The world in silent stillness lay.
For a while this early morning there was a brief power outage. And with the snow silently falling there was a peacefulness that enveloped the night. Tonight we will gather to worship and celebrate Christmas. "And on earth, peace." These words from the angel's song ring in my ears this early morning. And on earth, peace.
A Christmas card from a dear friend who has been reading my blog shared the hope that in the midst of my struggles I might find peace. I find myself pondering this in my heart.
"Unto you" this day is born a Savior. Can I believe and experience the specificity of those words "unto you"? Will the peace of which the angels sing be a peace that embraces my life? When God sends us a savior it awakens in our souls the imaginations of what salvation looks like. In my own life this bipolar experience is the context from which I long for a savior. In Bethlehem that night, words of a Savior could not be heard apart from the context of the occupation of Israel by the Roman legions. My world is occupied by another oppressive force.
This last week my brother submitted my appeal regarding my disability insurance and benefits. I had to removed myself from the whole process, as much as possible, as engagement in it, in even the slightest way, sent me into violent mood swings. Asked to provide simple background information resulted in my searching through files and in exasperation throwing them around the room. I don't usually behave that way. My wife has tried to intervene and to assist my brother so as to protect me from the roller coaster ride that this process provokes. "Unto you" this day is born a Savior.
I can't hear those words apart from my experience of being captive to this disease and the control it has over my life. The first inclination that I have is to imagine life apart from being bipolar. What would it be like to be free of this disease? Luther spoke of the difference between a theology of glory and a theology of the cross. Our first inclination, I believe, is to hope to experience a theology of glory. Victory over this disease. Being set free from our captivity. No more medications. No more violent mood swings. No more visits to that dark place in the night. No more soaring beyond reality. Just a balanced, peaceful life.
"My power is made perfect in weakness." The theology of the cross, what Luther said was the only 'true theology', acknowledges quite another reality. "Unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior." God comes to us, and encounters us, in the midst of our lives. That's what the "unto you" is about. "In the city of David" refers to the specific context in which we live and move and have our being. For me, the city of David, is bipolar. The struggles that we face are not eliminated, they are redeemed. Peace is experienced not because our 'foes' have been erased, but because in the midst of the struggle, there is God.
"O Lord, how shall I meet you, how welcome you aright?
Your people long to greet you, my hope, my heart's delight!!"
Rejoice, then, you sad-hearted,
who sit in deepest gloom.
Who mourn your joys departed
and tremble at your doom.
Despair not he is near you.
There, standing at the door,
who best can help and cheer you
and bids you weep no more.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Friday, December 18, 2015
You are there.
"If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there." (Psalm 139:8)
While in college I had a classmate who suffered from schizophrenia. One of the things he discovered and shared with me was that there was a high percentage of people with schizophrenia that were atheist. His take was that it is simply extremely difficult to believe in a God when one's life is dominated by a mental illness.
The romantic notion of body, mind, and spirit all beautifully reflecting the image of God is hard to maintain in the midst of dysfunction. At the heart of the matter is a question of identity. When I look back at my life and answer the question "Who am I?", its hard not to focus on the highs and lows that have defined my existence as one who is bipolar. My former parish put a history page on their website, and they had this to say about my time there: "During his tenure, we decided on a huge mission project, a senior living community. Pastor Dave spent endless hours planning and overseeing the building of this community, which was named Luther Park." They also remember the relationship with St. Nikolai Lutheran Church in Novgorod, Russia that I helped cultivate.
I couldn't be more pleased that these two things are seen as my legacy. However, as I deal with my own diagnosis of being bipolar I am aware that the question of who I was as a pastor is being defined by two manifestations of manic episodes that I had experienced. And though they were gracious not to write about it, I am well aware that much of my ministry there was also affected by the depression that I experienced as well. My very being is being defined by the brain chemistry that results in the highs and lows of bipolar. And I suppose that one could be content to rest in an understanding of our human experience as simply the product of the incredibly complex chemistry at play in our bodies.
And yet in the midst of it all, God is there.
My faith experience has been shaped deeply by the presence of God during the highs and lows of my life. During the manic phases of my life I have had a profound sense of a holy calling. I am not alone in that, I have heard the stories of other bipolar pastors who have had similar experiences. Though it is worthy of note, that such experiences have been defined by the psychiatric community as religious delusions, a symptom of bipolar disorder and other conditions such as schizophrenia.
