Thank You, Jackie!

Welcome back to The Circular Journey, my friend. It's good to see you again. Congratulations are in order, in a small way, because you've made it through another week and here we are together at week's end. 

I suppose, like Ms. Wonder and me, you've either worked hard and everything turned out well, or despite how hard you've worked, everything went to hell.

I hope you enjoyed more of the former and less of the latter. But enough of the pour parlers, let's get on with it.

My dad visited me in a dream last night and that went well. I even told him I love him. I still feel good about that even though I spent the afternoon in a long line waiting to vote. Dad's hometown of Chattanooga didn't figure into the dream but as I replayed it in my mind, it brought back a favorite memory from years ago about that storied city.

My dad took me to Chattanooga most Saturday mornings to teach me about where and how he grew up. We were the poster crew for the "city boy vs. country boy" fable. I never heard Dad complain or directly criticize any of our country-ways but he did always refer to our community as Dogpatch (Google it.)

My Grandpa Robert retired from his job as chief cook on a tugboat in the Tennessee River and he moved the family to the country where he planned to become a gentleman farmer. He was moderately successful at it too.

The move happened while my dad was in the Navy and when he came home, I'll bet he had a hard time adjusting. But he met my mother there in the rural area and he never lived in the city again. But he still loved it and he had plenty of stories to tell me.

I must have been about six or seven when I began accompanying my dad into the city. He would show me around and tell me stories about each street, each shop, the riverfront, and his old neighborhoods. I remember him telling me that Grandpa Robert used to farm on one of the islands in the middle of the river.

What I remember most is that my dad insisted that I become familiar with the location of the Sears department store in mid-town. He stressed that if I was ever separated from him, I should find Sears, sit at the bus stop, and wait for him to come find me.

I should explain that the "bus stop" was a fully enclosed room on the ground floor of Sears, that opened onto the sidewalk and served as a shelter for those waiting for public transit. Very civilized. It had comfortable seating, vending machines, and a news rack. I've never seen a nicer.

My dad also told me that if I waited at the bus stop for a long time, or if I felt uncomfortable for any reason, I should get on the next bus that stopped and tell the driver that I was lost and to please take me to a police station.

One day, while hanging out at the bus stop, perusing a new comic book, and waiting for my dad to finish his shopping, I decided that I was in the mood for a little excitement. I decided to walk a few blocks up and down Market Street, passing in front of Sears on each circuit. Impossible to get lost and a real adventure for a first-grader. 

And so I left Sears and headed downtown. I wonder how many times I paced up and down the street until deciding I'd had enough adventure and so began looking for Sears. Imagine my surprise and confusion when I discovered the building had disappeared!

I think my next move was fairly commendable for such a young kid. I decided to walk uptown until in sight of the river, the limit of my familiar territory to the north; and then walked back down the street until I came to the rail station, which was my southern terminus. No Sears in sight! The impossible had happened. I was lost.

I quickly began walking back and forth hoping that, like Lorna Dune, the building would materialize out of the mist. There was no mist, but I'm sure you get my meaning.

At one point in my wandering, I glanced behind me and saw a policeman who seemed to be watching me with interest. Quickly, I turned away and tried to look as cool as some cucumbers, as P.G. Wodehouse put it.

You see when my dad told me to ask the bus driver to take me to the police, I realized for the first time that to become lost in the big city was a matter for the boys in blue. And like James Gagney, I wanted no part of the fuzz. You see, my mom had always been afraid of authority and I suppose I absorbed that fear from her.

I reasoned that I needed to appear normal like any not-lost, six-year-old, walking the streets with no adult supervision. Otherwise, the rozzer would suspect me of being a perp.

I continued to stroll in a leisurely way and every few minutes I would sneak a glance behind me. Each time, my worst fears were confirmed. I was being tailed. I suspected he'd radioed for backup and a stakeout was waiting for me up ahead.

What was I to do now? Trying to avoid suspicion, I was deep in thought, trying to construct a getaway by using bits of old movies I'd seen on television. 

