There is something compelling about wild flowers. They dot the roadside and some of the fields with simplistic beauty. Many of the species of wildflowers at some point in the season become weeds. Depending on where they are found some folks may make every effort to kill them or mow them down.

I can identify with wildflowers. In the brighter and more colorful part of my season the blooms can be inspiring and even creative. Just as the wildflower I have cycles that determine how I am viewed and how I view my own behavior. There seems to be a period directly before I develop hypo manic behaviors in which my right brain kicks into gear and the natural part of me is creative and can occasionally create beautiful images.   Like wildflowers, I may then turn into a weed. It may require that I take medication to keep the weeds from overtaking me.

Some folks in our culture strive for neatly displayed annual and perennial flowers and they work hard to eradicate weeds. They forget the simplest of the blooms of the wildflower and dismiss the season of beautiful flowers. The weeds are pulled out and toxins are used to kill the plant. In a similar manner our culture is not welcoming of the hypo manic behaviors and they may even be apprehensive that we will get out of control and overtake their orderly and neatly organized life. These same folks may support the use of harmful medications to keep life orderly, ordinary and safe for them.

 Just a stones throw down our terracotta red dirt road is an old shell of a home. The land owners have built a new house to rear of their acreage but saw fit to leave this abandon bungalow for those of us who engage in pondering. The old home is full of images and memories of another time. The outside is a muted shade of gold with vines growing all around and even inside out.  The busted window panes allow the light from the north, east and west and south to flood the center of the floor with warmth from all directions. The roof is chipping away and has patches of moss here and there.

I pause ever so often to look at the house and imagine the experiences of the old farm family that resided inside. The gate is locked so they can let their cattle graze throughout the pasture. My shyness keeps me from approaching the homeowners to ask for a closer look at the old house. For now I remain content to look from the road. It may also be that I’m not ready to let go of my idealized version of the house for fear that the vines are really poison ivy and that the inside of the house is smelly and decayed.

It would be easy to see this as a run down shack in need of demolition. But as I get older I identify with these structures and ponder the history they provide. I love how their function has long since faded away but the crusty old dwelling remains.  The house reminds me of my experience with depression when I was only the slight image of a vacant shell. I would find myself numb and absent of feelings and thoughts with the inside of me decaying and smelly. There were no warm inviting images of those days but only a whimpering structure with the lights turned off.

As for now, the lights are turned on and my voice is strong. I have a healthy respect for the power of depression and keep a daily vigil to watch my footsteps so I will not fall back into the desperate well of darkness. How pleased I am that I can find the words to describe what it is like to be depressed but remain in this very moment of wellness.

The huge trees that dot the pastures and roadway near my home provide life lessons that fill my eyes with varying shades of green after an overnight rain. As I approach the old country church cemetery on Route 65 there is a full growth of trees that has grown together to form an arch. When the sun is behind the clouds there is a bit of apprehension as I drive the quarter of a mile through the emerald green growth. I wonder if I will be lost in trees or if the archway will close with me in it. But when the sun is brilliant, bright and glistening, the rays shine through making a vibrant kaleidoscope of glorious green colors that tickles my eyes and brightens my spirit. I take a number of deep breathes at the end of the expanse of trees. I smile and look to the sky.

The archway of trees reminds me of the experience of tunnel vision that occurs when I am depressed. It is as though I have blinders on and can only see the world through a tunnel. I learn from the archway of trees to prepare for the changes that come along with the depression.  During the darkest depressions the tunnel becomes smaller and closes in on me. The visual distortions change my perception of the world and how the word views me. But when I am no longer depressed I once again become part of nature and marvel at the beauty of the trees.

To have the illness bipolar means there are times when I have a sense of awkwardness. I have questions and wonder why I am not ordinary and why my life’s purpose seems blurred and fleeting. I retreat to my stories and walk in the pasture chewing on a blade of grass. The sweetness of the grass and the stories in my minds eye come forward and for that time, I am at peace.

There is a Native American tradition called shape shifting. It is a practice that demonstrates the connection and belief   that we are all related. In this story there is a dove named Grace whose challenge in life was to learn the meaning of shape shifting and find her purpose.   

                                 Grace the Dove

 There once was a young dove named Grace. The creator saw fit for her to learn the meaning of shape shifting. Grace was an inpatient creature with stubby tail feathers.  She longed to soar in the sky with other winged ones but her “stubbiness” made such flights far too risky.  She would pout and grumble when other doves were on the roof.  She asked each one why she was the only dove to flop from one roof top to another. They had no answers; they only knew the joy of flying.  One day Grace approached the Creator and asked why she had stubs instead of a full set of tail feathers.  The creator said “there is no particular reason it is just how you were made”.

