Rerun: Job and Me

It's been a very busy week for me, and next week will only get busier. So time for some reruns. This week, we're keeping to a spiritual theme. This particular blast from the past represents the third or fourth piece I wrote, a month or two after finally coming to terms with my illness in 1999. 

Perhaps now is a good time for a little Norse mythology. I'm a bit rusty on my gods, so if I mistake Thor for Odin or accidentally stick in a Greek deity I hope you'll bear with me.

It seems that Thor and two of his god buddies ventured into the land of the Frost Giants, and were challenged to place wagers. I forget what one of the wagers was, but Thor, I think, bet he could drain a beer mug, and Odin that he could pin an old hag in a wrestling match. All three wagers, in fact, turned out to be sucker's bets.

The beer mug was attached to the ocean, and the veins on Thor's forehead bulged purple trying to make headway. (Remember, they were in the land of the Frost Giants. It is just possible that their ocean could be confused with a Canadian ice house brew, though you would think a Norse god would be able to tell the difference.) At last, Thor was obliged to put down his mug in defeat, but he could take some small measure of satisfaction in surveying his handiwork on the way home (those fiords in Norway, I believe).

Odin, too, could take comfort in losing his wrestling match, for it wasn't an old hag he had been fighting, but a shadowy form that represented age itself. He had fought hard against something no one, not even a mighty god amongst gods, could defeat, and he had fought well.

Now we turn to another wrestling match from the annals of mythology, this time Jewish mythology, or Jewish fact, depending on belief. We are talking of Jacob wrestling with an angel, only the Bible doesn't mention angel. Jacob assumes he is wrestling in the dark with a man, but when morning dawns, none other than the Lord of Hosts makes his appearance and changes Jacob's name to Israel.

There, in one name, is the piece to the puzzle, for Israel means "wrestles with God." Jacob - Israel - had wrestled with God. No one, of course, wins against God, but, apparently there is no shame in trying. No, this isn't about God, but the Lord of Hosts does turn up in another book of the Bible, this time the Book of Job, and here God does something far more typical of the gods of Norse mythology: He makes a wager. A wager with Satan, no less.

But Satan is not your standard devil figure. Not in this version. No, Satan is more like a trickster god, a member of the heavenly court who stirs up discord and shakes up the status quo. In short, another Norse god - Loki.

So Loki - er, Satan - lures God into making a wager. God places his bet on a righteous man called Job. He bets Satan that Job will not curse him, no matter what ill-fortune Satan - with God's permission - may throw his way. And God, with no more regard for Job's welfare than a gambler would have for a fighting cock, gives Satan the go-ahead.

And so Satan takes from Job everything he has - wealth, property, health - until he is reduced to a mere shell of his former self. Still Job does not curse God. Four Doctor Laura types happen by and accuse him of being responsible for his own misfortune, but still Job does not curse God.

And that's how it eventually ends, with the righteous Job restored to his good fortune, Satan the apparent loser, and God registering his clear disapproval of Doctor Laura.

Nevertheless, I maintain that had Job known about the wager God had made - how an apparently thoughtless Lord of Hosts had treated poor Job as nothing more than the object of a bet - God's ears would still be ringing today.

And this brings me to the point I am about to make: You see, when I was in the throes of my most recent depression, I was convinced that God had abandoned me - had left me to the mercies of Satan and his devilish whims - but, unlike the righteous Job, I cursed my fool head off. I had been wrestling in earnest with this depression since God knows when, and the thing had finally gotten to me. My brain had gone crash. Big time. The event was larger than myself. I finally decided to throw in the towel.

In other words, I finally sought help.

There was no loss of honor, I finally decided, in not winning. Just the opposite, in fact. I had been reduced to nothing by a force I could barely comprehend, let alone grapple with. I felt I had wrestled God. There is no shame in losing to God.

Someday, perhaps, I will come to terms with this God I had unknowingly fought against, but who refused to make himself known, even as he brain-slammed me to the mat and took away all but one inch of life in me. Yes, I cursed the hell out of God, and said all the things to God that Job by rights had been entitled to say to God.

Still, I know God will not hold this against me. Quite the contrary, deep in my heart I know that God expects a good fight from us, just like the one Jacob-Israel gave him, just like the trials Job endured, and that the cursing and all the rest is part of what goes into giving God everything you've got.

Yes, God, I gave you one hell of a good fight, and for that I can salvage some small measure of pride. But I would have been a whole lot smarter had I cried uncle much much sooner.

Rerun: My Totally Unexpected Didgeridoo Experience

From June, last year. Enjoy ...

This is a short story of a lovely experience I had yesterday. I went shopping along San Diego’s antique row for some night tables and other odds and ends for my bedroom. I had made a similar excursion three weeks before to help stock my living room. When I moved into my new apartment six or seven weeks ago, the only sticks of “furniture” I owned were my three didgeridoos. Literally, I built my entire living room around the my didge collection.

One shop in particular featured an eclectic mix of really cool stuff (such as a vintage edition of a book of paintings by New Zealand artist Peter McIntyre), but I was totally unprepared for the sight that greeted me - a beautiful hardwood hand-carved didgeridoo. Surely, I thought, it’s merely a decorative piece. It could not possibly deliver a quality sound.