I thought highly of two tactics but was unsure of which method would suit me best--something based on the raw, give-em-hell tact of Edward G. Robinson or the smooth, skillful strategy of Humphrey Bogart.

While debating the best strategy, I slowly became aware of a voice calling my name. The voice seemed somewhat faint as if coming from far away.

I looked ahead of me and saw no one. I looked in the windows of the buildings I passed. I looked up to heaven in case I was being called by the Lord and if it were true, I knew exactly what I should say, "Lord, here am I," just like the young Samuel in the Bible.

But it wasn't the Lord. It was my cousin, Jackie, shouting at me from the other side of the street. 

"Don't move," he shouted. "Stay right where you are. I'm coming to get you."

 If Jackie ever received his hero's commendation for rescuing me, I never heard about it. But he will always be a hero in my heart. I hope I meet him again someday so that I can properly thank him for saving me from the long arm of the law and what I was sure would be a sentence of 30 days without the option.

Angry Amy

I'm angry. I'm really angry. I've been angry for most of my life. My anger used to get me into a lot of trouble. I blame it on Princess Amy. Sorry, Amy, I'm just being honest.

Years ago, my best male buddy told me about a movie whose title I can’t recall. The story revolved around a deranged man who traveled from town to town wielding a large, wicked axe. Whenever he encountered someone who inflicted grief and pain on others—not the kind of jester from Elizabethan times, but rather the type of fool Mr. T. would pity—this so-called "fool killer" used his axe to "make the world a better place."

Making the world a better place was his way of explaining his behavior. Of course, you and I see his mistake. We believe in distributing happy endings to everyone, regardless of merit.

If you're one of my regular readers, you may be surprised to learn that I haven't always spread goodness and light without prejudice. In fact, In my younger days, I dealt with the Mr. T. type of fools by telling them precisely how foolish they were. I considered my honest reviews to be doing them a bit of good. 

In my mind, confronting the inconsiderate people of the world with the truth about their ugly behavior might motivate them to change their filthy ways. I thought my technique was in line with that of late-night talk show hosts, but in retrospect, I probably behaved more like Mr. T.

I discovered that fools sometimes do change their behavior, but it doesn't happen instantly. The immediate response was to tell me where to get off. They told me where I should stick it. Sometimes, they gave me a look that said, "Oh, yeah?" and then took action. You can imagine the rest.

I often received a black eye for my trouble, and I don't mean a metaphorical one. I mean an actual black eye. Once, I was hit in the face with a bar stool, taking a chunk out of my nose and leaving a scar that can still be seen from twenty paces. 

It was all very exciting, of course, and I considered the downside worth it. Making the world a better place has never been easy--consider Gandhi, Mandela, and just about every Catholic saint I've ever read about. Being called by God seldom works out well for the messenger.

As I said, it was exciting but not as exciting as the arrest warrant issued in my name for physical assault, breaking dishes, and damaging a bar stool. Yes, I had to pay for the blunt instrument used against me.

I know what you're thinking. You wonder why you're only learning of this now? How could the Genome be such an angry person?

Here's the thing. My younger sister died when I was a teenager. I was in shock, and desperately wanted someone to help me deal with the grief. I don't want to share messy details here. It's enough to say that I wanted the emotional pain to ease. I looked for help, and people were willing, but ultimately I found nothing to ease the distress.

Living with nonstop grief filled me with anger—and the anger grew over time. It wasn't the selfish anger that wanted to make others suffer with me. It was righteous anger aimed at correcting wrongs, defending the helpless, and making the world a better place. I didn't feel like a menace to society; I felt like a crusader for justice.

And what was my reward for fighting for truth and justice? I lost all my friends. Twelve warrants were issued for my arrest. All my personal belongings were auctioned off to cover damages and unpaid rent, and I was given the choice of jail or being remanded to an addiction recovery center.

You're probably thinking it couldn't have been pleasant for me, and you're right, it wasn't. But if you think that was bad, just wait until Ms. Wonder reads this post.

Did I learn anything from all that? Why, yes, I did. I learned my lesson and then some. I learned to behave in a much more civilized manner, which meant thinking nice thoughts, smiling at everyone, and hiding all the anger that continued to grow inside me.