And looking back at the lowest points of my life, I have been touched by God's presence there as well. When I was overcome by my depression and spiraled out of control in my drinking, nearly drinking myself to death, it was at the bottom that I experienced the redemptive hand of God. That presence came largely through the people God surrounded me with at that moment. A wife who remained by my side in spite of my being in a rage and drinking heavily. Close friends who literally picked me up off the floor and cared for me. A bishop who did not abandon me, but walked with me through that time. A psychiatrist who dropped everything he was doing to arrange a place where I could get the treatment I needed. The hand of God, present, gracious, and loving in the midst of despair.
If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
So the psalmist wrote. And so I have experienced God's presence in my life as well.
This I believe is at the core of the Christmas message. That God comes to us where we are, and there redeems our life. Yes, manic phases have shaped my life, and yet I believe that God was present in them, redeeming them. Luther Park is a reality, after all. Hundreds of people have been touched by that ministry, and thousands more will be. God is in that. And in the dying and rising that defined my own personal holy week, October 14th and 15th of 2012, God was present.
Either that, or it was all just a matter of brain chemistry.
I choose to believe it was the hand of God.
While in college I had a classmate who suffered from schizophrenia. One of the things he discovered and shared with me was that there was a high percentage of people with schizophrenia that were atheist. His take was that it is simply extremely difficult to believe in a God when one's life is dominated by a mental illness.
The romantic notion of body, mind, and spirit all beautifully reflecting the image of God is hard to maintain in the midst of dysfunction. At the heart of the matter is a question of identity. When I look back at my life and answer the question "Who am I?", its hard not to focus on the highs and lows that have defined my existence as one who is bipolar. My former parish put a history page on their website, and they had this to say about my time there: "During his tenure, we decided on a huge mission project, a senior living community. Pastor Dave spent endless hours planning and overseeing the building of this community, which was named Luther Park." They also remember the relationship with St. Nikolai Lutheran Church in Novgorod, Russia that I helped cultivate.
I couldn't be more pleased that these two things are seen as my legacy. However, as I deal with my own diagnosis of being bipolar I am aware that the question of who I was as a pastor is being defined by two manifestations of manic episodes that I had experienced. And though they were gracious not to write about it, I am well aware that much of my ministry there was also affected by the depression that I experienced as well. My very being is being defined by the brain chemistry that results in the highs and lows of bipolar. And I suppose that one could be content to rest in an understanding of our human experience as simply the product of the incredibly complex chemistry at play in our bodies.
And yet in the midst of it all, God is there.
My faith experience has been shaped deeply by the presence of God during the highs and lows of my life. During the manic phases of my life I have had a profound sense of a holy calling. I am not alone in that, I have heard the stories of other bipolar pastors who have had similar experiences. Though it is worthy of note, that such experiences have been defined by the psychiatric community as religious delusions, a symptom of bipolar disorder and other conditions such as schizophrenia.
And looking back at the lowest points of my life, I have been touched by God's presence there as well. When I was overcome by my depression and spiraled out of control in my drinking, nearly drinking myself to death, it was at the bottom that I experienced the redemptive hand of God. That presence came largely through the people God surrounded me with at that moment. A wife who remained by my side in spite of my being in a rage and drinking heavily. Close friends who literally picked me up off the floor and cared for me. A bishop who did not abandon me, but walked with me through that time. A psychiatrist who dropped everything he was doing to arrange a place where I could get the treatment I needed. The hand of God, present, gracious, and loving in the midst of despair.
If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
So the psalmist wrote. And so I have experienced God's presence in my life as well.
This I believe is at the core of the Christmas message. That God comes to us where we are, and there redeems our life. Yes, manic phases have shaped my life, and yet I believe that God was present in them, redeeming them. Luther Park is a reality, after all. Hundreds of people have been touched by that ministry, and thousands more will be. God is in that. And in the dying and rising that defined my own personal holy week, October 14th and 15th of 2012, God was present.
Either that, or it was all just a matter of brain chemistry.
I choose to believe it was the hand of God.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Souls of the Night
As evening fell last night, about 7 pm, I found myself on the couch barely able to keep my eyes open. Nothing too surprising about that as I had woke up at about 3:30 am yesterday morning, had put in a relatively full day in my shop and working on the computer, AND, 8 pm has been my normal bedtime for a while now as I'm required to get up at 4 am to commute to my new job. So, a little drowsiness in the evening is to be expected, right?