I picked it up, running my fingers down the serpentine carvings. I positioned the bell end of the instrument on the floor, drew in a breath and blew. I wasn’t expecting much of a sound, particularly with warm-up breaths. But the didge proved exceptionally responsive. A promising tone issued forth. I gathered myself, got an airflow going, and experienced a wonderful warm resonance. Even with the carpet absorbing the sound, there was no escaping the fact that this baby sounded as good as it looked.

I looked at the price tag. $150. I owned two didges that cost me twice that. The carvings alone made it worth the price. The person minding the shop was filling in for the owner and knew nothing about the didge, but was expecting the owner to call in about an hour.

What do you call it? he asked. How do you spell it?

A didgeridoo is probably the oldest wind instrument in the world, basically a hollowed out tree trunk. On a simple level, it delivers a deep rich pulsing drone, augmented by vocalizations and tonguing variations, which is about my level of playing. A skilled musician can wail the crap out of it.

Aboriginals from Australia’s north coast fashion theirs from stringy bark eucalyptus. The instrument is central to their cultural and spiritual traditions. Over the last decade or two, the didge has caught on in the west, and we now see the instrument fashioned out of all manner of material. I have one Aboriginal didge. My first two didge purchases were crafted by a local. 

I lived in Australia for five years about 20 years ago. Back then, didges did not interest me. Three and a half years ago when I moved to southern California, suddenly didges made sense.

The didge in my hand was clearly western. Maybe I would learn more in an hour or two. I found my night tables and other items, set them aside with the didge, and told the guy behind the counter I would be back. Time to see a friend for lunch. When I returned, I was told the owner didn’t know anything about the didge, either. Then I was presented with an offer I couldn’t refuse: The didge was mine for $100.

I got it into the car, along with my night tables and other purchases. I had business elsewhere in town later in the day. Time to play with my new toy. I found a nearby city park, headed to a secluded corner overlooking a valley, positioned myself beneath a tree, and started familiarizing myself with the instrument.

No technical tricks. Just experience the sound, that wonderful pulsing drone. Soon, I was in my own world - John World - not part of this world, very much part of this world:

“In the beginning was the Word ...”

All things originate from vibration.

I looked up. A man I hadn’t seen before was approaching. Oops! I was obviously disturbing him. Time to apologize and find another spot.

This is his mother’s memorial, he told me.

Oh, crap. Now I better run.

And he was really moved by the sound ...

His words gushed out: His mother had died two months earlier. She loved the view from this section of the park. Some of her ashes were scattered here.

What do you call that instrument? he asked, his voice choking. Could I keep playing?

I told him I would dedicate “this” - whatever came out of my didge - to his mom. I got the air going. I got the piece of wood vibrating ...

Thank you, he sobbed a minute later. Thank you.

Over the next 30 minutes, he walked this way, then that way, positioning himself at various outlooks, staring out into the valley, then returning to my spot, holding his phone near the bell of the instrument, talking to his friends, leaving messages to his friends, leaving messages to himself.

Connections, healing, healing, connections ...

It was time to go, back to that other world, the real world, not real, yet real. I cradled my new didge, not just a didge, just a didge. Carefully, I placed it in the back floor of my car, in a gap beneath the night tables. I got behind the wheel, found my street - and turned the wrong way.

Ha! John World.

Rerun: Coming to Terms

Yesterday, I posted a rerun piece to mark my four years living in Southern CA. To pick up where we left off ...

A thought-provoking Zen parable goes like this:

A man encountered a tiger in a field. He attempted to escape by lowering himself down a precipice. He looked down and, to his horror, saw more tigers looking up, anticipating their next meal. He looked up and spotted two mice above gnawing on the vine he was clinging to.

Oh, crap.

Then, looking to his right, he sighted a strawberry growing from the cliff face. Reaching over, he grabbed the morsel and popped it into his mouth.

“Mmmm!” he thought. “Delicious!”

***

My own translation: Enjoy the peanut butter.

By now I had all my stuff out of its boxes, and McMan International back up and running, which is my way of saying I had my desktop computer all plugged in and wired for internet. I had an email newsletter to get out, my first from my new world headquarters. I anticipated going full blast into the evening, but things went off without a hitch and I was unexpectedly through at about 2:30 in the afternoon.

Time to unwind with a walk. The winter sun was already low over the peaks behind me, and I was in the shadows, but the valley below me and the peaks in the distance were bathed in brilliant light.

I stopped in at the local coffee shop for a coffee and muffin to go. Shelley the proprietor heated my muffin for me and sliced it into tasty morsels. Soon, I was in the sun on the valley floor. The open space before me allowed my mind to breathe. Not too far off, peaks and rock formations rose from the valley like great cathedrals. I sipped my coffee, and munched on my muffin morsels, savoring the moment.

On my way back, I stopped at the general store, which adjoins the post office. Yes, we even have our own zip code. It was to be a dogs and beans night for me. Back outside, the sun had set behind the peaks and the temperature was dropping fast. I was back into my own shit now, still reeling from recent events, facing financial ruin, uncertain about my future, wondering how the hell I would ever get my life back together.

