Keep On the Sunny Side

Sunshine stole across the mews from the general direction of the Atlantic Ocean, not that it was remarkable in any way. I mean, I'm damned if I know how it's done--smoke and mirrors probably--but that old sun rises each and every morning and has done so for a good long time if what I read is true. 

Statistically, it has to fail one day soon, of course, but the Genome doesn't plan to be around when it does. If you're smart--and I readily accept that you are smart because you frequent these pages on The Circular Journey--you'll book your getaway with me.

But, as I say, sunshine stole across the mews, and then it oozed its way onto the grounds of Chadsford Hall. It made its way up the outside wall to the second-floor bedroom window, and if you're wondering how such a thing could happen, you won't be surprised to learn that I, too, wonder how. Perhaps it climbs up the waterspout. the gates and o

The morning was a perfect ringer for the one we'd been waiting for, and we had a song in our hearts when we rose and began preparing for our trip. I'm not exaggerating when I say the general mood was bumpsie-daisy.

Twenty years ago this month, Ms. Wonder and I published our first travel article in the Birmingham News. And now we were on our way to those same Eden-like gardens to do yet another article, one that our biographers may refer to as "Brookgreen Gardens: Then and Now."

The Genome that waded through a half-dozen cats and padded across the Persian carpet was not the usual Genome. The spirit was soaring. I may have sung a few lines of "59th Street Bridge Song" and if I didn't sing them, I surely hummed a few bars.

When I reached the sal de bains, I entered a world of mists and fruitful mellowness, and I expected to find Ms. Wonder in attendance. I was not disappointed. She was there, bubble-covered and lilac-scented to the core.

"Good morning," I called into the billows of steam.

"Oh, you startled me," she said.

"Not like you startled me," I said, "I thought you were Venus, rising from the sea."

"You came to bed late," she said.

"Went for a walk in the garden," I said.

"Good for you," she said, "the garden is nice late in the evening. Very soothing."

"That's your view, is it?"

"And the stars," she said.

"What about the stars?"

"You know," she said, "the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold."

I immediately realized the conversation was coming dangerously close to saying something about the blessed damozel leaning out from the gold bar of heaven. I decided to take prompt action through the proper channels to prevent it.

"Poopsie," I said.

"How does it go?" she asked, "the smallest orb in his motion like an angel sings..."

"Poopsie."

Such harmony is in immortal souls..."

"Poopsie!" I cried and the sound of my voice dislodged a cat from a bubble cloud at the foot of the tub. It turned out to be Eddy. The cat I mean, I don't have names for bubble clouds.

"What?" said the Blessed Damozel.

"You couldn't possibly put a sock in the floor of heaven, could you?"

"Sorry," she said. "Not in a good mood then?"

"I've been loonier," I said.

"I'll say," she said.

"Pardon me?" I said.

"Looney to the eyebrows," she said.

"I'm in the room," I said. "I can hear you."

"Sorry," she said, "Are you still thinking about the lost opportunity at Straw Valley?"

"Definitely, not," I said. "I work through these little setbacks and then get on with life. Live for today, is my motto."

"Still," she said, "It's a sad thing to lose a gazelle."

"Ms. Wonder," I said, "don't try me too high. I'm not in the mood to discuss losing gazelles."

"Over it then?" she said.

"No doubt about it. Fierce living is the thing you know. Take life just as it's hurled at you." I said.

"Good," she said, holding out a shapely arm with the expectation that the Genome would put a towel in it. "That means it's a good day for a trip to the low country. Let's get ours while the getting's good."

"I'm with you," I said. Sometimes all it takes to turn the tide is being with people who are on your side. Try it now is my suggestion, and if you have trouble finding someone, don't worry; I'm here for you.

Still Anonymous

"What's that noise?" asked a voice from somewhere in the darkness. I opened my eyes, thinking I was in the slot canyon I told you about--the one in Escalante National Monument, Utah. You remember that I saw the puma's paw print in the dust there. Possibly. 

But I wasn't sleeping in a canyon--I was in my bedroom and the voice...are you ready for this? It was the magical, mystical Ms. Wonder. Before I say more, let me explain that I was still dreaming.

"That's just Sagi," I said.

