Happy Birthday Genome

Today is my birthday, August 8, to put a fine point on it. Here we are then, knee-deep in my birthday month when I can write about anything I want for the next three weeks. I'll bet you thought I chose any topic I wanted but it just isn't so.

Princess Amy decides what I write on days of the months in which I wasn't born. But she graciously allows me to write my life story on August days. I sometimes accuse her of working against my best interests, but I suppose she's not totally rotten, the little muggle-meister.

Mornings in August usually find me sitting comfortably on the lanai with a steaming mug of brew-ha-ha in hand. There I was this particular morning listening to the Barefoot Man singing about Tortuga Rum Cake. My mind was clear and my gaze rested softly on the pen and paper lying on the bench in front of me. I waited for inspiration.

What happened next isn't necessarily guaranteed on these occasions but neither are they rare. I don't know if you've had a similar experience, but if so, then you're aware that anxiety sometimes gets uppity when we're preparing to put ourselves out there in the marketplace. Things can get a little weird.

It happened just that way this morning as I silently contemplated the task before me. What would I say in my birthday post I asked myself.

I gradually became aware of a strange sensation. It was the feeling that something about the nature of reality had changed. I didn't like it. Made me uncomfortable. I felt like the main character of a sci-fi movie who has entered a different dimension, a parallel universe.

For a few brief moments, nothing happened. It was as though all of Nature waited breathlessly for Zarathustra to speak. Not sure what that means exactly but I know it's not good.

Then, suddenly, as though Gabriel had sounded the last trump and Judgement Day had set in, a great wind began to blow in my mind, if it is a mind. The ears began to ring, much louder than normal. And next, as someone once said, "the eyeballs, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven." I assume it's from Shakespeare. He seems to have had a way with the language.

In short, I was visited by a master's level anxiety attack.

I was beginning to wonder if I should text my lawyer and ask for an emergency appointment to get my affairs in order when Ms. Wonder intervened. God bless her. I've said it before and I'll go on saying it, There's a girl if you want one.

She sat next to me. Patted my hand and gave me a little buss on the check. I looked at her, she looked at me, and we both smiled. Not a big smile. Not a chuckle. Just that little smile that says, 'Don't worry bout a thing. Every little thing gonna be alright."

No matter what action the woman takes, no matter what wisdom she imparts, it makes all the difference every time.

In a matter of moments, my mind grew still, birds began to sing, and I became conscious of a great peace. I don't suppose I've come closer to singing tra, la, la.

Even the tropical storm Debby held no concerns for me and that's saying a lot. Forty days of the rain we've gotten in the last week will have us asking the whereabouts of Noah.

But thankfully, I have no need of Noah. I have one who works wonders right here in the home. Happy birthday to me.

The Exceptional List

You and I haven't discussed it here on The Circular Journey but Island Irv, who is one of the more popular guests and a friend of the blog, has been struggling with the employment situation since moving to Wilma. 

He's reached the stage of life where one is willing to give up a bit of income in return for more leisure time. 

"I'm done with corporate America," he said to me at our coffee klatch last Sunday.

"Will you look for a job at a local fish hatchery?" I said.

He gave me a look that said... well, I'm not exactly sure what it said but it said a lot and I got the message.

"I'm going to take a few days off and think about it," he said.

"Oh, no, no, no," I said. "It sounds good but it's a mug's game if you ask me. What you should do is put an ad in the personals."

"I don't know," he said. "Does anyone do that anymore? I doubt it would be more than a waste of time."

"Not those personals," I said. "You're no doubt thinking of the publications common in the last century. I'm talking about the modern personal ads. Social media."

His expression changed and I realized I'd said something that found traction in his mental machinery.

"You mean, like LinkedIn?" he said.

"Not just LinkedIn," I said. "Shoot the moon!"

"What are you talking about? Give me details."

"Ms. Wonder tells me that people ask for help in finding a job on the NextDoor app. And I know that people sell everything, up to and including themselves, on TikTok and Instagram."

I paused to see if he was still listening. He was.

"Here's what I'm thinking," I said. "I'll help you build a few social media sites with your bio and CV, and then we'll build your personal brand."

"I like it," he said. "You put together a plan for building the web presence and I'll put together a description of the perfect job."

"Great!" I said. "Do it today and we'll meet again tomorrow morning to discuss the kickoff."

The next morning at Ibis Coffee Cafe and Dance Bar we were both vibrating at maximum frequency--he was thinking about his new career and I was anxious to spread goodness and light heaped up, pressed down, and spilling over.

"Did you finish the job description?" I asked.

"Even better," he said. "I learned that the Brunswick Weekly has a personal want-ad section; I finished my ad and sent it to them in time for today's edition."

