The Crystal Coast Affair

After the thing was over and we were on our way safely back to Durham, I admitted to Ms Wonder that I had come that close to losing faith in my lucky star.

"It was a bit thick," she said and I realized that she was still not fully comfortable with what my biographers will probably call, The Crystal Coast Affair.

But hold on, you may not be in possession of the details. You're aware, I hope, that Ms Wonder and I spent a long weekend on the coast. Well, the first afternoon in our room on Atlantic Beach, I donned the knee-length footer bags and held two shirts in front of me, reflected in the mirror, first the one, then the other.

"Well, Wonder, you haven't told me what you think," I said.

"The blue one," she said.

I turned around to give her a sustained look and I meant it to sting. She knew I wasn't talking about shirts. During the walk through the sand dunes from the beach, I'd presented the facts concerning my Aunt Maggie's freshly laid bombshell. I did so hoping that she, Ms Wonder that is, would find the formula to prevent Hell's foundations cracking.

"I'm not talking about shirts, Wonder! It's bigger things--things of a life altering scale. Things like those dark storm clouds that have been stirred up by the latest goings-on."

The reference was to my aunt's recent disclosure of tigers living the lives of goats. You remember that episode. If not, then be aware that it apparently isn't good for tiger kittens to live like goats. Causes confusion and anxiety, and it really gives adult tigers a case of the hips!

"Not my problem," she said.

I groaned a hollow one and climbed into the shirt with difficulty, as though the limbs had been left overnight in the vegetable bin. Even though my guiding motto is "live life on life's terms," I wasn't ready to give up on Ms Wonder's practical magic.

"Poopsie."

"Still here."

"It could be that you don't have enough detail. I provided only the merest outline earlier, as we strolled through those remnants of Atlantis, and you were no doubt preoccupied with thoughts of sea oats or morning glory blossoms." 

Suddenly, as it sometimes happens, I was struck by a brilliant idea. "I know what," I said, "let's try the Hercule Peirot method of marshaling all the motives, opportunities and whatnot.

"Sure," she said.

"Number one," I began, "I've adopted the life style of Fierce Qigong and adopted it forcefully. Don't you agree?"

"Sure."

"And I've given up the food stuffs that promote the cortical steroids,  and fan the flames of inflammation. Not that I'm complaining about the food I eat. But now this! As if it isn't enough to ask a lover of baseball to give up hot dogs--now I'm faced with this tiger and goat scenario. Truly, Wonder, don't you see that I'm neck deep in the soup?"

"Disturbing," she said.

I stared at her. After all these years dealing with the inhabitants of that looney bin that I call the ancestral home in Deep River Village, did she not see the peril that loomed? Was it possible, I wondered, that this particular species of Lucille, was in fact, only the spectral body of Ms Wonder and not the real thing?

"Disturbing? You'd go that far would you?" I said.

She pushed out the lips, rolled the eyes toward the upper right hand corner, raised the eyebrows half an inch and shrugged. It wasn't a lot but I was prepared to take what I could get. My advisors tell me that when you have things going your way, it's best not to get greedy but let momentum build on its own. I waited to see what more she might say.

"That's an evening shirt," she said.

"Well, it is 4:00 in the afternoon," I pointed out, "and it will be evening when we get back to the room."

"But it's only 4:00 in the afternoon," she said, "and it will barely be evening when we get back."

I mused on this and had to admit she had a talking point. I shrugged off the shirt and slid into the blue one. Somehow the thoughts of having to change my life to measure up to duty, responsibility and whatnot began to fade in the background.

"Sometimes I wonder if shirts really matter, Poopsie."

"It's a temporary feeling," she said, "It will pass," she said.

"Don't they all," I said.

Turning Points

I don't know if you've had the same experience, but a thing I've found is that from time to time there occur moments that I recognize as turning points. The path takes a turn and something says that the winds have changed course forever. These moments come back at intervals. Just as I'm slipping sweetly into the dream world, they call to me as the sirens called to Ulysses, and they leave me flopping around in the sheets like a halibut in a dragnet.

One of these life-changing events took place in my teenage years when my best friend James Robert dared me to coast my bicycle down the Shady Grove road--a steep, S-curved, and a heavily banked strip of asphalt--from Clift's Grocery to the Baptist church, without braking the entire way. You will understand the extent to which I had gotten my self-confidence up my nose when I tell you that I took the first leg of the course, down to the first curve, riding with no hands.

It was a weekday morning and traffic was scarce to non-existent and so at the second curve, I moved to the deep inside so as to not be flung into the ditch by centrifugal force. This tight maneuver shot me into the final straightaway at maximum warp.

Now fully confident that the risks were behind me and that it was all peppermint from here to the finish line, I was standing on the pedals, flying through the wind. I wouldn't be surprised to remember that I was the living embodiment of personal mythology, the knight errant charging into the fray at Aix or Ghent or whatnot.

This is of course the point where drama enters the story, stage right. So keenly focused on the present moment was I that I completely missed the fact that since passing by Aunt Maggie's, I had been chivvied in the strong, earnest but silent manner of Pat's mixed-breed terrier, Snowball.

There I was inhaling the exhilaration of winning the dare, and there was the terrier, all whiskers and eyebrows, shagging hell-for-leather. Had there been an innocent bystander, the scene may have resembled one of those great moments in Greek tragedy, where the hero is stepping high, wide, and handsome, while Nemesis is aiming an arrow at his heel.

As everyone knows, when performing on a bicycle, concentration is of the essence. The mere suggestion of a terrier getting entangled in the wheels spells catastrophe and so it proved. It was as spectacular a stinker as I've been privileged to witness if privileged is the word I want.

