One Thing After Another

I woke with a light heart and with the words of that old saw running through my mind. How does it go, 'Let us then be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving...', something, something, blah, blah, blah, and then it ends with some guff about laboring and waiting but let's not allow the thing to bring us down, I just thought I'd mention it.

Woolly Bull at the Durham Bulls baseball field

As I said, I was in a good mood but, as we all know, just because the day begins well is no reason to think it will continue that way. I didn't fall for it. I maintained a heart for any fate.

I had business with the Center for Integrative Medicine at Duke and the day being so fine, I decided to cruise in that direction. I counted cats and then ankled toward the door but before I opened it, the phone tootled.

"Can you please bring a box of those felted soaps to my office, please?" said a familiar voice. 

"No problem, Poopsie, for I am just now on my way to Duke, and when I leave there, I will drop by your place on Blackwell Street with the goods."

See how pleasant it all was? But don't let that fool you. No, no, no, you just wait. As soon as the car left the garage, the sky opened and forty days and nights of rain began falling.

Well, everything looks different in the rain, of course, and I made a wrong turn. You expected that, didn't you? But I'll bet you didn't expect this: as soon as I made the turn I was stopped by police cars and fire trucks. That's right, but they weren't interested in me and I can't say that I had much interest in them. I instructed the car to phone Wonder.

"Poopsie, I'm going to be a little late with the soaps and whatnot."

"That's OK," she said, unfazed as always. "Take your time."

"Oh, I will surely be taking my time, all right," I said. "I'm stuck in traffic. Someone's set fire to the road."

"Set fire to what?"

"The road, Poopsie, someone's lit up Fayetteville Street."

"But, I don't understand you. Why would someone set fire to a road? You mean there's been a traffic accident?"

"I don't see any accident," I said. "I only see the road ahead and it's blazing like the dickens. You ask a good question though. Why torch a road? Just a passing whim, do you think?"

She said no more but signed off rather abruptly. Probably some emergency in operations management. Eventually, I was able to extricate myself from squad cars and fire hoses, and I began to drive Durham-ward. But it was still raining and I made another wrong turn. 

No fire trucks this time and I reasoned the best course of action was a U-turn. It took very little effort to make the turn because some traffic engineer had thoughtfully built a convenient spot for doing just that. Effortless but interesting anyway. I phoned the Wonder Woman.

"Poopsie," I said, "I wish you were here. I just made a U-turn, in one of those specially prepared places in the road where one is encouraged to make a U-turn, and you will hardly credit it, but there was a sign warning "Do Not Enter." I would have photographed it but, as I say, I was u-turning."

"Probably just an extra piece of road signage that was lying about. I wouldn't concern myself with it if I were you. I'm amazed that they spend good tax-payer money on signs like those," she said.

"But the entertainment value alone justifies them, don't you think?" I said. She rang off again.

I was now headed in the right direction and had found just the road to get me there when I was stopped by traffic again. You will be happy to know that the road wasn't burning and there were no emergency vehicles. There was, however, a yellow ribbon of the type you see strung across the roadways when people are raising money for some charity or other. The sign said, Iron Duke.

I know a thing or two about these Iron Dukes. For one thing, they take no guff from the locals. Don't mess with the Iron Duke is the word that goes around town, so I don't. Now, I'm not sure how it happened, but I was able, eventually, to find a detour that brought me to the gates where they sell tickets to the Greatest Show on Dirt. 

No Durham Bulls ball games scheduled for November, of course, so plenty of parking and I could walk to Wonder's office. Without further mishap, I arrived at the back door, underneath the Woolly Bull in left field.

"Thank you, Genome. You're one in a million," she said.

"I know," I said. "Don't mention it. It was quite exciting actually. Let's do it again tomorrow, shall we?"

Beware October Nights!

It was a cool and windy morning with leaves blowing around and that peculiar electric feeling you have when magic is in the air. I wasted no time in getting to Native Grounds and, wrangling a cup of the hot and steaming, I seated myself in the Den of the Secret Nine near the corner next to the English phone booth. Bob was there and greeted me with, "October is my favorite year of the month of the year."

"I couldn't agree more on both accounts," I said and I meant every word. October is the month when the blustery winds from the Bad Lands spread all across the continent; the rain falls like it's trying to break the old 40-day-and-night record; and the nights are black as the inside of a cat. It makes waking up in the morning an exciting prospect.