Sagi M'Tesi is the caramel-colored tabby who lives with us. One of several beings living with us that are also magical, mystical wonders.

"Sagi?" she whispered and I began to think that she wasn't fully awake.

"That's right," I said. "Sagi--he's shredding a roll of toilet paper."

"Shredding toilet tissue?"

"Toilet tissue or toilet paper," I said, "both are correct."

"Why?" she mumbled.

"There you have me in deep waters, I'm afraid, but it's his favorite pastime," I said.

"Past what time?" she said.

"Pastime," I repeated. "He finds it nearly impossible to resist, but he swears he can stop anytime he chooses," I said.

"That's what they all say," she sighed. I'm pretty sure it was a sigh.

"Well, nothing to do about it except wait for him to hit bottom and possibly conduct an intervention," I said.

I suddenly felt the urge to be outside. I don't know why. Just one of those things, I supposed. I hastily pulled on the outer crust and hied for the crepe myrtle alee.

In the early morning stillness under starlight and buoyed up by aromatic pine straw, I was serenaded by a mockingbird singing a selection of Frank Sinatra melodies. Quite pleasant.

In the middle of "I've Got You Under My Skin," the dawn bloomed in all her coastal rosiness, and soon the sun was hot-dogging above the horizon. What a show, I thought. It was a pippin of a mood lifter.

Had Ms. Wonder been with me, not that she's ever with me before 7:00 AM, but had she been with me, I would have said, "I've got a feeling everything's going my way!" She wasn't with me, but I said it anyway.

The walk worked its magic on me. Not actually magic--something to do with endorphins if I remember correctly. And for several minutes, I was caught up in the beautiful ephemera of life.

Keeping on the sunny side isn't easy for me. And who can say why? It may be the path deviates from the dotted line connecting A to B. Or perhaps, as Scott Peck made clear, life is difficult.

Once I arrived at the northernmost edge of Waterford Village, I turned and looked back across the glen, up the terraced hillside, and into the second-floor window of the cottage. From this distance, I could see Sagi sitting in the window, looking my way. Had he been watching me all this time?

I realized as I watched him watching me that my heart was in that window with Sagi. I could feel the heartstrings tugging me back home. He and Uma Maya would be waiting for breakfast when I got back. And there is nothing more satisfying than caring for a cat. Caring for two cats brings twice the satisfaction.

Sometimes life seems full of problems and just one damn thing after another. But if we pause and take a few deep breaths, we often realize that love puts the purpose and the meaning in life. And keeping love in the forefront makes all the difference.

It may be true that I can't always be on the sunny side of life, but with a little effort, I can stay on the loving side.

Thank You, Lucy!

The sun appeared in the sky this morning like a poached egg, bright and warm and wiggly. The mists rose from the lowlands in gray and gold streamers, moist and ragged around the edges like the fading fragments of dreams.

I like to sleep late but never do, and this morning was no exception. I was up at 5:30, wandering around the lower levels of Chadsford Hall. It's a mindfulness technique, really. Walking around with attention focused on nothing—aimless. Still, I could sense the magic filling up the place.

It's nothing new to have magic in the air of the Hall; it's usually full of the stuff, but it's normally the old, comfortable sort of magic that's about as exciting as pilling a cat. The magic I felt rushing underneath the doorjambs was the new stuff, the newly minted variety fresh from the Source.

Not a good thing for me, new magic, that is. I'm allergic. Ms. Wonder says that everyone is allergic to magic. She says that's the point. But it's different for me. The general background magic that supports all thaumaturgic activity is harmless, but the new stuff clings to me like static. It builds to a critical mass, and then BANG! It's not pretty, and it never turns out well.

The distraction from bright, cold drafts of the stuff wafting about the rooms of the Hall, glistening like Empyrian electrum and shimmering with octarine green and blue, was too much for my aimlessness. I needed advice, and I needed it fast. I headed upstairs, where I heard gushing torrents of water filling a bathtub. "Poopsie," I said, "I need your advice. Rally 'round."

"What's up?" she said.

"What's up?" I said, "That's the point, isn't it? You know that new magic is rolling off the press even as we speak and that it's coming from Woodcroft?"

"I noticed," she said. "Are you puissant?"

