Sleeping With the Morrigan

"Why is your bed a wreck every morning?" asked Ms. Wonder when I finally stumbled into the kitchen.

It was tough to come up with a sensible answer, but not because of the question. All questions are hard to answer within the first hour of waking up. I did my best under the circumstances.

"My life is a struggle, Poopsie. And not just during my waking hours. I struggle all night too."

"I know," she said in that sweet, understanding way she has that makes me feel like that puppy we saw yesterday in Port City Java. "I have an idea," she said. "How about seeing Dr. Coast weekly, whether you need it or not?"

It was a fair suggestion. Dr. Coast is my therapist, and I admit that it sounded appealing, but I realized she had gotten the wrong impression.

"It's not anxiety and depression that I wrestle with all night," I said. "It's the Morrigan sisters."

"The Morgan sisters?" she mused.

"No, Poopsie. You're thinking of the Morgan sisters who were very popular in American high society in the first half of the twentieth century."

"There was high society in the United States?" she asked.

"It was a brief period," I said. "But the Morrigan is a terrible Celtic triple goddess from the Iron Age."

"That's why you don't sleep well!" she exclaimed with a little more heat than I was prepared for. It was sweet heat but a surprise nonetheless. Do people still say 'nonetheless'? 

"I know who Morrigan is," she said. "You're staying up late playing Darkstalker, aren't you?"

"No, Poopsie," I said. "You're thinking of Morrigan Aensland, the adopted daughter of the demon king. I'm talking about the Celtic triple goddess popular in the Iron Age."

"How do you know about Morrigan Aensland if you don't play the video game?"

"I didn't say I never play. I said the games don't keep me up late."

"I'm not convinced," she said, "but let's set that aside for now. How does the triple goddess fit into your dreams? Be careful how you answer because I'm going to Google 'triple goddess.'"

"Before we get into it, Wonder, I want to tell you about the Magnificent Morgan Sisters—that's what they were called in the 1940s."

"Stop avoiding the question," she said with more noticeable heat. It was touching, I admit, but my mind was on a different track.  

"The photographer Cecil Beaton," I began, "described the twin sisters as 'alike as two magnolias,' with marble complexions, raven tresses, and flowing dresses. He said they diffuse an atmosphere of hothouse elegance and lacy femininity."

Wonder raised a hand, and she did it with authority. "Stop," she said. "Forget the Magnificent Morgans. Get to the Morrigan, please, or I'm zooming out of here."

"Sure," I said, "but I'm going to use that line about hothouse elegance in a blog post soon."

She shot out of her chair and was three steps up the staircase before I could stop her.  

"Wonder, the Morrigan are three sisters, Mabd, Macha, and Nemain, who rule disharmony, war, and death. Bad is what they are."

"Just to be clear," she said, "we're talking about ancient Irish mythology, right?"

"We're talking about my darkest dreams. Each night for the past week, I've dreamed of being trapped in an escape room. No matter how many clues I find and doors I open, there's another obstacle waiting for me on the other side, and the obstacles are the work of the Morrigan."

"I hear them, whispering and laughing--taunting me. I struggle to escape, but my efforts only get me wrapped up in bedclothes. I can appreciate what it was like for Jacob to wrestle the angel until daybreak. He wrestled one, but I wrestle three."

"What angels?"

"Wonder! You know about Jacob and the angel wrestling until daybreak."

"She raised a questioning eyebrow and said, "Are you making this up?"

"Documented fact," I said. "Jacob received a blessing for his ordeal, but all I get is a rumpled bed."

"And you expect me to accept all that drivel as an answer to my question? Do you want to know what I think? I think you're struggling with Princess Amy all night. That's what I think."

"It's a reasonable explanation," I said. "But I hear the Morrigan whispering, laughing, taunting. If it happens again tonight, I'll challenge Amy just in case she has something to do with it."

"But no matter how it turns out, I will use Cecil Beaton's gag in my next blog post. Hothouse elegance and lacy femininity! Can you imagine? I've got to Google hothouse elegance right now."

Hello Kitten

Good morning and welcome back to The Circular Journey. I'm happy you're here. I have something I'd like to discuss with you, and what I have to share begins with mornings, as do most things.

When I wake each morning, I’m not fully awake for the first second or two. I’m conscious, of course, but not fully tuned in to the world. I’m in a different state of mind. The same is true for you—it’s a universal experience.

A few days ago, in that first hazy moment, I was greeted by a voice in my head, but it wasn’t my voice. It was far too bizarre to belong to me. My immediate thought was: What the hell?

“Hello, Kitten,” is what the voice said. I thought it odd, but didn't dwell on it long. I simply wrote it off as just one of those things.

A few days later, I was greeted by an even stranger voice: “Hello, I’m Claudia from Sweden.” This time, the voice was part of a vivid waking dream. This Swedish Claudia met me in an airport lobby. She seemed nice enough--friendly and smiling--though I’m unclear on her travel itinerary.

A few days later, the morning voice ratcheted up the absurdity: “Columbia’s wife,” it said. No dream vision this time. This morning, I heard the most bizarre greeting yet, “Dong Dien,” said the voice. I know! A foreign language! 

I Googled it and found a village in Vietnam inside the Pu Luong Nature Reserve near hiking trails leading to mountain peaks. Go figure. What next? 

By now, I’d had enough. I enjoy writing about silliness and absurdities, but there's a limit. I decided to confront this nonsense head-on. When the final message came, I didn’t respond politely. “Who are you?” I demanded. I didn't expect an answer, but I got one.

“The better question, my friend, is: Who are you?” said a voice. But this time, it wasn’t the original voice. This voice belonged to Princess Amy. (If you’re unfamiliar with Amy, you can find her in previous posts. Just use the search bar on the blog’s homepage—you’re welcome.)

