You may consider it a warning. If you are enjoying a good bout of deep blue depression and you want to keep it going for a while longer--you may be in a particularly creative mood or perhaps you're preparing for an interview on local radio--for goodness sake don't start laughing. Laughing, even if you don't feel like laughing, will lift you right out of the depths whether you want to be rescued or not.

Flying With A Bent Whangee

"'Good Morning, Poopsie," I said as I entered the sal de ban. I didn't actually see her in all the billowing mist but Uma, the Empress of Chadsford Hall and Queen of Cats, was there on the side of the tub in all her tortoise-shelled glory, and I reasoned that if Uma is present, can Ms. Wonder be far behind.

"Good morning," said a disembodied voice from beyond the curtain of steam.

"What's it like out?" I said.

"Exceptionally clement," she said and I knew that it was going to be a good day if this Poopsie Wonder gave it a good review. A most amazing person, Ms. Wonder. So competent in every respect. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, having a partner like this P. Wonder makes a hell of a difference to a fellow's day.

"Your pilot friend…," she began.

"Bob?" I said.

"Right," she said. "Your pilot friend emailed some information about their flight around the world…"

"The Flight for Life," I said taking care to pronounce the capitals.

"Yes, Flight for Life," she said and I was impressed that she could not only pronounce capital letters but also did a passable job with the italics. "He said they've finished the second leg of the flight and are in Istanbul."

"Ah, Istanbul," I said. "You know Poopsie, I'm in love with the romance of Istanbul. I've never been there but have read so much about it that I feel if I were there, I wouldn't need a map to get around."

"We should go," she said.

"You know best," I said. "If they've arrived in Istanbul, that means they've left Amsterdam, of course. No way to get to Turkey without leaving Amsterdam. And I presume they've been through Paris, at least to stop at a drive-through or two, and then on to, well, on to wherever they've been--Athens, Milan, and Germany of course, although I don't have the exact itinerary in my head."

"They've had quite an exciting time of it," she said and something about the way she left it hanging assured me that there was more to the story.

"Do tell," I said.

"Well, for one thing, while flying to Normandy…" 

"Probably to buzz the bathers on the beaches," I interjected. "That would be a hoot wouldn't it?"

"I seriously doubt they are buzzing anybody," she said. "They strive, I'm sure, to remain focused on their objective."

"Spreading the good word about the work of St. Jude Children's Hospital you mean?"

"Of course," she said. "Members of the flight crew were interviewed on national television in Germany according to your friend..."

"Bob," I said. "Bob Bradley."

"And that kind of attention is paramount to increasing awareness world-wide of the services provided by St. Jude to children with cancer, regardless of a family's ability to pay. It's unheard of in most of the world," she said.

"Yes, you're right again, of course. Flying around the world may sound like a lot of fun on the surface but the Flight for Life crew is engaged in serious business. This isn't just one big adventure for them."

"Oh, they've had some adventure," she said. "They had to make an emergency landing because fuel was spilling from a wing tank."

"Poopsie," I said, "you must have gotten the facts mangled. I knew this was going to happen when you started eating so many salads. You've got to get back on a fish diet before the brain cells atrophy. Fuel doesn't just spill from tanks."

"They lost a fuel cap," she said. "And after landing, the only option they had was to empty the tank and move the fuel to another using a 25 litre jug."

"They didn't enjoy that," I said.

"No, but they expected to have a fuel cap waiting for them in Athens," she said.

"I'll keep my fingers crossed that the rest of the flight is uneventful, but you know how it is, Poopsie, one damned thing after another."

"Yeah, well Bob says that they have another problem now. One of the engines has a bent push rod."

I mused about this for a moment or two because it seemed to me that a bent rod of any sort, push or pull, deserves considerable attention."

"I suppose it's not such a big deal, since they have a spare engine, right?"

"Oh, it's still a problem."

I took a few moments to muse again. It seemed to me, considering this and that, and taking everything into account that these round-the-world flyers do live life to the fullest, if you get my meaning.