This went right by me, of course. Puissant? Is that a word? What could she possibly mean by it? Must have something to do with magic. There was no time to muse on this mystery. I felt the need to get right down to it, so I gave her the best response I could.

"Probably not so puissant as you," I said, and I thought it pretty good. Don't you agree?

"That's sweet of you to say," she said, "and probably very true, but what is it you wanted to ask?"

"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully. "You know that Gladdis..."

"Witch of Woodcroft," she interrupted.

"Yes, all that," I said, "but put that out of your mind for the nonce. Let me finish my thought, or I'll wander off the path. We can't afford distractions. You'll be leaving for work shortly, and where will I be then? Lost among the lilies, that's where.

"Lost among the lilies? Is that a saying?"

"Isn't it?"

"One of yours then," she said.

"Ah," I said because I'd lost the thread. "What was it we were talking about?"

"Something about Gladdis," she said.

"That's right. Gladdis has published the seminal installment of Rogue Star. Is seminal a word?"

"Seminal," she said, "or carrying the seeds that will develop into the fruit of the work."

"Wonder," I said.

"Yes?"

"What the hell are we going to do about it?"

"Do about it?"

"You know what I mean. How to stop the overflow of magic and all the strangeness that follows."

"Relax," she said. "I know this is one of Princess Amy's hot buttons, but everything will be OK."

"It will?"

"Of course, it will. Just take a deep breath and let life happen. Don't you remember Lucy once telling you that it's not your job to be in control of everything?"

"She did, yes, that's one wise kitten, Wonder," I said. "Well, she's no longer a kitten, but she was when she told me that. Animals have a certain wisdom, don't they?"

"Humans too," she said.

"Well, some humans," I conceded. "Thank you for reminding me, Poopsie, I feel much better now."

"Don't thank me; thank Lucy," she said. And so I did.

Castle Street Nights

I woke up this morning with an intense pang of joy. It hit me in the solar plexus with an inexplicable potency--like I'd mainlined sunshine! Naturally, I did the responsible thing and after a little self-reflection, realized it was only hypomania and not a valid excuse to redecorate the house or revamp the wardrobe.

 

Buoyed by the oojah-com-spiff mood, I floated into the salle de bains only to find Ms. Wonder, already present and lounging like an escapee from the pasha's harem.

Have I told you about the Wonder? Surely I have. What a woman! Those pouty lips, those emerald green eyes, that strawberry blond hair.

When I expressed how happy it made me to see her, she gave me a certain look. It was not the look I'd hoped for, and I considered it quite a slice of fruitcake--dense and hard to swallow. 

I realize that she's recovering from minor surgery feeling some discomfort, I'm sure, but still, I felt a bit let down. Not that I expected unbridled happiness. Her Russian soul is burdened by centuries of angst and is unprepared for such frivolity.

I kissed the top of her head, wished her well, and set off to cross the Cape Fear River and bring me to the heart of the Castle Street Arts District.

Rarely does Castle Street get the kind of praise lavished on the rest of the city--probably due to the lack of high-end retail glitter. Despite the surface appearance, a rich tapestry of subculture makes the district a great place to be on any given morning. As Tolkien wisely mused, "All that is gold does not glitter."

Out in the bright sunshine, the joy bubbled up once more and I entered the doors of Luna Caffé with a light heart and a tra-la-la on my lips. 

"Grande dark," said the barista placing my usual on the counter with a tone of indifference one might expect from a Large Language Model chatbot. This was not at all the desired tone. Too cool, too indifferent, too uncaring.

The barista was, no surprise, Hannah Kay, the self-anointed emergency backup mistress of the greater Castle Street night. Her attitude of barely tolerable disdain for the clientele is due to dancing the night away and then applying complex eye makeup and facial hardware each morning. 

Her nights are spent, by the way, in Egret Coffee Caffé and Dance Bar, which is in the Soda Pop District not Castle Street Arts.

"Good morning, Hannah," I said, in tones so measured they could balance on a high wire, and I meant it to sting.

"It may be good for you," she shot back, "but have you ever had to open this café at 6:00 in the morning after a night of being stalked by a ninja vampire cat hell-bent on ending life as we know it in Wilmawood?"

This new motif presented an interesting diversion, but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that just yet. 

