Unorthodox and Unhinged

Tales of a Manic Christian


Leave a comment

Insides, Outsides 2016

wash post 2006 list in and out

On the eve of 2016, herewith is Joani’s bipolar analysis of the yins and yangs, ups and downs, and ins and outs – especially the ins and outs – of the last twelve months, 2015.

So once again with apologies to the Washington Post (my hometown newspaper!) and without editorial comment, and in no particular order, I submit this list for your consideration. And might I suggest that you consider, for the sake of your brain, doing the same!

Insides/Outsides

  1. Size 6/Size 10
  2. Inside Out/Outside In
  3. Author/Blogger
  4. Story District/SpeakasyDC
  5. It’s Just Lunch/It’s Just Coffee
  6. Lipstick/Lip gloss
  7. 60/59
  8. Canadian/American
  9. Water Zumba/Water Aerobics
  10. Grounds/Beans
  11. Manicure/Nail biting
  12. What’s Tumblr?/Tumblr
  13. Playwright/Liturgist
  14. Bookstores/Libraries
  15. Sour Cherry Pie/Pumpkin Flax Granola
  16. Carluccio’s/Mancini’s
  17. T-Backs/Sports Bras
  18. Bucketfeet/Toms
  19. Wedding Wedding/Gay Wedding
  20. The Angel of the Lord/The Blessed Virgin Mary
  21. Margaret Atwood/Shirley Jackson
  22. Silk/Lace
  23. Missing Bailey/Walking Bailey
  24. “Liked from Radio”/Playlists
  25. Trader Joe’s/Whole Foods
  26. Preacher/Teacher
  27. eCP/BCP
  28. Sketchbook/Notebook
  29. Throws/Pillows
  30. Cloth Napkins/Paper Towels
  31. Club Soda/La Croix
  32. Global Warming/Snow Globing
  33. Badlands/Wetlands
  34. Hoppy Beer/Fruity Beer
  35. The Cloud/The Cosmos
  36. Skorts/Shorts
  37. Chimes/Bells
  38. Sugar Shack/Krispy Kreme
  39. Aggressive/Assertive
  40. Peacock Postcards/Peacock Feathers
  41. Killer ESP/Starbucks
  42. SPF 70/SPF 50
  43. New Therapist/Old Therapist
  44. Executive Chef/Executive Producer
  45. Almond Milk/Coconut Creamer
  46. Grace & Frankie/Thelma & Louise
  47. Smoked Turkey/Tofurkey
  48. Cracked Pepper/Sea Salt
  49. Free Range/Cage Free
  50. Savannah Bee’s/Burt’s Bees
  51. Body Butter/Body Lotion
  52. Composting/Recycling
  53. Mentalist/Evangelist
  54. Lavender/Lemon
  55. Worrier/Warrior
  56. Pugilist/Pacifist
  57. Stripes/Solids
  58. Tangerines/Clementines
  59. Socialist/Democrat
  60. Lewis Carroll/Oscar Wilde
  61. Aroma Therapy/Physical Therapy
  62. Home Town/Old Town
  63. Flat White/Latte
  64. Revelry/Rivalry
  65. Redemption/Salvation
  66. Vancouver/Virginia
  67. Sabbath/Sunday
  68. Bee Keeping/Peace Keeping
  69. LEDs/Light Bulbs
  70. Mittens/Gloves
  71. Semicolons/Commas
  72. Makeup/Tattoos
  73. Trilogies/Anthologies
  74. Eastern Market/Metro Center
  75. Tibetan Prayer Beads/Rosaries
  76. Osteopath/M.D.
  77. Mohair/Fleece
  78. Kierkegaard/Hildegard
  79. Sensual/Sensible
  80. Ginger Mints/Altoids
  81. Rainmaker/Tentmaker
  82. Band Leader/Baton Twirler
  83. Just Books/Books about Books
  84. Incandescence/Transcendence
  85. Passionate/Platonic
  86. EEC/BBC
  87. Lint Remover/Vacuum Cleaner
  88. Passport/Carport
  89. Angels/Saints
  90. 26.2/13.1 + 13.1 =
  91. Colored Pencils/Colored Pens
  92. Patio Lights/Christmas Lights
  93. Stemware/Fiesta Ware
  94. Progressive Lenses/Rose tinted glasses
  95. Chutzpah/Challah
  96. Shaman/Chaplain
  97. Fluid/Druid
  98. Easy Listening/Smooth Jazz
  99. Dream Dresser/Mad Hatter
  100. Hypothetical/Heretical

and of course

  1. Unorthodox&Unhinged!

Happy New Year!

