It was in fairy-stories that I first divined the potency of the words, and the wonder of the things, such as stone, and wood, and iron; tree and grass; house and fire; bread and wine.--Tolkien 

(Edit: This is a reposting from another blog I was writing.)
 Tomorrow is Hobbit Day, September 22nd.  It is celebrated by many Lord of the Rings fans, because it is the birthday of both Bilbo Baggins and Frodo Baggins.   (Tolkien scholars, argue that it ought to be about 10 days earlier, because the Gregorian Calendar and the calendar of the hobbits do not quite match.)

Fans celebrate the day in their own ways.  For me, I like to begin rereading the book on this day.  I do it every year. This year, I'm also going to do watch the extended versions of the film.

Why do I do this every year?

Lord of the Rings forever changed the course of my life. In many ways, it is the reason I have faith in God. When I was 13 years old, I struggled through the book for the first time.  I nearly gave up during The Fellowship of the Ring, because the story begins by lingering on birthday parties and the blissfully naive inhabitants of the Shire; and then there is so much attention to detail of each hill and valley, flower and tree, and many references to historical figures of the world, and so much poetry.  But, I endeavored into the Mines of Moria, felt the crush of loss when Gandalf died and then stepped into fairy-country, Lothlorien.  My wounds, like the wounds of the characters were healed, and I first felt the stirrings of wonder.

I no longer struggled to read the book, I couldn't stop.  I had become immersed in the world. When the last page was completed, I cried. Even at 13 years old I knew that I had been part of something special. I didn't just read a good book, I had entered into a fairy-story and one does not leave the realm unchanged.

I looked upon trees with a new found respect and perhaps even a reverence.  On car rides, I would look upon a woods and try to determine if it was an ancient woods, like that of Fangorn, a magical wood like that of Lorien, or something more sinister, like that of Mirkwood or The Old Forest.

What I remember most about reading the book for the first time and for a time after was that it was a time of true Joy. There was an intense happiness that was fleshy and wholly of this world, I felt both a more solid part of the this world, and as if I had been let in on a secret of the truly privileged.  The secret though, was bittersweet.  I had glimpsed what at the time I could only call Heaven,  I was certain that in Heaven I would have eternity to walk through middle-earth and meet the many characters of its world, it felt like I had really come home, but each day that passed the feeling of being at home lessened and I yearned for it more.  Until, one day all that was left was a memory of having at one time felt at home.

C.S. Lewis described the sensation as Sehnsucht, an inconsolable longing, a memory for a far-off country-a place we all seem to know, but can't recall.  I feel that memory was real, Middle Earth may be Tolkien's creating, but in his creation, he awakened memories of something wonderful.  I mean that both as something exquisite and as something full of wonder and fantastic things. It was that moment of Sehnsucht, that would not go away, in college I wanted to feel smart and so I scoffed at people of faith and tried my hardest to be athiest, but I could never quite commit, because of a memory I had of a far-off country.

What Lord of the Rings did for me, is exactly what a good fairy-story should do, according to Tolkien.  In his essay, "On Fairy Stories," Tolkien, tired of people postulating that fairy-tales were for kids and of lesser merit than other forms of literature, described what a good fairy-story does:

• Creates a secondary-world that both the creator and reader can enter.
• It offers a recovery of our senses--it helps us protect us from looking at the world with triteness
• It provides a temporary escape from industrialization
• It offers consolation--in other words it has a happy ending and provides us hope.

I have found and continue to find all of Tolkien's criteria of a good fairy story in his own work.  This is the main reason each year I return to the books.  I know enough now, that I probably will not experience Sehnsucht from the rereading.  As Lewis describes, the harder one tries to capture the feeling the less likely one is to find it; however, every year find new appreciation for the story and I receive the benefits of escape, recovery, and consolation.