I hurried my pace, anxious to get home - home? - only to stop dead in my tracks. I looked right. The entire valley below was now in the shadows, as were the peaks and rock formations. But in the distance, a steep summit caught what was left of the sun full broadside. The mountain appeared to be radiating from the inside, a lustrous rosy glow that sharply contrasted with the cool hues of the darkened landscape.

Delicious!

Thank you, God, I found myself saying. I was experiencing the perfect moment, in the moment, what they call a Zen moment, fully aware, in the present. Tomorrow I could very well fall to pieces. But right now was a gift. Life happens here, right now. If you're second-guessing your past or fretting about your future, you're missing out.

The moment lasted maybe five seconds. Then I was back inside my own head, my own shit. But it wasn't the exact same shit inside the same head I returned to. I was back in my past, but it was one I could come to terms with. I was back in my future, but it was one I could face with hope.

Something similar occurred to me more than 30 years before, only back then it happened with the throttle wide open headed over the edge of a cliff.

We can all recall our exceptionally aware moments. Unfortunately, they tend to occur in highly-stressful and often life-threatening situations, such as skidding on glare ice at 60 MPH. This is when our fight or flight response takes over. The frontal lobes go off-line. We literally stop thinking as the faster-processing and more primitive regions of the brain (think amygdala) assume executive control.

Fight or flight is normally associated with an over-reaction, but here we are talking about a rare mental state that can only be described as calm awareness. If we had time to think about the dire straights we were in, we would probably panic. Instead, barring bad luck, we successfully avoid wrapping our vehicle around a tree. On one hand, the crisis is over in a micro-second. On the other, it’s as if time were slowed down.

There is a stretch of the Route 101 Coastal Highway in Marin County north of San Francisco that has probably washed into the Pacific by now. Gerald Ford was President and I had hair. I leaned my bike into the curves of the road, first one way, then the other, speeding up on the straightaways and gearing down on the hairpins perched high above the Pacific, my ears ringing with the roar of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

I was just leaning in for another sharp turn when I came upon some rocks that had worked their way loose from the hills above. There was no time to think. I swerved to avoid the obstacle and brought the bike around 180 degrees, but it was going backward toward the ocean on its own momentum. I felt the sickening sensation of the back wheel leaving the shoulder and losing traction in the soft earth behind. For a brief fleeting instant I had the sensation of being suspended in midair, like Wile E Coyote in those Roadrunner cartoons. Then the bike found purchase, jerked forward, and stalled on the shoulder.

I turned off the ignition, wheeled my bike to a safe place, and took stock. Something had shifted in me in those two or three seconds. Whatever had been holding me back before was holding me back no longer.

Within days, my life was on a new trajectory that would find me in New Zealand, attending law school, married, with a kid on the way. Now, here I was, decades later, in rural southern California. Healing happens, but don't expect to stay in the same place. There was no going back, not to New Jersey, not to my old sense of self. At the same time, I felt a sense of home. I was no longer on the run. I was here to stay. The land had heard my request. It was talking to me.

Rerun: Flying Home

Four years ago today, I found myself in Southern CA. I'm still here (though living in a different place). This piece from last year explains ...

October and November tend to be weird months for me. Early October, 2006 saw the publication of my book: "Living Well with Depression and Bipolar Disorder: What Your Doctor Doesn't Tell You That You Need to Know."

The book represented a major personal triumph for me, but life is seldom simple. It's amazing, in hindsight, how I didn't see it coming, but we never do. One day I was winding down from a round of book-related speaking engagements and radio interviews, making a mental note to pick up a Thanksgiving turkey, the next my marriage broke up.

I had been married (for the second time) for nearly three years, living in central New Jersey. On December 1, ten days after my break-up, I boarded a one-way flight to San Diego, wanting to sleep and never wake up.

I collected my bags and stepped outside the terminal. In the dark, I made out cruise boats in the brightly lit harbor and the silhouettes of palms. Under the circumstances, I could be forgiven for thinking I had set down in the middle of a holiday resort rather than waiting for my ride in an ugly airport. The balmy temperature lent to the illusion.

Paul drove up and I got in. San Diego Airport is located in the heart of the city. If this were New York, you would literally have planes taking off and landing in Central Park. I recall thinking how convenient this would be for me, that is until Paul got driving.

We got onto Interstate 8 going east and kept going. And going. Then civilization literally ceased. No lights no buildings, nothing. Surely, this had to be some kind of anomaly, I thought. Surely, some kind of satellite city would materialize, a St Paul, a Fort Worth, a Newark, even.

Meanwhile, I had the strange sensation of being airborne. Our wheels were on the ground, but we had gone from sea level to above 2,000 feet in the space of 30 minutes. Oh crap, I could only think, what have I gotten myself into?

At 3,500 feet we got off at an exit that could have featured in a slasher movie. Then we were in total darkness. My worst fears were realized. We were in the country. The country! Probably completely off the grid in a void where zip codes don't exist.

We got out of the car and I gazed up at the unfamiliar sight of stars in the sky, unbelievably bright stars, pristine in the mountain air, with nothing standing in the way of me and something billions of light years away, maybe only millions.