"You mean that edition?" I asked pointing to the publication someone had left on the counter.

"Do you suppose...?" he said as he picked the paper up and began flipping pages.

"Here it is!" he said and his lips moved silently as he read the thing. 

"Damn auto-correct to hell!" he cried.

"Ssup?" I said. He handed me the paper and pointed at his ad. 

"Read it for yourself," he said. "There's a typo in the ad. It should read 'exceptions list' but actually says 'exceptional list'. 

I read the dreadful thing and understood why one little typo had dashed the cup of joy from his lips. The ad read as follows:

Leave it to Irv

Need someone to manage your affairs?

Run your errands? Drive you to appointments?

I'm willing to do whatever you need done.

You name it, I'll do it.

The exceptional list includes doing anything

immoral, illegal, or unethical.

Schedule a callback: text IRVIRV to 910910.

"Yes, I see what you mean," I said. "The exceptions list, not the exceptional list. But cheer up, Irv, I'll bet no one notices the ad. I'll bet you don't get any texts at all. Is that your phone buzzing?"

He held the phone up for me to see a thread of text messages scrolling continuously up the screen. 

Eventually, he lifted his head from the table and said, "I've got to do something about this now. What am I going to do?"

"My way of dealing with this kind of problem is to deny everything," I said.

"Deny it?" he said.

"Stout denial," I said. "Eventually, everyone will lose interest and it will all go away."

"I seriously doubt that this will go away anytime soon."

"Remember," I said. "It's an election year."

"Do you really think it will simply blow over," he said.

"Just make sure your wife doesn't see it," I said. From the look on his face, I doubt the suggestion was helpful. 

And so, my friends, this post brings you up-to-date on current events in the old metrop. Thanks for joining us here at The Circular Journey. 

Enjoy your day, and keep in mind that no matter how joyous the morning begins, the Fate sisters have ways to leave you in a heap on the floor before lunch.

A Day in Paradise

Chatsford Hall slept in the gentle sunshine of late afternoon. A recent rain shower left us surrounded by moist early summer scents. From the fences surrounding our little spot of Eden came the soothing coos of mourning doves. It was that most gracious hour midway between lunch and afternoon coffee when Nature takes off her shoes and puts her feet up.

In the shade of the lanai outside the back premises of our cottage, Ms. Wonder and I sat sipping the contents of long, tinkling glasses and reading a weekly paper devoted to the antics of society and stage in our hometown of Wilma, NC.

I put down the paper and shook the tall glass because I enjoy the sound of tinkling ice as much or perhaps even more than the fizzy mouth joy. I glanced at my partner sitting beside me.

"Well, here we are, Wonder," I said.

"Another day in paradise," she said.

Her words took me by surprise. Laughter escaped with the force of an exploding paper bag. You probably had the same experience. I mean, the woman is constantly amazing us with her unique insight and wisdom, but she's not a standup comic.

"Wonder!" I said as I attempted to catch my breath, "Don't spring things like that on me without warning. I might have injured myself."

She didn't respond right away but seemed intently interested in a group of doves that wandered the lawn in search of bird seed left by the flocks of cardinals and chickadees that had breakfasted there earlier in the day.

"I think doves are related to chickens," she said.

Again, I was fascinated by her words and the thoughts they expressed. I felt an indescribable thrill to be present and to share this magical moment with her.

"Bobbing heads?" I said.

I know, it wasn't much of a comeback but I gave no thought to enriching the vocabulary when I was so overcome with the richness of the shared experience.

"Bobbleheads," she said.

Laughter poured out of me again. I was near hypomanic. After all, this premier wonder worker is a woman who has access to the combined wisdom of the ancients, and probably the complete annotated edition of the Akashic records, and who knows, maybe the Hall of Records, that library hidden below the Great Sphinx? But she reads historical novels not humorous ones.

"Common ancestors," I offered, "dinosaurs?"

"Have you ever seen a flamboyance of flamingos walking in formation?" she asked.

"Flamboyance?" I asked. "Well, yes I suppose you might think of them as flamboyant with those glorious pink bodies and all that elegance."

"That's the official term," she said. "flamboyance."

"Do they bob heads?" I asked.

"In unison," she said, "synchronized walking and bobbing."

"Synchronized," I said. "It's new to me but strangely fascinating."

We became quiet while flamingos marched and bobbed in the movies playing in our minds. At least they bobbed in mine, I can't say what was happening in her head. We continued to sit in silence listening to the doves cooing to each other in the fading light of early evening.

The doves' serenade was backed up by an evening chorus of cardinals and chickadees. As if it were their queue, the squirrel circus began their final performance for the day. 

My thoughts were of summers past spent with the woman who was sitting here by my side and presently, those thoughts were replaced with possibilities for the summer about to begin.

