Keeping The Faith

Something has been bothering me--causing me not a little frustration--for quite a long while. It seems that I've been lost in let's remember. Truth be known, I've gotten my fill of it; more than the recommended dose for the average adult in my opinion.

Billy Joel wrote the song, Keeping The Faith, and in that song I feel that he speaks for me when he says, "...I would not be here now if I never had the hunger. And I'm not ashamed to say the wild boys were my friends... Cause I never felt the desire 'till their music set me on fire and then I was saved... That's why I'm keeping the faith."

 

You see, it's like this: I feel that I'm lost in the enchanted forest at the End Of Days. You realize that I speak metaphorically; there's no enchanted forest in Brunswick County. On the other hand, End of Days seems fitting for the circumstances; I'm feeling older and missing my younger days. So let's take that one literally and get on with it. 

As I was saying, here I am in the enchanted forest with lots of paths to follow, and each path has a barker (think of the barker as an influencer) who is exhorting me to step right out onto this path and manifest my dreams. Open myself to the abundance of the Universe they say. The Law of Attraction will provide me with success and wealth they say no matter how I define those terms (although someone counting 100 dollar bills is shown on the screen while I'm defining success and wealth).

You and I know, however, that we must follow our own personal path and not one that has been made by another. That's right, the quest for the holy grail. Don't worry, I'm not going to bore you with more of that old saw.

And so I've tried this and that, in an attempt to forge my own path. I tried all the usual suspects--meditation, exercise, doing a bit of good to my fellows, expressing gratitude. In other words, I've taken proper steps through proper channels but all in vain. 

I discovered years ago that the future works out in my favor when I become willing to turn my will and my life over to a Higher Power who works marvelous wonders in mysterious ways. Or as I've often heard it said, in ways that passeth all understanding.

Feeling that I had nothing left to lose, I decided to go all in. I decided to let go and stop trying to control life. You can linger too long in your dreams. Sometimes it's best to say goodbye to the oldies and look forward to the future, whatever it may bring because tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems. 

And so with no thought of turning back, I took my problems to one Who has all knowledge and is able to intercede with Life, the Universe, and Everything on my behalf. 

I'm speaking, of course, of Ms. Wonder.

"Poopsie," I said, as she sat down at the breakfast table with the second cup of the steaming brew, "do you know what I want?"

"What do you want?" she said.

"Right," I said, "what I want."

She gave me one of her patented looks. Not pleasant but not unnerving and so I decided to exhort her, like a barker might, by pushing the conversation along. It's a technique we Genomes have developed to grease the wheels of conversation.

"Well," I said. A bit weak I grant you but I had to come up with something quickly.

"Well what?" she said.

"Any ideas?" I said.

"What, if anything, are you talking about?" she said. "And let me warn you that while I may listen to some light drivel over my morning coffee, I will not under any circumstances listen to pure drivel."

This was far from the rally-round-the-flag attitude that I'd hoped for, so I thought I should try a different approach.

"What I mean," I said, "is that I'm developing a plan that will..." 

It occurred to me that this was an excellent point in the conversation to try out that new phrase and so I said:

"...lead me to a happy, fulfilling life here at the End of Days."

"And," she said.

"Well, we all know that before anyone can achieve a goal, one must know what one wants," I said.

She gave me a look that's normally reserved for the child who has just dropped her ice cream cone onto the sidewalk and who knows that she can't pick it up but desperately wants to. You know the look I mean.

"You're asking me if I know what you want?" she said.

"Well, who knows me better than you, Poopsie?" I said and I felt pretty good about it too. Nice talking point I thought.

"Here's what I'm going to do," she said. "I'm going to take my coffee upstairs and schedule a few appointments and then I'm going to do my morning yoga."

"Yes?" I said reasoning that yoga would provide her a good opportunity to meditate on my request.

I expected to hear more but she nodded slightly, gathered her goods, and ascended the staircase with lithesome grace. She always does that. It's all the yoga. Good for the grace.

I didn't get the immediate answer that I'd hoped for but that's the way these prayerful requests sometimes work. We get the answer when need it, not when we want it. I think that's right. Seems that I've heard that somewhere. Now, my task is to keep the faith and wait.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm keeping the faith. Yes I am.

What A Light!

This morning, as I sat counting medications for the cats, my mood was as dark as the sky. The gloomy clouds promised another gray day and I was not happy about it. Princess Amy loved it I'm sure.

But before Amy could start anything, a bright light suddenly burst through the kitchen window. What light breaks through yonder window I thought. And when I say, what light, I mean what a light! 

It appeared in the twinkling of an eye as though the sun, anxious to get the day started, had dispensed with the usual sunrise ceremony and simply leapt above the horizon and turned the volume up to eleven.

