A Day in Paradise

Chatsford Hall slept in the gentle sunshine of late afternoon. A recent rain shower left us surrounded by moist early summer scents. From the fences surrounding our little spot of Eden came the soothing coos of mourning doves. It was that most gracious hour midway between lunch and afternoon coffee when Nature takes off her shoes and puts her feet up.

In the shade of the lanai outside the back premises of our cottage, Ms. Wonder and I sat sipping the contents of long, tinkling glasses and reading a weekly paper devoted to the antics of society and stage in our hometown of Wilma, NC.

I put down the paper and shook the tall glass because I enjoy the sound of tinkling ice as much or perhaps even more than the fizzy mouth joy. I glanced at my partner sitting beside me.

"Well, here we are, Wonder," I said.

"Another day in paradise," she said.

Her words took me by surprise. Laughter escaped with the force of an exploding paper bag. You probably had the same experience. I mean, the woman is constantly amazing us with her unique insight and wisdom, but she's not a standup comic.

"Wonder!" I said as I attempted to catch my breath, "Don't spring things like that on me without warning. I might have injured myself."

She didn't respond right away but seemed intently interested in a group of doves that wandered the lawn in search of bird seed left by the flocks of cardinals and chickadees that had breakfasted there earlier in the day.

"I think doves are related to chickens," she said.

Again, I was fascinated by her words and the thoughts they expressed. I felt an indescribable thrill to be present and to share this magical moment with her.

"Bobbing heads?" I said.

I know, it wasn't much of a comeback but I gave no thought to enriching the vocabulary when I was so overcome with the richness of the shared experience.

"Bobbleheads," she said.

Laughter poured out of me again. I was near hypomanic. After all, this premier wonder worker is a woman who has access to the combined wisdom of the ancients, and probably the complete annotated edition of the Akashic records, and who knows, maybe the Hall of Records, that library hidden below the Great Sphinx? But she reads historical novels not humorous ones.

"Common ancestors," I offered, "dinosaurs?"

"Have you ever seen a flamboyance of flamingos walking in formation?" she asked.

"Flamboyance?" I asked. "Well, yes I suppose you might think of them as flamboyant with those glorious pink bodies and all that elegance."

"That's the official term," she said. "flamboyance."

"Do they bob heads?" I asked.

"In unison," she said, "synchronized walking and bobbing."

"Synchronized," I said. "It's new to me but strangely fascinating."

We became quiet while flamingos marched and bobbed in the movies playing in our minds. At least they bobbed in mine, I can't say what was happening in her head. We continued to sit in silence listening to the doves cooing to each other in the fading light of early evening.

The doves' serenade was backed up by an evening chorus of cardinals and chickadees. As if it were their queue, the squirrel circus began their final performance for the day. 

My thoughts were of summers past spent with the woman who was sitting here by my side and presently, those thoughts were replaced with possibilities for the summer about to begin.

That soft, quiet moment continued through the evening until, at last, the doves lined up on the rooftop to watch the sunset.

It was another day in paradise, just as she'd said earlier, and I felt a simple but profound joy just knowing that there would be many more days like these spent in the company of the love of my life, Ms. Wonder.

I Love Lucy!

I bobbed to the surface from the depths of a dream, having been roused by a sound like that of distant thunder. Clearing away the mists of tired nature's sweet restorer, I was able to trace this rumbling to its source. It was the current Cat of the Year, Beignet.

Lucy, The Princess of Sweetness and Light

The super-sized Beignet has never seen eye-to-eye with me on the subject of early rising. I like to sleep to the last possible moment and then leap out into the day, taking full advantage of the element of surprise. I'm told Napoleon did the same. But this long-haired, ginger and white is absolutely up and about with the larks every morning.

Having bounded onto the bed, he licked me in the right eye, then curled up and settled in with his head on my arm.

"Isn't that sweet?" said the Wonder who had shimmered into the room. I could not fully subscribe to this point of view. What is sweet about getting out of bed before God wakes, only to go back to sleep again? Silly, it struck me as.

I extricated myself from the cat and brought myself to a fully upright position, the better to slosh a half-cup of tissue restorer into the abyss. It was only then that I realized Ms Wonder was knee-deep in boxes, looking like a sea goddess walking on the rocky shore.

"Unpacking?" I asked.

"Getting the Halloween stuff out. I thought it might help to keep busy today," she said. "Takes my mind off things I don't want on my mind."

I understood her meaning to the core. 

"Then unpack 'till your ribs squeak," I said, "and let me help."

It seems nothing brings more healing balm like anticipation of the holidays and our hearts were sore in need of healing. Lucy, the recently rescued little princess of sweetness and light has been adopted by another and is even now getting used to her new surroundings. 

It's an excellent situation for her, of course, being the absolute center of attention and becoming a member of a permanent family. Still, it leaves a void in our hearts. It seems that when Lucy left, the sunshine and bluebirds followed her.

