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There is a link, though it’s a stretch, among recovery and the nests of birds that occurs to me on this fine spring day, and I’ll get there in a moment. Of course, life is blossoming out everywhere. The stunning medleys of the mockingbirds are in the air, and there’s much courting behavior among all the birds: the strutting, chest puffing and singing of males, the coy approaches and retreats of females. And of equal importance, they’re building nests for their future young.

I saw a crow sail up to a high spot in our neighbor’s spruce tree, not far from the towering line of eucalyptus where his kind usually hang out, a hundred feet above us. This crow carried a single thin, flexible twig much longer than his body. I wondered if that one strand was the first for weaving the nest. How do they begin – what holds the first piece in place? How long does it take to pick out and carry back all the twigs of just the right type – one strand at a time – until the whole structure is woven together? The crows know by instinct the intricate pattern to follow, exactly the materials to be used and the right shape and depth of the final product. The purpose it serves is just as clear.

I may lack the instinct, but I’ve been learning to put together the pattern, the structure to support a new life. And there’s my homely analogy. I’ve been weaving a nest for recovery, one strand at a time. Getting started and having that first piece stay in place has always been the hardest part. I’ve learned all sorts of methods, patterns and step by step pathways to get out of depression. Time after time, the whole thing would unravel, no matter how strong it appeared to be.

I believe the problem of the various treatments was the way they handicapped my thinking from the outset. They were telling me how to stop something, to end addiction, to overcome depression, to reduce stress and anxiety. That’s aiming for a negative, and, as important as it has been to stop those plagues, I need to see the positive side too.

Recovering means coming back from a loss, regaining lost ground. It is an activity, surely as hard as they come, which will support the future, but it is not that future itself. I don’t want recovery to become a constant. If I assume I won’t ever be free of condition X and that I am always threatened by its return, I have to apply the techniques of recovery as long as I live. Whatever relapses I may have, I can’t accept recovery and illness as a life sentence.

I don’t want to understate or downplay the importance of recovery itself. It is a tremendous accomplishment. It has taken everything I had to keep going after so many failed attempts. I always knew there was a different self that could be a lot better, however dim the memory of that person might be. Only a deep instinct to survive, a will to live, kept me going. That’s what I needed to end the dominance of depression in my life.

I celebrate that and will never forget all I’ve had to do to get this far. For the recovery to last, however, as the earlier ones have not, I have to break out of the mindset that my life needs to be dominated by depression in a different way, as the condition I am constantly working to control. I have to turn my mind and feelings toward a life with new purpose, not just a life in recovery.

For one last shot at my metaphor, those birds don’t go about building their nests as part of therapy. They are building the means to nurture new life, to extend the species into the future. They are born with that simple and compelling drive.

The instinct in people to live is just that basic – though for us it can be warped into its opposite by a mind estranged from its own nature. But we also need more, an inner  meaning to guide the spirit to fulfillment. And that is what I’m moving toward now.

Related posts:

1. Trying to Explain Recovery from Depression
2. The Recovery Tweets
3. Changing Belief, Discovering Purpose in a Work Life
4. Recovery, Well-Being and Purpose

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Merely Me wrote a wonderful post on the importance of bringing play back into everyday life. It is the forgotten tonic among adults in general and depressed adults in particular. She paints a vivid scene of a group therapy session where she coaxed recovering addicts into playing rather than talking about themselves. Some brought in precious toys they’d probably had for years, and everyone got immersed in their games. It sounded like they felt the release of a long-buried instinct – for play is surely one of the basic human instincts.

Her post brought to mind one of the most extraordinary people I’ve known. He was a born teacher infusing his own life and the lives of those around him with imagination and play as a natural part of his instinct for life.

Steven and his lifelong friend Maria arrived in town one day, found a small space they could rent to start a school and dubbed it Little Earth. Its first citizens were both kindergarten age kids and the dozens of figures emerging from the imaginations of this gifted pair. The little kids referred to them as the grownup kids because they took the imaginative adventures and instinctive games of children as seriously as any event in adult life. They accepted kids on their own terms, could speak their language, play with them, win their confidence and teach them through play-adapted methods.

They told dramatic tales with hand puppets and marionette shows, taking on the voices of all the characters as they either crouched behind the puppet theater or stood over it guiding strings that brought the flopping marionettes to life. The artifice disappeared as the puppets took on life in zany stories that always reflected back on what the kids were really going through. Drawing on their network of talented friends, they arranged visits by performers from street theater groups who taught the kids circus arts. Everyone learned to walk on stilts, perform acrobatics and turn into dangerous tigers and bears that challenged the ring master’s control and composure as he flashed his string whip. That intense training culminated in a public circus performance in a city park, the Greatest Show on Little Earth. Each kid, no matter how timid or bold, found a role to play and drew great cheers from the crowd.

