A Wrinkle in Time... Pt. II

2008

The house was quiet tonight. Most of the gang had gone out for some bubble tea, but I had to work tomorrow morning and wanted some extra rest. Plus, I had a date on Friday. I really liked this new girl. Of all the ones I’d dated the past few years, I’d never been more excited than I was now. It had only been a week, but perhaps it would turn into something serious. It’d been a long time since I’d felt this way.

A crack of thunder reverberated through the old house and for a moment, dizziness overwhelmed me. I stumbled towards the front door.

Outside, the sky looked like a sea of shifting blackness. I slumped down on the porch and rubbed my forehead. Something was happening, but whether it was just a headache or the pressure from school getting to me, I wasn’t sure.

Rain started to fall. Not hard, but in gentle sweeps that belied the fierce crackling of thunder. In the distance, two bolts of lightning lit up the sky. When they did, I spotted a stranger at the end of my driveway. He was about average height and thick through the shoulders. His black hoodie hid his face. 

CONTINUE TO READ HERE

How to be Perfect

Sweat rolled down my face as I slowed to walk. I strolled down Cameron Street and checked my phone to see how far I’d run. Nearly one and a half kilometers without stopping. Nice!

For most runners, that would have been a joke. But for someone who was only starting to enjoy it, it was a big deal. Today, for the first time, I felt different. Not joy, exactly. More like emotional relief. As much as I loved the gym, not even a great day lifting weights gave me this feeling. I guessed that there were some physiological or psychological reasons for this, whether it was the way the endorphins were released or that it was something I’d never been good at, but running had suddenly become a different experience.

So why had it changed? And why now?

Continue reading at Stephenrburns.info 

Roberto Osuna and a Day in the Life

My eyes snapped open. I groaned and rolled over to check the time. 5:34am. Shit. I turned on my side and tried to fall back asleep, but my mind had started moving in accelerated fashion, flooded with thoughts of failure and anxiety. I forced myself to stay in bed and drifted off. I woke up again a while later and tried to check the time on my cell phone. I had difficulty picking it up. My hand wouldn’t stop shaking.

I grimaced. I knew what was coming, and with my shaking hands, it took me a while to punch in a short message to work. Sick again. I didn’t get paid when I didn’t work, and this had been happening far too often lately. I took a deep breath. Though I’d messaged work I was going to be absent, I tried to get up. Tried to fight it.

Nothing.

My body did not cooperate. I lay there, overwhelmed, as tears filled my eyes. There was nothing for me to do but wait. After about an hour I drifted into semi-consciousness. I dreamed I’d run over a family with my car. It didn’t make sense, but my dreams rarely did on days like this. There was nothing to do but stare at the ceiling.

CONTINUE READING AT stephenburns.info

When the Shadows Come

            I looked down at the busy street below. I was sitting in my usual spot on the balcony, twenty floors up. Sunlight glinted off the tall buildings around my condo, and the sound of a jack hammer echoed along the street. It was another bad day. There’d been too many lately, so many I couldn’t remember the last time the clouds had lifted. I’d dealt with depression since my early twenties, but this was probably as bad as it had ever been.

CONTINUE READING at Stephenrburns.info

Time To Live

         

            The first thing you notice when you work with people with special needs is the reactions of able bodied people. If I’m working with someone in a wheelchair, a stranger’s eyes will immediately be drawn to the chair. If my client moves awkwardly due to low functioning physical abilities, that’s what the stranger will notice first. It’s natural, our gaze is always drawn to difference, but it also creates tension, because most people don’t know how to act in the presence of a disability. They’ll stare, then realize what they’re doing and look away. Or they’ll smile and watch their feet or perform a hundred other nervous tics. Every movement screams discomfort.

Whenever these situations arise, I always attempt to smooth things over, act graciously. But there are times I just want to scream. “It’s just a wheelchair! Stop treating my client like they’re a freak!” I never do, of course, but it is often tempting. And when you see that reaction happen consistently, it can affect you. Especially if you’re dealing with your own noticeable disability.

In my case, it’s depression. Some days my mental limp is hardly noticeable, even to me. Other days it’s more obvious, so much so that I’ll avoid public places. Last year, things became so bad that I could no longer move.

I felt trapped. Like I’d fallen out of my wheelchair and everyone was staring at me. I’d always been fairly honest about my struggles with depression, but it had never been this bad. This debilitating.

It was a strange and entirely terrifying place to be, as if I’d fallen in a crowded shopping mall and people were glaring at me as they passed by. I heard the accusations in their expressions. I was a loser. I was impotent. I was weak. I felt and heard those things, and my response was to cower into a corner. My disability was no longer a limp. It had produced a live corpse.

Months passed, and slowly, ever so slowly, I was able to sit up again. I was able to stand. I was able to walk, though only with crutches. Every step was painful. I did my best to ignore the stares and pretend I didn’t see them. That was how I’d dealt with my depression for most of my life, but this time it wasn’t enough. There had to be more. I was tired of “surviving.” I wanted to live again.

But how did I do that? Was it even possible? The answer was, and is, yes. Here is what I started doing, just a few things that have helped re-shape my life.

1.     Ignore The Lies

Like most mental health sicknesses, depression tells you a lot of lies. In fact, I’m certain that depression has a Ph. D in Bullshit. These lies are highly destructive. In my case, they separated me from my family and friends. My depression told me that if I was honest with people around me, I would only bring them down. That if I relied on my friends and was honest with my wife, it would drive them away. In fact, the reverse was true. No one understood what I was going through because I lacked the courage and understanding how important it was to tell them. I ended up secluding myself. Self-medicating with alcohol because I just wanted the pain to stop. What I didn’t realize was that seclusion is about the worst thing for mental health sufferers. When we are alone, the voices that tell us those powerful lies become louder, and we hear them more clearly.