I woke up the next morning to a searing Van Gogh sun against a brilliant cobalt blue sky. Where there should have been a Walmart was a valley surrounded by 4,000-foot peaks. Time to check out my new neighborhood.

All the houses appeared to have be built out of box kite material, only not nearly so sturdy, seemingly wind-tossed at crazy angles. Oddly, though, the overall effect was harmonious, blending in with the rocky and hilly terrain. A straight line or level surface would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

A short walk and the houses gave way to horse farms. In contrast to the sky, the hues of the landscape were muted. The trees and vegetation here are testimonies to perseverance rather than abundance. Water is scarce, exceedingly so. Only the rocks flourish – boulders, outcrops, summits. The wind was blowing in from the desert and had a decidedly flinty tang.

Back in the old days, a wrong turn on a mule wagon spelled certain death. The Mexican border is about 10 or 15 miles away. These days, those seeking the American Dream are prepared to risk everything negotiating this treacherous northern passage.

I rounded a curve and suddenly I was the only person on this planet. Just me and splendid desolation. Any second, I expected to come across Buddhist prayer flags fluttering in the stiff breeze. Perhaps a wise Indian shaman who could tell me why the hell I was here.

Talk to me, land, I found myself saying. I felt a spiritual tug, but I was confused and out of sorts. I was badly missing the life I had just left behind, but I knew in my heart this was the place I needed to be. If any healing were to occur, it would happen here, in these mountains, where I could clear my head, establish a sense of perspective, and slowly come to terms.

But I had a major shock in store when I came back from my walk and inspected the pantry.

Hmm. Cans of refried beans (is there an air raid shelter out back?). Soup in packets (desiccated chemical nodules that no amount of super-heated water could ever satisfactorily dissolve). I mopped some beaded sweat from my brow. Rice-a-Roni, I read on one box. Something salty that claimed to be food on another. The type of cans you only see in food drives.

I already knew what was coming next. I’ve seen grown men cry over the sight, but my reaction is always one of anger and disbelief. How is such a thing possible in a world that gave us Shakespeare and Sophia Loren? I could only think. Why? But there is no logical answer to explain man’s inhumanity to man. Just the inscrutable wording on the box:

Ramen noodles!

“What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?”

But I’m a highly-trained professional and it was time to take charge. In a calm and authoritative voice I told Paul and my other housemate: “Put your hands to your sides and slowly step back from the pantry.”

Don’t worry, I assured them, demonstrating to them that the skillet I had in my hand would be used for cooking real food, assuming I could locate some. But hey, I love a challenge. It's the one thing I have in common with Jesus - I've got the loaves and fishes thing down pat.

Life is about the little things. Several days later, seven FedEx cartons containing my life arrived at my door. By now, I had the food situation under control and was preparing a chili. Priorities are priorities. I ripped open the carton containing my kitchen gear and dived in for my zester. A minute later, I was in business. Zest-zest-zest – one peel to a lime into the pot, plus the juice. Now my chili had the missing zing and zap. Now I had a real chili going. A simple kitchen implement and suddenly I felt at home. My non-zester possessions could wait for later.

To be continued ...

My Totally Unexpected Didgeridoo Experience

This is a short story of a lovely experience I had yesterday. I went shopping along San Diego’s antique row for some night tables and other odds and ends for my bedroom. I had made a similar excursion three weeks before to help stock my living room. When I moved into my new apartment six or seven weeks ago, the only sticks of “furniture” I owned were my three didgeridoos. Literally, I built my entire living room around the my didge collection.

One shop in particular featured an eclectic mix of really cool stuff (such as a vintage edition of a book of paintings by New Zealand artist Peter McIntyre), but I was totally unprepared for the sight that greeted me - a beautiful hardwood hand-carved didgeridoo. Surely, I thought, it’s merely a decorative piece. It could not possibly deliver a quality sound.

I picked it up, running my fingers down the serpentine carvings. I positioned the bell end of the instrument on the floor, drew in a breath and blew. I wasn’t expecting much of a sound, particularly with warm-up breaths. But the didge proved exceptionally responsive. A promising tone issued forth. I gathered myself, got an airflow going, and experienced a wonderful warm resonance. Even with the carpet absorbing the sound, there was no escaping the fact that this baby sounded as good as it looked.

I looked at the price tag. $150. I owned two didges that cost me twice that. The carvings alone made it worth the price. The person minding the shop was filling in for the owner and knew nothing about the didge, but was expecting the owner to call in about an hour.

What do you call it? he asked. How do you spell it?

A didgeridoo is probably the oldest wind instrument in the world, basically a hollowed out tree trunk. On a simple level, it delivers a deep rich pulsing drone, augmented by vocalizations and tonguing variations, which is about my level of playing. A skilled musician can wail the crap out of it.

Aboriginals from Australia’s north coast fashion theirs from stringy bark eucalyptus. The instrument is central to their cultural and spiritual traditions. Over the last decade or two, the didge has caught on in the west, and we now see the instrument fashioned out of all manner of material. I have one Aboriginal didge. My first two didge purchases were crafted by a local. 

I lived in Australia for five years about 20 years ago. Back then, didges did not interest me. Three and a half years ago when I moved to southern California, suddenly didges made sense.

