Never Surrender, Never Give Up

"Run for your life! Run! Run! Run!"

I'll give you one guess who said the above. That's right, the princess herself, limbic system Amy.

Minutes before it all began, I'd taken possession of the table near the window but not too close to the band in the Port City cafe. My morning coffee was brewing and I had pen and paper at the ready to begin this post.

You will be able to appreciate the importance I placed on this little ritual especially after reading my previous post about how I rely on this blog to help me cope with my personal mood disorder.

"Amy," I said, "chill old girl. The storm has passed." 

I searched for something more to drive the point home but I admit that my heart wasn't it. The thought running through my mind was, Oh, no! Here we go again. But I tried to keep control of the situation.

"The bright sun," I said. "The blue sky." You can see that I was struggling to come up with something convincing. Finally, just to end the thought, I said, "And all the fixings."

"But you don't understand," she said. "You must run and run fast; as fast as you can."

"But why?" I said.

"Because," she said, "if you don't run, you'll be left behind. You'll never amount to anything and you'll be forgotten."

"Cappuccino." 

This last comment threw me into the interstitial space. I thought WTF Amy! I was completely nonplussed. Cappuccino?

"Sir?" said a voice in my right ear and it was then that I realized the barista had brought the coffee to my table.

"Oh thank you," I said. "Did you call my name and I didn't hear you?"

"Yes, sir," she said. "You seemed to be involved in a phone conversation."

"Ah-ha," I said because...well, you probably don't need an explanation.

"Thank you," I said. She smiled a sympathetic smile.

"Run now," said Amy.

I'd had enough of this drivel from the seat of my emotions if the amygdala is truly the seat of emotion. One might say that I was mad as hell and wasn't going to take it anymore.

"I'm not going to run," I said, and I tried to keep the voice calm and the atmosphere low-key because I had a plan and didn't want the little blister catching on to my scheme. "But I will go for a brisk walk around the block," I said. "Fresh air and a little boost to the blood flow will be good for us."

"What do you mean, us?" she said, showing just a tad of suspicion.

"An energetic walk is recommended for mental and physical health," I said and wished I hadn't as soon as it came out of my mouth.

"Oh, no," she said. "You don't involve me in any of that mental health rigamarole."

"Come on," I said as I pushed the chair back and stood. I placed the beret on my head with it tilted slightly down over the right eye, which makes all the difference in bolstering my confidence. "I'm going for a walk and you're coming with me," I said.

"Don't walk fast," she said.

"We're walking fast," I said.

"But...but,"

"But what?" I said picking up the pace.

"En...end..."

"Endorphins?" I said. "What about endorphins?"

She opened her mouth as if to answer but nothing came out. Instead, her eyes became slightly unfocused, her breathing became more regular, and she lay back in quiet repose.

And so Ms. Wonder saved the day again it seems. She wasn't there of course but that suggestion of hers that I keep the blood flowing at a smart clip to keep the mood above the mid-line worked like a charm. I'll have to incorporate it into Fierce Qigong.

Yes, Ms. Wonder is an amazing gal. I'm sure you agree. I do have to draw the line however when she gets on that too-much-coffee rag. Coffee habit indeed! Just because my largest monthly expense is Port City java, doesn't mean there's a problem. Just means that I like coffee. I can quit anytime I want to. 

The Next Best Thing

I was out and about early today. The sun was only so high when I decanted at Brunswick Forest for my morning constitutional. And I could imagine no better day for it. Even so, the usual serenity was missing; the heart was troubled.

 

Not long after arriving, as I neared the lake, I began thinking happy thoughts about the egrets, the herons, and all creatures great and small that reside nearby, but as the minutes passed, I became increasingly attuned to the sounds coming from the construction site on the other side of the treeline.

Queen Boudica of the Iceni 

How much destruction must we endure in the name of progress, is the question I asked myself. I took a deep breath. I took another. I focused my attention on the tranquil surface of the lake, hoping to mirror that serenity on the surface of my mind. It was a bust. Tranquility was nixed by the sounds of heavy progress. 

Princess Amy, as I'm sure you've surmised, took it big. And it will come as no surprise that she made sure I took it bigger, and when I do that, it's generally bigger than most.

I reminded myself that one must ask a higher power for serenity to accept what can't be changed. Courage, on the other hand, is required for making changes where one can. However, in circumstances like those described above, it requires all the courage I can muster to simply remain still.

What I really wanted to do was shout and leap about like my Celtic ancestors must have done when Caesar brought his legions to the shores of Britain for spring break. I was no doubt being influenced more than I realized by Amy who behaved like Boudica must have done when she first saw the Roman eagle on the beaches of Cornwall.