I am learning to reject those lies. I rely on my friends now, more than ever. I am either on the phone or texting them every day. I need them, and I know I need them. What’s truly amazing is learning how much I have to offer. When I was trying to “spare them” with my self-imposed banishment, I was actually missing a chance to help them. I was missing the chance to hear what was going on in their lives and be there to console and counsel them, just as they were doing with me. (Depression can manifest itself in narcissistic behaviour, even when that isn’t the intention of those who suffer from it.) I’ve also found a community at SickNotWeak, and I can go there every day to interact with fellow sufferers for encouragement and comfort.

2.     Seek Professional Help

This one hurts. I’ve battled depression for nearly two decades and am only now getting professional help. There are numerous reasons for this, including a lack of income or insurance, but basically it comes down to fear and ignorance. I’m finally be addressing this issue. It’s fine to read blogs like this one and talk to your friends, but NOTHING matters more than getting professional help.

3.     Don’t Be Ashamed

Over the years, I’ve mostly been honest about my mental health issues, but more like an old high school football injury than a sickness that is potentially fatal. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t do anything to deserve it. Neither did you. Embrace it as much as you can and do NOT be ashamed by it. The special needs children I work with at school didn’t ask to be born with disabilities, and no one blames them for it. The same is true for mental health sufferers. Yes, some people are going to be Climate Change deniers. They’re going to accuse you of being lazy. Or weak. Or tell you that “it’s all in your head.”

Ignore them. You can accomplish your dreams regardless of your mental health issues, but never be ashamed of them. That will push you into hiding, and that’s the worst place you can be. I had to learn that the hard way.

Moving Forward

Look, dealing with this kind of struggle is never easy. Mental health problems are nuanced and difficult. Not only for the one who suffers from it, but for the people around them as well. It’s easy to fall into the trap of simplifying something that is actually quite complicated, and listening to the voices in your head that tell you awful things about yourself.

No one moves without some pain in their life. Whether they acknowledge it or not doesn’t matter, it is part of being human. The key is understanding that no matter how bad it gets, you aren’t alone. You may feel like you can’t do anything but crawl. Maybe it feels like everyone is staring at your wheelchair. Those are lies. There are plenty of people willing to help you up, people who suffer the way you suffer, people who understand that only a life lived in community is a life worthy of living. We all walk with a limp, whether someone can see it or not, and by reaching out and ignoring the lies, you’ll find that you can do more than just survive.

You can live.  

-Stephen

Sick Not Weak: My Walk With Depression

           

           

I glanced up at the gray morning sky from my usual spot on the porch. Rain echoed off our metal overhang. A robin bounced across my front lawn, alternately glaring at me and digging her beak into the wet grass. I normally enjoyed the rain – I usually considered it ideal writing weather – but today I could have used some sun. It had been a long weekend. A hard weekend. Perhaps the toughest one I’d ever gone through, and I was still worn out.

            The past year and a half had been something of a nightmare for me. My depression had flared up in a way I could have never imagined. It had cost me my job, and from there, things had become progressively worse. I broke out in hives for months. I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking when I was in public. I pulled away from everyone, including those I loved the most. Some days I could not get out of bed. It was like my world had become suddenly bleached with gray, as if the sun and life and hope had been sucked out of my existence. Though I’d dealt with depression for two decades, it had never been this bad. A friend of mine, who also dealt with mental health issues, told me that I needed to get a handle on it or I would lose everything. I did not know how to do that.

            And through it all, I stayed quiet. On my (many) Facebook posts and blogs and tweets, I rarely, if ever, mentioned it. I didn’t want to bring others down, and frankly, I wasn’t proud of my situation. I’d felt the stigma of depression for most of my life, heard the whispers that mental health sufferers weren’t working hard enough. That they just needed to let it go. That they weren’t religious enough or weren’t praying hard enough. I had tried, but I couldn’t get there. Despite tears and soul crushing effort, I couldn’t reach the sun. Every day it seemed to rain, even when there were no clouds. And without a job, medication was out of the question. So was counseling. I did not know what to do.

            I could feel people slipping away from me, people I loved, friends and family. I wanted to tell them that I was trying. That I still loved them. That I wasn’t ignoring them and that I could feel their presence at all times. I just couldn’t touch them.  

            And still I remained silent. 

            Perhaps it was my pride. Or perhaps it was this notion that I would wake up one morning and everything would be okay again. Or that I would step out onto the porch and the sun would be shining again.

            It didn’t happen.

            This past weekend was the most difficult weekend of my life because I was finally confronted with the consequences of not doing anything. Of not talking about my pain. Of not taking actions to manage my depression in a more healthy manner. And while it was painful, it was also a relief. I had been guilty of the worst course of action for a mental health sufferer. I’d buried my head in the sand and tried to fix things on my own. I’d refused to look in the mirror and admit the truth. So I did. And this is what I saw:

            Your name is Stephen Burns. You are 43 years old. You suffer from depression. You have hurt people close to you because you refuse to face, to truly face, the issues you wrestle with every day. If you don’t do something, you’ll lose everything. You are sick, not weak.

            As you can imagine, it was not an easy image to process. My habit for dealing with my inner torment had always been to bury it. Close down. Disengage. (And occasionally lash out in anger on Facebook) I had often heard thoughts telling me that my depression wasn’t real, that it wasn’t a real sickness, and that if I was a stronger person I could handle it.

            Some days I was able to reject those lies. Too often I believed them.

            Faced with the prospect of my world collapsing, I confronted my sickness. And (in what I don’t think was a coincidence) I found a website, a community, at SickNotWeak. Started by TSN personality Michael Landsberg, himself a depression sufferer, the site was a wonderment to me. I found stories there, written by other sufferers. I found a place to go when the sun dipped behind the clouds. I found a community of people willing to do something, for themselves and others, to help bring light back into their life.

            This past year I’d published my first novel, The Last Angel. Though I’d waited a lifetime to achieve that, and though the reviews were positive, it didn’t help the way I’d thought it would. My personal achievement seemed to have no impact on my mental health. Despite the plethora of kind words and encouraging reviews, most days I would wake up and hear different voices. Ones telling me that I still hadn’t sold many books. That I was still a failure. That I’d always be a failure. I cringed at the internal criticism and sank into myself. Sank into my pain and torment. I thought I had lost control of my life. I had begun to think it would never change.