"Can't fly with a bent whangee, then?" I said.

"You can fly with one engine," she said, "but if the second engine freezes during takeoff, it could spell disaster."

"It could end up being a stinker you mean?" I said.

"If you're below a thousand feet or so," she said.

"Poopsie," I said, "you do know everything don't you? Admit it. Everything."

"You're sweet," she said, "but you know that's not true. Flying just happens to be a favorite topic of mine. I once took a course in aviation weather and one thing led to another. Remember the time I made aerial photographs of that corn maze from the open cockpit of a 1948 Piper Cub? That was a thrill."

"Say, Poopsie," I said, "I have a tip on a stock that's positioned for a 70% upside. Would you invest in a gold mine?"

"Can't advise it," she said. "The mining sector is not sanguine."

"Yes, I see what you mean. What was it my dad used to say--You can't roller skate with a bent whangee--us that what is was?  At any rate, keep the money in the old oak chest, then?"

"Why not make a donation," she said. "That way you would send some positive energy to the crew of Flight for Life and you would be helping children with cancer to hope for a better future."

"I see what you mean. Support Flight for Life and do some good for children who desperately need it."

"That's right," she said. "Your friend, Bob, says that spreading awareness of St. Jude and the work they do is as important as raising money to pay for the work--still, the money is needed. So, why not make a donation now."

I wasted no time. It was for me the work of an instant to log onto MRI Charitable Foundation and make a contribution. You can do the same.

Flight for Life

"Poopsie," I said, as I entered the sal de ban and waved away the clouds of steam billowing from the tub, "do you know what keeps an airplane in the air?"

"That's a question that flight engineers continue to debate isn't it," she said, "or have you read something recently about a consensus opinion?"

You are familiar by now with the special sense of humor this P. Wonder wields and so I'm sure you aren't surprised by her response. It's something she inherited from her Slavic ancestors, I'm sure of it. Looking for the humor in the situation probably helped them get through those long winter nights when the wolves were threatening to huff and puff and all that other unpleasantness. I admit this gag got right next to me and I laughed out loud.

"That's a good one," I said. "Consensus opinion! But what I'm referring to is the air beneath the wings. And I think that's a perfect metaphor for the people supporting the Flight for Life project. They, and I refer to those making donations to St. Jude Children's Research Hospital, are the air beneath the wings of the Piper Aztec making its way around the world to bring attention to the hospital and the services it provides to children with cancer."

"And St. Jude's," she said, "is the wind beneath the wings of those children in their time of need."

I didn't immediately respond, being caught up in thoughts of just how true her words were. I was reminded of the many times in my life when I was hopeless, which is about every other day, and someone came along to help asking nothing in return. St. Jude's is like that. No family need pay for the help they provide the children. Incredible when you think about it.

"Are they back in the air?" she said and by they she meant the crew of Flight for Life--not St. Jude hospital.

"Still in Amsterdam, taking a well deserved break after flying from North Carolina to Greenland and then to Iceland and then to the continent," I said giving her the summary of the first leg. "Do you realize, Poopsie, that only 120 people have made this flight in a plane classified as "light aircraft?" And these guys are the first to do it to raise money to help children in need."

"Where are they headed next?"

"I'm not really certain," I said. "but the last time I spoke to Bob, the co-pilot, he hinted they will fly through western Europe--France, Spain, all the usual suspects, and then they will stop in Ankara before beginning the third leg of the trip. They will stop along the way, of course, to meet with well-wishers who want to get a photo with the team and the plane. I wish I'd done that."

"Maybe you can meet them when they return to Roxboro," she said.

"I have a better idea," I said. "I think I'll meet them in Southeast Asia somewhere. If I'm lucky, I can get short flight in the plane."

"I don't think so," she said.

I didn't expect her to turn cartwheels at the idea of my taking a little jaunt around the globe but I did expect her to rally round the flag just a little.

"Why not?" I said.

"Because you're not going if I'm not going and I'm not able to leave the office right now."