Just last night the wind howled and lightning stabbed the grounds of Chatsford Hall like a blind assassin, and thunder rolled around the hills like troll laughter. This was a little storm as maelstroms go but it had rolled up its sleeves and was getting down to it. It had no doubt been hanging around the rural areas for some time, getting practice with a few summer squalls, making contacts and getting ready for the big time. Now an opportunity had opened up late in the year and it was doing everything it could to get recognized by one of the major weather patterns.

Looking out my bedroom window, I thought I could see three stooped and hooded figures in the glare of the thunderbolts on the knoll behind the apple orchard. They were gathered around the embers of a small fire that gleamed like the madness in a weasel's eye. Above the Crash! Boom! Bang!, I thought I heard a voice shriek, "When shall we three meet again?" Could have been my imagination.

The Egyptians believed that magic held the world together and kept everything working smoothly. A  matter of opinion if you ask me. One thing I do know about magic is that it gathers in the mountains in the western regions of North Carolina and is stored in the quartz crystal that form the foundations of the Blue Ridge. Geologists say that quartz granules washed down from the mountains and carried by the rivers and waterways to the sea are the reason for the whiteness of the Crystal Coast beaches. It follows then, that North Carolina is a magical place.

And now it's October and we're on our way to Halloween--season of the witch. I love this time of year because it makes me feel really alive. Well, we're all living of course, but the act of being alive requires active participation. Simply living, on the other hand, is a passive experience.

I've had two experiences in my life that catapulted me into the dimension of being alive. One of those experiences was a traffic accident that brought me to the Doors of Death and allowed a short conversation with the Master of the House. The second was a screaming match with the Thirteenth Ghost. It's not in these annals now. Perhaps later. Still, I can't think of Halloween and not think of these two experiences.

My responses to the both sets of events were apparently the correct ones because I was left with an exhilaration--an ecstasy--of living life fully engaged. Both contributed greatly to the development of the principles of Fierce Qigong. Live comes hard and fast--be ready for anything. And in case, if I don't speak to you before the magical night--Happy Halloween!

Go On Then!

I enjoy long road trips, as a general rule, but we all have our limit. Mine is a high threshold--perhaps higher than yours-- but still. Life can be enjoyable outside the front seat of a touring vehicle. You may have to look for it, but it can be found.

For those of us who crave the experience of hands on the wheel and the open road before us, the realization that we've had enough comes when we're usually about 20 miles or more from civilization.

So it was after many miles of driving from Natchez, Mississippi to Alexandria, Louisiana that I discovered I didn't like blue sky, green fields and puffy white clouds as much as when I started out. I'd had enough. I tried to apply the healing balm of music to the tired spirit and it did help for a while.

Now, when I'm listening to music in my car, I'm not simply singing along with the lead singer, I become the lead singer. First I was Mick Jaeger and after that George Harrison. I was getting into the role of Graham Nash when suddenly, out of the blue, I was struck with that feeling one sometimes gets that I was going to die in about five minutes if I didn't get out of that car.

It was at that very moment I saw him, or her, lying on his or her back by the side of the road, legs all wiggly and neck craning to make sense of an upside world. It was a familiar sight, one that makes you question intelligent design, if you follow my meaning. A home on your back is all well and good but if you can't right yourself when overturned, well, I'll risk getting wet in the rain thank you.

I whisked by at high speed and was at least a mile or two away when all the details fell into place in my mind, if any, and I turned round and drove back slowly. I found him again about 50 yards from a country church with empty parking lot. Serendipitous, if that's the word. I parked Wind Horse in the church parking lot and took a bottle of water out of my pack, for it was a hot day and no way to know how long this tortoise, if that's what he was, had been lying there viewing the world upside down. Or she.

When I arrived, she pulled his head in, which any turtle rescuer knows is a good sign. I turned him over and his head retreated completely into the recreational vehicle he/she wore. I picked him up carefully and crossed the highway, knowing that he was intent on moving in the direction that his head was pointing. If I hadn't helped her cross the road, she would have continued from where I found her, which meant she would end up like all the others of her kind that lay on the shoulders of the highway in a more or less smashed condition. I placed her, right side up, in a drainage ditch and gave her a dousing with the bottled water.

Having performed my spiritual duty, I headed down the shoulder of the road back to my car and I found that this Good Samaritan effort had energized me. The spirit soared. I am not allowed to actually run anymore due to a silly misunderstanding between my immune system and my spine, but I think it's fair to say that I jogged back to my car with head high and a tra la la on my lips.

It was at about that time, after commending my soul to God and preparing to slip back into the car and out onto the highway that I heard a voice coming from the vicinity of the church.

