Did You Finally Decide?

It may have been Aunt Cynthia who used to say something about a glorious morning that flatters the mountaintops and kisses the meadows. All good stuff, of course, but have you ever noticed how things can quickly take a nasty turn?

If you follow these little musings of mine, then you're probably aware that I insist on living happy, joyous, and free, as the saying goes. But damn, if it doesn't often seem that the odds for happy days are slim. 

   

Sooner or later, right in the middle of telling your best dinner story to a rapt audience, someone at the head of the table will interrupt to tell you that you've gotten your elbow in the butter dish again.

Take this morning, for instance. It got off to a bracing start, and I had nothing in my heart but birdsong. I expected nothing but happy endings for everyone. And yet, though immersed in the sunshine, I found the mood was mixed--not feeling this way or that. Sort of a dumb, numb mood. And I'll tell you why. 

I was faced with a difficult choice. I had to make up my mind. I had to pick one and leave the other behind. It's not easy. I knew that I had to finally decide. The only option was to say yes to the one and simply let the other one ride. 

You see my predicament? I didn't know which way to turn. Did you ever have to finally decide?

It's like this: 

It seems that for some reason, and your guess is as good as mine, Ms. Wonder and I have done magazine work for several years. I know! It's incredible to think about. I mean, what drives people to do such things? And yet, there it is. And so, we've decided to launch an online travel magazine of all things. 

I know! Me too! 

The publication will be called Carolina Roads. The focus will be road trips throughout the Carolinas and neighboring states. I expect it will be well received and most of our advisors agree. You may be asking, if it's so hot, what's the struggle about? It's a fair question, and I'll tell you my answer to that, too.

You surely remember Princess Amy--that little almond-shaped cluster of brain cells that bears a striking resemblance to the Red Queen of Wonderland. She's taking my inventory recently, and she thinks as much of me publishing a magazine as Moses thought of the Children of Israel when he walked in on them worshipping the golden calf.

Well, there's no need to explain the whole sad story--the lack of moral support as a child, the feeling of loneliness growing up in Shady Grove, etc.

I'm afraid that I'm going to have to finally decide. It's the only way out of my predicament. I'm acutely aware of the reality. I've been this way before. 

The recommended procedure is to abandon myself to the universe. Live life on life's terms and all that rot. Well, I'm tired of abandoning and whatnot. I want action. I want miracles or magic--I don't care which--and the method has to provide some assurance because where's the assurance?

It's an old story, really. Shakespeare told us that a lack of resolve is understandable when, as he put it, "Between acting on a dreadful thing and the first motion...blah, blah, blah.

"That state of man, like to a little kingdom, suffers then the nature of an insurrection," he said. 

So, here we go again. Thank you for allowing me to vent. I apologize for the interruption, and I thank you for your support. I have my marching orders. It's a plan that I can follow. I don't want to but I will because it's the next step and all I can do is take the next step. Is there any more to life than that?

Time For A Cool Change

Something woke me from a perfectly satisfying dream—the kind where all the elements feel just right. I was sailing a small boat up the Cape Fear River from Southport. The sun had set long ago, and "it's kind of a special feeling when you're out on the sea alone, staring at the full moon like a lover."

Barbary Coast Bar : The Circular Journey Intelligence Headquarters

 for 

Wilmawood Movie Production

What actually woke me, thanks to my smartphone alarm, was The Little River Band singing Cool Change. After the initial moment of disorientation that comes with waking, I became aware of the song's lyrics. "...the albatross and the whales, they are my brothers."

And they are too! Have you read my post called, Born of the Sea?

I wanted to stay in bed and ponder the rest of the lyrics, but reality dawned with a jolt: it was Friday morning, and the day had gotten a head start without me. The film crew had arrived on location to begin filming the next segment of The Waterfront at 6 a.m., and I was already two hours late.