I was dashed! This was so unlike the woman I count as my number one fan. I could make nothing of it other than recognizing that sometimes life sneaks up very quietly, keeping to the shadows, and then when it catches you with your guard down, it tears off the whiskers and pounces. This time was one of those times.

Good Morning, Frazier

It will be old news to you, of course, but for the newcomers, it may help to know that I begin some days in a lighter mood than others. It's never a mystery as to why it happens that way. This morning was no different. 

The countryside is in full bloom at this late date in spring. The beginning of summer, for those of us who binge on the season, is only three weeks away. Already the geese in Lake Brunswick are proudly leading a half-dozen goslings around, and the inaugural garage sale was held a few weekends back. 

I'm confident that Spring has completed her relocation to the Crescent Coast. 

It's mornings like this that make one feel close to heaven, and, if you've been following this blog for more than a day, you're aware that it's exactly that kind of feeling that opens us up to the Trickster's practical jokes.

As I neared the front door of Native Grounds, I was feeling full of the energizing bunny. My step was peppy and I moved with lithesome grace, or something approximating lithesome grace. 

On mornings like this, I greet everyone I see with a boisterous Good Morning! I wave to the baristas in the back kitchen and I shake hands with the other customers. On occasion, I've even been known to slap backs and elbow ribs.

In short, I'm a nuisance to everyone I encounter and, naturally, this behavior has lost me a great many friends. But still, if you observe my face, you will notice that my eyes wear a smile even if the lips don't. In a nutshell, I'm compassionate and encouraging.

This morning, like many before it, found me on a mission to fetch a cup of Jah's Mercy for Ms. Wonder. That mission never fails to remind me of an episode of the TV show, Frasier; the one that begins with Niles ordering a latte in Cafe Nervosa. I laugh just thinking about it and this morning was no different.

I decided to share this bit of humor with the young barista who was waiting to take my order.

"Good morning," she said, "what can I get you?"

"Have you ever watched Frasier on TV?" I asked because I realize that the 20th century is ancient history to large and growing segment of the public.

"What's the name of it?" she said.

"Ah," I said, realizing that I needed another lead-in.

"It's an old television show," I said, "and there's a scene in a coffee shop when Nile's coffee order gets garbled because he  has to have it just so."

"Who's Miles?" she asked.

"Niles," I said.

"Yeah, who is he?" she said.

I'd made a blunder with the introduction, I realized, but we're not always perfectly eloquent, are we? Still, it's always best to at least get the ball over the net, as my French tutor is fond of saying. I tried to recover.

"You see, Niles asked for a double short, no-foam, low-fat latte but when the order was verbally passed on to the person who would actually make the drink, it was described as a double short, no-fat, low-foam latte."

Her face took on a sort of pained expression. The eyebrows were wedged together and the nose was scrunched. I didn't feel good about it at all. Obviously, I'd lobbed the ball straight into the net again.

"You see, the no-foam, low-fat part of the order had become no-fat, low-foam," I said hoping to clear up the confusion.

"She glanced at the barista behind the muffin display with an expression that seemed to say, 'Please help me.'

"Oh, well," I said, "never mind. An on-location situation." But my retraction didn't seem to help her feel any better about it. I'm certain she was thinking how nice it would be to have a magic wand in her pocket.

I decided to try a different tack completely. "I've always wondered about that order," I said, "just what is a double short latte anyway?"

She shook her head, "I don't know," she said. "What can I get for you?"

In my Fierce Qigong classes, I encourage students to embrace the adage that a person should always know his limits and acknowledge when it's time to cut his losses and run for it. 

"Oh, I'll just have a double cappuccino to go," I said.

The double capp was just what the doctor prescribed and was an excellent morning pick-me-up for the drive back home. When I finished it, I drove back to the cafe to get another for Ms. Wonder because, due to the double-short imbroglio, I'd completely forgotten to get hers. 

I was relieved to see that the first barista was nowhere in sight and I didn't waste any time with the Frasier small talk. Just between us, I think I watch too many Frasier reruns.