            That too, was a lie.

            This past Saturday I devised some new strategies (which I will delve into later this week), some of which I’d gleamed from SickNotWeak, to help me deal with my depression. And yesterday, for the first day in a long time, I felt like I was in control of my life again.

Writing this essay was one of those strategies, but again, I hesitated. It had only been a few days. What difference did a few days make? I hadn’t accomplished anything. This time, however, I was able to ignore the lie.

This essay was never meant to be a testimony of accomplishment, but a challenge to be open about who I was and what I suffered from. And perhaps let others know that I felt their pain. That I suffered with them. That they weren’t alone.

I was tired of running. Tired of hiding. It was time to do something.

The robin fluttered off into the large maple on our lawn, and I watched her settle there, her orange chest thrust forward bobbing confidently on the tiny branch. I shook my head. Mental health issues were more prevalent in our society than people imagined. And so many of us who suffered from it on a daily basis were afraid to talk about it. Afraid because we worried what people would think or that we’d bring others down or that we were only using it as an excuse.

I’d learned my lesson the hard way. I couldn’t do it alone. I couldn’t conquer it without help. And while honesty was important, it wasn’t enough. I needed to act.

I stood, resting my laptop on my chair. It continued to rain, the wind gusting against the branches, the grass brown and mottled. Spring hadn’t arrived. Not yet. But as I glanced up at the gray skies, I spotted a ray of sunlight hidden behind the clouds. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Stephen

AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you suffer from mental health issues, there are numerous places where you can get help. I highly recommend SickNotWeak. And if you want to contact me, just go to my contact page and you can find me. I'll be happy to get back to you. 

Robin Williams, Depression, and One Writer's Life

“Robin Williams was found dead last night, due to self-asphyxiation. The beloved actor and comedian was 63. According to his publicist, he’d been struggling with depression.”

I can still see the bottle. It’s clear, with white labels and green and black writing. The aspirin are small and white. The plastic bottle is full. I’m sitting on our spare bed, a cheapie I picked up when we moved to Ottawa. It was supposed to be for guests, but two weeks ago I moved into the spare bedroom. After five quick months, my marriage is over. I am a failure. I do not blame my wife. All we do is argue. I cannot seem to find happiness. 

I stare at the bottle. I do not know how many I will have to take. Twenty? Thirty? It doesn’t matter. I’m twenty-six years old. I sell newspapers over the phone. I make ten dollars for every subscription I sell. Some days I sell only one. I have never sold more than eight.

My wife is in her first year of teaching. She is doing well. Her career is under way, and I pushed for us to move here.

“I’ll find something,” I’d told her. “There has to be a youth job here.” 

This is all I’ve found, and I’m angry about it. Angry that my dreams have been flushed into two hundred and fifty cold calls a day selling a cheap newspaper. There’s more to it than that, but I’m not aware of those things yet. I am only aware of The Sadness. It has become a visceral thing. A companion. I do not know how else to explain it.

My friend shows up an hour later. I am still staring at the bottle. I am surprised, but tuck it away. I ask why he’s here. Who drives three hours in the middle of the night?

“She was worried. Really worried.”

I smile. I assume that I am going a bit crazy, but the pills suddenly seem a distant memory. No one is allowed to see The Sadness. I have made it my rule.

“I’m fine.”

He stays until he believes me.

Another image. Two years later. My basement apartment is dark. It’s winter. Snow covers my only window. My parents are knocking on the door. They’ve driven six hours to see me. They’re worried. I do not let them in. An empty beer bottle sits on my coffee table. My computer flickers in the corner. I feel guilty. I am a failure. The Sadness has come, and for two weeks it does not let me go. I fear it will never let me go.

Robin

Time passes. I leave the church. I have tried their suggestions. I have gone to the altar. I have laid my heart bare before God. I have asked for help. But I am not good enough. I read and begin to understand my struggle, but the church is dismissive, though I know they mean well.

I am being oppressed. I am sinful. I am not committed enough. Depression is spiritual. I listen. I try hard. But The Sadness has become my shadow.

Another year passes. I am learning how to deal with my problem. I read books that inspire me. I write. And I watch films that make me laugh. Of those, no one is funnier than Robin Williams. Some are good, some are bad, but he is a constant. I watch Dead Poets Society often. It makes sense to me. But I cannot blame the Darkness on my father. My parents love me and support me. I am a failure, but it is not their fault, no more than it was the fault of my wife.

Some days I am filled with happiness. I love those days. On those days, I make myself seen. I try to spread joy and laughter. I try to live an extraordinary life, as Keating (RW) has told his students. I dream of making it as a writer. I dream of overcoming my failures. Of proving my worth. I watch Rudy when I need a lift. I watch Robin when I need to smile. And when I feel my shadow begin to overwhelm me, I watch my favourite film.

GWH

Good Will Hunting is just a movie, a fable. But for me, narrative is more than that. The characters in my favourite books are my friends, as are the ones in my favourite movies. They know that I am a failure, but they remain the same. Here, Robin is a counselor, a teacher. He is the kind of counselor I wish I had, the kind of mentor I need. I am not closed to counseling, but I am a youth worker. An aspiring writer. I cannot afford it. I can barely afford my apartment.

Robin will win an academy award for his performance. I do not know whether he is simply a great actor or that he knows what it means to have a shadow, but I feel the movie, and it feels true. So does the pain in his eyes. That is what I need. Someone who has learned to deal with The Sadness and live, and not live just another life, but an extraordinary one.

And now, he is gone.

NOW

Robin’s death fills me with great sadness. His legacy is unique and yes, extraordinary. My wife, too, feels it. There is the sense of a light being extinguished, which makes no sense as most of us did not know him, but it’s there anyway. The grieving on social media is real. Some trolls suggest that he is ‘selfish’ and ‘made a choice.’ They are roundly criticized by a more enlightened population, but their page views have gone up, and they have received more attention. Human parasites will always exist.