The didge in my hand was clearly western. Maybe I would learn more in an hour or two. I found my night tables and other items, set them aside with the didge, and told the guy behind the counter I would be back. Time to see a friend for lunch. When I returned, I was told the owner didn’t know anything about the didge, either. Then I was presented with an offer I couldn’t refuse: The didge was mine for $100.

I got it into the car, along with my night tables and other purchases. I had business elsewhere in town later in the day. Time to play with my new toy. I found a nearby city park, headed to a secluded corner overlooking a valley, positioned myself beneath a tree, and started familiarizing myself with the instrument.

No technical tricks. Just experience the sound, that wonderful pulsing drone. Soon, I was in my own world - John World - not part of this world, very much part of this world:

“In the beginning was the Word ...”

All things originate from vibration.

I looked up. A man I hadn’t seen before was approaching. Oops! I was obviously disturbing him. Time to apologize and find another spot.

This is his mother’s memorial, he told me.

Oh, crap. Now I better run.

And he was really moved by the sound ...

His words gushed out: His mother had died two months earlier. She loved the view from this section of the park. Some of her ashes were scattered here.

What do you call that instrument? he asked, his voice choking. Could I keep playing?

I told him I would dedicate “this” - whatever came out of my didge - to his mom. I got the air going. I got the piece of wood vibrating ...

Thank you, he sobbed a minute later. Thank you.

Over the next 30 minutes, he walked this way, then that way, positioning himself at various outlooks, staring out into the valley, then returning to my spot, holding his phone near the bell of the instrument, talking to his friends, leaving messages to his friends, leaving messages to himself.

Connections, healing, healing, connections ...

It was time to go, back to that other world, the real world, not real, yet real. I cradled my new didge, not just a didge, just a didge. Carefully, I placed it in the back floor of my car, in a gap beneath the night tables. I got behind the wheel, found my street - and turned the wrong way.

Ha! John World.

Coming Home

Recovery is a journey. Healing is coming home. A lot of what I write here has been about my sense of coming home after leaving New Jersey more than three years ago and settling here in rural southern CA. Today, my good friend George from New Jersey called and offered me a different perspective.

You know, he said, this is the best you’ve sounded since you first moved - to New Jersey.

I thought I had heard wrong. He caught the silence from my end and clued me in.

You and “Sophy” had just got married, he reminded me. The two of you were optimistic, were looking ahead. Our DBSA support group that would meet in Princeton Hospital every Tuesday night had just started up ...

Yes, I remembered. In the weeks and months ahead, a very unusual collection of people walked through the door, sniffed out the vibes, and settled in. There was John “One”, a New York City wiseguy type, dealing with some business setbacks, with a thing for setting land speed records in his silver Porsche on the Jersey Turnpike, particularly in winter with the top down.

There was his polar opposite, John “Two,” a quiet guy with a Princeton doctorate in something that had to do with the science of water, out of work, trying to hold his family together.

There was “Flora,” a lawyer with an Ivy League pedigree and competitive marathoner (and nicotine addict, of all things), suspended from seminary, unemployed and eating through her savings with the clock slowly winding down.

There was Kevin, an earnest and very personable young Jehovah’s Witness with the wisdom of one many years older, picking up the pieces from a disastrous manic episode.

There was Chris, another polar opposite, a young and socially clueless math and computer geek, living with his mom, a prime candidate for being the first voted off the island, who nonetheless grew on you.

There was Christine, with a science degree, jumping from temp gig to temp gig, many times a bridesmaid, never a bride.

Plus a whole supporting cast of characters. Plus me and Sophy. Plus George.

We all had our issues to deal with, demons to wrestle, beasts to confront. All our lives were either on hold or at best in a tentative state of forward movement. The past was something we’d just escaped from, the present probationary, the future uncertain. Somehow, we found each other. Out from the cold of winter New Jersey evenings into the warmth of each other’s company.

We shared our stories. We laughed. We cried. We left feeling way better than when we arrived. Then we’d reconvene ten minutes later at one of the local coffee shops or diners. We’d keep in contact through the week. Fast friendships developed. A romance.

It was a special group of people, George reminded me.

Yes, it was. Yes, it was. I recalled that line from the musical, Camelot. “One brief shining moment,” I related to George, impossible to replicate. In some crazy unpredictable way, we gelled and we pulled in others.  

But things never stay the same. John One and Christine got married and moved to the Washington DC area to pursue a new business opportunity. John Two had a third child and found employment commensurate with his education and experience. Flora went back to seminary, got her degree, found a husband on eHarmony, moved to the Virginia countryside, and is working as a government lawyer. Chris moved out from his mom’s, and found his own place down the road.

As for me, in the space of six weeks, I had a book published followed by a precipitous marriage break-up. Ten days later, I boarded a train out of Princeton Junction. The next day, I strapped myself into the seat of a Southwest flight headed one way to San Diego.

George is still wrestling with his demons, but his struggle has resulted in a series of profound healings. George recently reached out to me, and we’ve reestablished our friendship, with regular phone conversations.

Sophy has started up her own successful blog.

Kevin - alas, Kevin. On a miserable muggy September morning in 2008, just outside Princeton Junction Station, he threw himself in front of a train. George and I, of course, can’t have a conversation without bringing up Kevin. Our breathing falters. Our voices shake. We feel his presence, as if he is part of the conversation.