"Hey," said the voice and I turned to see a rather unfriendly looking man, about the tonnage of Willie Robertson and wearing a beaver on his face very much like the one Willie sports. He must be a member of the Duck community, I said to myself. I watched him scurry toward me from across the parking lot and realized, not without a little dread, that he was carrying, which I believe is the term for being armed with a lethal weapon.

His weapon, if that's what it was, wasn't concealed in the manner of the responsible family man, as I believe these gun-slingers like to phrase it, but revealed openly in a way that said this fellow chose to live and die by the second commandment. No, not commandment, I mean to say second amendment.

As it turned out, his concern was that I could possibly be the perpetrator of vandalism that visited the church a few days prior. I suppose it was my out-of-state license plates that stirred him up so. These rural inhabitants are distrustful of anyone of unknown parentage. It seems outsiders are always roving into the community and causing trouble. I'm sure you've noticed that yourself.

At any rate, even though the fellow questioned me while sucking on the muzzle of his pistol, it was just a slight distraction for the Genome and having shown him my ID to confirm that I was neither undocumented nor blacklisted, I proceeded on to Houston.

It was amazing how much bluer the sky and fluffier the clouds after that little encounter. Not because I'd been able to slip away without the need to talk to the local constabulary but because I knew that somewhere in the marsh a tortoise was telling his buddies about the good Samaritan that happened by at just the right time. And that made all the difference.

Makes All the Difference

Do you remember that I spent all last week looking for signs of the monster of Jordan Lake? Well, I did, and you might want to pay a little more attention in the future. Just because you can't spend the middle of summer at the seashore is no reason to let the mind drift.

Lake Jordan looking west toward Crystal Cove

It was hot last week. And humid. I don't remember when I've experienced a hotter and humid-er. Even worse, after all the driving, hiking, and photographing, I was rewarded with nada. Nothing to support Lupe's claim of the monster. 

In all fairness to the young geezer, I should say that she doesn't like the word monster. She prefers to say creature and believes the animal to be a mother whose only concern is taking care of her offspring.

I did get a nice shot of the lake in the early morning. I'll post some pics for you to enjoy later. Where was I? Oh, Lupe's monster.

Please tell me that you haven't forgotten Lupe. Twelve years old. Short dark hair. Wears her clothes like a bench in a department store dressing room. Looks like a cross between a tall pixie and one of the Morrigan sisters. Oh, don't make that face. I'm not being harsh. It's the look she's going for.

As I was saying, she's proven the existence of the lake monster mathematically, so the thing's got to be hiding there somewhere. Lupe is seldom wrong when it comes to numbers.

I have pressing concerns in Crystal Cove this week and I arrived at the Inn of the Three Sisters yesterday afternoon. I thought I might as well check in with the aunts before meeting with the old ancestor, Uncle Gus.

It was mid-afternoon when I arrived and there's no time like 2:00 to 4:00 on a Tuesday afternoon to find nothing going on in Crystal Cove. I entered the front parlor to find Lupe practicing qigong. She was wearing the baggiest pants I've ever seen and a fedora. A fedora! What's that about?

"Good, lord," I said. "Where'd you get those pants?"

"Hello, sir," she said in the middle of the movement that she assures me is called White Swan Spreads Her Wings. And in case you're wondering if I'm having a go at you, let me assure you, she said those exact words. I know! I thought it strange too.

"Where'd you get those pants?" I said again.

"They're Thai fishermen's pants," she said. "Don't you like them?"

"Very becoming," I said. I'm sure you would have thought of something better but that's the best I could do on short notice.

"Did you find signs of the creature?" she said. I told you she doesn't like the term monster. She plans to make a pet of it, I'm certain.

"No, I did not. And I'm exhausted from the effort. I'm here to see Uncle Gus and have a good long rest. No drama, please. Don't start any of your stuff."

She stopped the qigong routine and gave me a look with cocked eyebrows and a pout.

"Have you seen Gwyn lately?" I said.

"Yes, sir. Lady Gwyn is out on the grounds looking for Constable Mason."

I'm sure you've noticed the formal bent in her conversation by now, and if not, then pay attention for heaven's sake. I'm not writing this for my own amusement. I noticed the formal motif right away and I didn't like it. I took a breath and prepared myself to pry under the lid even though something told me it would come to no good.

"Alright," I said. "Take five, you little racketeer. Since you insist on pressing the issue, just what is it with all this medieval stuff?"

"Sir?" she said.

"Exactly!" I said. "What's with the sirs and the Lady Gwyns and the Constable Masons. Why not just Genome, Gwyn, and Mason?"