I believe these are important aspects of a quality life and so I do not feel guilty for spending a day in front of the television watching eleven hours and 21 minutes of film, once a year.  I don't feel bad for setting aside other books I might want to read, to reread this one.  I revel in the frivolity of celebrating the birthdays of Bilbo and Frodo.  Recreation or re-creation is considered an important part of a quality life according to Aristotle as well, who knows.  If he had read Lord of the Rings he might have had a little hobbit day tradition too.

The Meaning of Life?

What is the meaning of life? 

Is it as Douglas Adam's suggests?

Perhaps the answer in Monty Python's The Meaning of Life sounds more appropriate:

 "Try and be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book every now and then, get some walking in, and try and live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations." 

Or, maybe Nietzsche has it pegged--there is no meaning...

I'm not really looking to solve the answer to the big question in this post. I will say, that I certainly hope Nietzsche isn't right.  I tried being a Nihilist once, this dude didn't care for it. 

Some might argue, that asking if there is a meaning to life is a pointless endeavor.  We all die. Our best laid plans get wiped out for no apparent reason.  Fragility is brutal, it makes one want to ask, "why bother?"  Such questions come readily to mind during set backs and time's of tragedy.  It is an ever running theme in the midst of depression.  What is the point in trying to live a meaningful life?  Why search for happiness if a chemical imbalance, an injury, or an uncaring force of nature can take it all away?

I continue to ask the question for one reason only, "I have hope." Hope in a purpose, both in this life and for an afterlife.  I have hope that I can have some say in the events of my life and the choices I make can lead to a quality life. 

 Is a quality of life possible? 

 Is there meaning? 

 Can we choose happiness?

I'm going to start my quest for capturing lightning in a bottle by acting as if all three questions can be answered with a "yes." 

During the course of my quest I will be reading and studying a variety of thinkers that have attempted to answer these questions.  Perhaps, in the exploration I will find patterns that hint at Truth. I plan on looking at philosophers, psychologists, theologists, and anyone else that find that seems to have put some thought into these questions at first only summarizing the main points, as my knowledge of the ideas grows and I feel I have enough information I will move to evaluating the ideas put forth and possibly putting some of them into practice or dismiss them if they seem ineffective or contrary to my goals.

Small Victories

“Victory is won not in miles but in inches. Win a little now, hold your ground, and later, win a little more.” ~Louis L'Armour

Self-improvement can be a daunting task, especially in the midst of depression. I look at all the self-improvement gurus filling the book shelves of the local book store, I see the vast number of blogs and websites devoted to self-improvement projects.  The experts come from a myriad of backgrounds--some had the advantage of being driven and disciplined from the get go and they simply share what works for them, others had to hit rock bottom and crawl their way to the top.  I'm in the latter category.

If you were to take a snap shot of my life right now, you might rule me out as a failure. I'm overweight obese.  I'm on medications for depression and anxiety.  I'm unemployed. Yet, I am comfortable talking about and sharing self-improvement with anyone that will listen.

Why?

Self-improvement/lifestyle change is all about the small victories.  Small victories can win battles over time.  The key is recognizing when you have gained ground and understand that now you have to hold it.

This is where I place myself in the picture, three months ago I was drowning in depression.   The slightest interruption to my day could bury me.  I felt so fragile, so completely helpless.  I once started out a day with the ambition to clean house only to discover that we were out of garbage bags, it was as if someone had knocked on my door, pointed to a body in the road and asked me, "Is that your dog?"  Instead of getting in the car and going to the store for more bags, I spent the rest of the day laying on the couch, wondering how I was going to make it until bedtime.

Between then and now many battles have been waged, I've won more than I've lost.  I steadily gain ground, even if on occasion I have had to give some.

I began my fighting back with a whimper. I said I felt fragile, nothing could describe the feeling more accurately. I loaded my iPod with new age music and meditations.  I sought out the doctor and took, Xanax, Paxil, and Zoloft every day.  I avoid confrontation and expectations and I began researching ways to overcome depression.