And then it dawned on me. Which pills did I take at supper? Yup. Turns out that when you take your evening medications at 6 pm, which include four different pills all of which have a side affect of making you drowsy, you are simply not going to be the life of the party for long. Surrender. Go to bed. Either that or be prepared to sleep where ever you fall.
The downside of that is waking up at 1:30 in the morning. Its now 3 am and I've already completed an estimate for a commission. An aside: I've been asked to bid a wine cellar. The capacity of it, when all the racks are built, is 1,413 bottles of wine. It probably is a good sign for my own recovery that I can now stand in such a wine cellar, and be unmoved by the vast quantity of 'the good stuff'. I built their cellar in their current home, and now have been asked to duplicate it in their new home. Lots of wine. I'm thinking its a good thing though, that this is a wine cellar and not a Scotch cellar. I'm thinking that if you had a Scotch cellar with 1,500 or so bottles of single malt, you might just be able to get intoxicated from the air in the room -- but that's just me. Thankfully, I feel quite secure in my sobriety (1,155 days and counting) and can contemplate doing this. However, the alcoholic in me thinks "Imagine it. 1,500 bottles of Scotch, a lazy boy, and a few good cigars. You'd be set for a long hard winter."
Back to the reality. I sit in silence. I listen to the night. I contemplate. I wonder how much of my life has been lived under the veil of darkness. I used to stay up late, during my drinking days this meant at times till 1 or 2 in the morning, until the Scotch had finally taken it's toll, and I could sleep. After going through treatment and now as I live in sobriety, the cycle has shifted. Early to bed, and then I wake in the middle of the night.
Random thoughts. I preached about heaven a few weeks ago. Isaiah's vision of the peaceable Kingdom was of the lion laying down with the lamb. A reconciled creation. And all the nations of the world will march into the new Jerusalem. Reconciliation, not retribution. Why is that so hard to fathom? The gates will never be closed by day, and there will be no night. What a welcoming place. The ultimate open door policy. And yet I'm struck by how many Christians are convinced that this will be an exclusive club, more about who cannot enter, than who can.
I hear the dog stirring. She sleeps in the kennel just to the left of my desk as I write. A companion in the night. I think about such faithful companionship. A sign of the grace of God that we would be blessed with a creature so equipped to offer unconditional love without fail.
Sleep. Illusive. Its been a long time since I've had a non-drug induced night's sleep. A long time. Maybe 1998, or so. Before that I walked late into the night till exhaustion set in.
I think about my family. We're at that wonderful time when our children are beginning to find their life partners. We're expecting our first grandchild. I remember one mother who prayed for the well being of her future son and daughters in law from the day her own children were born.
During the course of my ministry I sat vigil throughout the night on a number of occasions. It was Holy Time. Often it was during the last hours of the life of one of the souls in my care. Sacred space. Sacred time. At such times the silence of the darkness is like the pregnant pause as the orchestral conductor raises his baton just prior to offering the downbeat. You know that the heavenly chorus is ready to break into song, but just not yet.
In Jewish time, the day begins at sundown. Light is a gift. We move from the darkness into the light. It is fundamentally a hopeful posture.
Darkness is often seen as the foe to be overcome. We seek to avoid it. Light is good, darkness is evil. Its a primal fear within us that must kindle a fire to drive the darkness away. Much the same thing for silence. We fear it.
When I read the first Creation story, I'm struck that the first act of Creation is "Let there be light." Yet I want to step back one eternal moment and imagine. God sitting silent in the darkness, brooding over the face of the deep, and conjuring up the images of Creation. I know that the Orthodox speak of the uncreated light of God that has always surrounded his Being. And yet, the image of God, embracing the night, and reflecting on the vast variety of images that would be the Creation rings true to me. There in the night he conceived the image of a platypus. An orangutan.
There in the silence God envisioned the dolphin's graceful swimming. The flight of the eagle. The delightful dance of a young deer.
Its 4:30 am now. I contemplate whether I should make the couch my residence for the next few hours. Perhaps, I will rest. Or I could go out into the shop and work a few hours. I'm assembling some chairs for a client in San Jose. I debate whether the sound of my work would interrupt those who do sleep through the night in my house. The power screw driver has an irritating noise as it impacts the screw. No, I will not violate the silence of this night. I will lay down.
And bid adieu to the souls of the night as I wait for dawn's first light.
And then it dawned on me. Which pills did I take at supper? Yup. Turns out that when you take your evening medications at 6 pm, which include four different pills all of which have a side affect of making you drowsy, you are simply not going to be the life of the party for long. Surrender. Go to bed. Either that or be prepared to sleep where ever you fall.