Half an hour later, I parked on Front Street, between Hanover and Brunswick, just a stroll from Nutt Street where we were filming, and conveniently close to 24 South Café. After all, caffeine is essential to any endeavor.

I fortified myself with a double cappuccino for the wild free-wheeling day ahead. If you attend The Circular Journey regularly, then you know how much I love running around looking for the film crews who work together to make movie magic happen, no matter where they're from, no matter who they love, no matter where they live. It gives me hope and hope is what I need more of.

The buildings along the street hid the movie set from me until I turned the last corner. I expected excited extras, the loud hum of equipment, and a lot of shouting. Instead, I found one truck, a lone crane, and a Christmas tree with little to no fashion sense.  

"Oh, what fresh hell is this?" summed it up for me.

"If there’s one thing in my life that's missing," to paraphrase The Little River Band, it’s those days when everything works out as planned. These days, I’m lucky if I show up on time. Today, I was nearly three hours late and already daydreaming about "sailing on the cool and bright clear water."

So, my friend, I offer a sincere apology for this ranygazoo. I know you tuned in expecting a behind-the-scenes scoop, but my sources got their knickers in a wad over the timing. It doesn’t often happen, but when rum is plentiful, the intel may be sketchy.

The filming will happen next week. I got that straight from a couple of Wilmawood Downtown Ambassadors. "There's lots of those friendly people," and just like in the song, "They show me the way to go."

No matter how much rummy intel comes my way, I just don't care. Being near the movie magic makes me happy. When I'm on set, I feel something that I first felt in another dream many years ago, and that dream gives me hope when I feel hopeless.

"I know it may sound selfish," but let me dream my dreams, love whoever I love, and breathe the air unhindered. "Yeah, just let me breathe the air."

Is That All There Is?

The morning after broke bright and fair and the day was served with all the trimmings: the sun, the sky, the birdsong. But that was on the outside. It was different in the heart. Leaden, I've heard it described as. Athough Nature was smiling, there was no smile in my heart. No, I was still sulking in an overcast corner of my mind.

Bamboo grove at Straw Valley

"Good morning," said Ms Wonder, wafting onto the lanai like she owned the day. The sun brightened as soon as she appeared, no doubt because her bright attitude encouraged it, and I admit that her appearance lightened my mood too, if only a smidgen.

"Is it a good morning?" I asked.

"Very clement," she said with a big smile, and I understood that she intended to cheer and lift the Genome's spirit, but Princess Amy was having none of it.

If Amy's name is new to you, you may want to search The Circular Journey archives for her. Or perhaps not. You're welcome here in either case. 

"It matters little," I said, "when facing a trial by fire that you've got a nice day for it." And I was pretty happy with that one. I don't remember who said it but I like it and I use whenever I have the opportunity.

"No, I suppose not," she said.

"The sun was probably shining when the 600 rode into the Russian gunfire," I said.

"The Light Brigade," she said. I nodded.

"Not feeling up to kicking off a new meditation class this morning?" she said.

"The true nature of reality, Poopsie," I said, "is this--when I form a new meditation class, Fate sends me three kinds of people. First to come are those who think they know meditation but don't. Second, the ones who’ve meditated so much their eyes bubble. And third, the kind I’m hoping will show up, although..."

I paused for dramatic effect. One can never have too much of the dramatic effect, in my opinion, and when the timing felt right, I continued:

"And this is the crux of the matter," I said, "They rarely do show up. Gives me hives just thinking of it."

"Sorry," she said with a dramatic and pleasing pout, and I immediately felt just a little better knowing that this worker of wonders was ready to help if help was required. 

"It’s like that character Shakespeare was always writing about," I said. "You know, the one who agonizes over doing something… but then doesn't?"

"Hamlet?"

"No, not that one," I said.

"The genius and the mortal instruments," she said but I wasn't in the mood for more Shakespeare and raised a hand to stop her.