As for the Princeton group, it’s still there. New people are running it. It is thriving, a source of comfort to many. Sophy is still involved, the one link to what seems a distant past, that brief shining moment.

I thought I had come home by moving out of New Jersey. But my conversation with George served to remind me that coming home is also about reaching a state of acceptance with my past. I lived in New Jersey for just three years, and perhaps I felt like your average traveler who just drives through it.

But I did reach a very significant destination there. A brief shining moment that will stay with me forever. Today, I experienced a new sense of coming home.

Job and Me

My last two pieces had Biblical themes. Why stop now? Here's a blast from the past I wrote ten years ago, from mcmanweb:

Perhaps now is a good time for a little Norse mythology. I'm a bit rusty on my gods, so if I mistake Thor for Odin or accidentally stick in a Greek deity I hope you'll bear with me.

It seems that Thor and two of his god buddies ventured into the land of the Frost Giants, and were challenged to place wagers. I forget what one of the wagers was, but Thor, I think, bet he could drain a beer mug, and Odin that he could pin an old hag in a wrestling match. All three wagers, in fact, turned out to be sucker's bets.

The beer mug was attached to the ocean, and the veins on Thor's forehead bulged purple trying to make headway. (Remember, they were in the land of the Frost Giants. It is just possible that their ocean could be confused with a Canadian ice house brew, though you would think a Norse god would be able to tell the difference.) At last, Thor was obliged to put down his mug in defeat, but he could take some small measure of satisfaction in surveying his handiwork on the way home (those fiords in Norway, I believe).

Odin, too, could take comfort in losing his wrestling match, for it wasn't an old hag he had been fighting, but a shadowy form that represented age itself. He had fought hard against something no one, not even a mighty god amongst gods, could defeat, and he had fought well.

Now we turn to another wrestling match from the annals of mythology, this time Jewish mythology, or Jewish fact, depending on belief. We are talking of Jacob wrestling with an angel, only the Bible doesn't mention angel. Jacob assumes he is wrestling in the dark with a man, but when morning dawns, none other than the Lord of Hosts makes his appearance and changes Jacob's name to Israel.

There, in one name, is the piece to the puzzle, for Israel means "wrestles with God." Jacob - Israel - had wrestled with God. No one, of course, wins against God, but, apparently there is no shame in trying. No, this isn't about God, but the Lord of Hosts does turn up in another book of the Bible, this time the Book of Job, and here God does something far more typical of the gods of Norse mythology: He makes a wager. A wager with Satan, no less.

But Satan is not your standard devil figure. Not in this version. No, Satan is more like a trickster god, a member of the heavenly court who stirs up discord and shakes up the status quo. In short, another Norse god - Loki.

So Loki - er, Satan - lures God into making a wager. God places his bet on a righteous man called Job. He bets Satan that Job will not curse him, no matter what ill-fortune Satan - with God's permission - may throw his way. And God, with no more regard for Job's welfare than a gambler would have for a fighting cock, gives Satan the go-ahead.

And so Satan takes from Job everything he has - wealth, property, health - until he is reduced to a mere shell of his former self. Still Job does not curse God. Four Doctor Laura types happen by and accuse him of being responsible for his own misfortune, but still Job does not curse God.

And that's how it eventually ends, with the righteous Job restored to his good fortune, Satan the apparent loser, and God registering his clear disapproval of Doctor Laura.

Nevertheless, I maintain that had Job known about the wager God had made - how an apparently thoughtless Lord of Hosts had treated poor Job as nothing more than the object of a bet - God's ears would still be ringing today.

And this brings me to the point I am about to make: You see, when I was in the throes of my depression ten years ago, I was convinced that God had abandoned me - had left me to the mercies of Satan and his devilish whims - but, unlike the righteous Job, I cursed my fool head off. I had been wrestling in earnest with this depression since God knows when, and the thing had finally gotten to me. My brain had gone crash. Big time. The event was larger than myself. I finally decided to throw in the towel.

In other words, I finally sought help.

There was no loss of honor, I finally decided, in not winning. Just the opposite, in fact. I had been reduced to nothing by a force I could barely comprehend, let alone grapple with. I felt I had wrestled God. There is no shame in losing to God.

Someday, perhaps, I will come to terms with this God I had unknowingly fought against, but who refused to make himself known, even as he brain-slammed me to the mat and took away all but one inch of life in me. Yes, I cursed the hell out of God, and said all the things to God that Job by rights had been entitled to say to God.

Still, I know God will not hold this against me. Quite the contrary, deep in my heart I know that God expects a good fight from us, just like the one Jacob-Israel gave him, just like the trials Job endured, and that the cursing and all the rest is part of what goes into giving God everything you've got.

Yes, God, I gave you one hell of a good fight, and for that I can salvage some small measure of pride. But I would have been a whole lot smarter had I cried uncle much much sooner.

Coming to Terms

In Flying Home, I discussed settling into my new rural environment in southern CA. To pick up where I left off:

A thought-provoking Zen parable goes like this:

A man encountered a tiger in a field. He attempted to escape by lowering himself down a precipice. He looked down and, to his horror, saw more tigers looking up, anticipating their next meal. He looked up and spotted two mice above gnawing on the vine he was clinging to.