We love you, Lucy, and we miss you terribly and if history is any indication, we always will.  I will always remember being wakened by your tiny, cold, wet nose.

Be happy, be healthy, be safe my little girl.

Parting the Clouds

Joy cometh in the morning, or so the psalmist tells us. But all things are relative, which I'm sure I don't need to tell you. I have no complaints about how this particular morning began. Before surrendering to the call to be up and about, I lay nestled in the peaceful bliss of a couple of cats still dreaming by my side.

"Poopsie, what's it like out?" I asked and was immediately assured that I was right to assume the sounds of water running nearby meant Ms. Wonder was enjoying a dunk in the Volga tributary running out of the tap in the salle de bain.

"Overcast and blustery," she said and I nodded. It was a useless gesture, of course, as she was in the next room.

Zen Garden at Straw Valley

No, not a bad little morning, but life doesn't loiter underneath the coverlets. It moves fast and eventually one must face the reality of gray skies and coolish breezes. 

I was on tap this morning to lead a meditation class at Straw Valley, and the class was making its last call before raising the curtain on today's performance. It was for me the work of a moment to drape myself in something loose and comfortable and then flash from east to west along the southern corridor of Durham.

Sunday morning meditation cleasses are never expected to be large and today's expectations proved correct. Straw Valley was quiet. I'd been notified by text and voicemail that about half the regular crew would be otherwise engaged. No, not a large class but still, I didn't expect to be the only one there. 

Now, as you know well, I have no sympathy for those who whine. Still, I don't want to mislead you. I hate as much as anyone the cosh behind the ear that Fate delivers when I'm not looking. Reminding myself that the most important gifts in life are Time and Place. And reasoning that I had plenty of Time in the perfect Place, I began to qigong like the dickens.

I entered the Zen garden where I began with Wuji Swimming Dragon. Under the bamboo arbor, I executed Parting the Clouds. In front of the art wall--Embracing Heaven and Earth. It was in the middle of this qigonging that a young man and woman entered the courtyard carrying laptops and coffee.

"Are you with the meditation class?" she said.

I confessed that it was true because she had caught me waving my arms around my head and it seemed futile to deny it.

"Is that 'ki gong you're doing?' she said.

"Chi gung," I said because I always like to get it right.

"We were wondering about that," said the male half of the sketch.

"Wonder no more," I said. "Join me and do what I do."

"Want to?" she said looking at him with eyes that sparkled like fireworks after a Durham Bull's game. I could tell that her smile was to him like the sun and he was her Chanticleer, ready to flap his wings and strut his stuff. 

They joined me and we worked our way around the courtyard until we came to the cabanas where another couple, friends of the first, were invited to join us. They did.

"This isn't what I expected meditation to be," said the new woman.

"Ah," I said, for the Genome is quick and I knew exactly where she was headed with this comment. "We have a few minutes left. Let's go inside and I'll introduce you to Zazen." 

Daybreak by Cathryn Jirlds

No sooner had we entered the back room of Sanderson House than I realized the room was not as empty as I'd left it. Another couple enjoying coffee and scones were surprised to see us. After a few pour parlers, they too joined us seated on the floor in front of one of the abstract photos, Daybreak, by Cathryn Jirlds.'

And so with a little acceptance and with willingness to live life on life's terms, we not only bucked up our immune systems and improved our cognitive abilities, but we also had a great Sunday morning in the Courtyard. 

Every day should be just so. Data, set a course to the Age of Aquarius. Engage!

A Walk on the South Side

Mornings, I walk. After an early caffeine binge with The Enforcer, I pace the south end of the city one step at a time moving as quickly as my back will allow. 

I tell people the walk was recommended by my therapist, and there is that, but I really walk to get a preview of what the day will be like for the Genome. The walk is quick but it's mindful.

I enjoy greeting the people that I see out and about in the early morning. They're people with purpose and I wonder what it would be like to be a purposeful person again. I struggle to find purpose but no matter how hard I try, it seems that I spend my days in Heaven's waiting room. 

Time and Place. That's the stuff I see as important. I'd like to think that what I do is important but, there again, it seems the universe has its own agenda. I'm expected to do something, almost anything I suppose, and that seems to be enough. More than enough really. Doing anything seems to be everything.

I don't expect you to agree. I'm not a fool. Or rather, I may be a fool, but... oh, I don't know. Let's not get derailed by existential philosophy. 

I know most people live with the idea that life has meaning and that they have a purpose. I'm happy for them. I admire them.

I watch a favorite barista from Ethiopia who makes the little faces and hearts and fern leaves in the lattes I drink in Native Grounds and I wonder if it would be possible for someone without purpose in their life to do that.

Even though I don't know what I'm doing, it feels somehow, and this is the salient point, that I have been chosen for the role. I have been chosen by the Enforcers to blunder through life hoping that something meaningful will happen.