"There is that," I said hoping to avoid any further discussion of what I guess was the Halloween night party at the Egret.

"If you only knew how fragile the defenses are that keep the general public from wholesale disaster, you would cry like a baby and wet your pants," she said with a hard-edged eye.

"Oh, I don't know," I replied nonchalantly, "It may not be as bad as all that when you consider that the general public is endlessly annoying with little or no provocation."

She started noticeably, spilling a customer's skinny mocha something, and then stared at me with the look of someone caught feeding Fruit Loops to her goldfish.

"I wish I'd said that," she muttered thoughtfully to no one in particular. Again, for the third time that morning, a feeling of joy surrounded me, and I immediately logged into SuperBetter to award myself 10 points for "meaningful human contact."

Once more a pure heart and perseverance are victorious over the forces of darkness or whatever ails you. Each moment holds more good than bad if we only take a deep breath and look for it. Life is full of...oh, blah, blah, blah. You know the drill. Enjoy the good times and leave the bad behind.

Beignet Lafayette

He's the best cat in the world. Everyone agrees. He's won the Chadsford Hall Best Cat of the Year award for 6 consecutive years. He's nine years old and weighs 15.25 pounds--in other words, peak condition. If you think he's a bit heavy, you're probably more familiar with the smaller, run-of-the-mill kitty. 

Beignet Lafayette, often called Ben or Benny, is a child of the Lost Kitty Tribe--he was left behind when a previous owner relocated--and I'm sure she's never recovered from the heartbreak. Beignet is a keeper.

But then, all cats are keepers because they shine the light of joy that dissipates the darker emotions. Even kittens that are too young to walk straight and have tails that look like lint brushes get the job done. It's simply their nature.

So, by all means, get a cat. Get two. You can't have too many. The more you have, the less chance they will all be sleeping when the zombies--those dark emotions mentioned above--begin prowling.

Earlier today, during our visit to the cat hospital, the veterinarian suggested we begin yearly lab workups to keep Ben around forever. None of us can imagine life without him--not even the veterinary staff. Naturally, Ben agreed to donate a little blood for analysis. 

Before leaving, the vet tech wrapped a scrunchie bandage around Ben's leg to prevent bleeding. When we arrived home, I decided to remove the bandage quickly and get on with other tasks, but Ben had a different agenda and it didn't include bandages. 

I cradled him and began brushing, a surefire way to put him in a good mood while distracting him from my sleight of hand. As I brushed with one hand, I searched for the end of the bandage with the other. Ben tolerated this for exactly two seconds before deciding he'd had enough.

I might have given the whole thing a miss for an hour or so and perhaps gotten some editing done on the book--you remember the book--but no, I stubbornly decided the bandage was coming off and I knew how to get it done. I rolled up my sleeves, commended my soul to God, and set about it.

Cat wrestling, much like alligator wrestling, should be done sparingly—and only in season. I stretched out on the floor for stability and attempted a move I’d seen pro wrestlers use. Ben, ever the sweetheart, took this as a gesture of affection and began to purr. I seized the moment. My fingers found the pull tab. I gave it a firm tug.

It was the tug of no return. Ben bolted for the doorway like a crazed weasel.  Clinging to the trailing bandage like an Iditarod musher pulled along by her sled dogs, I was pulled along the polished hardwood floors. We made a sharp right-hand turn and began descending the stairs. A turn of events I never anticipated.

Now, if the cherry floors can be called smooth, then the oak staircase is best described as bumpy. Over the years, I've developed a sort of wisdom about situations where I'm in control and those where I am clearly not. This situation was one of the latter.

I took the stairs with relative calm--not too anxious, given the circs. I remember thinking, for some reason that I can't fathom now, that when we hit the tile floor on the lower level, I would have more options. 

I remember being attracted to the sport of rock climbing some years ago. You may have done the same. In those days, my toes could find purchase in the smallest crevices, and perhaps I thought the grout lines in the tile would give me something to work with--something to stop or slow our forward movement.

The plan I had in mind if you can call it a plan, turned out to be no more than the idle wind, which Ben respected not because he continued through the kitchen with me calling out to my mother to look sharp and not get overturned by our wake. 

