Beignet Lafayette

He's the best cat in the world. Everyone agrees. He's won the Chadsford Hall Best Cat of the Year award for 6 consecutive years. He's nine years old and weighs 15.25 pounds--in other words, peak condition. If you think he's a bit heavy, you're probably more familiar with the smaller, run-of-the-mill kitty. 

Beignet Lafayette, often called Ben or Benny, is a child of the Lost Kitty Tribe--he was left behind when a previous owner relocated--and I'm sure she's never recovered from the heartbreak. Beignet is a keeper.

But then, all cats are keepers because they shine the light of joy that dissipates the darker emotions. Even kittens that are too young to walk straight and have tails that look like lint brushes get the job done. It's simply their nature.

So, by all means, get a cat. Get two. You can't have too many. The more you have, the less chance they will all be sleeping when the zombies--those dark emotions mentioned above--begin prowling.

Earlier today, during our visit to the cat hospital, the veterinarian suggested we begin yearly lab workups to keep Ben around forever. None of us can imagine life without him--not even the veterinary staff. Naturally, Ben agreed to donate a little blood for analysis. 

Before leaving, the vet tech wrapped a scrunchie bandage around Ben's leg to prevent bleeding. When we arrived home, I decided to remove the bandage quickly and get on with other tasks, but Ben had a different agenda and it didn't include bandages. 

I cradled him and began brushing, a surefire way to put him in a good mood while distracting him from my sleight of hand. As I brushed with one hand, I searched for the end of the bandage with the other. Ben tolerated this for exactly two seconds before deciding he'd had enough.

I might have given the whole thing a miss for an hour or so and perhaps gotten some editing done on the book--you remember the book--but no, I stubbornly decided the bandage was coming off and I knew how to get it done. I rolled up my sleeves, commended my soul to God, and set about it.

Cat wrestling, much like alligator wrestling, should be done sparingly—and only in season. I stretched out on the floor for stability and attempted a move I’d seen pro wrestlers use. Ben, ever the sweetheart, took this as a gesture of affection and began to purr. I seized the moment. My fingers found the pull tab. I gave it a firm tug.

It was the tug of no return. Ben bolted for the doorway like a crazed weasel.  Clinging to the trailing bandage like an Iditarod musher pulled along by her sled dogs, I was pulled along the polished hardwood floors. We made a sharp right-hand turn and began descending the stairs. A turn of events I never anticipated.

Now, if the cherry floors can be called smooth, then the oak staircase is best described as bumpy. Over the years, I've developed a sort of wisdom about situations where I'm in control and those where I am clearly not. This situation was one of the latter.

I took the stairs with relative calm--not too anxious, given the circs. I remember thinking, for some reason that I can't fathom now, that when we hit the tile floor on the lower level, I would have more options. 

I remember being attracted to the sport of rock climbing some years ago. You may have done the same. In those days, my toes could find purchase in the smallest crevices, and perhaps I thought the grout lines in the tile would give me something to work with--something to stop or slow our forward movement.

The plan I had in mind if you can call it a plan, turned out to be no more than the idle wind, which Ben respected not because he continued through the kitchen with me calling out to my mother to look sharp and not get overturned by our wake. 

Eventually, Beignet found a quiet and comfortable spot underneath the sofa in the den and we were done. I pulled the bandage off and he seemed not to notice.

Once again, we see that life comes hard and fast. It sneaks up on us when we least expect it. Be prepared for anything, my friend, and always remember a little thing I heard from our veterinarian, Dr. Kirch, who said when it comes to cats, "It's our job to do what's right, not what's convenient." Amen. 

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?

Perfectly Correct

"What a beautiful day!" I said to Ms. Wonder who waded knee-deep in suitcases and socks, like a goddess of the sea cavorting on the rocky shore. "Packing?" I asked as if the ritual was unfamiliar to me. 

"Un-packing," she said for we keep no secrets between us. And it was at that moment that the dirty work of yesterday raised its ugly head and smirked at the false joy that had greeted me when I woke. 

Every year, starting about the middle of October, there is a good deal of anxiety and apprehension among owners of the better-class country houses throughout coastal Carolina waiting to hear which one will get the Genome’s patronage for the holidays.

This year we had decided early, and a sigh of relief went up from a dozen stately homes, all listed on the Historic Register, as it became known that the short straw had been drawn by the Garden Inn outside Savannah.  

And yet, scarcely 10 hours earlier, this daughter of the Russian steppes and I sat at William's Gourmet Kitchen—"It’s not fast food; it’s awesome food fast" —and we agreed that the outing was off.

Once again, Shakespeare has put the finger on the nub when he said, it's when you're feeling really good about the way things are going that Fate sneaks up behind you with a blunt instrument. Not a direct quote but it conveys the sentiment nicely. 

As if waking from a dreamless sleep, I gradually became aware that Ms. Wonder was looking at me as though waiting for an answer. 

"Hmm?" I said. 

"Did I hear you say something about the Orlovs?" she said. 

"Did I say that out loud?" I asked. She nodded. 

"I was thinking about how Count Orlov must have felt," I said, "after Katherine the Great told him she never wanted to see him again in this world or the next, and then opening the cupboards, found there was no more vodka." 

A deep silence ruled the next several moments after my crack about the Count. Then Ms. Wonder spoke. "Are you going to stand there all morning?" 

"There are times, Poopsie," I said, with a small tremble in the voice, "when one asks oneself if there is any point in making an effort." 

"The mood will pass," she said and I had to admit that she was probably right. 

I nodded in response but it had no chirpiness to it. It was the nod that Napoleon might have given in the Paris coffee shop on a morning in 1812 when someone said, Back from Moscow so soon?

"You know how it is," I said, "I'm in agreement with the general principle but I seem to be in neutral gear and having a little difficulty following through.

"I understand," she said, "it was much the same with Hamlet."

I nodded.

"Don't be a victim," she said. "We may not be able to visit Savannah, but we can still enjoy the holiday lights in Airlie Gardens. We can use the time to refresh, rebuild, and reinvigorate."

"You wrap the whole thing up very neatly," I said. "It almost sounds like fun."

"Good," she said.

"I suppose you know, you've wiped away my disappointment," I said. "I feel positively bucked! Thank you." 

"Not at all," she said. "You see, no matter what the Fate sisters have in store for you, there's no need to let them steal your joy."

And I had to admit that, once again, she was perfectly correct.

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?