The downside of that is waking up at 1:30 in the morning. Its now 3 am and I've already completed an estimate for a commission. An aside: I've been asked to bid a wine cellar. The capacity of it, when all the racks are built, is 1,413 bottles of wine. It probably is a good sign for my own recovery that I can now stand in such a wine cellar, and be unmoved by the vast quantity of 'the good stuff'. I built their cellar in their current home, and now have been asked to duplicate it in their new home. Lots of wine. I'm thinking its a good thing though, that this is a wine cellar and not a Scotch cellar. I'm thinking that if you had a Scotch cellar with 1,500 or so bottles of single malt, you might just be able to get intoxicated from the air in the room -- but that's just me. Thankfully, I feel quite secure in my sobriety (1,155 days and counting) and can contemplate doing this. However, the alcoholic in me thinks "Imagine it. 1,500 bottles of Scotch, a lazy boy, and a few good cigars. You'd be set for a long hard winter."
Back to the reality. I sit in silence. I listen to the night. I contemplate. I wonder how much of my life has been lived under the veil of darkness. I used to stay up late, during my drinking days this meant at times till 1 or 2 in the morning, until the Scotch had finally taken it's toll, and I could sleep. After going through treatment and now as I live in sobriety, the cycle has shifted. Early to bed, and then I wake in the middle of the night.
Random thoughts. I preached about heaven a few weeks ago. Isaiah's vision of the peaceable Kingdom was of the lion laying down with the lamb. A reconciled creation. And all the nations of the world will march into the new Jerusalem. Reconciliation, not retribution. Why is that so hard to fathom? The gates will never be closed by day, and there will be no night. What a welcoming place. The ultimate open door policy. And yet I'm struck by how many Christians are convinced that this will be an exclusive club, more about who cannot enter, than who can.
I hear the dog stirring. She sleeps in the kennel just to the left of my desk as I write. A companion in the night. I think about such faithful companionship. A sign of the grace of God that we would be blessed with a creature so equipped to offer unconditional love without fail.
Sleep. Illusive. Its been a long time since I've had a non-drug induced night's sleep. A long time. Maybe 1998, or so. Before that I walked late into the night till exhaustion set in.
I think about my family. We're at that wonderful time when our children are beginning to find their life partners. We're expecting our first grandchild. I remember one mother who prayed for the well being of her future son and daughters in law from the day her own children were born.
During the course of my ministry I sat vigil throughout the night on a number of occasions. It was Holy Time. Often it was during the last hours of the life of one of the souls in my care. Sacred space. Sacred time. At such times the silence of the darkness is like the pregnant pause as the orchestral conductor raises his baton just prior to offering the downbeat. You know that the heavenly chorus is ready to break into song, but just not yet.
In Jewish time, the day begins at sundown. Light is a gift. We move from the darkness into the light. It is fundamentally a hopeful posture.
Darkness is often seen as the foe to be overcome. We seek to avoid it. Light is good, darkness is evil. Its a primal fear within us that must kindle a fire to drive the darkness away. Much the same thing for silence. We fear it.
When I read the first Creation story, I'm struck that the first act of Creation is "Let there be light." Yet I want to step back one eternal moment and imagine. God sitting silent in the darkness, brooding over the face of the deep, and conjuring up the images of Creation. I know that the Orthodox speak of the uncreated light of God that has always surrounded his Being. And yet, the image of God, embracing the night, and reflecting on the vast variety of images that would be the Creation rings true to me. There in the night he conceived the image of a platypus. An orangutan.
There in the silence God envisioned the dolphin's graceful swimming. The flight of the eagle. The delightful dance of a young deer.
Its 4:30 am now. I contemplate whether I should make the couch my residence for the next few hours. Perhaps, I will rest. Or I could go out into the shop and work a few hours. I'm assembling some chairs for a client in San Jose. I debate whether the sound of my work would interrupt those who do sleep through the night in my house. The power screw driver has an irritating noise as it impacts the screw. No, I will not violate the silence of this night. I will lay down.
And bid adieu to the souls of the night as I wait for dawn's first light.
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Fragility
'Twas a simple question, really. It should have been no big deal.
My brother is preparing the appeal of my denial of disability benefits. He needed some simple facts, such as, "What was your salary when you became disabled?"
I would speculate that a 'normal' person would respond to that question by taking a couple of minutes, looking up the information, and sending it off. Done.