Eventually, Beignet found a quiet and comfortable spot underneath the sofa in the den and we were done. I pulled the bandage off and he seemed not to notice.

Once again, we see that life comes hard and fast. It sneaks up on us when we least expect it. Be prepared for anything, my friend, and always remember a little thing I heard from our veterinarian, Dr. Kirch, who said when it comes to cats, "It's our job to do what's right, not what's convenient." Amen. 

Perfectly Correct

"What a beautiful day!" I said to Ms. Wonder who waded knee-deep in suitcases and socks, like a goddess of the sea cavorting on the rocky shore. "Packing?" I asked as if the ritual was unfamiliar to me. 

"Un-packing," she said for we keep no secrets between us. And it was at that moment that the dirty work of yesterday raised its ugly head and smirked at the false joy that had greeted me when I woke. 

Every year, starting about the middle of October, there is a good deal of anxiety and apprehension among owners of the better-class country houses throughout coastal Carolina waiting to hear which one will get the Genome’s patronage for the holidays.

This year we had decided early, and a sigh of relief went up from a dozen stately homes, all listed on the Historic Register, as it became known that the short straw had been drawn by the Garden Inn outside Savannah.  

And yet, scarcely 10 hours earlier, this daughter of the Russian steppes and I sat at William's Gourmet Kitchen—"It’s not fast food; it’s awesome food fast" —and we agreed that the outing was off.

Once again, Shakespeare has put the finger on the nub when he said, it's when you're feeling really good about the way things are going that Fate sneaks up behind you with a blunt instrument. Not a direct quote but it conveys the sentiment nicely. 

As if waking from a dreamless sleep, I gradually became aware that Ms. Wonder was looking at me as though waiting for an answer. 

"Hmm?" I said. 

"Did I hear you say something about the Orlovs?" she said. 

"Did I say that out loud?" I asked. She nodded. 

"I was thinking about how Count Orlov must have felt," I said, "after Katherine the Great told him she never wanted to see him again in this world or the next, and then opening the cupboards, found there was no more vodka." 

A deep silence ruled the next several moments after my crack about the Count. Then Ms. Wonder spoke. "Are you going to stand there all morning?" 

"There are times, Poopsie," I said, with a small tremble in the voice, "when one asks oneself if there is any point in making an effort." 

"The mood will pass," she said and I had to admit that she was probably right. 

I nodded in response but it had no chirpiness to it. It was the nod that Napoleon might have given in the Paris coffee shop on a morning in 1812 when someone said, Back from Moscow so soon?

"You know how it is," I said, "I'm in agreement with the general principle but I seem to be in neutral gear and having a little difficulty following through.

"I understand," she said, "it was much the same with Hamlet."

I nodded.

"Don't be a victim," she said. "We may not be able to visit Savannah, but we can still enjoy the holiday lights in Airlie Gardens. We can use the time to refresh, rebuild, and reinvigorate."

"You wrap the whole thing up very neatly," I said. "It almost sounds like fun."

"Good," she said.

"I suppose you know, you've wiped away my disappointment," I said. "I feel positively bucked! Thank you." 

"Not at all," she said. "You see, no matter what the Fate sisters have in store for you, there's no need to let them steal your joy."

And I had to admit that, once again, she was perfectly correct.

A Marvelous Mystery

"‘In the beginning…’—that’s how the first paragraph kicked into gear, and I remember thinking how strange it sounded. The book, "The Story of Earth," was written by Robert Hazen, a prominent scientist from the Carnegie Institution’s geophysical community. 

What I really want to highlight, though, is that this paragraph contains one of the most fascinating, to me at least, and, in some ways, baffling—scientific observations of the century on the origins of the universe.

The author makes the astonishing claim that all space, energy, and matter came into existence in a single moment from—nothing! Yes, you read that right. According to Hazen, before the Big Bang, there was nothing, and then, in a flash, there was everything needed to create...well, everything we know today.

This is where I raise an eyebrow and give Mr. Hazen (and his astrophysicist colleagues) a skeptical look. Why? Because we’ve all heard a thousand times that scientists only trust ideas backed by evidence. And yet here these guys are, asking us to believe that the entire universe sprang from nothing—no evidence, just… belief.

