Uma's Wet Kiss

A wet kiss woke me from sleep this morning. No, it wasn't the Wonder in my life. That one had been up since dawn making the world safe for executive meetings. No, not her. The wet kisser was Uma, Queen of Cats and Empress of Chatsford Hall. 

I knew it was her right away because, despite her royal titles, her kissing behavior isn't continental--one cheek suffices for her greetings.

As soon as my eyes were open, she left the bed and danced out into the hallway. She slowed only at the bottom of the staircase where she called for me to join her.

When I arrived, she was in mid-squat, the better to sit in my hand and ascend the stairs to her window seat in Wonder's office. 

I apologize to members of the Inner Circle for stopping the narrative here for a bit of station identification. But I feel the newcomers may benefit from a little background.

You see, Uma has season tickets for the box seat overlooking the beginning of another day in Lanvale Forest. She likes to be settled in before the curtain goes up on sunrise, the better to witness the arrival of the big yellow school bus.

Ms. Wonder and I feel we owe her our support in these morning rituals because it's she who taught us that all cats are created equal and endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, among these are the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Now that's done, let's return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Once Uma was comfortable and ready for the first act in the daily drama, I rushed across town for my weekly mood tuneup. Nothing major, just a change of attitude and the usual 21-point assessment. I was bucked this morning because I had good news to report.

"I'm journaling," I announced to Beach. If you haven't been introduced, Beach is my therapist. I probably should have put that in footnotes but we're not big on procedure here.

"How's that going?" she asked.

"It's good," I said. "I don't know how to quantify the benefits but I'm enjoying it and I think enjoying it is important."

"Of course," she said. "Journaling is an example of an expressive coping method, which is a technique that helps a person overcome negative thoughts, feelings, or experiences by releasing them. When you write about them, they can have less power over you."

"Ahh," I said, and then because I wanted to tell her a story that involved me as the main star, I said, "I've also been socializing more."

"Journaling can help you cope with anxious thoughts," she said, "by putting your thoughts into words and then putting them aside rather than letting them become an obsession."

"Right," I said. "I had an interesting experience in a coffee shop on my way here this morning."

"Emotional writing," she went on, "significantly decreases symptoms of depression too. People seem to get greater benefits when they focus on deep feelings and thoughts rather than simply recording daily experiences like a traditional diary."

"Are you writing this down for me," I asked.

"Did you say that you've been socializing more?" she said. "Are you attending more meetings?"

"Oh, no, nothing that drastic," I said. "But let me tell you about my visit to Native Grounds this morning."

"Do," she said, "I'll bet you hold me breathless with the story."

"This morning I was helped by a young barista and after the initial pourparlers, she said, "I really like your shirt."

Well, we all enjoy a good compliment, of course, and I thanked her and said that the shirt was a favorite."

"You always wear the coolest shirts," she said surprising me not a little. 

"Oh," I said, "you've made my day."

"Seeing you in your cool shirts makes my day," she said.

"I was non-plussed. I didn't expect such an encounter with someone taking my drink order. And it didn't stop there. When my bagel popped from the toaster, she brought it over to me."

"I see why you're in a good mood," said Beach, "What a wonderful way to start the day."

"Yes it was," I said. "That one act of kindness made me understand for the first time ever, why God decided against the total holocaust of Sodom or Gomorrah or both or whatever, all for the sake of one person--that one being Lot. It's more evidence that one person really can make all the difference."

"Hmmm," said Beach.

"Although I still think it a terrible prank," I said, "to turn Lot's wife into a pillar of salt just because she looked back at the home she was leaving. I mean, don't we all look when someone says, Don't look now but...?"

"I'm afraid that our time is up," Beach said.

"Don't forget the notes," I said. "I'll want to review in case there's a pop quiz."

The Gift of Today

"Poopsie!" I cried. 

Just to be clear, when I say that I cried I don't mean that I boo-hooed. Certainly not. The Genomes never shed tears, unless the situation calls for tears, and in those times we cry like the dickens. But, as I say, this time was not one of those times.

What I meant to say is that I called out the nom de plume in a loud voice because Ms. Wonder was in her upstairs office where she first constructs what must be elaborate plans and then performs the many mysterious wonders that are cause for celebration far and wide.