I've been told that I overreact to Amy's influence because of my artistic nature. The idea is that artists are sensitive spirits and are affected more strongly than pedestrians. Maybe. Who knows?

No matter the reason for my anxiety, I knew that I must contact a higher power for advice and counsel. I immediately left the path that follows the lake and ankled instead on the path leading to the Rock. Not that Rock!

You remember the rock from a previous post where I described my discovery that the psalmist, David, referred to his god as a rock. I realize that the man was a poet but I can overlook that in a best-selling author like David. 

The message given to me on my visit with the aforementioned Rock was (no surprise here either) to take proper steps through the proper channels. It's the path of all right-thinking people. It has been the solution to countless problems since solutions were invented. And so, it was for me the work of a moment to phone the Witch of Woodcroft. 

The witch hasn't figured much in recent posts, so you may want to search for her in earlier missives.

The idea was to enlist the aid of a top-notch fussbudget to make sure that the proper complaints were filed with the Universe and to do that without becoming personally steamed up and combustible. And I know of no bigger f. b. than Gladys Ironarrow. 

Oh please! So many comments coming in now asking, Gladys who? Throw your mind back and you'll remember her. If not, you can click on the link below but don't do it now! Finish this post first.

As soon as I had the cottage witch on the phone, I put her in possession of all the pertinent facts. Her first response was to tell me that I was worked up over minor infractions of the human race due to me being, as she put it so succinctly, barking-at-the-moon batshit crazy.

It goes without saying that this was not the response I was looking for. I told her about the OSHA backup signals but her response to that was one of cold condemnation. No good, of course. Not hot enough.

I told her about the golf course poisoners of weeds and whatnot and she warmed up a bit in her complaints but not with any real enthusiasm.

I reminded her of the inalienable rights of animals, trees, worms, and microbes. I mentioned specifically the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That did the trick. The thought catapulted her into a higher dimension where she hotted up to incandescence.

Suddenly I could relax. I leaned back against a tree and propped my feet up on a nearby stump. The sun was warm, the sky blue, and the coffee still hot. I could enjoy the egrets, the herons, the mallards, et. al., while Gladys gave the Universe a piece of her mind.

Some days it just doesn't get any better than doing the best you can with what you've got.

Changed My Life

I promised in an earlier post to explain in a future post all that rigamarole about being Death's assistant and this post is that post. The explanation isn't as easy as it might seem. This is my nth attempt and I've come to realize that a full explanation would require writing a book and that book has already been written. I'll point you to that book shortly in case you still need some splaining.

So, if you feel lost, leave a question in the comments below, and if you have a firm grasp, then leave answers to the questions below. Now, before we begin make sure the lap bar is locked into position and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. There will be turbulence.

It all began when I found Mom's Big Book of Death. You remember that post, I'm sure, but if not, you can follow the link at the end of this post. Wait! Don't go running off on a new adventure now. Finish this post first. You'll get there soon enough.

Mom's book reminded me of the Big Book of Death in Christoper Moore's book, Dirty Job. That's how I gave Mom's book a similar name. OK, identical name. 

Unrelated to anything that Mr. Moore wrote, I've always had a love for thrift stores. See? Turbulence already. I warned you. My love began back in the day with used book stores in Charleston. From used books, I moved on to vintage clothing, then vintage electronics, and I now have a full-blown addiction to thrifting. Don't let anyone try to tell you that collecting old and rare books is harmless. Used books are a gateway!

As anyone with my addiction will tell you, thrifting begins with collecting things that you're interested in and plan to use in some way. But you soon find yourself collecting things that you have absolutely no use for but seem strangely attracted to anyway. Strike that. I can only speak for myself. I should have said, I am strangely attracted to things that I have no use for. In little time, those things began to clutter up my shelves, tabletops, bureau drawers. You get the idea.

Recently, I made updates to Mom's Big Book of Death and was reminded again of Dirty Job. It happens to be one of my favorite books and is easy to be reminded of. And so I decided to read it again. 

That's when I realized that my strange attraction to objects in thrift stores was not too unlike the main character, Charlie Asher, and his attraction to soul vessels. Don't get your knickers in a wad, soul vessels are...no! I'm not going to go down that rabbit hole again. Suffice it to say that when a person leaves the earth to sleep among that stars, his or her soul takes refuge in a favorite possession. That object, known as the soul vessel, gets passed on to someone who's been selected to assist the soul in its journey toward destiny.

Now, if you haven't gotten into loose gravel on the shoulder and slid into the ditch, then you may have jumped ahead to realize that the way that soul vessel gets to the soul's next ride, is with the assistance of a Soul Merchant. Charlie Asher is a Soul Merchant in Dirty Job.

