Here you will find honest remedies for the misery we all experience on this earth.
We don't mean a boatload of cash.
We can't send everyone to Club Paradise, we can't even go there ourselves.
But even though we may want to go to Club Paradise, we don't need to go there to cure our despair.
The air is free.

The RESPIRATION PROGRAM, a three trimester approach to mental health, is the cornerstone of our medicine.
RESPIRATION is clean, fresh air for your mind.
It was designed by three people who knew what it was like to be desperately sad: Henry David Thoreau, John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, and P. Paolo Pasolini.
All three of these men lost people very dear to them early in life: Thoreau to sickness and the other two in war.
Thus, their remedy for sadness is not "accredited" by psychological think tanks.
However, it is practical, and accessible to many people who can't afford high priced health care.
Best of all, it works.

It takes a while to work.
You have to breathe clean air for a while before all the dirty air gets expelled from your thoughts.
RESPIRATION is not a $100 a hit mental pill you can pop and instantly get high.
In fact, one of our teachers, Thoreau, asked:
What is the Pill that will keep people healthy in body and soul?
After conducting a two year experiment he concluded that "The Pill" was simply morning air.

Because he asked the pivotal question for us, we start there:
with Thoreau on the unimpressive "it sure doesn't look like much" shores of Walden Pond.

The program begins with gardening and ends with vitality.
Over winter break there is a one week class on Bullshit Theory as propounded by Harry Frankfurt
(which examines the thought of Ludvig Wittgenstein, three of whose brothers committed suicide)
All participants become part of our family of support.


Thoreau made less than $20 profit on his experiment. Even in 1835 that wasn't a fortune.
He had already botched up his teaching assignment by being "idealistic" and not wanting to use corporal punishment.
Assuming his fellow Harvard grads were already well on their way to market share by that time,
how did he dare to "waste" two years on his experiment and make such a small sum?
We say--well, he was lucky to have a rich friend like Emerson to lend him his land,
and lucky to have a rich dad with a pencil factory that meant he probably would always know people with means.
And this is true, although he died young without ever really having been a fat cat.
But supposing he had made 10 thousand in one year, gotten mentally sick,
and obliged his family or the government to spend 20 thousand on pills, opioids, shrinks,and other forms of therapy and relief?
Now we look again at his experiment in happiness with a more realistic evaluation of its economic logic.
It may well have been a business proposition in more ways than one.