My first sponsor said it like this: "And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm, and steadfast." 1 Peter 5:10 

And so, here I am, restored, strong, firm, and steadfast, with a bucketful of anger to get me through another day.

My Happy Place

The dreams playing in my sleep were dark and uncomfortable, and I wanted nothing more than to get out of them and into the light of day.  

I woke early with words to write—words that bubbled up in my mind as I tried to make sense of the dreams that had disturbed my sleep. Even before our morning constitutional, I was sitting at my vintage desktop computer, writing away, as if words could untangle the muddle of my heart.

If you feel the urge to complain about the poetry, please remember this is only a draft. I realize that I'm near the edge of that slippery slope and I'm taking steps to correct it. I promise.

After our walk, I was anxious to get back to my blog. Too much delay could cause me to lose the atmosphere. A proper atmosphere is everything when writing a blog like mine.

Ms. Wonder peeked into my office, her emerald eyes lighting up the place. I never have enough of her company, and I seldom see her immediately after the morning stroll. 

"You're blogging already?" she said, "You can't stop, can you? How many posts have you published this month?"

"Five," I said.

"Genome, you've written over 100 blog posts this year..."

"The count is 108," I said.

"And five more before the middle of the month? You're really on a roll."

"I love it," I said. "I don't want to stop."

She gave me a knowing look, one accompanied by a smile, and then she said, "I know you have something you want to say to me. Let's hear it."

"As you know," I began, "Most of my days are spent under the influence of one or more emotional storms. When the mood of the day features some combination of anxiety and depression, I try to find something funny in it and then write it up in The Circular Journey."

"I know," she said. "It's a form of therapy for you, it's entertainment for me."

That was all I needed to hear. There is no greater gift for me than winning her approval. I would' been happy to muse on her words for the rest of the day, but I couldn't stop the flow of words.

"Although I intend my stories to be light and whimsical," I said, "I take my writing seriously and work hard to make it as good as possible. I make each day's story sound better than it actually is, and I find that the more I write, the more I enjoy living in this protected garden my life has become."

"And my life, too," she said. 

“Yes," I said, and I paused for a second to let her words sink in before continuing. "You see, it's something I can feel good about because I created it, and I like it. A blog is a living thing. People will be reading it years from now."

"Just look at it," I said, turning the screen so that she could see it. She not only saw it, she read the last paragraph I'd written.

"Under cover of rain,' she began, 'the morning graced roses with washed and glowing faces, hanging limp in nearby spaces, reflecting from the road."  

We shared a moment--I was thinking about how proud I was of the post. I suspect she was wondering if I ever use her photographs to illustrate my posts. She likes to protect her copyrights and I don't blame her.

"It's poetry," she said and then gave me a blank look as though expecting me to fill in the gaps.

"I can't help it, Wonder," I said. "When my fingers touch the keyboard, I feel this compulsion to write something--what's the word? Never mind, the important thing is that I can control it. I just have to be rigorously vigilant."

To quickly change the subject before she could get a toe-hold, I said, "This story is 756 words long! Imagine--an entire story in less than 800 words."

"I know how challenging it can be to tell a story in so few words," she said. "I remember magazines that published our travel articles gave us a limit of 1200 to 1500 words, which was challenging enough."

"I have a unique style," I said, warming to the subject. "My words draw you in. You think you know what I'm about to write, and then you realize that I toyed with you, and then you chuckle. You can't help yourself."

"Do you ever wish you were still a freelance travel journalist?" she asked.

"No way," I said. "Blogging is my future, Wonder. I create a lovely garden--a protected Eden. Writing is my happy place. Even Princess Amy is OK with it."

"So there's absolutely no downside," she said. "Perfect."

"Well, I said, "the spell-checker can be annoying. I often make up words and Grammarly doesn't approve of them. Makes me stop in mid-composition to deal with it."

"You know, you can add those words to the Grammarly dictionary and stop the interruptions," she said.

"Yes, but I'd need to add hundreds of words--thousands. Makes me shudder to think of it."