And now for the punchline. I'm Charlie Asher in my timeline. I'm a Soul Merchant. It all fits. The story that Christoper Moore tells in his book is my story. Why do I think that? Let me count the ways:

1. Charlie buys all sorts of objects (ones that glow) at estate sales and sells them in his thrift store. I buy objects (ones I'm strangely attracted to) in thrift stores and sell them online.
2. Charlie sells objects (some are soul vessels but most are not) to the appropriate person as chosen by destiny. He doesn't play any part in making sure the right person gets the soul. I sell objects to the appropriate person as chosen by destiny and some of them write me to tell me how much getting the object means to them (soul vessels?).
3. Charlie has to deal with the three Celtic goddesses of war and death. I have to deal with that spoiled little brat of a limbic system that I call Princess Amy.
4. Charlie has a connection to the Big Book of Death. I have a connection to Mom's Big Book of Death.

Still not convinced? Pay close attention to this:

As I re-read Christopher Moore's Dirty Job, I came to a part of the story that I'd forgotten. Charlie Asher is writing a check at an estate sale and realizes that the check is the last one in the ledger. He begins to cry because he shared that checkbook with his recently deceased wife and he will no longer see her handwriting in the ledger. He feels he's losing another part of someone loves.

That part of the story is where I realized that Charlie's story is my story. You see I still have my mom's checkbook and I keep cash tucked inside it because each time I took my mom shopping or to an appointment, she would buy a coffee for me with the cash she kept in that checkbook. I do it because I feel that I still have a little part of her with me. She still buys me coffee.

Several days ago, when I first began writing this post, I remembered something else that had slipped my memory. A few years ago, I was introduced to an online game that was designed to help people like me deal with their emotional disorders. The game is called SuperBetter. It helped me immensely but I stopped using it quite some time ago. Why mention it here?

Here's why. To play the game, you choose an avatar based on the main character of a favorite movie, play, TV show, or book. Then you tailor the principles and challenges of the game to mimic the events and challenges faced by your chosen avatar. Years ago, long before my mom died and long before I found her Book of Death, I chose Charlie Asher as my avatar.

That may not impress you but it impresses the hell out of me every time I think of it.

Link to Mom's Big Book of Death

If Not For You?

On weekday mornings I Walk. It's capitalized because it's a spiritual practice. Around 9:00 am, after performing the cat chores--feeding, administering medication, and other routine caretaking, and after a light breakfast, I leave the as-needed care with Ms. Wonder. Then I head to Brunswick Forest to walk in the pines.

It's more than walking, of course. Those who know me best are aware that anytime you find the Genome underneath a leafy canopy, he will qigong. It's a spiritual thing. In fact, I do more than perform the ancient practice that originated in the Wudang Mountains of central China--I Fierce Qigong! Like the dickens! And I do it with my Kung Fu fighting cane!

I sometimes refer to this morning ritual as lost in let's remember because it makes me think of my younger days. You know what I mean.

When the weather is warm and dry my regalia includes the fighting cane, my Qigong Wellness t-shirt, from the martial arts academy that hasn't existed in over 14 years; and my competition taiji shoes, from my teaching days, which are long over; and I wear a golf glove to complete the outfit, to prevent losing my grip on the cane and beaning innocent bystander who only came to the park to air out the dog. 

Although I pretend to have some other purpose for being here, I'm actually here for the few minutes of meditation it allows. We both know that I'd come here just to watch the dogs enjoying their morning in nature. Makes me smile....

That's the essence of my regular morning walks but that's not what went down today. I was in a different dimension this morning. I was lost in thought and feeling about what it means to be a Soul Merchant.

Being out among the coastal people, when they were just beginning to move, greeting the morning, making ready to go about the mundane business of the day, I couldn't stop wondering if I'd soon deliver a soul vessel to one of them. 

It doesn't matter that I have no idea what I’m doing or whether or not I’m really doing anything, it just seems apparent that I’ve been chosen for the job. 

Uh oh! I'm so sorry about that. I've done it again. Jumped the rails and started talking about something that you've not been introduced to. I promise to do something about that in future posts.  For now, let me just say that all this stuff about Soul Merchants and whatnot is connected to Mom's Big Book of Death. 

Surely you remember Mom's book. We've talked about it enough. Still, I promise to clear up the whole shebang in the very next post. Watch for it because I don't have your number. I don't know how to get in touch with you other than The Circular Journey and I really need to be in touch with you. 

I've said it before and I mean it still, I don't know what I'd do without you!

As I was saying, it seems apparent that I've been chosen for the job. After all, someone has to do it. But my weakness is Princess Amy, of course. She seems to take on the role of the Morrigan (stay tuned) and she keeps throwing obstacles in my way. That can't be tolerated. 