But wait, I thought, the kitchen window doesn't face east. I looked up from the pill bottles with not a little anxiety. What if today, I wondered, is the day the Christians talk about--the day of reckoning. Will the trumpet sound? Will the earth shake?

That reminds me of the time the earth did shake. I was in San Francisco for a software convention and my hotel was near the airport. The planes that were cleared for landing had to call the whole thing off and circle round until the landing strip stopped moving about. The dead didn't rise and walk around though. They stayed dead.

But I've jumped that rails. Where was I? Oh yes, what a light!

That startling light coming through the kitchen window was a 10 power reflection of the light from the east and the big yellow school bus stopped at the corner in front of my house was the sun. From now on, I will call that bus, Juliet.

If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, take my advice and don't stare directly at the bus. 

There you have it. That's how my day started and I'm pretty happy about the whole thing. When the day begins with that much excitement, how can the rest of the day be a let-down? 

My plan for the day is to get a new travel article drafted for Carolina Roads Magazine. I'm thinking Southport, NC, will be the subject. I'll let you know tomorrow how it goes. I'll need to be vigilant to prevent Princess Amy from getting her groove back but I'm feeling confident about that and feel no anxiety about it.

When the day starts with a little Shakespeare, it lifts the spirit like the dickens. Here's hoping your day got off to a good beginning. If not, don't forget what the wise woman said--it may have been Ms. Wonder--you can start your day over any time you like and as many times as you like.

What could possibly go wrong?

The Sun Popped Out Like a Startled Rabbit

I don't know if you're familiar with the story of Mrs Lot and her rather fantastic finish? If you are familiar, you may want to skip to the next paragraph. If the name doesn't ring a bell, then here's the gist. 

This unfortunate woman was the victim of history's worst practical joke. Told by her companions one day as they were leaving home for a road trip, 'Don't look now...', she did look, of course, don't we all when told not to? And by some odd coincidence, when she did look, she turned into a pillar of salt! I know! Who'd have guessed? I mean, salt of all things!

The reason I mention this here is that a very similar thing happened to me when unable to stop myself after being told by Ms Wonder to let the Straw Valley thing go, I revisited some old email from Robin and found the last missive from her unopened.

Reading from left to right, it said, 'I'd like to set up a day and time to talk.' Well, if you've been following along, you know how much I wanted this gig so it should not surprise that I sat frozen with the phone in my hands like one of those peasants, who talk back to a wizard and--presto!--they turn into a pillar of salt.

And so this very morning I found myself walking into the courtyard of Straw Valley with an appointment to review the space with Robin. At the very moment I entered the coffee bar, a willowy woman walked toward me with a warm and winsome smile. It was Robin.

It's at moments like this that you find the Genome at his best, ice-cold brain working like a Swiss army knife. Nothing creates so unfortunate a first impression as the hesitant utterance and the shifting from one foot to another like a south-side Fred Astaire. But in this encounter, I discovered the middle way.

As soon as Robin began to speak, I realized that this young woman created her own future, a co-creator of the Universe, making things happen by sheer force of will. The conscious observer dissolved and merged with the One bringing absolute balance. 

This woman grants no quarter to the possibility of failure and laughs in the face of the Aunts. We agreed to begin with Sunday morning classes at 10:00 as soon as the new year could get here. I felt that everything was just peachy in the here and now.

I emerged from the void when I heard her say something about making the deadline for the Indy newspaper and then she was gone with the wind. A sharp cry of joy escaped my lips. The Indy newspaper is the rag where everything worth knowing is broadcast to all of Durham.

The sun, once hidden behind a gray veil, came shooting out like a startled rabbit, rolled up his sleeves, and got down to some serious shining. Birds in the shrubbery sang in four-part harmony, five probably, and I saw the world through a pink mist.

My gazelle had come home.

The sun has blessed the earth for many go-arounds since that first day at Straw Valley. Not all those days have been so happy. But recently those blessings seem to have been reborn through the transformative power of bright, blue skies and benevolent sunshine. 

I feel that the lost gazelle has come home once more. Fierce Qigong, ya'll!

You Would Do the Same

It has been well said of the Genome, by those who know him best, that if there is one quality that distinguishes him more than any other, it is that he keeps the upper lip stiff and makes the best of things. It's living a life filled with Fierce Qigong that makes it possible I think, don't you?

 If you're new here, then you aren't familiar with the term. Fierce Qigong, in words of my own construction, is my lifetime aversion to eating pine needles. I suppose that needs some explanation too but it's a longish story and we don't have time to go into it now. We will one day soon. I promise.

For the nonce, let's get to the subject du jour. 

Waking this morning to another day, minus the lark and the snail, I wasted no time in brewing a cup of Jah's Blessing, dark roast. Having refreshed the tissues with that first cup, I was disappointed to find the heart still down.