I have a background in education and I recalled Maslow's "Hierarchy of Needs".  He basically says that before a person can move on to the higher levels of living-the needs of the body must be met first.  This seemed to make sense, as most of the advice seemed to call for exercise.  So this is where I began.

I waited for my medicine to kick in, took my iPod full of relaxing music and made my way to a local gym. I found a treadmill and started it on its lowest setting and I walked.  The next day I did the same.  And the next and the next.  I had begun the battle, although I wouldn't have described it as such yet.  I still hadn't discovered I had enemies.  I felt more as if I was trying to remain afloat.

The thing about treadmills and calm music is that it allows your mind to wander.  One day, my mind happened to wonder to ancient Greece.  I had been thinking about an article I had read from a blog called Aristotle & Achilles, the author writes, in his about page, that we all have a little of Aristotle and a little of Achilles within us. I had been reading up on Aristotle, because I wanted to learn about "The Good Life".  I was hoping to save myself through an understanding of the principals that wisdom would suggest leads to a quality life.  I had not thought about Achilles or a warrior aspect.

Treading on that mill, I saw myself as a grey-haired prisoner.  I philosopher locked away, whispering, "I know what the good life is, I just can't live it locked away in here." I wasn't alone though, not if I also had an Achilles within.  Long ago, I had hidden my Achilles side a way.  Achilles is brash, he says things that would get a person in trouble, hardly a person you would highlight as a figure of civility.  In other words, I was embarrassed by the notion of being uncivil and had long ago abandoned aggressive thoughts. In return, when my personal internal enemies appeared, I was left to defend myself with nothing but a philosopher.

But, like any good hero, when I finally realized I needed him, he came to the rescue.  My enemies were put at bay, the philosopher was set free and I realize I have a team of personas to help me live a quality life.  One, a philosopher to help me peer into the questions of a higher matter, the other, a warrior, to kick ass whenever an enemy rears it's ugly head.  And so the war has begun, and I continue to both gain ground when I can, and hold my own when needed.

Living with Depression

For those that are fortunate enough to never experience chronic depression it may be difficult to understand why people choose anti-depressants or drugs to try and cope with the experience.  People that hear you suffer from depression want to help; they offer great advice, like exercise more or get out and do something with other people.

 It is true; these things help, but for someone suffering from depression an act like getting out  of the house is more than a point a to point b action.  The idea seems simple enough.  Exercise will make you feel better.  It is true; but, the struggle to get one’s self out the door or to the gym can sometimes seem insurmountable.  It is like a pneumonia patient that needs antibiotics, the catch is the pneumonia patient first needs to make the antibiotics on their own.

Trying to describe depression is difficult, until we find a way to directly input emotions from one person to another, our best tool is metaphor.  This is my attempt to describe it.

The Depression Trap

Imagine a person that in a freezing rectangular room.  There room has two doors in it one on each far end of the rectangle.  There is a large chasm in the middle of the room.  The person is sitting on one side of the room and next to that person is one of the doors.  This door leads to a fiery room, but it has no exit.   The chasm lies between the person and the second door.  This door leads to the outside world.  People can come and go from it as they please.  This includes the person in the freezing room, except the chasm in their path.  On the same side of the chasm as the person there is a large box full of tools and parts of all sorts.  

The room is freezing and the person trapped on the far side of the chasm would love to get to the other side and leave the freezing room.  The person can see the exit and knows that in order to get out of the room they simply have to walk out the door on the other side.  The problem is the chasm.  There is no obvious way to cross it.  The longer the person stays in the freezing room the worse it becomes. The cold leads to painful frost bite and hypothermia.  They slow down, the desire to just fall asleep becomes overwhelming.

The person so desperately wants relief and assesses their options:

·         Option 1: Find a way across the chasm and leave.

·         Option 2: Go into the fiery room to warm up, even though it doesn’t offer escape and too long in the room will burn them up.

·         Option 3: Lie down and accept they are trapped, hoping someone comes to rescue them.