JoaniSign


2 Comments

Born Again

julie-vivas-baby-correct

And she brought forth her firstborn son. (Julie Vivas)

Some Christmas pageants have plastic baby dolls stand in for Jesus. But the liveliest of Christmas pageants have a real live baby (If their parents will allow them to be so tortured!)

And when that live Baby Jesus makes his dramatic debut – all eyes are on the little tiny fellow. You can hear a pin drop as the holy family goes up to Bethlehem and climbs the altar stairs. Heads turn and hearts melt as all eyes are on the miniature messiah — propped up in Mary’s lap — a little bitty baby, who cannot walk, who cannot talk, cries at night, and messes in his pants.

Tame and tender, the grandeur of God is reduced to a babe in arms. The Madonna and Child are everywhere this season, in paper, and plastic, and plaster: fronting Christmas cards and frozen in Christmas crèches. Sentimental and sweet, safe and sound. Round yon virgin, mother and child, holy infant so tender and mild.

Have you ever smelled a newborn baby? Have you ever stuck your nose in their neck? There is no other scent like it: a scent of the holy, a whiff of the divine, the aroma of life itself.

And if you have, you know then and there that you are hooked. Your ears tune in to decipher their every whimper, their every gurgle and cry.

Teach me, little one, how to love you.

This helpless little person wins over your heart and takes over your world – a subversive little savior.

It’s been said that Christmas is for such as these. And why not? On Christmas Day, God came into the world a screaming, scrawny infant, small and insignificant. Just as we all did once upon a time.

One Christmas, I read the story of a little fellow, a six year old named Pete who ripped open his presents and pulled out a dapper new bathrobe. His dad admiring it said, “Wow! That’s an awesome bathrobe. I wish I had one just like it.” Pete paused for a little quiet introspection. “You really like it, Dad?” “Yes, Pete. It’s the coolest bathrobe I have ever seen.” “Well, Dad” says Pete. “You can have it. You can wear it when you get little.” (The Christian Century, December 1998)

Jesus says it quite plainly “unless you turn and become as a little child, you cannot enter the kingdom of God.” Now to be sure he’s not suggesting we literally regress to cooing and babbling, pablum and Pampers.

No, Jesus emphasizes a very special quality of life, which he himself chose.

Like a child, God himself is unafraid to be needy. God himself is not ashamed to be helpless, hungry, lonely, and small.

God gets little on our account, choosing to be born poor in a simple town to an ordinary girl. It is almost too great a mystery and yet it makes perfect sense.

This little Messiah is God on the move: moving from the powerful to the powerless, from success to failure, from the strong to the weak, from the high to the low.

And if we let this Little One in, maybe — just maybe — he can creep through our cracks, mend what is broken, sweep away some tears, lighten some burdens,  brighten the darkness.

If we find a little room in our inn, and invite him in, with this Little One we are never totally alone.

This is how the subversive little savior breaks open our souls.

Love is why God gets little at Christmas.

And for love, may we, this Christmas, get little too.

JoaniSign

 


1 Comment

The (Christmas) Tree of Knowledge

IMG_0551(1)

Me and my tree, Bishop Payne Library, 2015.

I built a Christmas tree out of books.

This is not as crazy as it sounds. I work (at least part of the time) in a library.

Deeply rooted in theological knowledge, I built my tree out of old National Union Catalogues, Anchor Bible Commentaries, and dusty volumes of Luther’s Works. A novel here, a dictionary there, a little liturgics, a little pastoral care, some lights, and voila – a veritable tree of wisdom!

It took about 300 books. Hardbacks work best. And literally every branch of the tree sprouted from someone else’s library: read, marked, inwardly digested, discarded from or donated to Bishop Payne Library.

When clergy retire, downsize, or go to their greater glory, their books often are bequeathed to the seminary. Sorting through boxes of old musty books might seem like a pain in the ass, but for me it is a rare privilege. It is a labor of love.

As I pull books out of boxes, it’s like pulling up a chair in the pastor’s study. Running my fingers across the spines, I inventory their interests and note their passions. Counting the volumes, I calculate the year of their graduation and the years of their career.  Dating the collection, I witness their ministry both rise and fall.