Each year, All Species Day was celebrated by a parade around the downtown plaza, kids and parents together dressed as river otters, eagles, polar bears, and bearing signs about the endangered animals and how to protect them. Steven’s teaching, in particular, was filled with guitar accompanied songs for all instructive and fun occasions. Small and slender, he had a kid-like curiosity, wonder and imagination that saw the play and teaching possibilities in almost everything.

He also played the magician, appearing in his black top hat and tails over blue jeans. Coins, eggs, stuffed animals would appear and disappear, often with the tap of his magic cane over the upturned hat. Reaching for a handkerchief stuffed up his sleeve, he would be amazed as he drew forth an endless stream of red silk. And most miraculously, his assistant, Maria, would disappear in a huge smoke puff from his ever present flash powder. For Halloween evening, the two organized an outdoor extravaganza with bonfires, magic incantations, bursts of mysterious smoke, cauldrons of potions and a gentle witch and wizard presiding over all. There was a sense of instructive ceremony about all of Steven’s ideas. He cajoled the most reluctant kids into playing lead roles in dramas designed to stretch their ideas of who they were and what they could do.

This was not just dramatic flair. There were sound teaching principles woven through everything he created. Eventually, with the help of friends, he and Maria produced a book about Little Earth, and as the school grew into a much larger and more complicated place, they both retired to find new adventures. Steven fulfilled a lifelong dream of traveling to Egypt. There with his irrepressible personality, he befriended the sister of Gamal Abdel Nasser, the former ruler of the country, and persuaded her to support the establishment of a new school in Alexandria – based, of course, on Little Earth principles. After some years he continued his travels around the world and eventually found his way back to our small city.

But when he returned he brought the news that he had AIDS. Even then, he followed his instinct to teach through ceremony. One night he gathered a group of friends to share with them what the disease meant in his life and what his prospects were. After greeting many he had not seen in years and swapping many stories, he settled himself on the floor in the middle of the room and spread out in a semi-circle before him the dozens of small dark bottles that contained his daily regimen of pills. He swept his arm over all those medications and said simply: This is the umbrella of hope in the 90s. Always concerned that we know and learn, he described the symptoms he was living with, the impact of the medications and eventually made it clear that this chemical hope might not be effective.

He went through a long decline like most other AIDS patients of that time. Infections plagued and weakened him, minor strokes began to affect his concentration and memory, weakness kept him in a wheelchair, and his body started to shrink as eating became too painful. But he created one more ceremony before he died. He asked (and no one could ever refuse one of Steven’s requests) that a circle of friends join around him to be present for the end of his life. It was as if he wanted to be sure that his spirit would become one with our own. And so a small phone tree was organized, and one day my wife and I received the call to come.

He was unconscious by then and kept alive by means of an oxygen tank. One friend, who had come from San Francisco where he worked with AIDS patients, took a look at him lying on the bed and agreed that he was just about gone. He had seen a lot of this before. The attending nurse explained that Steven would probably go shortly after the oxygen tubes were removed. His sister, who had helped him through this long ending phase of life, said it was time, the tubes were taken out, and we held hands in a circle around his bed as he had wished. He managed a few rough-edged breaths, then a quiet one, then nothing. I doubt that anyone there thought of him as dead. We all took turns alone with him, saying personal good-byes. When I stood over him, his face still looked close to life, as if he might at wake any moment and start telling a story. All I could do was bend down and kiss him good-bye.

Naturally, we organized a costume parade to honor him. The procession around the central plaza was led by his off-white 62 Chevy with the fake feet sticking out of the half-open trunk – one of his trademarks -and followed by the rest of us in whatever costume pieces had come immediately to hand – along with a few of our musician friends playing familiar Little Earth songs. Then we packed ourselves into a church hall for an impromptu service, and each took turns reminiscing. The one I most remember was a story told by the AIDS worker from San Francisco.

One day he visited Steven and found him putting up on the walls a series of portraits, each surrounded by his fanciful painting. They all looked like small celebratory shrines. As he looked at the portraits, the visitor recognized each one. He turned to Steven and said: Steven, all these guys treated you horribly – they abused and betrayed you and left you in agony each time. Why are you putting all this up as if you’re honoring them? Steven answered quite simply: Yes, it’s true they hurt me – but they were all angels who brought love into my life, and I want to celebrate each one.

That was pure Steven, who died when he was 36. There is no forgetting him or the spirit he shared with everyone he knew – a spirit that might appear in a sudden flash of light tossed from his magic hand.

Who is that special person in your life who has helped in whatever way to wake up a sleeping part of your spirit?

Related posts:

1. The Validation Video
2. Seeing and Recovery
3. Meditating through Depression – 2
4. Depression and Imagination