This morning, pacing the south side mindfully and feeling the anger--not to mention the pain in the upper back--I began doing a few qigong wudangs. Swimming Dragon, was the first, followed by Parting the Clouds and then finishing with Embracing Heaven and Earth.

I was near a storm drain, and that mundane piece of municipal infrastructure became a metaphor for the neural networks in the shadowy region of my brain that support my depression. 

My qigong moves became fierce--my way of shouting down the storm drain of the mind, "I'm chosen! So don't mess with me, Amy!"

Amy, of course, is that little region of gray cells... No! Sorry, you know all about Princess Amy by now.

When my attention returned to the here and now, I realized that about a dozen people were moving around me doing whatever they were doing at this hour. Upper-dressed young women going to work at Nordstrom's; corporate ID-tag bearers heading to Panera's for coffee and bagels; cargo pant-ed leaf blowers. All looking at me.

"Had to be done," I said.

They all nodded and continued on their way because they all knew what it was like to be messed with. And they instinctively knew that I was yelling in the right direction. Down the storm drain.

Original and Catchy

I arrived at the Den of the Secret Nine before any of the other members of the Organization. I wasn't surprised because traffic can be formidable in the Renaissance during the season of commercial orgy. I sat at the regular table and before I'd disconnected myself from iPhone life support, the Duck Man entered and sat next to me.

"I'll tell you my story," he said. "I'll tell you my story and you will sympathize because I can tell by looking at your face that you're sympathetic. You have a sympathetic face. My story is the story of a man's tragedy. It is the story of a blighted life. It is the story of a woman who could not forgive. It is the story..."

"I have to leave at 8:30," I said, "and if it's the story about the monkey and the coconuts, I've heard it and it's vulgar."

"Sympathy," he said. "A man who has suffered the tragedy that I have asks only for a little sympathy."

"Let your days be full of joy," I said and I was pretty bucked about it too because I'd heard this gag only the night before. The timing was perfect. And it feels good to bewilder someone who is attempting to flummox you. Don't you agree? I continued with the little saying all the way to the punchline.

"Love the child that holds your hand," I said. "Let your wife delight in your embrace. For these alone are the concerns of man." 

I may have paraphrased the little thing but I was confident that I'd non-plussed him anyway. But it was not so. 

"I have no children," he said, "and I've lost the woman who means all the world to me."

I knew he'd led me to the top of the slippery slope and immediate steps were required to avoid disaster. 

"Listen," I said.

"Sure," he said taking a sip of his coffee.

"I walk the face of the earth like an ant walks on the surface of water," I began.

"Do ants walk on water," he asked?

I raised a hand as this was no time for side issues.

"As if the slightest misstep might send me straight through the surface and into the depths below. Not the depths of the ocean but the innermost depths of my mind."

At this point, I paused to look him hard in the eye and tap my finger on the side of my head. 

"It's dark and scary in there," I said.

"What's so scary about it?"

"I'll tell you," I said. "Just yesterday I was thinking about the rising tide of heinous skulduggery and political weasel-osity in the nearby kingdom of the United States. I was thinking about how the people living there are in need of compassion and goodwill."

He nodded and his face wore the expression of someone considering my comments to the fullest extent of consideration.

"And as I mused on those thoughts," I said, "a cargo van of grief and anger came careening around a corner in my mind and plowed through a row of garbage cans. The driver came out swinging and shouting..."

"Hmm," he said, you don't see that every day. But so what?"

"That driver was me," I said.

"Ah," he said. And then placing a hand on my arm, and looking at his phone, he said, "Sorry, gotta go. I have a 9:00 appointment and it's almost 8:30 now."

He walked away and left me wishing that I had closing remarks for situations like this. I used to wish people a nice Mayan apocalypse on such occasions, but that ship sailed and is long forgotten. I need to come up with something original and catchy.

Point of No Return

My story is a simple one and one that’s all too common. The whole thing can be condensed into two words—"I drank." 

What It Was Like

I remember that as a boy, my father and uncle used to give me a small taste of beer, but I didn’t like it. But I did like the feeling it gave me, the feeling of breaking a taboo and doing something that I shouldn’t. 

My story isn’t one of a teenager gone bad. I stayed sober through high school. My downfall began when I joined the hometown boys in college.

I was one of those young men you read about in the Hollywood tabloids. I had no self-confidence. I felt that everyone around me knew something about life that I’d somehow missed in the instruction booklet.

And then I was introduced to the awful power of all-out, uncontrolled ridicule. Young college men are a hard-living lot, wild and reckless. They engaged in keg parties, drunken dances, and X-rated movies, and they laughed at me when I chose to stay in my apartment listening to The Supremes and Simon and Garfunkle.

Eventually, I gave in to their raucous urging. The next time I was offered a drink I accepted. Immediately, they treated me as a member of their club. They initiated me with a complimentary nickname. 