One moment merry and bright. The next in the ditch, through the blackberry briers, with the bicycle resting on my back. The terrier stood on the shoulder of the road looking down at me with an expression of complete satisfaction.

As I picked my way through the brambles, the girl I had often admired but never found the courage to befriend, dismounted from her bicycle at the very spot where I had achieved escape velocity.

"What on Earth did you do that for?" she said, then remounted her bike and peddled away.

This Is That

At the end of last year, I decided to publish on Facebook my own little end-of-year wrap-up with a Top 20 Countdown of the most popular Circular Journey blog posts. I'm happy that I did because I realized something for the very first time: The top 3 posts have vastly higher readership numbers than the other 17.

It intrigued me not a little and I decided to get Ms. Wonder's opinion. She has a remarkable brain and I thought it would be good to hear her thoughts. When she came downstairs for breakfast, after her morning workout, I made her coffee, to sweeten her up a bit, and then popped the question.

"Good morning, Wonder. May I ask you something?"

"Sure," she said.

"I noticed something recently about the Circular Journey blog posts and I'd like to run it up your flagpole."

"First I think you should consider rephrasing that sentence before you use it on someone else."

"I'll take it under advisement," I said. "My question is about the three most popular blog posts on Circular Journey. I noticed recently that they have far higher numbers of readers than all the other posts and, since I'd like to increase the readership, I decided to look into what's so special about those three."

"Interesting," she said.

"Good," I said. "So what I've learned so far is that those three posts all include something about Cocker Spaniels."

"Cocker Spaniels?"

"That's right, and I'm wondering if I should include Cocker Spaniels in all my future posts."

"I think you need to look a little deeper," she said.

"Alright," I said. "How about this? The top two posts include, in addition to the dog, something about Napoleon and Catherine the Great."

"Are you serious?"

"Certainly," I said. "I'd never waste your time with frivolity if that's the word. You can read it for yourself. Just go to the front page of the blog and search for Right is Might. You'll soon see what I'm talking about." 

"I'd suggest putting a little more thought into the thing," she said. "In fact, I think you need to reconsider the content of your articles if you've written something about Kate, Nappy, and Cocker Spaniels in the same blog post."

"But you don't have all the pertinent facts. You see when I mention Napoleon, my French readership jumps and when I mention Catherine the Russian visitors increase significantly. I'm considering writing more about all three."

"Do it if it makes you happy but don't let your hopes soar too high; you may crash like Icarus."

"I'm afraid I haven't made his acquaintance. A business associate of yours?"

"Never mind," she said.

"If you have another minute, I'd like to ask you about something that I discovered recently. Are you aware that the number of fiction books on the shelves at Barnes and Noble differs markedly by the first letter of the last name? For example, more books are written by people whose name begins with an 'M' and the least number of books by people with a name beginning with a 'J'."

"So?"

"Well, I was thinking that maybe I should consider using a penname beginning with the letter 'M'."

"Do you have any aspirin?" she said.

I took that to mean that she had other things on her mind so I found the aspirin for her and decided to think of a subject for today's blog post. This is that.

Big Night for Surprises

At 2:00 AM this morning, I was awakened by the sound of someone in the hallway outside our hotel room in an altercation with a grandfather clock. 

Those who know me best describe me as a mild-mannered meditation instructor. One who responds mindfully rather than reacting emotionally. This weekend, however, there was another spirit in residence in the Genome frame. I am, for the time being, a recovering herniated-disker, rocket-fueled with vicodin and methocarbomol.

It occurred to me, in my chemically induced hyper-mania, that there is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune or, if not fortune, then possibly sleep. I decided that I should get out of bed, get into some gentlemanly upholstery, and see if I could help settle the dispute.

When I found the combatants, the clock was clearly ahead on points and would possibly be named victorious by default. The perp, if you don't mind my calling him that, was leaning toward the door to his room, with his forehead on the door as though to keep his balance, while trying to scan his smartphone.

With each downward scan of his phone, his head moved away from the door a few inches and then returned with a thud, causing him to voice his objections with loud ejaculations of words he heard on Jersey Shore, probably. We Genomes are quick on the uptake and it was for me the work of a moment to assess the situation.

"Good morning," I said.

At the sound of my voice, he stopped scanning and stood back from the door staring at it as though expecting it to speak again. It didn't.

"Excuse me," I said, and this time he turned toward me. The look he wore indicated that he was still not sure if it was the Genome that spoke or the door. When he finally responded to my greeting, he proved himself to be decidedly not in the market for Genomes. He disapproved of my presence.

I quickly calmed him with a few well-chosen words and if I exaggerated a bit, what of it? My back was hurting and I needed sleep to knit up the raveled whatnot--you may possibly remember that it was 2:00 in the morning. Now, if my words led him to believe that I was there to assist him, what of it? 

"Keep your guard up," I said, demonstrating with my own hands, "and lead with the left striking just above the belt." He seemed to intuit just where a door would wear a belt. He whirled around and gave the door a passable left jab. It was an amazing thing to see. "Fierce gigong!" I cried, urging him on.

Just as the action was getting good, the door suddenly opened and a goggly-eyed young woman appeared and added a few choice words to our conversation. It was immediately clear that this room was the wrong room and its rightful occupant was surprised to find a stranger banging on her door. 

So too was the banger surprised. I myself was surprised making three of in all. It was a big night for surprises. 

Surprises don't last, however, and in only a few short minutes, no more than 20 or 30, we got the whole thing disentangled, found our respective rooms, and, presumably, were able to knit up those raveled sleeves in a few winks. Napoleon would have been proud of the way I handled it. Don't you think so?

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 Ms. Wonder

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!