Grace changed from whinny to demanding and defiant.  “Now see here Creator, I deserve a fully functionally set of tail feathers”. Creator was quiet and then turned to Grace. and said, “ I made you the way you are, but does that mean you are stuck that way?” “Am I the only one that can fix you?” The creator began to walk away and said, “I gave you a precious gift, I named you Grace.”

The dove said back,” I have no grace, all I can do is flop and I have been given no special gifts”.  The Creators final words to Grace were delivered with a quiet reassurance, “maybe you can consider shape shifting”.  Grace was far too frustrated to respond to the creator and was insulted that she would have to do the job on her own.

The next morning Grace sat on the roof watching as a flock of geese flew by in such an impressive formation.  One guy goose landed and asked Grace why she seemed so sad. “Sad, she screeched, I am furious”!  “I asked for a simple tweaking of my tail feathers and the creator lectures me about shape shifting.” The goose felt sorry for Grace and said, “I know who can help you, there is an old brown owl down at the end of the street and behind the shed”.

The next morning it took Grace until noon to wobble her way and find the owl.  Owl had few words for Grace, especially with her attitude; until owl saw a tear in her eye and heard her say,  “What use am I, a dove who only flops and will never belong to my clan, they never wait on me and some even laugh at my tail fathers.”  Owl responded with a message of hope,” how do you think there came to be owls?” 

“We do not fly that much, we sit, we look around and we ponder great mysteries. Other creatures come to us for our wisdom and to get answers to questions”, said owl. Grace seemed puzzled and asked, “Do you mean you were once a dove with stubby tail feathers”?  “No,” said Owl, “I just mean we did a shape shift in our spirit so we could be of some purpose and feel like we belong.”

Grace proudly strutted back to her roof top taking with her the wisdom from owl and the determination to change. She pondered her spirit and shape shifting here and there. She returned to her perch on the roof top feeling unique.  She would be the keeper of the roof, the touchstone for others to help find their way home.  

She would mainly ponder the words from Creator- what an unexpected gift–Grace

One year ago today my partner died of cancer. For nineteen years we shared the sunsets and sunrises. The shades of brilliant colors warmed my heart. But as night time overtakes the light; with filtered illumination I reflect on our life and her death with gut wrenching tears of missing her and intermittent smiles of the memories we shared.

One midnight she shared with me the beautiful northern lights, rolling across the sky as if she painted it just for me. Waves of blue, green, and flowing touches of orange and red. But especially there was pure white light that filtered through those northern lights, the show of a century. Unimaginable beauty and mystery, my nineteen years of lovely memories and tears and more so…  

I am committed to sharing images and metaphors that express my experience with bipolar illness. It is easier to explain about depression than the rapid cycling dimension of my illness. The cycling became progressively worse over the last few years and at times the mania and depression overlapped. Rapid cycling for me seemed “electrical”. Racing thoughts seemed like jabs and jolts of nonsensical words and a desire to make all kinds of noises. My eyes seemed “bloody” by the end of the day from the edge of my nerves piercing my sight. At the end of each work day I was obsessed to do heavy physical work until I was thoroughly exhausted.

It is easy to find an image in nature that mirrors the symptoms of rapid cycling and that is the cycle of thunderstorms. In Oklahoma we are certainly not lacking for a variety of storms and even deadly tornadoes. I live within what is called tornado alley and this time of year is threatened with severe storms almost every week. Compared to my experience with rapid cycling symptoms I would take a storm any day.

                     Cycle of the Storm

Yesterday it was raining buckets long before dawn. I was awake and gathering my thoughts for today’s post. The night before held a grey-green stillness that announced the coming of a storm. It was also the gathering of electrical energy in the atmosphere heard in the far off rumble of thunder and blinking flashes of lighting. All through the night the storm worked its way through to the end but it was the build up that was threatening.

Out my bedroom window I could see the ranch to the south. Three paint ponies and two young colts were darting through the pasture with tails and manes flying high. It was a framed off scene of power and beauty. Yet in the rapid cycling years I would experience sensations of electrical exhilaration with the very sight of running horses. But soon my dream of riding bare back would mutate into a distorted sense of my self flying high and summon all kinds of melancholy. I would be the captive of my “chair of depression”.