But that’s not the real point I want to dive into today. I know your time is valuable, and I don’t want to waste a moment of it. The real punchline comes when Hazen drops this gem:

“The concept—nothing one moment, everything the next—is beyond our ability to craft metaphors."

It was after reading that sentence, that I had my own Archimedes moment. You know the story: Archimedes, splashing around in his bath, suddenly shouting "Eureka!" Not that I wouldn’t have done the same. 

In fact, that’s exactly what I did when my mind clicked into place, sorting through the data and finding the perfect metaphor for the very concept Hazen thought was beyond our grasp.

How had I not seen it sooner? The metaphor was right in front of me—actually, it was right in front of the paragraph. Another best-selling book contains the perfect metaphor for explaining how everything in the universe came from nothing in an instant. It too begins with the words: 

“In the beginning…”

Those words, so simple, so familiar, are actually one of the clearest metaphors for the mind-bending concept of creation ex nihilo. 

I can't help but think that Hazen knew this all along—that the metaphor was hiding in plain sight. He wasn’t asking us to understand it but to marvel at the mystery of it all. Maybe that’s the real lesson here.

It's all a marvelous mystery and we will probably never fully understand it.

Happy Birthday Genome

Today is my birthday, August 8, to put a fine point on it. Here we are then, knee-deep in my birthday month when I can write about anything I want for the next three weeks. I'll bet you thought I chose any topic I wanted but it just isn't so.

Princess Amy decides what I write on days of the months in which I wasn't born. But she graciously allows me to write my life story on August days. I sometimes accuse her of working against my best interests, but I suppose she's not totally rotten, the little muggle-meister.

Mornings in August usually find me sitting comfortably on the lanai with a steaming mug of brew-ha-ha in hand. There I was this particular morning listening to the Barefoot Man singing about Tortuga Rum Cake. My mind was clear and my gaze rested softly on the pen and paper lying on the bench in front of me. I waited for inspiration.

What happened next isn't necessarily guaranteed on these occasions but neither are they rare. I don't know if you've had a similar experience, but if so, then you're aware that anxiety sometimes gets uppity when we're preparing to put ourselves out there in the marketplace. Things can get a little weird.

It happened just that way this morning as I silently contemplated the task before me. What would I say in my birthday post I asked myself.

I gradually became aware of a strange sensation. It was the feeling that something about the nature of reality had changed. I didn't like it. Made me uncomfortable. I felt like the main character of a sci-fi movie who has entered a different dimension, a parallel universe.

For a few brief moments, nothing happened. It was as though all of Nature waited breathlessly for Zarathustra to speak. Not sure what that means exactly but I know it's not good.

Then, suddenly, as though Gabriel had sounded the last trump and Judgement Day had set in, a great wind began to blow in my mind, if it is a mind. The ears began to ring, much louder than normal. And next, as someone once said, "the eyeballs, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven." I assume it's from Shakespeare. He seems to have had a way with the language.

In short, I was visited by a master's level anxiety attack.

I was beginning to wonder if I should text my lawyer and ask for an emergency appointment to get my affairs in order when Ms. Wonder intervened. God bless her. I've said it before and I'll go on saying it, There's a girl if you want one.

She sat next to me. Patted my hand and gave me a little buss on the check. I looked at her, she looked at me, and we both smiled. Not a big smile. Not a chuckle. Just that little smile that says, 'Don't worry bout a thing. Every little thing gonna be alright."

No matter what action the woman takes, no matter what wisdom she imparts, it makes all the difference every time.

In a matter of moments, my mind grew still, birds began to sing, and I became conscious of a great peace. I don't suppose I've come closer to singing tra, la, la.

Even the tropical storm Debby held no concerns for me and that's saying a lot. Forty days of the rain we've gotten in the last week will have us asking the whereabouts of Noah.

But thankfully, I have no need of Noah. I have one who works wonders right here in the home. Happy birthday to me.

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.

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.

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!

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.

Lucy Lucille Lupe

Chadsford Hall lay drowsing in the sunshine. Heat mist shimmered above the smooth lawns and the timbered terraces. The air was heavy with the lulling drone of insects. It was the most gracious hour of a summer afternoon, midway between lunch and tea when Nature kicks her shoes off and puts her feet up.