However, for me, it simply ruined my day. The instant I saw the note with the request that was being made I went over the cliff. I had been feeling quite good. My wife had observed that when we went out to dinner with the kids the night before it seemed that I was doing better than I had in a long time. "How much did you make?" And then the spiral down began.
To get the information was one of the most labored tasks I've undertaken in a long time. I had to go through some files to put my hands on the documentation. And with every page I turned, a negative memory was brought to mind and I spiraled deeper into depression. I would complete a small step of the process and have to go out for a smoke. My smoke breaks were punctuated by collapsing on the couch, unable to find the motivation to complete the task.
And then another 'old foe' came to call. PTSD. Or as I prefer to call my iteration of it, Post Traumatic Church Disorder. Every negative experience I've had with the Church came rushing to the fore. One voice within my head said "You're making a mountain out of a molehill. The Church cares about you and will do what is right." Another voice said "Fool! Whenever the chips were down the Church has screwed you in the past, why, why, would you possibly even consider that the Church would do anything different now?"
Not only did I imagine that all appeals would be denied, but I imagined that the Church would determine it was a mistake in the first place to give me the disability benefits and DEMAND that they be repaid. And given the fact that there is no way that I could repay the three years of income that I had received, they, as in the Church that I have loved and served throughout my life, would seize my house and pensions and I would be destitute.
Then my survival instincts kicked in. Run! Spare yourself the risk of the fight, and flee! Drop the appeal, and simply divorce yourself from the Church. Rebuild your life centered on something more stable and just than the Church which has been so capricious and cruel.
My guess is that a normal person probably would not react this way to that simple question, "How much did you make?"
My brother is preparing the appeal of my denial of disability benefits. He needed some simple facts, such as, "What was your salary when you became disabled?"
I would speculate that a 'normal' person would respond to that question by taking a couple of minutes, looking up the information, and sending it off. Done.
However, for me, it simply ruined my day. The instant I saw the note with the request that was being made I went over the cliff. I had been feeling quite good. My wife had observed that when we went out to dinner with the kids the night before it seemed that I was doing better than I had in a long time. "How much did you make?" And then the spiral down began.
To get the information was one of the most labored tasks I've undertaken in a long time. I had to go through some files to put my hands on the documentation. And with every page I turned, a negative memory was brought to mind and I spiraled deeper into depression. I would complete a small step of the process and have to go out for a smoke. My smoke breaks were punctuated by collapsing on the couch, unable to find the motivation to complete the task.
And then another 'old foe' came to call. PTSD. Or as I prefer to call my iteration of it, Post Traumatic Church Disorder. Every negative experience I've had with the Church came rushing to the fore. One voice within my head said "You're making a mountain out of a molehill. The Church cares about you and will do what is right." Another voice said "Fool! Whenever the chips were down the Church has screwed you in the past, why, why, would you possibly even consider that the Church would do anything different now?"
Not only did I imagine that all appeals would be denied, but I imagined that the Church would determine it was a mistake in the first place to give me the disability benefits and DEMAND that they be repaid. And given the fact that there is no way that I could repay the three years of income that I had received, they, as in the Church that I have loved and served throughout my life, would seize my house and pensions and I would be destitute.
Then my survival instincts kicked in. Run! Spare yourself the risk of the fight, and flee! Drop the appeal, and simply divorce yourself from the Church. Rebuild your life centered on something more stable and just than the Church which has been so capricious and cruel.
My guess is that a normal person probably would not react this way to that simple question, "How much did you make?"
Saturday, December 5, 2015
Grizzly bears are real
We have an issue with our very cute labradoodle, Kinzie. Every time we let her out into the back yard she immediately starts barking, warning the world that this is her territory, and defending our home and family against all the potential threats. From a dogs perspective this is necessary behavior. Writ large in their DNA is the awareness that there are creatures out there, like grizzly bears, that are a real threat. And so there is this conversation that takes place. "Kinzie, quit barking, there's nothing out there." And in her doggy way she responds, "But there could be! I must be vigilant and keep you safe!"
The problem is that in addition to her DNA that hard wires her to try to protect and defend us from all harm, there are in fact real monsters out there and she knows it. A few weeks back as I went out to again try and quiet her barking I realized that this time there WERE "monsters" out there. She was in the midst of chasing away from our back fence the three moose that frequent our neighborhood at this time of year. In her mind, this validates all the barking, and her vigilant efforts to keep us safe. Moose are real. Grizzly bears are real. You must always be on guard. Never rest.