It is deeply personal.

Handling the books one by one, sometimes a little something will fall out: a letter, a photograph, a Christmas card — a little intimate window into the mind of another.

A library speaks volumes on the state of one’s soul.

So what does my library say about me?

My library occupies every room in my house – except the bathrooms! Even my hallways are lined with bookshelves. (I have a Kindle too, but that really doesn’t count.)

Just this past week, my daughter Colleen asked me to choose my seven favorite books. She said to take pictures of the spines and send them to her. It has something to do with my Christmas present, I think, but I am not allowed to ask.:)

How can I possibly choose just seven? And OMG how long is this going to take? Well, somehow the Spirit moved and within fifteen minutes, I had selected them all.

Seven books are listed below. Each one represents approximately a seventh of my brain: its moods, its appetites; its insatiable curiosities.

So here we go.

The Book of Common Prayer

You saw this one coming, right? Lex orendi, lex credendi. We pray what we believe. For 500 years, these prayers have been shared  across both time and space. Even when I believe in nothing, I continue to pray.

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

I read this childhood classic in college.  There I fell in love with John Tenniel’s inky drawings and Lewis Carroll’s marvelous play on words. It became something of an obsession, which became my “Alice collection”. Visit my house and you will see, it obsesses me still.

An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness

A no brainer (pun intended!) This is Kay Redfield Jamison’s eloquent and elegiac story of her own bipolar life – both personal and professional. She is my manic-depressive hero.

Carmina Gadelica

Literally translated, it means Gaelic Songs. This is Alexander Carmichael’s 19th century compendium of Celtic charms, prayers, and invocations. A civil servant, he collected them in the Outer Hebrides while auditing books. Divine music to soothe my pagan soul.

Joan of Arc, a History

Helen Castor’s masterful book tells the tale of the Maid of Orleans – my saintly namesake, Joan. Like her, I do confess that I have heard voices from time to time.

A Gentle Madness: Bibliophiles, Bibliomanes, and the Eternal Passion for Books

My nerdiest passion is reading books about books. There is nothing more delicious and decadent than reading a book about books – this one in particular. Be still my heart, Nicholas Basbanes!

 Origins: Fourteen Billion Years of Cosmic Evolution

In the beginning was the Big Bang. In the beginning was the Word. Science is this theology student’s final frontier. Thanks to great translators, like Neil deGrasse Tyson, reading science has become my Lectio Divina.

Seven is a very revelatory number. Seven little books to reveal my soul.  Possibly they say more than could be said in ten years of therapy – bibliographically speaking!

(Thank you, Colleen!)

This little spiritual exercise  has been healing, hopeful, fruitful and fun — all very good things at this time of the year.

So go ahead and choose your seven!

Select seven books that speak your mind and sing to your soul. Mix them and match them. Run your fingers along their spines, recall their pages, and hold them close. Take them and build a little tree of wisdom – a Christmas tree of knowledge.

Inhale their aroma as incense rising to the heavens.

And may The Word that resides in the words of your seven — bless you seventy-times-seven  this Holy Yuletide!

JoaniSign


Leave a comment

Beauty and the Least

cover girl makeup

Joani Baloney. As a kid, it was not for nothing that I was called “Joani Baloney”. You see, I “carried a bit of “baby fat” long after I was a baby. Though my mom called me the “prettiest baby” of her six, pretty apparently did not survive the cradle.

Or at least so I was told.

Dressed in my brother Tim’s hand-me-downs, in grade school, it was virtually impossible not to look like a boy. I did my best to deny it. I curled my hair in pink plastic rollers, rolled up with Dippity-Do. I would tie it back in a velvet bow — a little femininity in my denim and dungarees.

My high school days were hippie-dippy days and we hippies did not care, of course, how we looked. Though we worked very hard to get it right.

I parted my hair down the middle and wore it down to my waist. The hems of my bellbottoms were properly fringed and barely held up with a macramé belt. I wore tie-died t-shirts and patchwork skirts. On my feet I only wore flats – little canvas Mary Jane’s – from the Chinese grocery. And when it was cold – an army jacket or a Navy pea coat from Sunny’s Surplus Store.

And no makeup, of course. Natural. You had to look natural.