I was enjoying the shade of the cypress grove, near the rhododendrons, opposite the camelia glade. While sipping the contents of a tall, tinkly glass, and reviewing the latest acting-up of the social quality in the pages of The Independent, I was startled to hear a voice coming from a rhododendron that had until now remained speechless.

"Whatcha doin'?"

As soon as I regained my composure, if any, and restored calm to the mind, if it is a mind, I gave the offending shrub a stern look of censure. Wouldn't you? I saw that the bush was giving me the same. Not the bush in fact but something peering from it. It might have been a wood nymph for I couldn't see it clearly, but I thought not. As it happened, I was right.

"Sorry, sir," said the year-old Siamese kitten, the one I've named Lucy Lucille Lupe because Old Possum says that cats require three names. Ms Wonder tells me that Mr Possum had something entirely different in mind but So what is my comeback to that. I reserve the right to take the road less traveled sometimes. Napoleon, I believe, did the same.

 "Didn't mean to startle you," said L. L. Lupe.

"Not at all," I said having immediately forgotten the annoyance I felt at being shaken from a pleasant semi-slumber of the afternoon because this Lucy Louise fosters a warm, soft spot in the center of my chest near the heart. "It's good to see you again."

She did a little dance, her front paws moving two steps to the left and then two steps back to the right while the rear feet moved to a different rhythm entirely. I know this particular dance well, and I interpret it to mean, I like you because you give me good things to eat but, oooh! you've got big feet and I'm so small. I'm not fluent in the language of dance, of course, I offer only the gist of meaning.

"Got something to eat?" she seemed to say.

"It's not dinner time," I said.

"What's that?" she said adding a new step to the dance.

"I'm stroking your back," I explained.

"Don't touch me please," she seemed to say.

"OK, if you don't like it," I said and I stopped immediately. Protocol is very important to cats because there was a time when they were worshiped as gods and they haven't forgotten it.

"If not today, then maybe tomorrow," I said.

"Don't think about tomorrow," she said.

"Yes, I read about that somewhere. I don't mean to say it was about cats only. If memory serves, birds and lilies were mentioned too."

"Birds! Love birds!," she said turning round and round hoping to see them, I'm sure. "Where are they? By the bird bath?"

"I don't see any bathing just now," I said, "but don't distract me, I'm trying to remember something I heard when I was just so high. Probably not much bigger than you."

"Me? You were never my size," she said.

"Where was I?" I said.

"Birds!" she said.

"Right, birds. The passage I'm trying to remember went something like this, Behold the birds, for they sow not, neither do they reap, something, something, something--and then, pay close attention because the big payoff is coming up--take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for itself. I'm paraphrasing of course."

"That's me," she said.

"I thought as much," I said and I was being sincere about it. These cats have never completely given up their wildness and it's my position that their popularity has something to do with a human being's desire to fondle a tiger.

She stretched her front legs out and bent the body into the stretch. Her butt was high in the air, as high as it goes rather, and her tail pointed skyward. She was lovely. She was beautiful. She was so delightful that nothing else was required of her to be perfect in my esteem.

"Think I'll take a nap," she said and sauntered off toward the rhododendron.

It seemed a good idea and I decided to do the same. Perhaps I would dream of a perfect world, where no cat suffers from human malice, for as Robert Heinlein put it, "How we behave toward cats here below determines our status in heaven." 

I like that. I keep it in mind always. I suggest you do the same.

Feel the World Shake?

I looked out my bedroom window at the two cats waiting for breakfast in the meager shelter on my deck below. I wished I could bring them inside but I'm told by reliable sources that bringing feral cats into the house never really ends well. I suppose it might be different if they were kittens but they aren't of course. They're first cousins to Eddy, that miniature panther that gave us the idea for Happy Cats Wellness and he's almost 7 now.

But it wasn't cats that filled my thoughts this morning. It was fine art. I'd recently had a close encounter with the stuff and was still reeling from it. Napoleon must have felt the same way when his aide reported that Nelson had just sailed into Cairo Harbor and set fire to the French fleet. 

Ms Wonder is an artist, of course. You don't need reminding of that. You've been here through the thick and thin of art gallery galas and whatnot, so you're well aware of her photographic talent. I thought she might be able to enlighten me on the reason for a certain motif--one that, so far, had eluded me.