The Jack Daniels and Coca-Cola we drank made me drunk, but the sudden popularity and their wholesale acceptance of me completely intoxicated me.

How vividly I can recall the next morning! Those merry faces that had partied with me the night before, and the slaps on the back convinced me that I was the life and soul of the party. It was too much for me to ignore.

I was addicted to the attention that I found only while drinking.

At first, considerations of health didn’t trouble me. I was young and strong, and my constitution quickly threw off the negative effects. Gradually, I began to feel worse. I was losing my grip. I had trouble concentrating on my work. I became anxious. In what seems like a very short time, I lost everything. My car, my home, my job, my family. 

What Happened

Eventually, I met a man. I’m not sure how it happened but it doesn’t matter. All that does matter is that I met him. He knew something about my problem.

"If I am to help you," he said, "you must tell me everything. Hold no secrets.” He gave me hope and he gave me a long list of instructions. I did everything on that list and I began to be transformed.

I soon found other people who suffered from the problem that plagued me. They had also met someone who gave them a long list of instructions and we joined together to help each other stay on the straight and narrow.

And then, one day, I met Ms. Wonder, the girl who effected my reformation. She was a clergyman's daughter, no not really, I joke about how she was the opposite of me, when in reality she’d earned her amazing wisdom by living a life as difficult as mine, although under different circumstances.

What It’s Like Now

We began to see a lot of each other and, somehow our differences seemed to mesh into something like a musical comedy.

I remember being so overjoyed at the prospect of spending time with her that I often sang, “Oh Joy! Oh Pep!" Maybe not that song. I sang a lot of happy songs that all carried the message of "Oh, Happy Day!" As we spent more time together, our acquaintance ripened, and one night I asked her out to see “Moonstruck.”

I look at that moment as the happiest of my life. We had time to spare before the movie started and we drove round and round Clear Lake talking of this and that. Eventually, we parked and when I couldn’t unbuckle my safety belt, she declared, “And I thought you were a live one!"

Our time together that night began my transformation. I experienced joy for the first time without alcohol.

It was hard at first. Something inside me tried to pull me back to my cravings, but I resisted the impulse. Always with her divinely sympathetic encouragement, and her mysterious ability to work wonders, I gradually acquired a taste for life on life’s terms. 

We’ve been together for a lifetime and the joy increases daily. Someday, I hope to be able to show her how much I appreciate her and how grateful I am for all she's done.

Abracadabra, Alakazam!

This morning I woke with the feeling that I was sitting in a blue bird's nest surrounded by a chorus singing of sunshine, blue skies, ocean breezes, and all the fixings. I can honestly say that I was feeling boompsie-daisy. 

"Wonder," I said on my way to the sal de bains, "I'm feeling boompsie-daisy."

I never expect Ms. Wonder to take anything I say big and she didn't surprise me this morning. These descendants of Russian nobility do not let excitement move them from their center, remaining balanced at all times.

She continued to pluck her brows while she expressed her opinion but, I'm happy to say, that her expressed opinion was good. 

Yes, the morning began with a decidedly pro-Genome bias. And yet, you will hardly credit it, but when I emerged from the shower, Princess Amy cast her veil over my eyes. The bright sparkly thoughts that filled my head only a few minutes prior were now "layer'ed o'er with the pale cast of thought." as I've heard Wonder describe it.

Up one minute, down the next, that's the Genome known by most of the Villagers. It's a chemical thing with a lot of technical jargon and a lot of guff about the amygdala, the little organ in the brain that's the center of the limbic system and the source of emotion. 

The species of amygdala that sits behind the control panel of my emotions is a very stubborn little organ and most insistent on getting her way. She reminds me of a spoiled little princess who relies on temper tantrums to make her the center of attention. I call her, Princess Amy.

Who was that Roman guy who wrote about everything being part of the Great Web? He understood that everything in life was interconnected. Wrote books about it I believe. No matter, it will come to me later.

My point is that I see my depression as being part of that Great Web. In my case, the web is one of Serotonin reuptake inhibitors and whatnot. Marcus Aurelius! Yes, that's the perp I was thinking of! 

I knew his name would come to me. That Great Web in my brain is like a personal Internet of ganglia and synapses. Names can be hard to find unless I have the appropriate keywords in the search string.  

Now, where was I? Ah, right, I was about to say that Princess Amy is not the boss of me! I am the chosen one, the hero of my personal life story. I have that on the authority of Joseph Campbell and he should know. And according to C.S. Lewis, all heroes have magic swords. My own magic sword is my fierce intent. And it was fierce intent that pulled me out of the soup this morning.

Having clad the outer crust in the upholstery of the casually employed, I bunged myself into Wind Horse and gave her rein on the open road. But most importantly, I held fiercely to the intention that the open road and whatnot would return the bluebird to her rightful position.