Once again, for the newcomers, the lark and snail reference comes from Pipa's Song by Browning. I must make a note to write an introduction for the newcomer.  Otherwise, I'll never finish this post due to all the behind-the-curtain stage directions.

Down among the wines and spirits, as I've so often heard Ms Wonder describe it. And not only the heart but the head too. I was suffering from a distinct apprehension for an inclement future. And I'll tell you why I was suffering from a distinct A for an inclement F. 

Ms Wonder and I had left the old metropolis of Wilmington and traveled to Crystal Cove, near the spot where the Tennessee River merges with Lake Chickamauga not far from the Scenic City of the Mid-South, or as I've often heard it called, Chattanooga.

I've received numerous comments asking why I avoid the Cove. After all, as one follower describes it, "It's a picturesque village, surrounded by manicured fields, peach orchards, and with a willow-fringed river running through it."

And to that, I would add, it's the home of my favorite cousin, Gwyndolen, and my most amazing god-niece, Lucy Lupe Lightfoot Mankiller, the company of both never tiring. 

And so you ask again, Why? It's the question Ms Wonder asked as we drove across Yaphank Bridge and passed the marina.

"Why do you avoid Crystal Cove so fervidly? It seems like a perfectly pleasing place to me."

"Perfectly pleasing?" I said. "You would call it perfectly pleasing?" 

You may notice a touch of annoyance, possibly some indignation, in my reply. I noticed it and having done so I thought better of it. This Wonder, who does so much to soften the pain of slings and arrows, making each day another one in paradise, deserves a softer touch and so I modified the tone.

"Yes," I said. "You no doubt look around the premises at all the luxuries--manicured landscaping, river frontage, a truck-load-full of inviting outdoor activities--and you might reasonably think that life is ideal in this quiet little village."

I paused for a few seconds. Not sure why. It may be that I'd forgotten where I was headed with that line of dialog. Or perhaps after mentioning a few items in the pro category, I was reluctant to begin listing the cons.

"However," I said, "Though every prospect pleases...."

"What about it?" she said. "Though every prospect pleases--what?"

"Well, you have me in deep waters there, Wonder. It's something I heard once and it made a big impression on me. I like to throw it into conversation every now and then to add a little whatsit."

"I wish you wouldn't," she said. "Every time you throw quotes around, I waste time trying to make sense of them."

"Are they supposed to make sense?" I asked. "Quotes I mean? Everyone quotes Shakespeare and his lines are mere nonsense. I'm sure they were nonsense even on the day he wrote them. Something to please the peasantry, nothing more."

"I can't believe you just said that. And you're supposed to be a writer too."

I was distracted for a second or two at this point in the conversation, having to twiddle the steering wheel a bit to avoid a passing logging truck heading for the pulpwood landing no doubt.

"I'm not just supposed to be a writer," I said after taking a deep breath, lifting my chin, and then gazing down with half-closed eyes. It's something I've seen David Niven do in those monochrome movies from the 40's. It always seems to give him the upper hand and I like to get the upper hand when engaged in tit-for-tats with the Wonder of the Russian steppes.

"I am a writer," I said and I said it with no little energy because I meant to put a stake in the sand to say that I would not back down from my position.

"And besides, you can't deny that Shakespeare was in the habit of shoving down just any old anything that came to mind in those plays of his."

She looked at me with large eyes and...what's the phrase? Begins with an 'I' doesn't it? Incredulous. That's it. She gave me an incredulous stare.

She opened her mouth as though to say something but nothing came out, so I continued to speak, not that I had anything more to add really, I just wanted to fill up the empty space.

"You might also consider the poet, Keats," I said. He speaks of stout Cortez first staring at the Pacific and all his men looking at each other with a wild surmise, blah, blah, blah."

"So?" she said.

"Well, it wasn't Cortez, was it? Balboa was the bird that first stared at the Pacific."

She fell silent. Her eyes softened. I could tell that she was musing over my words. It made me feel better immediately. It always makes me feel better to think that she's considering my words.

"Alright, you big jamoke," she said. "You're right about Balboa, But it's a big ocean and it's open to being stared at, so I see no reason why Cortez may not have given it a goggle too. Now, that's out of the way, answer my first question. Why do you avoid Crystal Cove?

"It's not the Cove that I avoid. It's the village nearby. And the reason is the local constable, one Vicky Mason, has sworn to sign me up for an extended stay in the Hamilton County caboose."

"Really? For what exactly?" she asked.

"It's something to do with an unfortunate accident that occurred just before last year's winter solstice. She suspects, without corroborating evidence mind you, and so she sneaks around watching everything I do with the hope of catching me bending."