"Poopsie," I said, getting right down to it, which, as you well know, is the Genome way. "Why the reclining nude?"

She stopped splashing and sloshing, an activity she seems to enjoy when submerged in the bath. Her face took on a familiar questioning look, which told me that I'd gotten her attention. So good so far.

"Did you say, nude?" she asked.

"Nude is what I said. Reclining to be exact. It's a common motif in the art world. The first one, I'm told, was done in 1510 by a Venetian painter named Giorgione, although I read yesterday that some scratchings, found on cave walls in Spain, are actually 40,000-year-old reclining nudes. So you see, it's a popular subject for artists. I don't suppose you've ever photographed any? Reclining nudes, I mean."

She frowned at that and shook the noodle as though warding off a swarm of no-see-ums. She has a particular dislike for those. I'm not sure why.

"What about reclining nudes?" she said.

"Exactly!" I said, "Just what I want to know! What about them? We seem to be deeply connected to the unclothed female form lying on a bed."

"And when you say, 'we', you mean men, of course."

"You wouldn't have these shallow views if you were familiar with Fernando Botero's work."

"Who?"

"A painter who spoke out, if I can use that term, against the deplorable human rights conditions in his native Columbia. He was able to paint the most troubling scenes that somehow didn't turn us away but invited us to look and consider."

"And these troubling scenes included reclining nudes?"

"No, no!" I said. "No, the nudes were something different. One of them sneaked up on me yesterday at Dulce Cafe. The owner, Carlos, is a native of Columbia and admirer of Botero and has a print hanging in the cafe. It's a painting called 'The Letter' and that work is surrounded by mystery. Art historians and scholars wonder who the subject was and what the letter was about."

"And the mystery subject is a reclining nude woman?" she asked.

"How many paintings of a reclining nude man have you seen?" I asked. It wasn't one of my better comebacks so I wasn't surprised when she ignored the question. 

"It seems you've researched the subject well," she said. "What are you thinking?"

"Never mind what I'm thinking, Poopsie. What are these art historians and scholars thinking? That's the question I ask myself."

"I'll bet you have a theory," she said, and let me just pause here to say how happy it made me to know that she was allowing me to drive the conversation for a change.

"First of all," I said, "these historians and art scholars are too deep in the status quo. They see a woman in a painting and fall too quickly into the Mona Lisa Syndrome."

"Mona Lisa Syndrome," she repeated.

"That's right," I said, "the MLS is that comfortable niche where they wax eloquent about mystery and whatnot. It allows them to write all sorts of bilge."

I paused to give this opinion more thought because I was impressed that I'd come up with this insightful nugget. It doesn't happen often and on those rare occasions, I like to appreciate the experience fully. For her part, nothing more was said and I was allowed to continue.

"There is no mystery," I said. "It should be clear to the meanest intellect, that the woman represents the nation of Columbia, reclining in spartan surroundings, and saddened because her lover--and by lover I mean the citizens of her country--don't enjoy the comfort of her arms and her bed. Love is absent. Only loneliness and the estrangement of the spirit, which is represented by that mysterious letter."

There was a quiet moment during which I waited again for her reply. Again, there was only silence. But she had a look on her map that caused me to think she'd taken my remarks in a big way. There was something definitely going on behind those eyes. I began to feel like one of those orators who incite mobs to action. Not one like Trump but rather one like Thomas Payne.

"What are you thinking?" I said.

"Just wondering," she said, "if there's something I could do with my photography to speak out in support of people in Ukraine or Palestine. Like the way Botero speaks out about the struggles in his Columbia."

"Many people are struggling in the world," I said. "And we live in the land of opportunity--even though many in this country struggle too. It does seem that we could be doing more to help others."

"The good I would do, I do not," she said. 

"Very well put," I said, "One of your own is it?" 

"Saint Paul," she whispered, which got right over my head but I realized from the whisper that she was deep in meditative thought and not to be disturbed.

"I'll go feed the cats," I said, "they're waiting in the rain." As I walked downstairs, I had the feeling that the world had just changed. And I'm sure Napoleon must have felt the same at one time or another in his career.