As soon as I set out, I tuned the radio to "60's Gold" where Louis Armstrong sang "What a Wonderful World," which was followed immediately by The Loving Spoonful singing, "It's a Beautiful Morning." 

Alakazam! (The Arabic magical word, not the Pokemon character.) Alakazam is a sort of versatile magical command, along the lines of abracadabra. Regular fans of The Circular Journey will remember our tuxedoed magical feline who was called Abbie Hoffman. His real name, of course, was Abracadabra. But then you knew that already.

But I've jumped the rails again. Let's get back to the story. Alakazam! The effect was immediate. The sky cleared, the sun shone, and the birds began singing on key. Not in the outside world, which remained rainy and gray, but it was inside where the weather cleared.

I may never be completely depression-free and I may have to feel those blue emotions forever, but I don't have to let them steal my song. With sweet memories of the loves of my life, one of them being Abbie Hoffman, I can rise above the clouds of depression on the back of the spirit horse of fierce intent. 

Sweet memories make sweet dreams. And so I say, Abracadabra, Alakazam! Not today, Amy! I eat no pine needles today!

The Twee System

I began my morning walk, with emotions soaring over the rainbow. The skies were blue, the sunshine warm, and the Mockingbird Five were performing live at the Brunswick Welcome Center. I was feeling fine, better than fine--the word is hiding from me right now; begins with an 'E'. 

Then, little by little, I felt my mood slipping. I began to worry that my daily inventory was going to be disappointing. I felt that I'd stepped out onto what I've heard called, the slippery slope.

I know what you’re thinking. You probably think of me as one of the most delightful people you’ve ever met. You remember me as one who remains quiet and reserved in the company of others, who is always polite, and who pays attention when others speak.  

Genome, you say to yourself, what is happening to you? 

Well, it's no mystery, my friend. It may border on tragic and it may be heartbreaking. But it's no mystery. It began when a well-meaning friend, one who cannot leave well enough alone, suggested that I might benefit from those martial arts exercises you see advertised everywhere. 

My people-pleasing nature caused me to consent and before you could say lower dantien, I was enrolled in classes taught by Asian ambassadors for martial arts in America. My personality began to change. I became like one of those self-absorbed young men you see in TikTok videos. 

After a few weeks, I was no longer quiet and calm. I became hearty and talkative even at the breakfast table, driving Ms. Wonder to distraction, perhaps to tears if I’m completely honest. I often boast to her of having been out with the dog walkers for a bracing walk hours before she awoke. Nothing to it, of course. I probably got up when she was in the bath, if I'm honest. But I feel that I should say something to let her and others too know that I’m working to improve myself. 

If you think that's bad, better sit down. Throughout the day I sashay about town with a brisk, even jaunty, step. I greet everyone with a boisterous Good morning! I shake hands, I slap backs, and I'm generally a nuisance to almost everyone I encounter.

Naturally, this behavior has lost me a great many friends. But far worse has been the effect on my moral fiber. Although I like to think of myself as a mild and inoffensive man, I fear that Nature, the silly ass, has given me a ready wit and a short fuse. Whenever I find myself with a difference of opinion, and I do find myself in such situations more often than is probably healthy, I can’t help but think of a snappy remark or superb comeback. I sometimes decide it's a great pity to let it go to waste.

Brooding intensely over this troubling matter, and relying on my systems analysis skills, I’ve developed a program of spiritual exercises designed to improve the soul so that it keeps pace with the self-assertiveness. I like to think of it as keeping self and spirit aligned.

The key to success for this new system is to a mindfulness technique I mastered long ago coupled with the philosophy known as Twee (look it up). Imagine that you’re performing the kung fu hurricane kick. If you can’t imagine doing it, then imagine me doing it. Works just as well. 

Now as you lift the leg above the waist and swirl around toward the opponent, instead of thinking about driving your foot through his head, you think instead of the dictum that all creatures have co-evolved on the earth and that we are all endowed by our creator with certain inalienable rights and among these are the right to enjoy life, freely as Nature intended, in pursuit of our needs and desires. 

Having completed this exercise, you stand in the horse position, hands crossed at the lower dantien, and say the following words: I offer myself to you totally, good and bad, to do with, to make with what you will. 

Doesn’t matter who you’re offering yourself to; the words simply set the intent to get out of your own way.

Ecstatic! That's the word I was looking for. Sorry for the interruption. The word just popped into my head and I wanted to be sure to get it on record.

Space forbids a complete list of my new spiritual exercises, but I'm preparing a small illustrated booklet, found on the advertising pages. The portrait included here is taken from the booklet and shows me immersed in mindful Twee.

You'll notice immediately a sort of rapt, seraphic expression in my eyes and a soft and spiritual suggestion of humility about the mouth. A big difference in my demeanor and the offensively preoccupied expression you see in most of the public today, don’t you think? 