The images of my early struggles remain. Like pictures people once kept in their wallets. They come to mind easily and quickly, though not without pain. I have learned to deal with my struggles over the years. The Sadness remains, and on certain days, it is all I can do to get through the day. I do my best to not let others see my shadow. That is the rule. It has always been the rule.

But I am lucky. Five years ago I married the girl of my dreams. She understands. Some days, I still feel like a failure, like she has married someone who simply cannot get over himself. Those days are hard, and I wish I was ‘normal.’ But such a thing does not exist, not for me or anyone else. We all have struggles.

As for the funniest man in the world, I do not know what to think. I do not know if things could have been different. Sometimes, The Sadness visits in such power that we are helpless before it. Religious people do not like to hear this. Neither do I. Sometimes the truth is hard.

If I could say something to him, though. If I had been allowed to speak to him, I would have thanked him for helping me through so many rough times, when his smile – his laughter, his jokes – overcame The Sadness for me. And then I would have told him this:

“You have lived an extraordinary life. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.”

Rest in peace, My Friend. You have blessed us beyond imagining. You will be missed.

-Steve

From Depression Towards the Great Unknown

(Have you taken the Monday Challenge? If not, check it out. Every week presents a new challenge. Something different. Okay, onto this week’s Monday Encouragement.)


As far back as I can remember, I’ve always been jealous of people who always seemed to be on the move. People taking trips and taking chances to go after life. People with the nerve and audacity to be bold in their life choices. For as much as I’ve pursued the dream of writing, I’ve always been hesitant when it comes to things like exploring a new city or travelling somewhere new. As I’ve worked my way through my thirties, it’s become even tougher to break through that mindset. I don’t imagine it will ever be easy.

Part of that is my writer’s dream which has, for a long time, deposited me squarely in the category of starving artist. But a large part of it lies in my mental health struggles. I’ve battled depression since my early twenties, and there remain days when basic functioning is about all I can do, when stepping outside my routine or myself is a nearly insurmountable task. This past week, Canada celebrated Mental Illness Awareness Week. A number of people came forward to talk about their struggles, including perhaps Canada’s greatest athlete, Clara Hughes. (Medalist in both summer and winter Olympics) 

Her testimony, along with others, was well received by the public. For me, as one of the millions who struggle with mental health issues, it was a sign of our growing understanding as a society that some things (most things?) aren’t simple. That this notion we should just “pick ourselves up” or “stop focusing on the bad” simply isn’t the answer. Life is more complicated than that. And yet, we still hear, particularly from the idiots binary thinkers in many churches and mosques that mental health issues are merely the symptom of spiritual damage. It isn’t true, but it offers people a chance to fit everything into a simplistic worldview. These are not, generally speaking, horrible humans. They are often kind and sincere. The problem lies with the importance they place on the necessity of their worldview’s perfection.

Certain worldviews demand that they be correct in every way to function at all. We see this primarily in fundamentalist ideals, not just here in the West, but everywhere, be it Communist China or certain Islamic countries or portions of North America. We see these countries and populations go through great pains to control information, to provide all the answers to people about everything. People who suffer from mental health issues do not fit into these controlled people groups because there’s no place for them in this type of absolute worldview. In fact, most minority groups don’t fit into these power structures. Gays, women, minority races, people of differing faiths, the handicapped, none of them fit. However, having once shared this rigid worldview, I understand why they work so hard to control information and seem so closed. They are terrified that they will fall off the “belief cliff.” That cliff is steep, believe me, because once you leave behind a worldview that held every answer to every question, there is nothing to break your fall but the stones below. Sounds pretty terrifying, doesn’t it?

It is. I went through it, and in some ways, I’m not sure that I’ve ever fully recovered. Having everything explained simply, even when it was clearly wrong, made the world seem smaller and less frightening. I knew who God loved and why I was here and why we had pain in the world and why I was special and why certain cultures were evil. I understood all the spiritual intricacies, the “why’s” and “how’s”, as if I’d been given a secret guide map to the universe. In some ways, it was like being eight-years-old again. People were easy to define as good or evil. I didn’t have to worry about nuance. I didn’t have to deal with complexity. And most importantly, I didn’t have to deal with the Unknown.

And of all the things we’ll face in our life, perhaps the most terrifying, and the most human, is the Unknown. The understanding that we don’t know what we’ll be facing a year from now or what will happen when we die. We don’t know what our job situation will be like or what will happen with our kids or if we’ll ever have kids. We don’t know if we’ll be healthy or where our friends will be or if we’ll find ourselves in a loving relationship.

***

The desert is an overused metaphor, but it fits here. And it isn’t simply those who have fallen off the “Belief Cliff” who face the desert. At some point in our lives, each one of us will find ourselves looking towards the horizon and find nothing there but the shifting sand. We’ll be asked to walk across it anyway.

If you’re like me, and you’re facing the desert for the first time, you scurry back to your books and theories and turn on the hockey game. Nothing like the drone of announcers and the whir of skates and pucks to get your mind off such horrible things. Your next step is to wrap yourself in religion and religious indignation, spew great volumes of words on how easily we can “know God” and how our confusion can be easily addressed by following these few, simple principles. But somewhere in the back of your mind, that picture looms. You remember watching the sand shift in the breeze, the heat of the sun on your face, and the way the horizon shimmered as if you’d disturbed something sacred. Mostly you remember the vastness of it all, as if every bit of emptiness you’d ever felt had been poured out to create this space where the world had swallowed everyone else and left you alone. Out there, your theories and books and distractions didn’t work. Out there, you learned two things: the burning sand and the fallibility of your beliefs.

***

So much is available for us today to know. Encyclopedias of knowledge stored on pieces of metal the size of a thumbnail. We can ask seemingly any question and get an answer in seconds. So much knowledge, and yet, we still know so little. And it’s this gap, this understanding that we will never have all the answers, or worse, that our answers are all wrong, where find the essence of humanity. Where we stand on the edge of the desert and realize that though ages have passed, the desert itself remains untouched, and that we all must face it at one time or another.