·         Option 4: Dive into the chasm so as not to prolong the pain.

Any sane person would argue that option 1 is the best option.  The person in the room is a sane person too and obviously wants to follow option 1, but as the freeze continues to suck the life out of the person’s body the person becomes more desperate and the other options appear more and more rational.

Let’s say the person is still desires option 1.  They look around and they find the box filled with tools and assorted parts.  The box is labeled “For crossing chasms”.   The person looks inside.  There are gloves and all the tools and parts needed to assemble a bridge that would cross the chasm.  Some people might quickly grab for the gloves to help alleviate the pain and protect from frost bite.  Others might avoid them thinking the gloves will restrict their ability to manipulate the small parts needed to build the bridge.  It is a tough choice, but one that has to be made.  In either case, the person starts to build the bridge knowing the longer it takes the tougher it becomes.  

Bridge building in such conditions is frustrating, some people give up, some decide to take a break and go to the fiery room, some never return, others do return, but find it harder and harder to return to the cold.  Sometimes someone will come along from the outside and see the person struggling to get across the chasm.  The best help comes from those that have been in the same position and can share how they build the bridge despite the freezing cold, others shout advice to what they think is an obvious solution, and unfortunately some don’t even see the chasm and simply wonder why the person doesn’t simple walk out the door like they do. 

In the end, either the person finds a way to build the bridge on their own or they succumb to one of the other options.  This is the world of depression.  It is a freezing room with a chasm that a person must cross on their own if they want to enter the normal world.

Clarifying The Metaphor

The gloves represent anti-depressants.  I still don't know where I stand with these.  I am currently taking them.  Only time will tell if they give me enough relief to build the bridge or if they actually muffle the senses too much and make it impossible to build.  All I know, is right now I feel I need them, but I want to take them off as soon as possible.

Option 2 represents the relief offered by drugs and alcohol. I know that alcohol is often a welcome relief to my own pains (both physical and emotional), but I recognize that it is a temporary relief and not an escape and the more I enter that room the harder it is to leave, because the contrast  between the heat and the cold of depression becomes even greater.

Option 3 is a temporary option, a sort of limbo before they finally give into one of the other options.

Option 4 is of course, suicide--the most permanent option that sadly some people choose.  I have experienced options 2 and 3 and intend to never experience option 4.  I am fortunate, I haven’t suffered the freeze long enough that I no longer consider option 1.  I want to be one of those that crosses the chasm.  This blog, is my attempt at building the bridge.

If you are like me and on this side of the chasm, perhaps we can work together and you will join me on this project.  If you have crossed the chasm and have advice based on experience I welcome your wisdom.  If you have never been on this side of the chasm, perhaps you know someone that is and reading about our experiences can help you better understand what others experience.  I hope you join me as I make my way across the chasm.

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Daddy's Boy

Phew! The way things are going I didn't think I would ever get to write in here again. Seems like there has been a lot of drama in my life as of late and gosh darn it, I'm gonna vent and talk about the good things.

1. How long must a ceremony last before it is considered a solemn event? Is a one hour graduation ceremony really and less reverent and significant to a student body of less than a hundred students? I'm a teacher and it delights me to see my students graduate, especially knowing the trials and tribulations of some of the students that I have had the privilege to teach, but come on, three hours?

I'm not sure which was worse, the 20 minutes it took for each of the 80 some students to file into the gym-step, hold, hold, hold, step, hold, hold, hold, step... (you get the picture?) Or, was it the 25 minute long key speech that no one could here. I'm going to give the speaker the benefit of the doubt and assume he had some really wonderful words of wisdom that he was sharing, but with only being able to hear one string of words every two minutes, the effect was of listening to a drunken old man telling a story about back in his day when he is just at the edge of passing out. "You kids, murmur, grumble, mumble, blah, blah, blah, blah, mumble, grunt, snort, blah, blah, and another thing. blah, blah, blah...." (again, getting the picture) Or, maybe it half hour listing of every single scholarship the students received, or ...I don't know the back of my black cap had become exceedingly interesting at this point and I don't really know what happened after that.