As I deal with being bipolar, there are times when I feel like I'm becoming much more like Kinzie than I care to admit. The slightest twinge of depression sounds an alarm. Am I going over the edge? How long will this last? How deep will I go?
And then at other times, when I start feeling well, when optimism creeps in, when the world seems to be opening up with possibilities, I tend to brace myself wondering if a manic phase is on the way. Will it be manageable? Will it be a pleasant productive 'high', or is it headed toward a psychotic departure from reality?
An inner voice barks incessantly at the back fence warning of the threats of the highs and lows that goes with the disease. Depression has come close to taking my life. Manic phases have cost us, and the Church, a lot of money, among other things. These are not imaginary monsters, I've experienced them. Like the moose in the back yard, they have been present. They are real. But not necessarily on this day.
Case in point: I got a call yesterday. Simple call. An inquiry about whether I'd be willing to make a wine cellar for a client. I had helped make a wine cellar for them numerous years ago, and now they are building a new house, and need a new cellar. No big deal. Now I'm actually working as a woodworker, not a pastor, so why does the inner dog start barking at the back fence to ward off the potential threats.
Well, its the thought process. My mind starts racing. Time to buy that new thickness planer that will be so helpful in completing this project. I'll do this differently so as to realize a substantial profit. I've finally turned the corner. There is now no limit to the possibilities. Hard work has paid off. Now is the time, go for it.
On the other hand, its simply a commission. I'll charge for the materials and receive compensation for my time. And no, its not necessary to go out and retool for this to be profitable. Just do the work. Receive the pay. And move on.
Yet manic and depressive episodes are real threats. I think that I'm more capable today of recognizing when my thoughts and mood swing into either manic or depressed thinking patterns. I recognize most of the time that there is a difference between what is happening in my head, and the reality of what is really out there. And yet I find myself behaving like Kinzie. Barking at the back fence to ward off the threat of a monster that is in fact, not there. Today, its not a manic episode. Its not a deep depression. Its simply the ups and downs of normal life.
The problem is that in addition to her DNA that hard wires her to try to protect and defend us from all harm, there are in fact real monsters out there and she knows it. A few weeks back as I went out to again try and quiet her barking I realized that this time there WERE "monsters" out there. She was in the midst of chasing away from our back fence the three moose that frequent our neighborhood at this time of year. In her mind, this validates all the barking, and her vigilant efforts to keep us safe. Moose are real. Grizzly bears are real. You must always be on guard. Never rest.
As I deal with being bipolar, there are times when I feel like I'm becoming much more like Kinzie than I care to admit. The slightest twinge of depression sounds an alarm. Am I going over the edge? How long will this last? How deep will I go?
And then at other times, when I start feeling well, when optimism creeps in, when the world seems to be opening up with possibilities, I tend to brace myself wondering if a manic phase is on the way. Will it be manageable? Will it be a pleasant productive 'high', or is it headed toward a psychotic departure from reality?
An inner voice barks incessantly at the back fence warning of the threats of the highs and lows that goes with the disease. Depression has come close to taking my life. Manic phases have cost us, and the Church, a lot of money, among other things. These are not imaginary monsters, I've experienced them. Like the moose in the back yard, they have been present. They are real. But not necessarily on this day.
Case in point: I got a call yesterday. Simple call. An inquiry about whether I'd be willing to make a wine cellar for a client. I had helped make a wine cellar for them numerous years ago, and now they are building a new house, and need a new cellar. No big deal. Now I'm actually working as a woodworker, not a pastor, so why does the inner dog start barking at the back fence to ward off the potential threats.
Well, its the thought process. My mind starts racing. Time to buy that new thickness planer that will be so helpful in completing this project. I'll do this differently so as to realize a substantial profit. I've finally turned the corner. There is now no limit to the possibilities. Hard work has paid off. Now is the time, go for it.
On the other hand, its simply a commission. I'll charge for the materials and receive compensation for my time. And no, its not necessary to go out and retool for this to be profitable. Just do the work. Receive the pay. And move on.
Yet manic and depressive episodes are real threats. I think that I'm more capable today of recognizing when my thoughts and mood swing into either manic or depressed thinking patterns. I recognize most of the time that there is a difference between what is happening in my head, and the reality of what is really out there. And yet I find myself behaving like Kinzie. Barking at the back fence to ward off the threat of a monster that is in fact, not there. Today, its not a manic episode. Its not a deep depression. Its simply the ups and downs of normal life.
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