We can avoid it, or attempt to, by distracting ourselves with busy work and family stuff and a noisy life. We can ignore the memory of the sand burning under our feet and the questions that keep us awake at night. That’s our choice too. We can claim that such business is “melodramatic” or “artsy nonsense” or “just more excuses” not to be happy with what we have. As always, the simple answer remains tempting. But then, there’s a reason why war and hatred permeate our species. Why people of certain races or religions or gender or sexuality are persecuted and killed.

Unfortunately, it’s our love for the simple answer that drives us further away from our humanity. From the character that we hope to develop and the person we dream of becoming. It’s the simple answer that drives wedges between dissimilar people groups. That sees the world as a pre-ordered hierarchy and not a living sanctuary. And it’s the simple answer that denies us the terrifying but sacred ordeal of witnessing something much greater than ourselves.

The desert brings more questions than answers, but the implications of humility are so immense that they inevitably lead us on a new journey. They take us on a path away from knowledge and surety and move us towards wisdom and empathy. As fearful as it sounds, there’s something wonderful in the change, something wonderful in the comfort of embracing our humanity, of accepting our struggles and questions and knowing that we are not supposed to have all the answers. That we’ll never have all the answers. That whatever our lives are to become, they will never be perfect, and that’s okay, too.

I still struggle with depression. I imagine that I always will. Some days will inevitably be more difficult than others, and on those days I’ll ask for grace from my family and friends and feel the weight of discouragement cover me like a lead jacket. This matters because too often I read religious books or self-help books that promise a secret that will take away all your questions and pain. We get caught up in these ideas, and then come crashing down again when they don’t work, and when the pain remains.

The struggle of being human will always be there, I think, because it is the very thing that defines us. The question, then, is what to do. What do we do when we face the Desert? What do we do when life weights us down? What do we do when our dreams seem to have passed us by?

So many questions, and yet the answer, I think, is found only when we embrace the questions. When we embrace the difficulty of our humanity and celebrate it anyway. When we accept the path of the Unknown and continue to walk, knowing that the path is built for faulty steps, built to handle our errors of judgment and times we get lost.

People are inevitably going to tell us what they think about our path. They’ll tell us that we’re wrong or right because that’s part of being human, too. Just so long as we keep walking, remembering that we all face time in the desert, that we all ask the same questions, and that no one has all the answers. If we remember that, we can push towards the life we want with no regrets. And if we’re lucky, with just a bit more grace and empathy than we had when we started.

Much love

Steve

Thankful

I could hear the trees crackling in the cold as I headed out to start my car. The wind was quiet, but the cold was so intense it imposed a quiet stillness upon the neighbourhood, as if willing it to silence. It'd been a long week: an overlong stay from cold that had racked my throat and sapped my energy along with a difficult week at work. None of these mattered however, as I started my car and scraped the ice from the windshield. The sun beat down from a clear sky, bringing light but little warmth.

There were days I wondered why I bothered at all. Days when my life seemed little more than a treadmill upon which I ran with no destination or purpose. Today however, I disdained to entertain those ideas. As easy as it was to focus on the struggle of life, the struggle to making ends meet and my relationships work, more rewarding was the concentrated effort on seeing what could be. What one had and what might be in the future.

This past summer I'd had the great fortune to meet the woman of my dreams, a woman who loved me for who I was, in all my strengths and weaknesses. Unexpected and unprecedented, it'd taken me a while to accept it for what it was... a gift from God. Still, a part of me scoffed at the idea of an ideal relationship. Part of me brought back the memories of countless "false starts", of relationships that hadn't worked. Of relationships that had caused nothing but pain. Some days it was hard to hold on to what I had in the face of these painful memories.


I let the car warm for ten minutes before climbing in. The warmth covered me, and for a moment, I rested in its embrace before shifting gears and heading out. Memories were powerful things. Most of us lived, whether we knew it or not, by the force of our experiences. Unfortunately, it was these very 'lessons' that worked to keep us from experiencing so many good things in life.

As a teacher, Experience is narrow minded, and too often we give it the power to influence our future. Experience most often teaches from the basis of fear. It does not allow for exception or the exceptional. And if something happens that does not fit into the pattern of our life, the typical response is to shut it down. Better the devil we know... or so the saying goes.

For many years, this was true for me. It was easy to look at my life or at the people around me as their lives became absorbed by tragedy or apathy or both, and wonder why I even bothered pursuing my dreams. Everyone struggled. Why did I think that an exceptional life was possible for me? Of course, I never really thought about what "the exceptional life" looked like, only that I was certainly not living it. And that is where experience often fails us. While the emotional memories and warning signs can be powerful, they are often vague and undefined. After a while, we no longer think about what life could be, only that it is a disappointment. The real tragedy is that we often don't even know why.


The highway was clean, the snow piled lightly on the shoulder as I whipped along, staring ahead and at the empty, snow covered fields to each side. Stouffville was a small town about ten miles north from where I lived. Bethany had an important exam the next day. I was heading out to give her a study break, and a bit of brain food. (i.e. chocolate) Twenty minutes later I pulled onto Stouffville road, a hilly, country road that was often difficult to drive in the rough Canadian winter. It was clear today however, and I zipped along, anxious to see my girl.

It'd been a long time since I'd felt this way about someone. In fact, I was sure I'd never felt this way about anyone. Just the thought of seeing her, of holding her close, of laughing with her, was enough to bring a smile to my face. Every time I thought about her, about what she meant, I could feel my emotions quiver...

I passed a gas station and debated pulling over to get some snacks before deciding to wait until I got into town. Just past the gas station on the right hand side was an old cemetery. I slowed, glancing at the pale grave stones partially covered by snow, wondering, as I always did, about the lives of the people now gone. Had they reached for the stars? Had they lived as they wanted to live? Had they experienced the fullness of life?