2. Parents need to stop enabling failure in their kids. When a teacher calls up a parent and says, "your child is not performing and if this continues they will not be able to graduate." The parent ought to be asking how they can help. I have student trying to give me every excuse in the book for their child.

"If he's tired let him sleep all day. "

"He's hungry, let him leave in the middle of class and go to McDonald's he'll work better. "

"I thought your program is self-paced, so why are you picking on my daughter?"

Yes, mam, my program is self-paced, but that does require a pace and not stagnation. If your student sits six months in the program and is no closer to graduation than they were six months ago how do you think that is going to help them graduate. Showing your student that if they need to complete forty-four credits to graduate and they get only one every six months it will take them 22 years to meet those requirements hardly constitutes picking on a student. Unless, objective mathematical proofs have suddenly become offensive.

Okay, enough venting. Now for the good stuff. The picture of the tough guy above. That's Daddy's Boy, sorry Mom. I probably shouldn't let it inflate my ego, but in a room full of people, including Mom, Baby Boy needs to know where I'm at and needs to be held by me. Sometimes his zeal to hang out with Dad is a challenge, like when I'm trying to cook. If I'm standing in the kitchen, he has his arms wrapped around my leg and his head is tilted back and he cries until I pick him up. I usually try to carry him over to Mom, so she can hold him and I can get back to cooking, but he drops right out of her lap and comes back to me. It's not easy getting the meals done, but I love it and wouldn't want to change it.

We got to go to the zoo again last weekend. Baby Boy got to hang out with his cousins, Trey and The Princess. Trey is 6 months older, and is going to have the nickname whether my sister and her hubby like it or not, my father will see to it. The Princess is five and is going to be called that in this blog, because she loves her Disney princesses. The boys rode in Baby Boy's wagon throughout the trip and got along well. The Princess was a big girl and walked almost the whole way. The only time she didn't was when I asked her to keep an eye on her baby cousin. She only conceded to ride in the wagon as a favor to Baby Boy. I think the highlight of the trip was the butterfly exhibit. The zoo has a wonderful exhibit filled with butterflies. Trey tried climbing everything and anything that brought him closer to the butterflies. Baby Boy was most interested in digging in the dirt around the vegetation. The Princess showed remarkable patience and held still until a butterfly landed on her. She wasn't about to leave until one did.

A Kiss For Your Thoughts

I don't get a chance to update this site as much as I would like, because I have a commitment to doing a daily update at step-family talk and I usually can't get any more than that post written before work starts. I am enjoying writing for the site as it gives me much of the same opportunities that this site offers. I get to write about being a father. I'm still trying to find my feet over there. I've been trying to figure out how I'm going to write five posts a week about step-parenting.

I've been doing lots of reading on the subject and the sad fact is, there isn't much advice out there. Truly I could some up almost all of it very quickly: The bioparent should do the disciplining, don't push to have your stepchildren call you mom or dad, establish a good relationhip as a friend and mentor-especially if they are older, authority can be earned, but only after a good deal of time, it takes time for children to come to terms with their bioparents separation, make your relationship with your spouse the first priority. OR...love your spouse, love your kids, and give everything lots of time. All of the advice and papers out there are just variations of when I listed above.

How many ways can you rewrite the above information? So, I started yesterday with what really amounts to a reflective journal that will hopefully become a year in the life of a stepdad. I think I and anyone that actually reads the posts will learn more by experience and reflection than by re-reading the same old regurgitated advice.

So, what does the above picture have to do with this post? I just like the picture. It was taken by Big Sis and it shows how much she loves her brother. And, I like Baby Boy's pose. I love how he isn't looking directly at the camera. He looks as if he is okay with the kiss, but there are more important things to be thinking about. And, it shows off his dimples.