I waited for a reply but it never came. Nothing to worry about; she seldom replies when I yoo-hoo up the staircase.

And let me pause here for a bit of station identification and say that those of you who are composing critical comments about my "yoo-hooing up the stairs" should be ashamed of yourselves, especially if you're members of the inner circle. Such behavior is not becoming of someone who aspires to the level of preu chevalier.

And coming back to our original programming, let me explain that I knew her silence meant she was up to her eyebrows in corporate stuff and had no time for off-topic discussions. It left me with no other choice but to bound up the stairs and enter her sanctum.

I stopped in the doorway and waited for her to look at me. Eventually after a few false starts, she did look at me.

"Each day is a gift, Wonder," I said. "A unique and very special gift that we must live to the fullest. No matter what life bungs into the waking hours, it's still the same day. "

"And?" she said. You will note the obvious lack of interest, not so much as mild curiosity in her response. I didn't like the implications but life seemed to think it necessary and so I accepted it and moved on.

"You've heard me say many times, Poopsie, that life is a prankster. She leads you to think that you've got a bit of apple pie coming your way and then, when you're not looking, it's a pie in the face."

At this point in the conversation, her face took on a look of resignation. She sighed deeply like someone who just learned that her day off was forecast to be overcast with a 60% chance of rain.

The image before my eyes of my one-and-only Ms. Wonder with a look of despair, ever so mild but still.... It was too much. I forgot what I'd come upstairs to tell her. She alone seemed worthy of attention in the present moment.

Princess Amy said, "No, no, no! It's about us, remember?"

"I'm sorry, Amy," I said. "Sometimes it's best to think of others. This time is one of those times."

"Did you say something?" asked the Wonder.

"Just thinking out loud," I said. "How about an afternoon off?" I said. "I was thinking about a trip to Holden Beach to look for some of those 40-million-year-old fossilized whatsits that you're so fond of."

"Saddle up Wind Horse," she said. "I'm logging out, now. With any luck the clouds will clear and we can hang around to watch the sun set."

"I think the clouds have already begun clearing," I said.

Why Write At All?

From my earliest years, I wanted to be a writer. It was not that I had any particular message for humanity. I just wanted to write something light and humorous to make me feel better about my own dreary life and maybe, with a little luck, those stories would help someone with a similar life feel better about theirs.

Beignet Lafayette, Cat of the Year for 5 consecutive years.

There was a brief period in my late teen years when my writing teachers in school convinced me that I had some talent and should keep writing. Their encouragement, which I am grateful for, allowed me to think that a muse had called to me and was silently urging me to share the stories in my head. I realize now that if I ever received a call from a muse, it was a wrong number. 

Thank you P.G. Wodehouse for that bit of wordplay.

It's good that I didn't have a message for the world in mind because, after all these years of writing, still not a glimmer of a message has appeared. Unless I get hotted up in retirement, I fear that humanity will remain a message short.”

Whatever the reason, and even if there is no reason, I continue to write.

I have many writing friends who strive to turn out perfectly crafted stories. But not me. I think of my stories as musical comedies; the music plays in the background. I begin with real-life experiences and then look for ways to make them humorous but there must be something genuinely quirky about the actual event. 

When I find the absurdity, I exaggerate it but I don't make things up just to be funny. That's why I sometimes go through a dry spell with nothing to write.

When I can laugh at the circumstances that cause me anxiety, anger, or embarrassment, I feel that I have some control over my quality of life. If I exaggerate the events to make them funnier, so what? The time for concern is when I can't find anything amusing in my daily life.

And so I don't worry about the exaggeration. The story is still true, just a bit more interesting. The Nac Mac Feagals, a race of wee people created by Terry Pratchett, always offered two stories when asked for an explanation. One story contained only the facts. The one the Wee People preferred had elves and dragons woven into it. When people chose the bare facts version, the Nac Mac Feegle would show their disapproval by exclaiming, 

Crivens!

Don't you agree that the Elves-and-Dragon version offers greater possibility for entertainment? And if fantasy doesn't fit in the story, you can never go wrong by substituting cats for elves and dragons.

I suppose the greatest benefit that comes from fictionalizing my daily life is that it allows me to distance myself from the uncomfortable nearness of dark, foreboding thoughts.

In that calm, friendly, sometimes funny space that comes from detachment, I can find hope for today and purpose for tomorrow.