Oh, crap.

Then, looking to his right, he sighted a strawberry growing from the cliff face. Reaching over, he grabbed the morsel and popped it into his mouth.

“Mmmm!” he thought. “Delicious!”

***

My own translation: Enjoy the peanut butter.

By now I had all my stuff out of its boxes, and McMan International back up and running, which is my way of saying I had my desktop computer all plugged in and wired for internet. I had an email newsletter to get out, my first from my new world headquarters. I anticipated going full blast into the evening, but things went off without a hitch and I was unexpectedly through at about 2:30 in the afternoon.

Time to unwind with a walk. The winter sun was already low over the peaks behind me, and I was in the shadows, but the valley below me and the peaks in the distance were bathed in brilliant light.

I stopped in at the local coffee shop for a coffee and muffin to go. Shelley the proprietor heated my muffin for me and sliced it into tasty morsels. Soon, I was in the sun on the valley floor. The open space before me allowed my mind to breathe. Not too far off, peaks and rock formations rose from the valley like great cathedrals. I sipped my coffee, and munched on my muffin morsels, savoring the moment.

On my way back, I stopped at the general store, which adjoins the post office. Yes, we even have our own zip code. It was to be a dogs and beans night for me. Back outside, the sun had set behind the peaks and the temperature was dropping fast. I was back into my own shit now, still reeling from recent events, facing financial ruin, uncertain about my future, wondering how the hell I would ever get my life back together.

I hurried my pace, anxious to get home - home? - only to stop dead in my tracks. I looked right. The entire valley below was now in the shadows, as were the peaks and rock formations. But in the distance, a steep summit caught what was left of the sun full broadside. The mountain appeared to be radiating from the inside, a lustrous rosy glow that sharply contrasted with the cool hues of the darkened landscape.

Delicious!

Thank you, God, I found myself saying. I was experiencing the perfect moment, in the moment, what they call a Zen moment, fully aware, in the present. Tomorrow I could very well fall to pieces. But right now was a gift. Life happens here, right now. If you're second-guessing your past or fretting about your future, you're missing out.

The moment lasted maybe five seconds. Then I was back inside my own head, my own shit. But it wasn't the exact same shit inside the same head I returned to. I was back in my past, but it was one I could come to terms with. I was back in my future, but it was one I could face with hope.

Something similar occurred to me more than 30 years before, only back then it happened with the throttle wide open headed over the edge of a cliff.

We can all recall our exceptionally aware moments. Unfortunately, they tend to occur in highly-stressful and often life-threatening situations, such as skidding on glare ice at 60 MPH. This is when our fight or flight response takes over. The frontal lobes go off-line. We literally stop thinking as the faster-processing and more primitive regions of the brain (think amygdala) assume executive control.

Fight or flight is normally associated with an over-reaction, but here we are talking about a rare mental state that can only be described as calm awareness. If we had time to think about the dire straights we were in, we would probably panic. Instead, barring bad luck, we successfully avoid wrapping our vehicle around a tree. On one hand, the crisis is over in a micro-second. On the other, it’s as if time were slowed down.

There is a stretch of the Route 101 Coastal Highway in Marin County north of San Francisco that has probably washed into the Pacific by now. Gerald Ford was President and I had hair. I leaned my bike into the curves of the road, first one way, then the other, speeding up on the straightaways and gearing down on the hairpins perched high above the Pacific, my ears ringing with the roar of the waves crashing against the rocks below.

I was just leaning in for another sharp turn when I came upon some rocks that had worked their way loose from the hills above. There was no time to think. I swerved to avoid the obstacle and brought the bike around 180 degrees, but it was going backward toward the ocean on its own momentum. I felt the sickening sensation of the back wheel leaving the shoulder and losing traction in the soft earth behind. For a brief fleeting instant I had the sensation of being suspended in midair, like Wile E Coyote in those Roadrunner cartoons. Then the bike found purchase, jerked forward, and stalled on the shoulder.

I turned off the ignition, wheeled my bike to a safe place, and took stock. Something had shifted in me in those two or three seconds. Whatever had been holding me back before was holding me back no longer.

Within days, my life was on a new trajectory that would find me in New Zealand, attending law school, married, with a kid on the way. Now, here I was, decades later, in rural southern California. Healing happens, but don't expect to stay in the same place. There was no going back, not to New Jersey, not to my old sense of self. At the same time, I felt a sense of home. I was no longer on the run. I was here to stay. The land had heard my request. It was talking to me.

Flying Home

October and November tend to be weird months for me. Early October, 2006 saw the publication of my book: "Living Well with Depression and Bipolar Disorder: What Your Doctor Doesn't Tell You That You Need to Know."

The book represented a major personal triumph for me, but life is seldom simple. It's amazing, in hindsight, how I didn't see it coming, but we never do. One day I was winding down from a round of book-related speaking engagements and radio interviews, making a mental note to pick up a Thanksgiving turkey, the next my marriage broke up.

I had been married (for the second time) for nearly three years, living in central New Jersey. On December 1, ten days after my break-up, I boarded a one-way flight to San Diego, wanting to sleep and never wake up.