No problem. My mom never taught me and I never asked. In high school, makeup was very uncool. Oddly though in college, my mom more than hinted that I could use a little. She set me up with the complete line of Mary Kay cosmetics. I didn’t have a clue what to do with it. All pinked out in its display case, it gathered dust in my bathroom for years.

Joani Baloney was a pretty plain Jane and she worked very hard to keep it that way.

I grew up camera shy. There are very few photos of me in my youth. It seemed safer to hide. Invisible to the lens.

I wore pants and rarely a dress.

I wore turtlenecks – no decolletage.

Dark colors not bright.

Nothing revealing — because there was nothing to reveal.

Until I had therapy. Lots of therapy.

In therapy I discovered that this bipolar soul is a beautiful soul — lovely on the inside. But it took a lover to convince me that I am also beautiful to behold.

Beautiful on the outside.

Beautiful from head to toe.

Beauty is in the eye of the Beloved.

So beloved of myself and beloved of my God

— I have shed my cocoon and emerged as a passable butterfly.

Four sizes down, my wardrobe has gotten all dressed up – a bit of frills and frippery from Anthropologie and designer duds from consignment shops.

My nails are polished. My lips are glossed. My hair is fluffed. My ass is buffed:)

Cinderella I am not – but I do have a Rent-the-Runway account – for that occasional gown.

Mirror, mirror in my purse,

This beauty thing for me’s a first.

An ugly duckling I thought I was

Or just average just because.

But looking deeper in my soul

And reaching deeper in my gut,

Something lovely there I touched,

Someone lovely all along.

Once a duckling,

Now a swan.

Beauty is in the eye of the Beloved.

JoaniSign


2 Comments

Leaving on a Jet Plane & a Trip to the Duty Free Store

The golden era of air travel.

The golden era of air travel.

The very first plane ticket I ever held in my fat little hand – I won in a contest.

It was an essay contest sponsored by Eastern Airlines (now long extinct). I was twelve.

500 words on “The Duties of Citizenship” launched me into the friendly skies for the very first time. I don’t remember a word of what I wrote but I do remember what I wore: a powder blue, polka dotted shift with pleated sleeves. Elegantly accessorized with black patent leathers and white anklets, of course.

Flying was way glamorous back in those days. It was 1967. A PanAm flight bag was a sexy accessory. Stewardess was an even sexier career choice.

Butterflies fluttered on my insides, as we contest winners boarded the plane. Listening to the safety instructions both mesmerized me and terrified me. And as I buckled my belt, a little thrill went down my spine — sipping Coca Cola in the clouds.

And where did we go? Nowhere really.

We went round and round circling National Airport (Not Reagan National as it is now known and never will be to me.). We circled for about half an hour and then landed safely back down to earth.

Friendly indeed were these skies on my fairytale flight. Not always to be, of course. My Frequent Flyer Followers, I am sure you have seen the Christmas classic: “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles”?

So get our your pre-flight checklist and lets count them down:

Lost luggage. Check.

Oversold seats. Check.

Late arrivals. Check.

Delayed departures. Check.

Security nightmares. Check.

Flights cancelled. Check.

Planes grounded. Check.

Stuck on the tarmac. Check.

Wings icing up. Check.

Barometers raised. Check.

Anxiety produced. Check.

Anger riled. Check.

Irish up. Check.

And still we cannot wait to board that plane.

As I write these words, my baby brother, Joseph — my rocking, single,  gay baby brother — and I are on our way to visit our elder, horticultural sister, Maureen. We are on a plane, of course,  headed to Vancouver.

This rainy, cloudy, cold November, we are psyched for a little cross-country adventure: walking the seawall, wandering the gayborhoods, day tripping to Victoria, marketing with the farmers, and pub crawling through the West End.

We departed from seedy BWI (Baltimore-Washington) and landed just an hour later with Lake Superior in view. We had five full hours to fill before we boarded our next Airbus out of Toronto.

We could have just sat on our butts — but instead we miraculously turned our five-hour layover into a day at the spa.

We had brunch: poached eggs over polenta and sour dough toast. Joseph’s Chelsea boots got a shine and my fingernails got painted —RED for the very first time! We had coffee and read up for our Canada quiz. Then we calculated the exchange rate on our debit cards (very much in our favor.) We shopped a little and we talked a lot.

5 fabulous duty free hours!

Airports are duty free – whatever the hell that means. In reality it’s about not paying taxes on overpriced stuff. But “duty free” really works much better as a metaphor.