Despite the storm I drove into town. Rushing red water was flooding over some of the low lying roadways. I decided to take an alternate route to avoid the murky stream of muddy red water. My mind was somewhat distracted by the periodic down pours and the concern that I might hydro plane at any moment. My shoulders were tense, my eyes tightened and I questioned my decision to make the trip. Before long the rain let up and the sun came out. I began to relax and take in the beautiful glow of sunshine through the clouds. This had been one of the harder trips to make but the images were clear and I needed to tell this story. As if awakening from a nightmare the recollection of rapid cycling is fading and I am once again in my new found place of peace and wellness.

The older I get the more I look through a single lens of simplicity to make sense of my life. I just wrote a series of posts about my celebration of wellness. Nature is a common theme I use to describe the healing that has occurred for me in the last several months.  As I begin to reflect on the illness that has crippled me since my teen years; images and themes from nature give a perspective that seems true to the bone. My thoughts are for the most part clear and my mind is calm. My feelings are available to me and I can access them to connect with my thoughts for a more cohesive picture of daily life. It is like my mind is working with the rest of my “self” for the first time in many years. I hope my stories convey some of the lessons I am learning from the Creator and all that is in nature. As so many of you say, we need to share our experiences with each other to advance healing and wellness.

                             The Gift of Eagles Wings

 The steep rolling hills to my home place are like a bipolar roller coaster. There are nine hills and hollows to get to my home. At the base of each hill there is that instant when I worry about the danger just over the crest of the hill. I dare not speed or swerve for fear that the passing vehicle will not be as cautious. It reminds that my wellness is fragile and requires understanding and mindfulness to keep the illness at arms length.

 Every day that I travel these hills I am given a gift and a lesson. Two months ago I hit the crest of the seventh hill to see two eagles soaring high and swooping down in front of me. Eagles inspire me to look beyond their flight and beyond the horizon. I would have loved to have stopped my car and to have watched them in flight but I would be putting myself at risk to pause on the roadside. For me, eagles represent a practical kind of spiritually. They call for a demonstrative spirituality that asks me to look deep in side and to come from a place of kindness in my actions.

 Each trip to town I anticipate the gift of eagle’s wings and welcome the lessons that they teach. Quite often they do return and at other times the lesson is in the wind or sun. It is a time that challenges my quest for balance. I look as closely as I can to follow the eagle in flight while keeping one eye on the road. I embrace the gift, study the lessons and commit myself to the challenge of the roller coaster.

Today is bitter cold outside and despite the strong wind from the north I continue to be vertical. It has not dampened the warmth of my spirit . I feel blessed by this window of opportunity- free from depressive symptoms and I intend to write and call friends. I have been pondering (that is similar to contemplation but with less intensity) the various ways of expressing what this illness is like from the inside. I get bored with symptoms and would love to be able to paint a picture that was the inner me so I could walk into and feel as though I understand this illness and that I am understood by others.

When I think of how to express my experience with bipolar the symptoms seem like abstract words that primarily serve the purpose of diagnosis, medication management and goal attainment by mental health workers. It is, however, important to communicate using symptoms with your psychiatrist. Symptoms do not completely explain what it is inside that makes me in varying states of illness-wellness.

I find it easier to communicate through writing than through talking. The problem with grammar and writing has been with me since childhood and I have had to construct my own ways of learning and communicating. In my journey toward wellness I have tried to find a language that uses pictures in my mind rather than plain abstract words. Just using symptoms is at times not enough. A language of using pictures helps me understand how it feels inside from four directions. Some children use their imagination to create pictures inside. All you do is ask them to close their eyes and see the picture behind their eyes and they typically can see them there. It is also possible for grown ups to do the same thing, it may just take a little while to get the swing of it.

I use the phrase living metaphors to help organize my creative process about symptoms. By keeping my messages alive it allows for changes in my brain chemistry due to illness, aging or both. Sometimes I have a brain fart and do not know the definition or spelling of basic words so I look in the dictionary for help. Let’s go to the dictionary so we are on the same page with the word metaphor-a word denoting one idea in place of another to suggest likeness. When I use metaphors to describe how I am feeling, thinking and sensing throughout my body it seems as if the words come alive(at least for me). This is quite different than speaking in terms of symptoms. So for me living metaphors create an anchor that as much as possible keeps me in touch with what is happening inside. It also exercises my mind to articulate what is happening so I can make it better.

Think vertical defend against too much horizontal – peace. Pete