I hope my experience will benefit you as you travel your own self-improvement path. Remember, my friend, it's a wide, wild, wind-blown world we’re riding through but you don't have to let it blow your skirts up. Fierce Twee!

Sad Songs Say So Much

To combat the familiar feeling that I take up space better used for other purposes, I decided to invite a few friends over to listen to the new Spotify playlist I created for my birthday.

"Good for you," said James. "Music is the medicine that cures whatever ails you."

When we were settled on the lanai, each with a favorite tissue restorer in his hands, I explained that my birthday playlist contained songs guaranteed to cheer me up when I'm blue.

"We'll start," I said, "with Whitney Houston and I Will Always Love You."

"This song became the best-selling single of all time by a female solo artist," I said.

We all sang along with Whitney and when it ended, Jim said, "Did you know that song was written by Dolly Parton? She wrote it for Porter Wagoner when she left his TV show to pursue a solo career."

"It's a great song," said Dennis, "but a little sad, don't you think?"

"Some sad songs make me feel better," I said. "And let's don't jump the rails with side issues. I've got a lot of great music to play.

I pushed play and Billy Vera began singing the heart-breakingly beautiful What Did You Think.

"Oh, my Lord," said Dennis. "That's the most powerful song I've ever heard. Makes a grown man cry."

"Yeah, Genome, I thought these songs were supposed to lift your spirits."

"Well, they do lift mine," I said. "Even though I feel like crying when I hear this song, somehow, some way it makes me happy at the same time. I'm happy knowing that my life includes the kind of love that passeth all understanding, as the Big Book says, and I've recently found my life's purpose. Does that make sense?"

"Not at all," said Jim. "It's either a happy song or it isn't. And it's the Good Book, not the Big Book."

"Okay, okay" I said. "Stop judging and listen to Rita Coolidge singing Bird on a Wire."

"Oh man!," said James, "I love this song. Have you watched The Great?"

"I'm watching it now," said Dennis. "What a series, right? "The way Catherine struggled to give the signal for the coup."

"Right, said Jim. "You could see the heartbreak in her eyes because it would cost her the love of her life."

"Yeah," said James, "Elle Fanning nailed it!"

"No, no!," I said. "This has nothing to do with the television series and it's not about the Simone Istwa arrangement of the song. It's Rita Coolidge."

"It's Istwa," said James. "Istwa, not Itswa."

"I didn't say Itswa."

"Yes, you did," said Jim.

"Do you have a happy, upbeat song in this entire playlist?" said Dennis.

"Didn't say happy," said James. "He said they lift his mood."

"Yeah, well, I expected to have my mood lifted," said Dennis, "but so far..."

"Okay," I said. "I get it. But sometimes in life, we have to accept the loss of something we love for the greater good. Like Catherine the Great."

"You think so?" said Jim and it wasn't really a question.

"Fine," I said. "I give up. I don't care anymore. Do what you want, but I'm going to listen to Billy Joel singing, Keeping the Faith.

"Oh, man, I love Billy Joel," said James.

Instead of replying, I began singing along with Mr. Joel.

"If it seems like I've been lost in 'let's remember..."

Everyone joined me and our voices soared until we got the attention of the family next door.

"Then you should have known me much better..."

I heard voices coming from somewhere off-stage and I assumed the neighbors were joining it.

"Still I would not be here now if I never had the hunger,..."

The others stopped singing when the neighbors came to look over the fence but I continued to sing solo.

"Cause I never felt the desire
'Til their music set me on fire
And then I was saved, oh yeah"

And that," I said opening my eyes, "is the punchline that brings it all home: I’d never felt the desire 'til the music set me on fire, and that made all the difference."

"Genome," said Dennis, "do you have another of those mimosas lying around that someone isn't using?"

"I'll get that while you guys listen to Linda Rondstadt and Long, Long, Time," I said.

"Oh, my god!" said Jim. "You and your uplifting songs. That's got to be the saddest song ever written."

"Especially when Linda sings it," said Mumps. "She puts more sad notes in a song than the writers."

When I returned to the lanai, everyone was sitting quietly wearing deep-thought faces.

"Sssup?" I said and I meant it to imply What the hell?

"The invitation said an afternoon of uplifting music," James said.

Silence filled the early evening air. Darkness had fallen like a soft velvet curtain. The hibiscus blossoms had closed their eyes and their heads drooped in slumber. I wondered if hibiscus flowers dream. 

An owl hooted in the shadows. Small creatures of the night rustled in the undergrowth. Eventually, James said, "Let me tell you a story."

"Oh, good," I said, "I was hoping to hear stories when I planned this hullabaloo."

"Once upon a time, in my younger days," he said. "I had broken up with my girlfriend and was driving home one Sunday night. I knew that Linda was going to be on the Ed Sullivan Show that evening. 

 We had no Spotify or Apple Music back then. So I stopped at Charlie's Tavern in South Daisy, bought a beer, and asked Charlie if he could turn the Sullivan show on. I heard Linda sing Long, Long Time. I loved it but I cried all the way home."