I have always thought it amazing when to hear someone speak positively about life. Humanity is not set for 'positive thinking' and life deals more blows then rewards. And worse, in our consumer culture, we are not taught to be happy, but to be unhappy. Despite being the richest continent on the planet, we are taught from the time we are children that we are in need. Of something. Of everything. A new TV. A new car. A new house. New furniture or lawn equipment or computer stuff. New make up or clothes or power tools. Our culture is set against gratitude, because it is need that sells, not contentment. And of all the things that make our lives full, perhaps it is gratitude... simple thankfulness... that is most important.

I hear it all the time. This warning not to look at the world through rose colored glasses. True enough, if you're looking at those around you. When it comes to our vision of the world, we must teach ourselves to see the need in others and the blessings in our own lives. This is the proper view of the world, I think. The Kingdom idea that Jesus had in mind. Thankfulness is important because it is based on what is already present, and unlike experience, is detailed and sure.

Thank you, Lord, for my family.
Thank you, Lord, for my car.
Thank you, Lord, for my job and a place to live.
Thank you, Lord, for my loving wife, my partner in this crazy world.

Bitterness arises because too often we allow our culture tell us what we don't have, we allow it to muddle our understanding between need and want, and we allow experience to teach us that an exceptional life is impossible.


I waited for the light to turn green, smiling in anticipation of seeing my girl. I glanced at the bag of chocolate on my front seat. It would probably take her two months to go through it, I thought, unable to stop grinning. I pulled in the driveway a minute later, only to hear Micah, their family dog, go crazy in the hallway.

"Heya pal!"

The half Lab rubbed against my legs, wagging his tail and pushing his grey whiskered face into my neck. Bethany's parents laughed as I finally made my way into the hallway. I chatted with them for a while, enjoying it as I always do, until finally she came down. My heart beat a little faster as I kissed her and held her tight. I wasn't sure there were any words that could accurately convey my emotions at that moment, save one: exceptional...


It's easy to look at life and see what's missing. It's easy because it is exactly what our culture teaches us to do. Much harder is the practice of looking at our life and being thankful for what we do have. My prayer this week, as we continue in the Christmas season, is that not only will we realize how much we have, but how much we can give. Not only with gifts, but with smiles as well. With a love that only God can give. And perhaps the greatest gift of all, the echo of a life filled with thankfulness.

-Steve

How to Escape the Spin Cycle (Some Keys To a Better Life)

“Hey, bro.”

I hold my cell loosely against my ear and glance at the clock. 12:17 am. I’m not even close to being tired.

“Well,” Mark says. “I read your blog. A nice heart warming read... What’s up?”

“I’m not sure. Just one of those weeks, I guess.” I pause. “I’m looking for another job. I can’t do this, pal. I’m never going to make it.”

“What about the writing?” Mark says.

“I’ll always write. But I’m tired of having nothing. I’m tired of not being able to go out, or buy another pair of shoes, or being able to afford a date. I’m tired of looking at my bank account and wondering if I can make it through the week. I’m 35 years old, and what have I got? I needed a break, pal… and, well, it just hasn’t happened.”

Mark is quiet for a moment.

“That sucks, and I get it, but I just think you’re so close. I really think you just have to hang in there. Your work is good.”

I lean forward and think about all the “dream books” I’ve read.

“I don’t know, maybe I’ve been an idiot. Dreams suck.”

Even as I talk I’m thinking about how nice it would be to go shopping with, well, money. I’d bumped into an old friend today at the mall who’d just started working on a screenplay. When he heard I was a writer, he was even more excited. Only instead of being excited with him, mostly I was annoyed. I wanted to tell him not to bother. That the gods of the dreamers and artists, the publishers and patrons, were a capricious bunch. I’d bit my tongue, but it wasn’t easy.

Mark is quiet.

“Listen,” he says finally, “I really think your work is good. You get waylaid when you start thinking about your age and where you should be and all that stuff.”

“Yeah.”

We chat for a little while longer. When I hang up, I am somewhat encouraged. It isn’t the first time Mark’s given me a pick up. I pull out my work and start writing. Two hours later, I am worn and tired. It’s time to head outside for a break.

The sky is clear tonight, and it’s finally warm enough to stand on my stoop outside the front entrance without shivering. It’s been a long week, although in many aspects it isn’t much different from the last month, not on the surface at least. I’m still working for almost nothing. Still enjoying my co-workers and housemates. Still enjoying the interaction with the customers. Still writing. And yet, there’s a sense of routine that has crept into my life and has brought discouragement with it. Unfortunately, I'm not sure why things have changed. I understand that there is a rhythm to life, ups and downs that we do well to ride and not fight. That said, I can feel the change in my outlook, and it needs to be addressed.

The breeze picks up as I move down from my stoop and stroll down the driveway under the empty sky. The moon’s silhouette shimmers off to my left. A few birds have woken early and their scattered song reminds me of the late hour. It a funny thing about the human experience, but we do everything in cycles. Most of us have heard the expression that people are “creatures of habit”, and it’s true. Nothing we do is ever truly spontaneous, even for the most unpredictable personalities. We couldn’t survive if we did, but that said, it still has tremendous implications for our lives.

The routines we create for ourselves are based on the culmination of our life experience; our childhood, our past and current relationships, and yet rarely do we consider the reasons why we do the things we do. We certainly aren't programmed to make the “healthy” choice.

The sad truth is that most of our choices are based on convenience, pleasure, or fear. And that includes our religious choices -- the church we attend or don't attend. The God we believe in or choose to ignore.

What follows then, is that we entrap ourselves into habits that are actually destructive, relationships that smother us, faith that binds us, and jobs that drain life from our soul. And the most frustrating aspect of this human tendency is that we have the ability to change it. Too often we get trapped in this “spin cycle” and believe there is no way out. We spin and spin and church and churn until our lives become one long unpleasant dream.

People can only ask “what if” and “if only” for so long. If we don't escape the spin cycle life will eventually wear us down, and instead of feeling renewed and empowered, we will become critical. We'll mock others who are trying to make it. We'll scowl at those still enthusiastic about life. And we'll sniff (especially at the younger generations) about what it’s like in the “real world”. In other words, we contract the deadly virus of "trapped reality" and spread it with every brush of contact with other humans. We are unhappy, and we unconsciously pull others towards our own unhappiness to make us feel better. (Misery loves company.)