"I can't imagine why she doesn't let the dead past rest in peace," I continued. "Just because I was in town when the fishing guides dormitory burned, what of it? It's not like I haven't explained to her on several occasions, that it was not my fault."

"What do you mean, not your fault?" asked the Wonder.

"More than once," I said, "I've pointed out that there was little time to consider options. I had no other choice, really. Burning the place down was the only way to hide the evidence." 

I waited for her response. I'm still waiting.

Tinkerty-tonk

The sun popped up over Durham this morning, all hot and bright and showing off, and the gibbous moon was still hanging over Chadsford Hall with a smile on her face and a "Back at'cha!" on her lips. 

For some reason, a bit of trivia surfaced in my head. You know how these trivia do surface and the surfacing that arose was that the full moon of December has been known as the Cold Moon, the Yule Moon, the Snow Moon, and the Peach Moon by various members of my ancestors. 

Peach Moon? The thought causes one to pause and scratch the chin, or so it was with me.

Driving through the park--Research Triangle Park, not Duke Forest, not Hope Valley, and not the Cary Auto Park--I was listening to 70's-on-7, not that I chose it but because Ms. Wonder had been in my car on yestereve. I, of course, listen to 80's-on-8 but you know how it is when two people of proud constitution differ in opinion--governments have been known to put the cat out when it happens.

My morning had begun with that uncomfortable feeling I sometimes get that I am expected somewhere and yet there isn't a jot of a clue about where I'm supposed to be. You know the feeling I'm sure. Napoleon, I'm told felt the same when his courier brought the word that Nelson had sailed into Cairo harbor and burned the French fleet. Wouldn't surprise me to learn that Catherine the Great had the feeling just before removing her husband from the throne. 

"Poopsie," I said, "I feel as though I'm supposed to be somewhere today."

"Where?" she said.

"Ah, that's the 64-thousand-dollar question, isn't it? I confess I don't know."

"You'll have to explain that 64-dollar question but not right now. I need to be somewhere soon. Besides, you're probably experiencing a hangover from the manic day you had yesterday."

"Manic?" I said and I put a little topspin on it because I didn't like her choice of words. You wouldn't like them either if you lived in my head.

"I just mean that your day was hectic. It must have been annoying."

"Not really. About normal I'd say."

"If you do have an appointment, I'm sure you'll think of it in time," she said.

"But that's the problem," I said. "I have to get ready for the day as though I have an appointment even if I don't. Otherwise, when I remember where I'm supposed to be, I won't have time to get ready."

"It will be fine," she said. "I've got to hurry to get to the office. We're expecting a delegation from South Africa this morning and I want to make sure we have African coffee rather than Costa Rican."

"Ms. Wonder," I said because we Genomes strive to be useful at all times, "if you visited China would you want a hamburger for lunch rather than Szechuan stir-fry?"

"Gotta run," she said. "Bye."

Now, as you well know, I always look to this Wonder Woman for comfort and advice, and this lack of the rally-round spirit had left me off-balance. I quickly dressed for my appointment, if any, casual and loose to accommodate the morning qigong but clean and neat as required by the Mom code.  

I took Wind Horse out of the stable and hied for the open road but the mind was still looking under the mental carpet for the mislaid appointment. 

Default mode is the name I've heard for this zone where the lazy mind gets lost.This default mode often turns to the negative poles and, if you have a limbic system like mine, Reason may even step down from her throne. Thrones do not remain vacant for long and when Reason departs, Chaos moves in. 

Chaos is the realm of Princess Amy and she was in rare form this morning telling me a story unfit for human consumption and although Bobby Bloom was singing Montego Bay on the radio, I was caught up in the unsavory story. It was like the 5:00 news. 

Still, when Amy got to the part of her story that caused my spine to vibrate like the strings of a mandolin, my state of mind, as Shakespeare might have put it, like a little kingdom suffered the nature of an insurrection. 

I quickly assessed the danger, broke free from Amy's glamor, and told her to shut her pie hole.

Before you tut-tut, let me point out that vinegar, despite popular opinion to the contrary, often gives more satisfying results than honey when dealing with pests. It's true! Wonder will attest to it. And it was just at the moment I was telling Amy what to do with her phantasma or hideous dream that I broke out of default mode and heard Bobby Bloom singing,

"Oh, what a beautiful morning

Oh, what a beautiful day

And I got a beautiful feeling

Everything's going my way."

I was drawn into the feeling. I sang along with Mr. Bloom and if I sang a little too loudly, what of it? With a Peach Moon smiling in the sky and the morning sun in a chirpy mood, I felt that the lark must surely be on the wing and all was right with the world. 

As for my worries, they were nothing more than the idle wind and I gave them a wet smack and a miss. Tinkerty-tonk about sums up the whole affair. I do hope that appointment wasn't my weekly session with Susan Studebaker.