In order to introduce you to the story of coming of age in the face of my father’s schizophrenic unraveling I invite you to the soundtrack my father turned to when his world stopped making sense. We found refuge in the grace we found in the improvisational work of John Coltrane and Miles Davis. In a world that had stopped making sense the refrains spoke a language that moved beyond words, in search of meaning and connection. 

This picture of the family home was painted by my father’s sister, Aunt Irene. It was the home where I spent weekends with my father. Evenings with dad meant a smoke-filled kitchen, sitting with a cup of coffee at the table rimmed with stains and Blue in Green keening in the air.  It was one of the places his mind found a safe haven. Other times his mania was like a hopped-up friend; his thoughts scattered around him like ideas crumpled, ball like on the floor. Was his paranoia an expression of his vulnerability? 

Has anyone else had that thought that mania could be a kind of resilience