So the only question then, is how do we change it? And what happens when we realize that our life suddenly sucks?

First, understand that it isn't 'sudden', though it may feel that way.

Everything we do flows out of who we think we are and what we expect from the world around us. Happiness is achieved when we close the gap between our assumptions about what our life should be like and what we perceive it to be.

Notice that I didn't say how it "really is." (And I'm giving away my leaning towards post modern thought here) How it "really is" can't be subjectively defined. For example, I'm 35 years old. I work in a cafe. That's true, and if that was the whole truth, it would be easy to judge my life accordingly. However, I'm also a full time graduate student and striving to make a go of it as a full-time writer. I do not see myself as a failure, but as one striving towards the future for something better. What matters then, is not what others perceive about my situation, but how I see it. That's why we must be careful when considering the counsel of others, because the standards they are using are always different then our own.

Unfortunately, too often we listen to the wrong people and end up in spin cycles... (especially when it comes to jobs) simply because we accept other people's version of our reality?!
So to escape the natural trap, we have to learn to examine our own motifs on why we do the things we do, and why we're not able or willing to change them.

For me, one of my largest struggles is money. I don't know why I've historically been terrible with it, although I have a few ideas. What I do know, however, is that fear is involved. Suze Orman, the famous financial guru, asks her potential clients this question first when she addresses their finances: "What are you afraid of?"

I've spent the past week thinking about that. What am I afraid of? What is holding me back?

The key in the spin cycle is not to change just anything, but to find the idea or the root that is causing us to make the same bad decisions over and over. And how do you find the root cause? It's easy enough. Just think of the things that cause your emotions --sadness, fear, anxiety, anger -- to flash, and you will find the root. That which is without an emotional connection we are able to let go, but any memory or belief attached to an emotion is nearly impossible to release. (It's like sticking your hand into a pail of honey and then grabbing a loose roll of toilet paper) Not without dissecting it first, and perhaps getting some healing.

Second, once we realize where our emotions are most sensitive, we need to create a "blank spot" in our minds. No, it isn't some new age, voodoo mind trick. What I mean is that we pretend that there is no emotion. It's an acting trick, but it's an effective way to help us deprogram some of the more destructive habits in our lives. When you get up tomorrow, be someone else. Be the woman who you see in the mall striding along with confidence. Be the man you saw talking easily and casually with a couple of ladies at the restaurant. Be the university colleague who always seems so popular. Be the person you imagine that you would like to be, and make choices as if you were that person.

This is not a matter of authenticity. It's still you.

Remember, the core of who we are is not what others see. Our core, the "real us", is the person we long to become.

I know, I know, I can hear the comments already. "Steve, the person you are is how you behave." Nonsense. Even God, speaking to one of his prophets who is going to choose a king, says to his prophet (Samuel) "Man looks at the outward appearance, God considers the heart." (1 Sam 16:7) Our 'outward appearance' is our behaviour, and while it can give us clues as to who we are, it isn't the full picture. This is the reason we should always try to see the best in people, and encourage them accordingly.

Spin cycles occur when we lose sight of God's picture of who we can be, of who we were created to be, and in turn, who we really are. The Spin cycle is the product of a distorted view of self (and God) which prevents us from making the necessary choices to change the things that need to be changed.

My prayer this week is that you will identify at least one spin cycle in your life, and address the root emotion and cause behind it. If your spin cycle is a little bigger, as mine seems to be, maybe its time to do a little 'acting', and create the character that meets with the missing, unexpressed part of who you are. And finally, that you would understand that you are loved by your Creator, and that you were created the image of God for the purpose of serving those around you. If you don't, you'll inevitably move into another spin cycle. We were not given this life to live in endless pleasure, endless fear, or perfect convenience. We were created to serve God by loving Him and loving one another, and so long as we remember that, we can close the gap between whatever discouragement we are facing and the contentment that comes when life is no longer just one long routine.

-Steve

Note: I can hear the comments already. Yes. I believe in absolutes, especially when it comes to the care and responsibility of our family. However, too often we still use behaviour and isolate it as "the sole expression" of another person and define them accordingly. How lucky are we that God judges us differently. We would do well to learn from Jesus I think, but it's just a thought...

Broken

The snow crunched softly under my feet as I moved down the driveway. I tightened the scarf around my neck. The air was cold, but there was no wind. The lights reflected over the snow, and the whitened street seemed almost to glow, as if the winter had brought with her a different kingdom, a place of dreams and possibility. Up ahead, smoke curled lazily from one of the houses into the night and a sense of peace flooded over me as I jammed my hands into my parka. I breathed deep the crisp air and whispered a prayer of thanks into the quiet, not wanting to break the stillness of the moment or the deep sense of being that sifted through my emotions. Small tears began to form in my eyes, unexpected and unexplained, but instead of wiping them away I let gather and slide down my cheek, the cold marking their trail across my skin like a gentle caress.

In a few minutes I would go inside and attempt to write my story, I would break down the small but seemingly momentous happenings inside me this past week. I would try to explain what I felt and what God had done, not because my story was different or special, but because it was the same story that others had experienced. That others needed to experience. The kind of story that, when you looked back on it, was an event that ultimately shifted the direction of your life. For now however, I just wanted to enjoy the quietness of the moment. To breathe deep the night air and thank God for doing something I hadn't expected. Of course, I should have known that He'd be there...

...the house was quiet. My housemates were all gone, at school or at work. I could hear the rain patter against the glass of my window, and gray light filtered into my room. I lay beneath my covers, my mind racing, my body almost sore with the effort of moving into another position. It was all so ridiculous, I thought, that I was still lying here. I had so many things going for me, all I had to do was get up and head to school. The thought, however lucid, drifted away from me and disappeared into the four blank walls that hedged me in as I shifted deeper under the covers.
"Maybe tomorrow." I murmured to myself, over and over, like a soft mantra. "Maybe tomorrow." I looked at the window, at the tiny rivulets of rain trickling down the glass like tears. I tried to squeeze into a more positive frame of mind, but somehow I couldn't think of anything, and I could feel myself shut down as my eyes closed and I drifted back to sleep.