"I understand," I said even though I really didn't. "But why are you telling me this story now?"

"Because we all want to hear our own sad songs but we don't want to hear someone else's."

"Say that again," I said.

"Think about it," he said.

"Anyone interested in one more song?" I said. "The last one is Sad Songs by Elton John." 

"Let's dedicate it to Jody," James said. "I wish he could have been here. He loved Sir Elton and he loved all the sad songs."

"Sad songs say so much," I said.

And so it went. The day had turned out nothing like I expected. In other words, the usual day in paradise. But listening to Elton John and thinking of Jody, I couldn't help but feel that it had turned out exactly as it should.

Goodness and Light

"Have you ever heard of a city called Tunis?" asked Island Irv as soon as I'd settled down with my Sunday morning latte in Ibis Coffee Cafe and Dance Bar.

"Sure," I said, "it's the capital of Tunisia and it's on the northeast corner of Africa, near the tip of the Italian boot or, if you prefer, the island of Malta."

I expected that to be the end of this line of questioning because he seemed puzzled by the inclusion of footwear in my response, and besides Irv often asks questions that go nowhere. But I was wrong.

"So what's the northwest corner of Africa near," he asked.

What, if anything, I wondered, is this leading to?

"The northwest corner lies just across the Straight of Gibraltar from Spain," I said.

"Spain," he said with a quizzical expression as though he were musing about the implications that particular bit of geography might have on his personal philosophy. I was prepared for more, but no, before Irv could think of another question, someone else took the stage.

"I'd like a double cappuccino, half-caf, with oat milk, a drizzle of caramel, and just a sprinkling of cinnamon. I want only enough foam to be aesthetically pleasing but no more."

The request was made by someone you've read about in a previous post. I described him then as being the Lord Sidcup type and I may have implied that he often instills in my mind the thought of beating his brains out with a brick. I call him Spode because he reminds me of that P.G. Wodehouse character.

I looked at Irv, who was looking at me, with the same expression; an expression that said, Oh no, not again, Lord. Why me?  

This local version of Lord Sidcup is a bit of a celebrity because he writes a column for Port City Magazine in which he reviews local hot spots, and the arts scene, and keeps us informed on the goings on in the city.

After placing his order, he walked toward the seating area but, immediately slowed to a standstill. He resembled the man who, after lunch with old friends from out of town, suddenly realizes he left his wallet on the kitchen counter at home. 

Minutes later a barista approached him with his order.

"Your double capp," she said.

"Oh!" he said as though it were a surprise. "I haven't found a table yet. I can't enjoy my coffee standing here in the middle of the room."

"There are a few tables near the window," said the barista and there are several tables along the far wall."

She made a delicate sweep with her arm as though revealing tables that had not been seen up to now. Her gesture was so dramatic that I wondered if she was enrolled in drama classes at UNCW. I thought I'd call her Desdemona. I don't know why. Just one of those things, I imagine.

"Oh, that won't do at all," he said. "I need a cafe table in the center of the room because the light is too bright near the windows and the television near the far wall is too loud. I need a quiet, well-lighted space to enjoy my coffee."

As she walked past our table, I caught her eye and said to her, "Well, that turned a little dark, didn't it?"

"That's alright," she said, "I like it dark sometimes." Then turning to glance back at Spode, she said with a low menacing tone, "I can go dark too."

I looked at Irv once more with two raised eyebrows. He called my eyebrows and raised me two more with a knowing nod.

Several minutes passed with Spode standing in the middle of the room giving the evil eye to seated customers. Eventually, he walked back to the order-here spot.

"Excuse me," he said to people at the front of the line, "I've ordered but need to make a small change."

"I've decided against the sprinkling of cinnamon on my cappuccino," he said to the guy taking orders at the counter.

The order taker didn't say anything but gave Spode a look that said, I'm not a major player in this episode, only an extra who has no speaking parts.

"My order was a double cappuccino, with a drizzle of caramel, and a sprinkling of cinnamon. But I've decided against the cinnamon."

The intrepid extra demonstrated a professional ability to improvise by looking at the barista to his left who nodded knowingly and then moved away, presumably to take care of the change.

Spode turned back to the seating area and walked to a table that had just opened up very near our own. He sat, took his tablet out of a shoulder bag, and signaled to the barista that he was ready for his coffee.

Desdemona soon returned with his order. "I'm sorry, said Spode, "but that's simply far too much foam. Can you remake it with half as much?"

"I'll get a spoon for you to remove some of the foam," she said.

"Does that ever work? I mean really work?" said Spode in a tone that left no doubt it was not a question.

She took the coffee away without a word.

Spode began working on the tablet and presently, a beautiful, thin-foam cappuccino was delivered to his table. I expected to see him bloom like a flower in the gentle rain of summer. But it wasn't to be.