I collected my bags and stepped outside the terminal. In the dark, I made out cruise boats in the brightly lit harbor and the silhouettes of palms. Under the circumstances, I could be forgiven for thinking I had set down in the middle of a holiday resort rather than waiting for my ride in an ugly airport. The balmy temperature lent to the illusion.

Paul drove up and I got in. San Diego Airport is located in the heart of the city. If this were New York, you would literally have planes taking off and landing in Central Park. I recall thinking how convenient this would be for me, that is until Paul got driving.

We got onto Interstate 8 going east and kept going. And going. Then civilization literally ceased. No lights no buildings, nothing. Surely, this had to be some kind of anomaly, I thought. Surely, some kind of satellite city would materialize, a St Paul, a Fort Worth, a Newark, even.

Meanwhile, I had the strange sensation of being airborne. Our wheels were on the ground, but we had gone from sea level to above 2,000 feet in the space of 30 minutes. Oh crap, I could only think, what have I gotten myself into?

At 3,500 feet we got off at an exit that could have featured in a slasher movie. Then we were in total darkness. My worst fears were realized. We were in the country. The country! Probably completely off the grid in a void where zip codes don't exist.

We got out of the car and I gazed up at the unfamiliar sight of stars in the sky, unbelievably bright stars, pristine in the mountain air, with nothing standing in the way of me and something billions of light years away, maybe only millions.

I woke up the next morning to a searing Van Gogh sun against a brilliant cobalt blue sky. Where there should have been a Walmart was a valley surrounded by 4,000-foot peaks. Time to check out my new neighborhood.

All the houses appeared to have be built out of box kite material, only not nearly so sturdy, seemingly wind-tossed at crazy angles. Oddly, though, the overall effect was harmonious, blending in with the rocky and hilly terrain. A straight line or level surface would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

A short walk and the houses gave way to horse farms. In contrast to the sky, the hues of the landscape were muted. The trees and vegetation here are testimonies to perseverance rather than abundance. Water is scarce, exceedingly so. Only the rocks flourish – boulders, outcrops, summits. The wind was blowing in from the desert and had a decidedly flinty tang.

Back in the old days, a wrong turn on a mule wagon spelled certain death. The Mexican border is about 10 or 15 miles away. These days, those seeking the American Dream are prepared to risk everything negotiating this treacherous northern passage.

I rounded a curve and suddenly I was the only person on this planet. Just me and splendid desolation. Any second, I expected to come across Buddhist prayer flags fluttering in the stiff breeze. Perhaps a wise Indian shaman who could tell me why the hell I was here.

Talk to me, land, I found myself saying. I felt a spiritual tug, but I was confused and out of sorts. I was badly missing the life I had just left behind, but I knew in my heart this was the place I needed to be. If any healing were to occur, it would happen here, in these mountains, where I could clear my head, establish a sense of perspective, and slowly come to terms.

But I had a major shock in store when I came back from my walk and inspected the pantry.

Hmm. Cans of refried beans (is there an air raid shelter out back?). Soup in packets (desiccated chemical nodules that no amount of super-heated water could ever satisfactorily dissolve). I mopped some beaded sweat from my brow. Rice-a-Roni, I read on one box. Something salty that claimed to be food on another. The type of cans you only see in food drives.

I already knew what was coming next. I’ve seen grown men cry over the sight, but my reaction is always one of anger and disbelief. How is such a thing possible in a world that gave us Shakespeare and Sophia Loren? I could only think. Why? But there is no logical answer to explain man’s inhumanity to man. Just the inscrutable wording on the box:

Ramen noodles!

“What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?”

But I’m a highly-trained professional and it was time to take charge. In a calm and authoritative voice I told Paul and my other housemate: “Put your hands to your sides and slowly step back from the pantry.”

Don’t worry, I assured them, demonstrating to them that the skillet I had in my hand would be used for cooking real food, assuming I could locate some. But hey, I love a challenge. It's the one thing I have in common with Jesus - I've got the loaves and fishes thing down pat.

Life is about the little things. Several days later, seven FedEx cartons containing my life arrived at my door. By now, I had the food situation under control and was preparing a chili. Priorities are priorities. I ripped open the carton containing my kitchen gear and dived in for my zester. A minute later, I was in business. Zest-zest-zest – one peel to a lime into the pot, plus the juice. Now my chili had the missing zing and zap. Now I had a real chili going. A simple kitchen implement and suddenly I felt at home. My non-zester possessions could wait for later.

To be continued ...

A Time to Heal

This is my tribute to the spirit of the holidays, shot during a hot and dry California summer.

I started producing my own videos in the spring of '08, during a time I was coping with severe burn-out. The videos helped animate me, brought me back to life. I felt a healing take place.

Until March this year, I never owned a camera. Then I bought a cheapo digital camera and took some very bad pictures of my daughter's wedding. A couple of months later, I got a decent camcorder, then FinalCut Express and I suddenly I was like a kid with new toys.

When my father was my age, bad health forced him into early retirement, a defeated man. I had a lot of my earlier years taken away from me. But here I am, making movies.

Anyway, a happy - and healing - holidays to all.

13 YouTube videos

An article on healing