When I'd first left Ottawa three months ago, I'd come to Toronto with the hopes and excitement of someone in pursuit of their dreams. I'd do my Masters, focus on my writing, and hopefully accomplish the things I'd always believed I was capable of doing. Now, only three months later, I lay beneath my covers on a rainy afternoon, broke, behind in my school, and wondering just where things had gone wrong. I knew that God loved me, but it felt like I'd lost Him somewhere. Or that He'd lost me, as if I'd been dropped off at the corner somewhere along the way. I hadn't slept much lately, and the nights were filled with worries and tightened fists.

Was this it? Was this the end of my pursuit of something greater?

I'd taken a year's leave, but the thought of going back to my life in Ottawa filled me with an unexplainable sadness. I wasn't sure anyone would understand why I was sad or struggling, in as much as I was in a new city and should just wait, things would get better, wouldn't they? Yes, yes, the pursuit of dreams was a good thing, and the advanced degree was practical, especially if you wanted to teach. Why was I getting so uptight? Relax, it'll get better. And if you lose a course, so what?

What most people didn't understand, was that while I told people I'd come to Toronto to pursue my dreams, it wasn't the whole truth. For two years on my balcony in Ottawa, during my quiet times, there was a Scripture that had arrested me so completely that I hadn't been able to shake it. "Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it." (Matt 10:39) Somehow, in some way, if there was one thing I was sure of during my quiet times on the balcony, it was the understanding that to lose my life, I needed to move. And so while my dreams forged an inspiration for me to pack up and leave, it wasn't simply for them that I'd left. No, I'd left in pursuit of something else.

I'd left my life in pursuit of the God I loved, the God I longed to serve with every fiber of my being. And now, He'd disappeared...

The clock flashed the red numbers in the darkness. 11:06pm. I was immobile on my bed. It'd been hours since I moved, but it felt like days. I could feel myself breaking inside, and I swallowed hard. People would never understand this if I told them or tried to explain it, and suddenly I didn't care. I didn't care if people thought I was crazy or dramatic. I didn't care if I couldn't rationalize what I was doing or how I felt when it came to my faith. I was tired of supporting thought structures that purported to the idea of Christianity but left out the reality of a supernatural God. I was tired of having to explain in a reasonable way this idea of Jesus, this idea that God 'made sense.' Mostly though, I was just tired of bouncing between the "rational Steve" and the "God-seeking Steve". I could no longer buy into modernity's idea that we could organize God into a part of our life.

Either He was real, or he wasn't. Either He was life, or He wasn't.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. So where was He? Why had He left me here in this position... like this! I slipped over on to my knees, and I poured out my anger and frustration, that somehow began to mix with sobs and tears of frustration.

"Either you do something tomorrow, or I will never trust you again!" I said finally. I meant it. I was done. I sprawled onto my face and lay prone in prayer for another thirty minutes. It wasn't as if my struggles were simply emotional, they were finite as well. School. Finances. Job.

Somewhere along the way, I passed out. When I opened my eyes again, it was 2am. I was wide awake. I didn't feel any different, but I showered and dressed and started working on my papers. My emotions were spent. The hours passed, and I thought about the previous night, but only in passing. I stayed up the rest of the day and went to bed early. For the past week I'd been unable to sleep before 5am, so this was a pleasant surprise, but not a big deal.

I began to hope that things had turned around, that God had answered my prayer, but things started getting worse. The news from school wasn't good, and the check I'd been expecting for the past two weeks would be a month late. I hadn't heard back from any of the jobs I'd applied for, and while each day I was up early now, hopeful that something good would happen, each day I was dealt at least one body blow that would suck the wind out of me.

The night before I'd gone to sleep with my face still wet with tears. I hadn't been broken just once, but shattered into a thousand pieces. And yet, the more I felt myself breaking, the more I opened myself up to my friends about the tearing inside my heart, the more I sensed something else squeezed into the newly formed cracks. Love. Hope.

Everyone likes to be the strong one. The wise one. But I could no longer do that, no longer pretend that I was strong or wise. My friends rallied around me, and I felt an emasculated fool. Somewhere along the way, however, even that began to drift. I didn't care any more. When I went out, I began to see things. I noticed the old lady on the street, struggling against the cold wind. I noticed the woman with red eyes in the checkout line. I noticed the man with dingy pants and dirty hair standing outside the mall.

It wasn't that I was blind to these things before, or maybe I was, but it was hitting me in a new way. I thought about all my pretensions and ideals, my smugness and arrogance about 'certain' people, and I could feel my heart break a little bit more. And like a laser, God cut through my selfishness and showed me what I'd neglected to see. And I cried and whispered into the cold night air when I realized why God had 'left me.'

"God, forgive me. Your world is dying, and I am more worried about MY pedigree, about MY dreams, than I am about serving you."

He hadn't left me at all. It'd been me all along. I was the one who had left.

The sun is bright this morning, but the air is icy and cold. I can't help but think about this past week, and about God's faithfulness. Even now, my eyes fill with tears as I dwell on what I've learned.

I spent many years going to churches that promised the world, that if people just came forward, God would change their life. I grew bitter over time because those changes never happened, that God never made my life 'great' the way I'd been promised, so I'm hesitant to even write my story. I am convinced that God works slowly in us, because it is what we can handle, what can be permanent. But I do still believe there are moments when God asks us to respond, when he moves in a way that can change us forever. If we let Him.

No, even now I knew this was different, because it was less about me, and more about Him. I'd learned something about myself, and something about God. As long as my dreams merely included Him, there would always be something missing in my life. But if my dreams were ABOUT Him, then I would never have to worry.

God wants to move in our daily lives. He wants us to depend on Him. He wants us to grab the 'horns of the altar' and not let go. He wants to give us joy. For many of us, however, we must first be broken.

-Steve