As I went about my routine, doing the things I usually do every day even though I don't really feel up to it, I realized that it felt different this morning. I felt as though I had a real purpose, a reason to breathe the air and to take up space for a period of time. I realized that I was not dumbly going through the motions. I actually strutted. I felt like Mick Jagger on tour.

And so, when most of the dogs and their people were on the other side of the lake, I found a spot in the pine thicket with a small clearing bathed in bright sunlight. I got into qigong open position and raised my arms in a gesture known as lifting the sky, and then I closed my eyes and addressed that same sky in my loudest voice, saying, 

“I am the chosen one! So don’t mess with me today!” I said it with a lot of topspin because I wanted to make sure it stuck.

I was talking to Amy, of course, and it felt good. I stood there for several seconds, arms raised to heaven, eyes closed, and with the biggest smile that I could fit on my face. 

Talking to Amy is an inside job and isn't always understood by the public. When I finally looked around, I noticed that a few doggers were back on my side of the lake. 

One couple walking a poodle stared at me with exaggerated concern. Another guy and his terrier gave me a look that said they were considering their options for escape. The woman with the Plott Hound just kept walking forward, staring at the ground and making an effort to not look at me.

“Had to be done,” I said to all of them and to no one in particular. 

The first couple glanced at each other questioningly, the second couple called to their dogs. The woman with the Plott Hound gave me a quick glance and a furtive smile. And they all walked on. They seemed to understand being messed with, don't we all in the age of COVID? And they seemed to accept my way of dealing with the situation.

I never felt so vital. I absolutely tingled with energy. I finally understood why the living, when compared to the dead, are called the quick. I completed my walk around the lake enjoying the sense of irony, that until I became Death's assistant, I'd never felt so alive.

Almost Is Not Enough

It was early morning on the day of the first 9:30 am meditation class that I was to lead at Straw Valley. I'd worked hard for this slot and had every reason to be happy with myself but I wasn't. Instead, I was filled with a nameless dread. I feared that the students would object to the earlier starting time and not be there when the class began. 

We Genomes are men of steel, ask anyone, and yet sometimes, strangely, we struggle to maintain the stiff upper lip.

"Poopsie, I'm not the merry old self this morning," I said.

"Really?"

"Nope. Far from it."

"I'm sorry to hear it," she said.

"But why, is what I ask myself," I said.

"I couldn't say," she said and for the first time since the conversation began, I noticed that she was devoting all her attention to Eddy. I began to wonder if this was the time for playing with kittens. A little more of the rally-round spirit would have suited me.

"It could be that Princess Amy is messing around with the lipid cocktail again." I said, "Or it could be that I'm worried about a gang of students showing up at 10:00 and when they learn that I'm halfway through the meditation portion of the program, they begin throwing chairs around and trampling through the bamboo grove."

"You mean to say halfway through the meditation class," she said.

"What did I say?"

"You said meditation portion."

"That's what I meant to say," I said. "I wonder why Princess Amy gives me such a hard time? After all, we're technically one and the same."

"Difficult to say," she said.

This Amy I speak of always has something sinister in mind for me. And it isn't like I stiffen the neck and kick about it. I usually go along with just about everything she asks--living life on life's terms and all that. The only time I balk is when she starts ladling out that not-good-enough nonsense.

She loves to remind me that I was always missing the mark as a kid. I wasn't a very good student, always preferring the outdoors to the classroom. I wasn't a good athlete, always being the last kid chosen for the team. I was smaller than the average and I learned quite early that staying away from the ball was a really good survival technique.

"I have to leave now," said Ms. Wonder, "I've got to hang that art exhibit."

"Yes, I remember," I said, "And when does it come down?"

"End of the year," she said. "It's like you always say."

"What is?"

"The art exhibit," she said, "It's like everything else--it arises, it abides for a moment, and then it passes away. Maybe your feelings of impending doom will be like that too."

It's amazing how prescient, this woman can be if prescient is the word I want, because half an hour into the meditation class, everyone was sitting quietly, listening to the bamboo leaves rustling in the breeze. Not a single chair was bunged about nor a single drop of blood spilled. I remember thinking how odd it was.

After repeating the goodbyes and passing around the happy endings, I remembered something Ms. Wonder often says, "Our anxious anticipation of future events is almost always worse than what actually happens."

I don't know where she gets these things but I'm sure she has a million of them. And like most of them, this particular one is a good thing to keep in mind. Not that it completely calms the anxious mind but it helps. 

The shortcoming of course, which I'm sure you caught right away, is that annoying little word, almost.