I'm On My Way

Don't know where I'm going, but I know where I've been. I don't know where I'm going, but I know I'm on my way.

The Circular Journey is a blog that I use as a sort of journal to record my attempts at becoming a better version of me. And yes, despite the numerous indications to the contrary, I do try to become a better at being me. I like to think I'm escaping the limitations of yesterday. 

Despite what Marie Forleo, Gary Vee, and  Seth Godin would have me believe, as inspiring as they certainly are, progress is a slow, difficult, and inconsistent process. It also, for some mysterious reason, causes me to write long, rambling sentences.

Sarah Hall assures me that there is a vast, universal intelligence that loves me and wants only what's best for me. That intelligence is bombarding the entire world with a loving energy that will upgrade our chakras and help us to achieve a higher level of consciousness. 

I'm not sure what's meant by a higher level of consciousness. Does it mean that more of us are becoming twee? I like to think so.

Whatever is meant by that higher-level stuff, it makes me feel better to hear her say it even though I don't know what she's talking about.

And even though I like to listen to her messages from the angels, the help we receive, assuming that we are receiving something, from this all-loving and all-powerful being doesn't make the process any easier or faster.

It would be so nice to say a few affirmations, declare a clear, coherent intention, and become transformed into a new and better mindset. The way they do in movies.

The gist of the matter, for me at least, is that I don't know where I'm going. Not really. I do know where I've been and I didn't like it there. Until I find my Camelot, I'll keep working step by step on my self-improvement journey, which I like to call, The Circular Journey. 

I'm on my way! Fierce Qigong!

Never Too Late

"Poopsie," I said, "I'm surrendering to Life and intend to live life on life's terms, as the saying goes. I'm convinced it's the only way to win freedom from the limitations of the past and my only chance to be reborn through the transformative power of Rumi."

Gene Jirlds Copyright 2000 - 2024

"What are you talking about, if anything," she said, "and why are you talking so fast? Have you relapsed? Are you into the fairy dust?"

"Wonder!" I said. Or perhaps exclaimed is a better word. "I'm shocked that you'd think such a thing. I am as clean and sober as damn it. I happen to be a little more sane, if anything. As for talking fast, you'd talk fast too if you were as excited as I am. I am finally free of the tyranny of desire."

"I'm guessing that you're referring to the Buddha's argument that desire is the root of all suffering. I suppose there is truth in it as long as one considers the qualifiers."

A short period of silence followed her words while she waited for my response and tried to come up with one. It wasn't easy on short notice after that crack she made about the Buddha.

"Why do you think that giving up your dreams will make you happy?" she said after waiting a polite moment for my response that never came.

"You speak of dreams," I said, "but what if they're actually illusions? And who needs dreams anyway? I have my memories of once having it all and I shall always treasure them. In the mid-eighties, I was the rock star of systems design at the NASA Johnson Space Center in Houston."

Thinking of those days as I spoke to her momentarily took me to a happy place. "Those were the days, Poopsie," I said.

"And so now, you plan to give up the chance of becoming a rock star once again and instead, you will eat pine needles for the first time in your life."

"What did you say, Wonder? Eat pine needles?"

Well, correct me if I'm wrong," she said, "but it sounds as though you intend to give up, right? You're going to surrender to whatever life brings your way. That sounds very much like quitting to me."

"Eat pine needles," I said and I mused as I said it. It was a shocking idea for someone like me who has lived a full life under the flag of I Shall Not Eat Them. 

"That's the gist of it, isn't it?" I said.  "But tell me, what can I do when a vast conspiracy continues to thwart my best efforts? A conspiracy that involves the complex coordination of multiple interacting agents."

"Have you considered simply following your bliss and forgetting about the outcome?"

"Are you suggesting something along the lines of damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead?

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting. To quote Beignet Lafayette when wearing his magic sunglasses, Let's do it!"

"Do you really think it's possible?" I said.

"I'm certain of it," she said. "I believe in you, even when you doubt, and I believe, as someone once said, It's never too late for now!

"I love that!" I said. "It's never too late! Possibly one of Shakespeare's gags." 

And with that, I was down the stairs and out the door but I heard her exclaim, ere I drove out of sight...

"Fierce Qigong, Genome!"