The Tao of Manic Depression: Postcard Stories, Anecdotes and Ravings and its Poetry Companions

By J. Robert Schott

Short stories, anecdotes and poems revealing the extremes of perception of a manic depressive.
A glimpse into the psyche of a modern mystic.
A witty, fun, feel good book of practical wisdom.
Every page is surprising and full of dry humour.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528952606

J. Robert Schott

J. Robert Schott is a Canadian born, raised with a love of writing. He has worked as a developmental service counsellor, a first aid attendant in logging camps, a steel worker, a lens grinder and a furniture maker. He is a robust sixty-five years and have survived five wives.

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About the Author

J. Robert Schott is a Canadian born, raised with a love of writing. He has worked as a developmental service counsellor, a first aid attendant in logging camps, a steel worker, a lens grinder and a furniture maker. He is a robust sixty-five years and have survived five wives.

Dedication

Dedicated to the Deceased Leonard Cohen. For his inspiration and being a Canadian poet who made a living.

Copyright Information ©

J. Robert Schott (2021)

The right of J. Robert Schott to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528911252 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528952606 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Ellen Jaffe, Thelma Wheatley, Honey Novick and Deborah Quiggin for encouraging me to write this book.

A few of these stories are favourites of mine, stories from the oral tradition. Some stories change your life by changing your understanding. The bulk of this collection are original stories, anecdotes or manic ravings which may not change your life. If I have done a good job then some of them may get repeated. When it comes right down to it, almost anything we say has been said before, in different words, in different venues but all our ideas are compilations of what we have heard and seen. It is hard to create something really original but it is fun to try. A wise man named Thakar Singh once said to me, "Good stories make us good. That is all I aspire to. Good stories make us good."

1

Two Bears

This sounds like an aboriginal tail. I heard this story from a Chinese lady named Rose Veltheer

A little native boy was sitting with his grandfather, Two Bears, and he looked up at the large, wise old man and asked, Grandfather, why are you called Two Bears?

The old one smiled gently at the boy and said in a deep, strong voice, "Because two bears live inside my heart."

The little fellow gazed up in awe waiting for more and the old man went on in his powerful voice. They are always battling with one another. One bear is great, strong and ferocious; he wants to destroy anything or anyone who gets in my way! His grandson’s eyes opened wider, so the old man continued, softening his voice to a near whisper. The other bear too is very powerful, yet he is also very loving and wants to cherish and protect every creature and person that he meets. He loves everybody.

The grandson thought for a moment and looking a little frightened he asked, Grandfather, which b-b-bear is the strongest?

The old man winked and smiled at the boy. In a strong clear voice he said, "Whichever one I feed the most, grandson. Whichever one I feed the most."

The little boy leaned toward the old man and whispered, Don’t feed the mean one, Grandfather. Don’t feed the mean one.

2

The Sparrowhawk Story

When I was ten years old, I was walking across the lawn of my parents’ house, looking up the hill to the garden and I watched a bird coming across the sky. I felt elated, the sun was shining and it was a glorious day. The bird by its style of flying, resolved itself into a sparrowhawk in my mind and as it passed overhead, I wished I could fly like that.

In an instant I was looking back at myself on the ground from the vantage point of the small falcon, seeing with a strange telescopic vision. I felt the wind under my wings and the pull of the Earth made me beat my wings a few times, then I soared again on an updraft. I spied a mouse far below, sitting amidst blades of long grass, and I dove and landed, crushing the mouse, and took off again to the shelter of a nearby tree to eat. The fresh taste of the blood satisfied my hunger but there was still an aching in my heart for a lost mate. A deep loneliness shadowed my being.

Then, suddenly I was standing on the back lawn again looking up at a sparrowhawk in a tree. I was excited, surprised and a little euphoric. I had not known I could do that. When I went back in the house, I did not share it with my family. I kept it to myself, intuitively knowing not to expose the sacred to profane conjecture. There were other times, other wonderful experiences that I did share and was told it was fantasy, nonsense and probably dangerous and I wish those times I’d had the sense to keep them to myself.

3

The Road to Alexandria

I heard this tale from a man named Fabian Burbeck.

A man was passing busy crossroads and noticed a water seller at the side of the road. The thirsty traveller paid for some water and asked for some information.

Thank you, sir, may I ask, do you know the city of Alexandria? My business takes me there and I don’t know the place. What is it like?

The vendor raised his eyes humbly and asked, What is it like where you come from?

Hard, said the traveller. It is a very competitive place, too many people scrabbling for the same few pennies. People are ruthless and unforgiving. I am hoping to have better luck in Alexandria.

The vendor shook his head sympathetically. Well, I’m sorry to say, in Alexandria people are just the same.

The traveller grunted and hunched his shoulders as he continued on his way.

Sometime later, another traveller stopped at the booth to purchase a drink.

I am going to Alexandria, he told the vendor. Do you know the place?

Yes, I have been there, said the man.

Tell me. I am excited about my new job there but I’m a little nervous about being alone in a strange town. What’s it like there?

Well… what is it like where you come from?

"Oh, my home is a wonderful place. The people there are friendly and helpful. The whole town pulls together and we do things right in my town. It’s a great place to live."

You’re a lucky lad, laughed the vendor. In Alexandria it is just the same.

Zen Koan: Wherever you go, there you are.