"Like to a little kingdom suffers then the nature of an insurrection," she said and I held up another hand but then realized it wouldn't be enought to stem the tide.

"Poopsie! Please. Put a sock in it.  Shakespeare before coffee is just too much to bear."

When the time came, I packed up and pointed Wynd Horse in the direction of Straw Valley and the new meditation class. A White-breasted Nuthatch sang to me from the shrubbery as I passed through the gate and into the courtyard.

No reason not to sing, of course. I just mention it in passing. Sing until her ribs squeak if it suits her was my thought.  

Then I heard more voices and realized that I was not the first to arrive. I found them sipping coffee in the bamboo garden. No reason not to sip. I always approve of coffee but these few turned out to be exactly the kind of people I like to attend new classes--new to the practice but familiar with the health benefits. 

"Is there a class here this morning?" asked the bearded one, who looked like he might breed Aberdeen terriers. I assured him that it was the case.

"Let's join in," said the female in the group and they all thought this a sound suggestion. In fact, they seemed to be eager to begin, although I suspected they might be just be happy to hear that it wasn't interpretive dance.

When the appointed hour arrived, I gave instructions, asked a question or two, and rang the bell. As we focused on our breathing, it happened—by the third breath, the scales fell from my eyes. My anxious expectations had been for nothing, and instead, a quiet satisfaction settled in. Maybe I could actually help someone with all this."

That morning, one that is now long past, was a turning point for me. You know how it is, one thing led to another and now I'm writing a book about living fiercely.

"It pains me to admit," I explained to Ms. Wonder later that day, "but the whole thing feels like it has my Great Aunt’s fingerprints all over it. You know the type—gets you to do whatever she wants, no matter that you’ve got a packed schedule?"

"I suppose so."

"My qigong master, Wen the Eternally Surprised, used to say that the universe is conscious and that she's always looking out for my best interests. I haven't completely embraced the concept, but I haven't thrown it out either."

"Ah," said Ms Wonder, "It's a great mystery isn't it?"

I sighed. I was hoping for something more. Could it be that's all there is?

Sweet Baby Genome

Only minutes before the whole thing began, I was seated at an inside table near the windows but not too near the cafe door. I was wearing a mood that might have posed a danger to passersby had I been seated at a sidewalk table.

There. The opening--the one you just read--is a gag that I've revised more than once in an attempt to improve the cadence and rhythm, two things I think are crucial when telling a story of any kind.

I think it's something common to writers in general. For example, James Taylor, the wonderful songwriter and musician, once wrote a verse or two of a song that was playing around in his head.

The song began, "There is a young cowboy, he lives on the range. His horse and his cattle are his only companions.

He works in the saddle and sleeps in the canyons.
Waiting for summer, his pastures to change."

Those words have perfect cadence and rhythm, in my opinion. Taylor added five more lines to finish the verse, and then he was stumped. He didn't know where to go with it. So he put it away for later--maybe. Just like I put the opening words of this post away until I can find that perfect phrasing.

Here's another personal experience that I've wanted to write about for years but haven't yet found the flow that I like. It goes like this.

One morning, while working on-site, I happened to walk by an open office door where a young woman was seated at her desk, staring at a computer. She happened to glance my way as I happened to glance hers. Well, you know how it is, one can't share a glance and not say something.

"OMG!" I said. "I love purple!" It wasn't that I was at a loss for anything better to say. It was just that her office was decorated in a disquieting array of purple. It delivered quite a shock so early in the day.

"You do?" she said in a tone that reeked of doubt.

"Yes," I said, "my favorite color." Take that, I thought, slightly offended that she seemed to question my honesty.

"Since when?" she said.

I don't know about you, but I think that's funny and should be an introduction to an entertaining piece of work. But, I swear, I don't know what to do with it. In fact, I revised it once more while you were reading it just now. 

According to my sources, Mr. Taylor also had the recurring experience and came up with yet another bit of song lyrics that began like this:

"Now, the first of December was covered with snow. So was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston. The Berkshires seemed dream-like on account of that frosting with ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go."