That soft, quiet moment continued through the evening until, at last, the doves lined up on the rooftop to watch the sunset.

It was another day in paradise, just as she'd said earlier, and I felt a simple but profound joy just knowing that there would be many more days like these spent in the company of the love of my life, Ms. Wonder.

I Love Lucy!

I bobbed to the surface from the depths of a dream, having been roused by a sound like that of distant thunder. Clearing away the mists of tired nature's sweet restorer, I was able to trace this rumbling to its source. It was the current Cat of the Year, Beignet.

Lucy, The Princess of Sweetness and Light

The super-sized Beignet has never seen eye-to-eye with me on the subject of early rising. I like to sleep to the last possible moment and then leap out into the day, taking full advantage of the element of surprise. I'm told Napoleon did the same. But this long-haired, ginger and white is absolutely up and about with the larks every morning.

Having bounded onto the bed, he licked me in the right eye, then curled up and settled in with his head on my arm.

"Isn't that sweet?" said the Wonder who had shimmered into the room. I could not fully subscribe to this point of view. What is sweet about getting out of bed before God wakes, only to go back to sleep again? Silly, it struck me as.

I extricated myself from the cat and brought myself to a fully upright position, the better to slosh a half-cup of tissue restorer into the abyss. It was only then that I realized Ms Wonder was knee-deep in boxes, looking like a sea goddess walking on the rocky shore.

"Unpacking?" I asked.

"Getting the Halloween stuff out. I thought it might help to keep busy today," she said. "Takes my mind off things I don't want on my mind."

I understood her meaning to the core. 

"Then unpack 'till your ribs squeak," I said, "and let me help."

It seems nothing brings more healing balm like anticipation of the holidays and our hearts were sore in need of healing. Lucy, the recently rescued little princess of sweetness and light has been adopted by another and is even now getting used to her new surroundings. 

It's an excellent situation for her, of course, being the absolute center of attention and becoming a member of a permanent family. Still, it leaves a void in our hearts. It seems that when Lucy left, the sunshine and bluebirds followed her.

We love you, Lucy, and we miss you terribly and if history is any indication, we always will.  I will always remember being wakened by your tiny, cold, wet nose.

Be happy, be healthy, be safe, my little girl.

A Walk on the South Side

Mornings, I walk. After an early caffeine binge with The Enforcer, I pace the south end of the city one step at a time moving as quickly as my back will allow. 

I tell people the walk was recommended by my therapist, and there is that, but I really walk to get a preview of what the day will be like for the Genome. The walk is quick but it's mindful.

I enjoy greeting the people that I see out and about in the early morning. They're people with purpose and I wonder what it would be like to be a purposeful person again. I struggle to find purpose but no matter how hard I try, it seems that I spend my days in Heaven's waiting room. 

Time and Place. That's the stuff I see as important. I'd like to think that what I do is important but, there again, it seems the universe has its own agenda. I'm expected to do something, almost anything I suppose, and that seems to be enough. More than enough really. Doing anything seems to be everything.

I don't expect you to agree. I'm not a fool. Or rather, I may be a fool, but... oh, I don't know. Let's not get derailed by existential philosophy. 

I know most people live with the idea that life has meaning and that they have a purpose. I'm happy for them. I admire them.

I watch a favorite barista from Ethiopia who makes the little faces and hearts and fern leaves in the lattes I drink in Native Grounds and I wonder if it would be possible for someone without purpose in their life to do that.

Even though I don't know what I'm doing, it feels somehow, and this is the salient point, that I have been chosen for the role. I have been chosen by the Enforcers to blunder through life hoping that something meaningful will happen.

This morning, pacing the south side mindfully and feeling the anger--not to mention the pain in the upper back--I began doing a few qigong wudangs. Swimming Dragon, was the first, followed by Parting the Clouds and then finishing with Embracing Heaven and Earth.

I was near a storm drain, and that mundane piece of municipal infrastructure became a metaphor for the neural networks in the shadowy region of my brain that support my depression. 

My qigong moves became fierce--my way of shouting down the storm drain of the mind, "I'm chosen! So don't mess with me, Amy!"

Amy, of course, is that little region of gray cells... No! Sorry, you know all about Princess Amy by now.

When my attention returned to the here and now, I realized that about a dozen people were moving around me doing whatever they were doing at this hour. Upper-dressed young women going to work at Nordstrom's; corporate ID-tag bearers heading to Panera's for coffee and bagels; cargo pant-ed leaf blowers. All looking at me.

"Had to be done," I said.

They all nodded and continued on their way because they all knew what it was like to be messed with. And they instinctively knew that I was yelling in the right direction. Down the storm drain.