"Let's not think of it then," she said.

And, I realized that she had put her finger on the nub, or if you prefer, rem acu tetigisti. Her words stirred something within me and I felt compelled to write the next line.

"From windows, life falls in place, as form and color together trace meaning for life beyond this space, and comforts weary souls."

Wonder read the words, turned to face me, and lifted an expressive eyebrow. The emerald green eye questioned the trend my writing had taken.

"I know!" I said. "It's that poetry element again. I'll correct it in rewrite, I promise."

Welcome to My World

I'm a big fan of The Tonight Show starring Jimmy Fallon, and I'm a little surprised by it. I'm surprised because Mr. Fallon does something that I usually don't like--he makes every show about himself. But he does it so well that I enjoy it.

I like to get to know celebrities. Don't we all? After all, celebrities are very successful and interesting people, and we might learn something from listening to them, right?

There's another reason I like to get to know, especially actors. Many actors seem to share my thoughts, my attitudes, and my values on the subject of how we should treat others. In other words, they seem more accepting and less judgemental than the general public.

You may not agree. I know that many don't, and that's ok. Agree or not, you probably understand why I usually expect the guest on the show to be the center of attention. But that doesn't happen on the Tonight Show.

When Fallon is alone on the set, it's all about him, and why not? It's his show. But when he's joined by a guest--shall we say, Taylor Swift, it's never all about her. It's about Jimmy and Taylor.

It's different with Jimmy because he's created a wonderful little world that's all about playful, non-judgmental interactions. Jimmy has fun, the guests have fun, and I have fun watching. When I say I enjoy watching the show, I'm understating the facts. I don't just enjoy the show; I get completely caught up in all that positive emotion.

I don't only enjoy watching; I want to be like Jimmy Fallon. I want to have a little world of my own where I can, just for a little while, forget about war, disease, natural disasters, and the inhumanity of mankind. I want to enjoy everything right with life. I hope you enjoy this world with me.

Wicked or Not

A sunny winter morning dawned, about a week after Potential Cyclone 8 flooded the Carolina coast, and the water was still deep.

The damage to local roads had kept us close to home for too long, but this beautiful day called for a communion with nature at Waccamaw State Park, the perfect spot to stretch our legs without getting our feet wet. 

We'd barely begun our walk through the flooded swampland when the lush and towering forest canopy closed in around us. Ms. Wonder walked ahead of me, closely surveying the terrain. She was undoubtedly assessing the danger posed by spiders, bees, and snakes.

"Be sure to look down and all around before you look over," she said in a tone as steady as her steps.

Her suggestion stopped me in my tracks, like one of those kids in fairy tales who turn to stone immediately after mocking a wizard.

I don't know how she does it. No matter the location, the situation, or the circumstances, this wonder-working woman comes up with the right assessment at the right time. She never fails to amaze me.

And yet, something was amiss. I can't explain it, but her words of wisdom caused me to feel lacking in some way. It was the feeling one might have if standing in front of the Great Throne of Judgement with the judge stroking his beard and saying, "Hmmmm."

What was needed, I thought, to put the chi energy back in balance and restore serenity was an equally pithy quotable from me. Well, you know how it is when a snappy rejoinder is called for, and you have precious little time to compose one. Still, the Genomes are always willing to try, so I did the best I could under the circumstances.

"Remember," I said. "Where there is one, there are others. And if there are others, there are many." And I felt pretty bucked about it, too. 

She reacted by assuming a look that I couldn't decipher. Was she impressed? Puzzled? Offended?

Do you think it was harsh? I hope not. I didn't mean it to be harsh. I was going for something equally as pithy as hers without seeming competitive. 

I was reminded of the moment in Wicked when Elphaba and Glinda part ways, each unsure if they’ve said too much or too little. It’s something we can all relate to, I'm sure. 

It was a full week after Potential Cyclone 8 and the Carolina coast was still soaked—with water and wisdom alike.

I may always defer to Ms. Wonder's moral compass, but your insights are much appreciated. Leave your thoughts in the comments.