4

A Happy Day

A psychiatrist many years ago asked me to remember a time in my childhood when I was happy. Nothing popped up. I struggled for a happy memory. I was stumped. That arrogant bastard! It took years of psycho-analysis and sifting through the rubble before this wonderful little memory came back to me. Here it is, you arrogant young twit of a psychiatrist.

I remember a time when I was very happy, when I was two years old. I was sitting on my dad’s lap while he drove the tractor, ploughing our garden. My hands were on the wheel and I felt like I was steering the tractor. I remember the big yellow tractor and the huge muddy black tires. The sun was shining down warm upon us and I could smell my dad’s sweat and the smell of the freshly turned earth. There were yellow flowers blooming among the tall grasses. I felt so comforted and safe sitting on my father’s knees, the sun on my skin, his hands guiding my hands on the wheel. The entire world was a safe and comfortable place and I felt that I totally belonged on the Earth that day when I was two, sitting in my father’s lap driving the tractor.

Many other happy memories came back too. The price of reclaiming my good memories was having to look at some of the bad ones; they were all filed together. It was a good trade. The good memories I can cherish and the others; let them go.

5

Inspiration is a Gift (a Raving)

Where there is love, there is inspiration. If you seek inspiration, seek out the loves you have neglected. If you love to write, write. If you love to paint, paint. If you love to make love, do that and you will find inspiration. If you love to read, read. To build, build. Of course, music and art are inspirational. If you love life, you will never run out of inspiration if you surround yourself with what you love. Children, your partner, your family, a game of golf, fishing, cards or Monopoly; anything you love brings you closer to inspiration. Do the things you love, associate with the people that you love and nurture yourself in inspiration. Then try to change the world, all the immortals have had a shot at it already. It’s not winning that matters, it’s how you played the game.

Inspiration: the word spiritus is hidden in there. It is also an inhalation of breath. ‘In-spire: Merriam Webster: 1: to influence, move or guide. 2: exert an animating, enlivening or exalting influence on.’

Be inspired. Think about each and every person and thing that you love.

Okay. The easy place to start. Create a living environment that you love: a home. Breathe. One step at a time, improve the environment you spend the most time in. Find a plant you can love and give it a home, find three. Play music that you love. Find a cat or a dog you can love. Spend special moments with family. You don’t have to love everybody but it helps. Did you remember to breathe? Many times each minute you experience inspiration. Close your eyes and ride your breath. Inspiration is a gift.

6

The Wild Man

My first day of school, my oldest sister, Pat, took me to school riding on the crossbar of her bicycle. It was over two miles to school and I would ride that crossbar for most of a year before getting a bicycle of my own and learning to ride it. My sister deposited me near the big double doors as we waited for the bell. The bell went and kids came trooping into the school. I pressed my back into the wall like a limpet. When most of the school had entered and I still clung to the wall, a large man with a bald head, the principal, came to encourage me to come to school. I kicked him in the shins as hard as I could and he backed off.

Oh, oh, said the principal, Mr Bell, rubbing his shin. We have a wild man, he laughed.

Then my pretty kindergarten teacher, Miss Terry came and sweet talked me for a while until she thought I was under her spell and she tried to pry me from the wall. I kicked her in the shins as hard as I could and she backed off.

Everybody stood around me in a semi-circle wondering what to do, when my sister, Pat, broke through the circle, lifted me off my feet, though I tried to kick her and threw me over her shoulder. I screamed and wiggled and tried to break loose but Pat was tough. She carried me into the school and plunked me down in a seat in the kindergarten. The grown-ups all stood like a wall before the exit. I wailed like the damned.

They had broken me. I cried for five hours until they took me home. The wild man was caged.

Years later, classmates remembered that day and called me the wild man. To this day, I don’t know what I was so afraid of. School turned out to be pretty good.

7

The Monk, the Tigers and the Strawberry

I heard a version of this story somewhere, couldn’t remember it all and rewrote it, adding the strawberry.

Once upon a time there was a monk out walking in the mountains. He was a wise man and a good man, well rounded in his pursuits of his soul and body. His mind was flexible and his old body fit, even if a little chubby, a strong man, even a bit of a warrior. He was walking briskly down a mountain path when he saw a tiger.

By the hungry gleam in its eye, the lashing of its tail as it sidled slowly toward him and with the lean and hungry look to its long powerful body, he knew it was up to no good.

The man stopped in his tracks and the tiger stopped moving perhaps twenty feet away.

Being a wise man, much learned in the ways of the mind and the blessedness of the Spirit, and with many years of experience in the world, he knew exactly what to do. He screamed from the bottom of his belly!!! Aaiaiaiaiaih! And he ran for his life.

…And the tiger was shocked by the outrageous noise and stood still for a few precious moments as the monk rapidly increased the distance between himself and the tiger.

…and then of course, the tiger pursued him.

And the old monk was running through the woods as fast as his old legs would push him, dodging trees and weaving a lightning path through the forest, his arms being flailed by the bushes in his passing, his hands and knees bleeding from the abrasions of stumps and trunks, he ran for all he was worth.

And the tiger followed along with a frisky playfulness in its step as he easily watched the man’s tortuous, crash bashing plunge through the foliage. It skipped lightly around to the other side of the copse of dense brush, which ended a few feet from the cliff.

The monk came running out. Saw the tiger standing on the open before the cliff, licking