And he didn't know what to do with that verse either. Eventually, he remembered that other half song that he'd put away somewhere, and he dug out the lyrics about the cowboy. He wrote a refrain to glue the two verses together, and that merger became one of his signature compositions--"Sweet Baby James."

James Taylor is one of my all-time favorite singer/songwriters, and if he can do it, then it's OK for me. So, without further introduction, I offer the following paragraph to complete this blog post, which I hope will be as well received as the one titled "Coastal Camelot."

The experience of discovering that the lock on a public restroom door is broken differs wildly depending on which side of the door you're on when you make the discovery.

And there you have it. That completes my "Sweet Baby Genome." Thank you for taking the time to read it. See you again soon.

Uma Maya's Gifts

I woke from a dream featuring Uma, my beloved cat, lounging serenely in her favorite hideaway – the blue box (with the half-moon doorway) in Ms. Wonder's upstairs sanctuary. 

The dream wasn't a narrative, but an image: Uma gazing at me with a peaceful serenity that seemed to whisper, "Don't worry, food guy. I'm with you, always." It felt less like a dream and more like a visitation.

Uma & Me

Awakened by the haunting melody of "Total Eclipse of the Heart," I was initially puzzled. The dream, though tinged with a touch of melancholy, didn't feel entirely eclipsed. This disconnect between the song and my emotions left me unsettled.

Are you as frustrated as I am by these mixed messages the Universe seems to favor?

The early hour felt less like the dawn of a new day and more like the middle of the night. I debated whether to rise, the prospect of coffee battling with the allure of sleep. Finally, I pulled back the kitchen curtains, revealing a dark backyard illuminated by a single, lonely solar light.

ICuriously, I approached the light, gently nudging it with my toe to realign it. The instant I touched it, it extinguished. "What the hell, Louis?" I muttered to myself.

Despite the odd encounter, I brewed coffee and carried it to the lanai. As I began recording bird calls on the Merlin app, I decided to embrace the unexpected gift of this early morning, a time I rarely savor.

Ms. Wonder, I knew, would be awake by now, brimming with ideas for a fulfilling day. But then I remembered she and her friend were on Oak Island, climbing the lighthouse. 

You surely remember Charlie, the terrier with an expression that sometimes says, 'I love you because you're amazing.' and at other times, looks like a Baptist minister rebuking sin in the congregation. I mention it here because Charlie's housekeeper is the friend climbing the lighthouse with Wonder.

Their penchant for these adventurous outings puzzled me – I mean, why climb lighthouses? Is it just because lighthouses exist? I'll ask Dr. Coast, she probably studied these aberrations in graduate school.

Determined to shake off the "eclipse of the heart" and elevate my mood, I formulated a plan: to simply enjoy the morning. The idea of journaling appealed to me. I envisioned myself writing to you, dear reader, and that thought brought a smile to my face.

By half past nine, it was clear that journaling would be nothing but a series of fits and starts. Not what I was hoping for. Time to initiate Plan B: I fired up Wynd Horse and headed towards the Memorial Bridge, then turned onto Castle Street.

Feathery clouds had sneaked into the sky while I wasn't looking, and a brisk wind caused dry leaves to crab-walk across the street. I drove slowly half-expecting to glimpse Piglet soaring overhead. Stranger things have happened on Castle Street. 

At the coffee shop, I selected a cozy window seat, not too near the door, and savored a cup of Jah's Mercy. The music was upbeat, the atmosphere relaxed, and a sense of peace settled over me.

As I sipped my coffee, I recalled the most important life lesson Uma taught me:

"Every day is a gift and a reason to celebrate life."

A smile spread across my face. The "eclipse of the heart" began to lift. In this moment, in this place, I realized that life is indeed, the most precious gift and a reason for continuous celebration.

Thank you, Uma!