Imagine airports as magical places — declared totally duty free. Free to wander. Free to wait. Free to play. Free to adventure. Free to splurge. Free to vacate wherever you have come from. Free to get excited about wherever you  go. Free to get lost and free to find out who knows what.

A marvelous trip to the duty free store.

Vancouver, here we come!

JoaniSign

 

 


Leave a comment

Mental Health Day

ferris and the ferrari

Ferris and the Ferarri

Remember Ferris Bueller’s Bacchanalia?

Ferris’s best class was cutting class. On the verge of graduation, he can’t resist the temptation to skip one last time. He “barfs up a lung” and calls in sick. He “borrows” a Ferarri and convinces his hypochondriac sidekick to go along for the ride. They take off through the streets of Chicago. Hilarious misadventure ensues.

Ferris hijacks a float in the city’s Van Steuben Day Parade, grabs a microphone, twirls it like a baton, and steals the show. All along the parade route, bystanders break out break dancing. Rock out, Chicago!

The Ferrari unfortunately does not fare as well as Ferris does.

The 1961 250 GT goes airborne twice to the Star Wars theme. It does not make it through the credits. Ferris and his friend run it in reverse in hopes of turning the odometer back. But there is no resurrecting the car. Driverless it takes a suicide dive off a cliff into the trees below.

“You killed the car.”

Ferris Bueller just celebrated his “30th” birthday. For thirty years the film has inspired high schoolers to take a “mental health day”. For thirty years the film has inspired really just about everyone to take one incredible and unforgettable “mental health day”.

“Mental health day” , of course, means you’re faking it. You’re lying. You’re goofing off. You’re playing hookie. You’re going AWOL. You’re sneaking around – hoping not to get caught.

Manically speaking, however — “mental health day” — I am here to tell you — is a very real thing.

I took one just the other day.

Hypo-manically flying beneath the radar, I climb, I soar, I swoop and ascend. I coast on clouds in blue, blue skies – on clouds of voluminous white.

My flight is fueled by work, by books, by friends, by family, by church, by walking, by music, by earth, by wind, by fire.

My flight is fueled by coffee and caffeine and extracurriculars.

I f*ing ace at extracurriculars.

I begin to believe that I have flown above my bipolar brain, that I’ve broken the bipolar sound barrier. I believe I’ve discovered anti-gravity.  My feet need never touch the ground again. The only direction to go is UP!

So I stay up later doing more and more. I stay up later and I get up earlier – because even in my dreams my head is racing. Racing, racing, racing and there is no finish line. There is no finish line at all.

And then hoped for things do not come true and along with that comes a rejection and a disappointment or two.

I can handle it. I can handle it. I can handle it, I tell myself. And then I can’t.

I wake up with a dull, twisted, knotted feeling in my stomach. It’s a nauseous feeling tinged with grief and loss. And this grownup woman is bereft as a child.

I curl up in the fetal position, the covers pulled over my head, and then a little voice says,

“I think it’s best, Joani, if you take a mental health day.”

A mental health day is a very real thing – just as real any day away for a virus or a broken limb. Your brain is broken and you are in fear of literally losing your mind. You feel your soul slipping from your grip. You pray not to sink beneath the waves.

Call in sick. Go back to bed.

Yes, call in sick.

But DO NOT, let me repeat, DO NOT climb back into that bed. Get up out that f*ing bed – no matter how f*ing hard it is. Make that bed up as best you can so that you can’t slip between the sheets again.

Eat something real. Wear something gorgeous and go out the f*ing door. Soak in the sun or walk in the soaking rain. Go outside no matter what the weatherman says.

Find yourself a table at a little offbeat bistro and order a gourmet meal. Walk down to the river. Read a book.

See your therapist. Visit a friend. Call your daughter.

Talk to God and rattle some beads.

Go home. Crank up the music and dance in your living room.

Take a shower, take your meds, and get a good night’s sleep.

Re-animate yourself.

Resurrect yourself.

Take a mental health day.

It’s a very real thing – a very real thing, indeed.