"Excuse me," Spode said to the retreating Desdemona, "I don't want to be a bother, but I changed my order to leave off the cinnamon and yet there's cinnamon sprinkled all over the foam."

Desdemona gave him a long, slow expressionless look.

"I simply will not be able to write my article if I can't enjoy my coffee exactly the way I like it," he said. "Anything less will ruin my entire day."

Desdemona didn't reply. Her expression was unchanging.

"Please," whined Spode.

Still silent, she took the coffee away again.

Several minutes went by without noticeable barista activity. Spode began to appear anxious and occasionally looked up to glance toward the front of the cafe. Finally, he raised a hand and gestured for attention.

"Am I ever going to get my coffee," he said when Desdemona arrived table-side. "At this rate, I'll have the article finished before it gets here."

"Hang tight," said Desdemona. "We don't want you to lose your cool and disappoint the people with an anxious article. We're driving a master barista from Calabash to make your coffee."

She turned and walked away.

I looked at Irv with another raised eyebrow to see if he'd taken this development the way I had.

"You'd think a magazine columnist would be aware," said the islander, "that, even under the best conditions, a sensitive, highly-trained barista will go dark at the slightest provocation."

I nodded. Unfortunately, I had to leave before the specialist arrived from Calabash. I was disappointed too. I was looking forward to having a word with him. I've always wondered what's the deal about blonde espresso.

A Story I Can Believe In

Today was the yearly checkup for Uma Maya, Queen of Cats, Empress of Chadsford, and, as per the rule book, she is perfect. When she lounges peacefully in an upper-story window, gazing out upon the lawns and gardens of Chatsford Hall, there flickers in the air around her a shimmering image of the Hermitage with Uma reclining on a velvet cushion in a gilded Louis XIV chair. The vet crew at Cat Hospital of Durham are in awe of Her Majesty, as are we all.

Given that this feline has her paw on the thermostat of my happiness, you would expect the Genome to be proclaiming his standard, 'It's a beautiful day!' But no, it was not in the works. There was a somber and low-spirited mood in evidence. And I'll tell you why. It wasn't the gray sky and threatening inclemency. No, the reason for the leaden heart is the recent arrival at Native Grounds of one who gets the Lord Sidcup treatment, but one that I shall call Spode.

I don't have to tell you how important to my mental health are these morning assignations at the den of caffeine. But one sowing discord has recently joined our little klatch. You probably know someone whose presence causes you to fiddle with the keys in your pocket, do a little dance from one foot to the other and generally behave like a turkey caught in the rain. Well, in the case of this slab of gorgonzola, that's just the beginning.

This guy dominates the conversation, telling stories that make everyone uncomfortable and then offering an unspoken eye-to-eye challenge in his theatrical pauses daring you to disagree.

I want to ask him to leave, explaining that he is taking up space that's better used for other purposes. But I don't. Instead, I shush the proud spirit of the Genomes, the one I encouraged yesterday to stand up and speak out, declaring to the world that it is worthy and good enough to deal with whatever comes. You're probably thinking, 'So why don't you tell him to buzz off?'

The reason I hold my tongue even though the urge to beat his brains out with a brick descends upon me like Papa Legba riding a Voo-Doo devotee is that I don't know him well enough. You see, there is always a lot more to the story than what we know. I don't want to take away from someone the very thing they need to cope. Perhaps this man needs a group to hang with. Perhaps he's vulnerable and the challenging looks are his way of determining whether or not we will accept him. 

You see, at the foundation level, he is simply telling his story. We all do it. We all have stories. You're reading mine now. Stories aren't the drivel we spout at the coffee shop as we hobnob with friends. Stories are the lives we think we are living. If the story supports us and helps us to get through the day, that's a good thing. 

The reason I didn't speak out is that I don't know the man well enough to know that it's necessary. I could take something away that is propping him up until he can get real help. Still, knowing the right thing to do isn't the same as knowing what I want to do. And as I noted in a past installment, knowing what you want is vital. Now, I love the assembly at Native Grounds but I cannot sit and smile like an idiot while someone is spouting bilge that conflicts with my version of what's right.

I have made a decision and having made that decision, I shall ignore any and all evidence that doesn't fit with my plan. Here is the plan, as I see it. I am booking passage on the first freighter to the interior of the Amazon where I will live with the Tupi Indians as one of their own. That is my first choice. If that requires more time than I have available, then I will find another local caffeinery and begin building a new tribe. That is the plan for now and as always, the plan is flexible and may change.

The Buddha pointed out that all things are impermanent and I certainly don't want to seem in conflict with the man. After all, I have taken the oath to uphold the Sangha, or is it abandon myself to the Sangha, I forget which. I'll check with Ms. Wonder. The point I'm trying to get at is that no matter how I resolve this little crisis, there is one thing you can bet the mortgage on. I will not give up. The Genome does not eat pine needles.