"Oh, that," she said. "My mom, says I need to show more respect for my elders." She said it with a scowl and it all became clear to me in an instant.

"Oh, that's the story, is it?" I said. "Well, we Genomes have lightning-fast brains, Tinker Bell, and I can read between those lines. You've gotten your little blue coat with the brass buttons caught in Farmer McGregor's fence again, haven't you?"

"Have you been out in the sun without a hat?" she said.

She was pushing it, don't you think? I drew myself up to full height and looked down on her with a stern whatisit. I forgot the exact quote but I'm sure you can fill in the blanks. 

"None of that, thank you," I said. "The reference was Peter Rabbit. I'm sure you've heard of him at some point in your career. But that's not important," I said with a wave of the hand.

"I know why you've adopted the lingo. You've given someone some backchat, probably Aunt Maggie, and now you're paying the price. But you're not showing respect, you're being whats-the-word."

"Resistant," she said. "Obstinate," I said.

"Defiant," she said. "Seditious," I said.

"I'm glad you're back," she said. "I've missed our little chats."

Well, I melted of course. I mean she may be the spawn of Satan but she's my favorite inmate here at the Cove. And who among us can keep up the stern exterior when your god-niece is under the rule of three aunts and an uncle for the duration of the summer? It's enough to make the Pope kick a stained-glass window.

"Why is Gwyn looking for Mason anyway?" I said.

"Mason is trying to rehome some of my cats and Gwyn is doing me a favor by sweet-talking Mason, on account of I'm helping her with the high-summer festival."

"You have too many cats?" I said.

"No," she said. "But it's more than the homeowners association will allow."

"How many does the HOA allow?"

"Three."

"How many do you have?"

"Seven or eight," she said, "depending on your point of view."

"Ah," I said as a way of giving myself time to decide which direction I would take. The question I asked myself was, would I do my duty as god-uncle and point out the risk of taking the rebellious path? Or would I be the understanding and compassionate friend?

Then I remembered an incident from my childhood when I was discovered to have more than the allotted number of cats in my bedroom and the proper action became clear to me.

"One purr bucket just leads to another," I said, and then added, "Hemingway."

"We are rewarded in heaven according to the way we treat cats on earth," she said. "Heinlein."

"Don't call me Heinlein," I said. "Don't call me Hemingway," she said.

We laughed. "Enjoying the summer?" I said. "Now that you're here," she said. And that made all the difference.

Under Pressure

I often write about Ms. Wonder in my missives here on The Circular Journey. And why not? After all, I do write about actual happenings in my version of reality, and the one known as Wonder figures into a lot of happenings.

My public often asks questions that can be summarized as, how do you two remain such a happy couple?

I could try to list all the ways we navigate married life but that would run into several pages. However, an example of how we work together might provide a better explanation.

"How did you get it that hot?" she asked after sipping the freshly brewed vanilla-flavored, oat-milk latte. It was my first attempt to make one at home.

"Just clear your mind," I said and with my eyes closed, I formed a mudra with my fingers and brought my hands up to the level of my lower dantian.

Let's pause here for station identification. If mudra and dantian are new words for you, let's suffice by saying I touched my thumbs with my index fingers and brought my hands to waist level.

Now, where were we? Ah, yes... "Just clear your mind," I said.

"No, get past that," she said giving me a look that served as a warning that she was in no joking mood.

"Alright," I said, without mudras and with my eyes looking into her eyes. "Fix in your mind the concept of hot."

"No! No! No!" she said pointing a finger at me and shaking it back and forth. "I have eleven minutes before a conference call. Just spill it."

We Genomes are quick on the uptake and I dedeuced that she meant business. Although I hate to do such a thing, I divulged the unadorned (read boring) version of what I knew about the process. No dragons figured into it. No elves were involved. The mythic quest was only implied.

"Now make me one," she said, "hot like yours."

"How many ounces," I said.

"I want one just like yours," she said.

"Just like mine," I said and I meant it to give me a few seconds more to remember how I'd made the first one. It was a bust, of course, too much pressure.

"Just like mine?" I said. Another attempt to allow a few seconds more for magical inspiration. It sometimes works; not often I admit but sometimes.

"Exactly," she said.

Well, no time was wasted in getting everything laid out and filled up. Of course, I felt pressure pushing down on me; the kind of pressure that one feels when white-knighting it for the precious damozel. The kind of pressure that David Bowie and Freddy Mercury sang of in the 1980s; pressure that can bring a building down.

All I could do, under the circumstances, was appeal to my Higher Power, commend my soul to God, and leap into it.