JoaniSign


3 Comments

Beatlemania, a Balm for the Bipolar Soul (in memory of Oliver Sacks)

“Beatlemania” Sweeps U.S. and America Swoons

The first 45 (yes 45!) I ever bought was the Beatles’  “Love, love me do” when I was about seven years old. I bought it at Murphy’s Five and Dime for about a dollar. When I got it home I slipped it out of its sleeve and played it over and over on the “stereo”.   I wasn’t as fond of  the song on the flip side, not sure why. But O my God, I still just love “Love, love me do”. I have used it in just about every wedding homily I have ever preached. I have even sung it from the pulpit. Badly of course, bipolar badly.

My girlfriends and I had a lip sync Beatles band . We used hairbrushes and bed-posts for microphones. My cool friends got to be John and Paul. My funniest friend got to be Ringo. I got to be George. George who played bass and sang backup. Joani, the little bipolar girl singing in the background.

The Fab Four in those Fabulous Eaton Jackets

The Fab Four in those Fabulous Eaton Jackets

Beatlemania, like Bibliomania, is a spiritual diagnosis. It started with all those hysterical teenage girls screaming when the Fab Four deplaned in New York. The Beatles’ star rose in the heavens when they starred on the Ed Sullivan Show. John, Paul, George and Ringo were only together for seven years (until that evil Yoko broke them up!) And in those brief seven years they made thirteen albums from “Please, Please Me” in 1963 to  “Let It Be” in 1970. My little collection of 45s gradually grew to include all thirteen 33 rpm LP’s. My little collection all alphabetized in plastic milk cartons.

The classic music of the Beatles, for folks of my generation, rivals the likes of Bach and Beethoven. And not just for my generation. Paul McCartney recently rocked out on Saturday Night Live, the Daily Show and the Colbert Report (where I used to get most of my news!) And O my God, I just bet the Beatles are still on just about everybody’s Ipod.

They are on mine – 99 songs. The Beatles are a balm for the bipolar soul. There is nothing more cathartic than cranking up Beatles tunes in the car. There is nothing better than belting out Beatles tunes in the shower. (Both the car and the bathroom having such great acoustics!)  The Fab Four’s discography has a song for virtually every mood on the manic-depressive continuum. And each song is equally fabulous.

–       “Yesterday, All My Troubles Seem So Far Away”

–       “Help! I Need Somebody”

–      ” A Hard Day’s Night”

–       “I Feel Fine”

–      ” We Can Work It Out”

–       “Nowhere Man”

–       “Baby You Can Drive My Car”

–       “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”

–      “The Fool on the Hill”

–       “With a Little Help From My Friends”

–       “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds”

–       “Across the Universe”

–        “Strawberry Fields Forever”

–         “Yellow Submarine”

–       “Here Comes The Sun”

–       “Magical Mystery Tour” and of course,

–       “Let It Be”.

Use your imagination and I am sure you can come up with more.

Beatles songs are a balm for the bipolar soul. They are kind of like Bipolar psalms. Biblical psalms are full of lamentation. They are unafraid to unload on God. Why have you cast me into darkness? Why have you laid me so low? Why am I stuck in this God-awful pit? But in these very same psalms light miraculously pierces the darkness  — miraculous, dazzling, dancing Light.  And then something like a “thank you” escapes the psalmist’s lips.

And Beatles songs are also a balm for the bipolar brain. Don’t take my word for it. You can read all about it in  “Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain”.  Written by Oliver Sacks, the noted Harvard neurologist and pioneer of the mind — who died just this week — “Musicophilia” documents how…

“We are a musical species no less than a linguistic one. This takes many different forms. All of us (with very few exceptions) can perceive music, perceive tones, timbre, pitch intervals, melodic contours, harmony, and (perhaps most elementally) rhythm. We integrate all of these and “construct” music in our minds using many different parts of the brain. And to this largely unconscious structural appreciation of music is added an often intense and profound emotional reaction to music.”

The inexpressible depth of music,” Schopenauer wrote, ‘so easy to understand and yet so inexplicable, is due to the fact that it reproduces all the emotions of our innermost being, but entirely without reality and remote from it’s pain….Music expresses only the quintessence of life and its events, never these themselves.'”

And as the book jacket says: “Music moves us, persuades us, and reminds us. Music can lift us out of depression and set us to dancing. Music is more than words. In fact, it occupies more areas of the brain than does language.”

We are musical creations. Music is a God damned miracle.

Yes, music is a miracle, especially Beatles music,  a balm for the Bipolar soul.

So friends, what you got on that Ipod?

JoaniSign

Note: For my loyal readers who might notice, this is an updated post of the summer past.