Well, I knew better than to expect sensible answers from Amy, and I resented her getting involved. 

“My friends know me as Genome,” I said, delivering the line in the coldest, most imperious tone I could muster. And believe me, that’s saying something.

At this point, I realized I might never get a straight answer—and perhaps I didn’t want one. Life is complicated enough without allowing Swedish airport ambassadors and unsolicited royal commentary into the mix. 

If those voices return tomorrow morning, I’m taking action. I will no longer tolerate philosophy before coffee. And if Princess Amy insists on butting in, she’d better bring donuts.

Channeling Wodehouse

Waterford was slowly waking under the embrace of a bright mid-winter sun. Songbirds chanted their morning chorus as though reveling in the sunshine and the unbroken expanse of blue sky overhead. The squirrel community, however, wasn't paying attention. They lounged atop the fenceposts, contentedly napping like cats on a windowsill.

Inside the cozy walls of 1313 Bluebird Lane, I sat nursing a latte, awaiting the descent of Ms. Wonder from her upper-level sanctum. My eye caught a rippling shimmer near the base of the staircase, and with that, she appeared. It's a mystery how she does it.

"Good morning, Wonder. Marvelous to see you. I want to tell you something. As you know, I'm currently on a reading frenzy."

"You're on a feeding frenzy? Like a shark?"

"Not a feeding frenzy, Poopsie. I said, reading—a reading frenzy. But I'm happy you got the words mixed up. Of course, it's an easy thing to do, and there's a wheeze in there somewhere. I'll use it in my next blog post."

"If you're going to continue with puns and jokes all morning, I'm going back upstairs."

"No, wait, Poops, I think you're going to like what I have to say."

"If you're going to make me listen to puns all morning, I might just go back upstairs."

"Fine," I said. "Let me marshal my thoughts, and I'll give it to you skinny."

"Good," she said, and I used the next few moments to marshal. Once I'd worked out the outline, I was good to go. The outline must be properly organized to tell a story well. The rhythm will sort itself out once the speaker gets up to cruising speed.

"Wonder, I think you're familiar with the work of Sir Michael Caine, the legendary actor?"

"The actor in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels?"

"That's right, and many other films—all of them gems; none of them flops. I've always enjoyed watching him in movies, at awards shows, and on talk shows."

"Yeah, he was a fine actor."

"Precisely! "He was a master at transforming himself into different characters, all of them believably authentic."

A sudden clapping interrupted my story. It was Ms. Wonder clapping her hands together very close to my face. I stopped talking and gave her a stern look.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It had to be done. You were caught in a self-induced trance. I feared you might get stuck and not be able to find your way back."

"Wonder! That's the most ridiculous excuse you've ever dreamed up to get out of hearing one of my stories. And this one has special meaning to me."

"Okay then, I surrender. Let's hear it."

"The question that came to mind when watching Sir Michael or any of my favorite actors was this: How do we know when a truly accomplished actor stops acting? How do we know the personality being interviewed on late-night TV or making an acceptance speech isn't another act?"

"That's interesting," she said. "A lot of fun to think about, but probably nothing someone hasn’t asked before. In fact, I know it isn’t new because I've asked myself the same question."

"Exactly!" I said, and I said it with a lot of topspin. I’m not exactly sure why I responded so vigorously. Perhaps I wanted to disrupt the whim we had going.

"There's a comparable idea when you consider authors. When are they being transparent and allowing us to see their honest persona, and when are they creating fiction?"

"It sounds much like what you do in The Circular Journey."

"Exactly!" I said again, wondering if I was teetering on the brink of being clapped down again. All those exclamations were making me feel rather bucked.

"Wonder, I've always thought I’d led an unconventional life—one that others might find interesting. I've wanted to write a sort of autobiography but felt too self-conscious. By fictionalizing my life in The Circular Journey, I feel that I'm writing my autobiography in an oblique way."

At this point, the lovely Wonder Worker, who had been listening attentively (bless her heart) with bright eyes and a pleasant expression, opened her mouth to comment. I was happy to see her hanging onto every word, but I couldn’t let her interrupt now, so I pressed on.

"In other words, Poopsie, am I and my life the ultimate creation of my writing career? Of course, I write about actual events in my daily life, but I never shove something into the story just because it happened, and I never let facts get in the way of a good story. Wodehouse was the same."

"I’ve been following in my hero’s footsteps without realizing it. My readers get to know me, not through my ego's bluster but from every word that proceedeth from the mouth of my higher power--P.G. Wodehouse."

Her expression changed when she heard those words. It lost some of the enthusiasm and took on a more skeptical hue.

"Oh?" she said. "You channel P.G. Wodehouse, do you?"

"Oh, I’m so glad you agree!" I said. "Now I can quote you in today’s blog post."

"And so," she said, "now that you’ve documented that small caveat lector, why not get on with it? I know that’s exactly what I’m going to do."

And with that, she seemed to shimmer once more before disappearing upstairs.

Yesterday Once More

"Poopsie," I announced as I walked into the kitchen and found her enjoying the squirrel circus in the backyard, "I have an announcement to make, and you should be the first to know: I'm finally on the road to 'Find Out.'"

Yesterday Once More ~~ The Carpenters

Her face lit up like the Christmas lights on the Riverwalk and I'm pretty sure I saw a twinkle in her eye. I half expected her to throw her arms around me and ask, Where have you been all my life? Nothing like that happened, but she did ask, "Is that the funny little town near Zebulon?"

"No, you're probably thinking of Lizard Lick, but honestly, Zebulon is a funny enough name on its own."

"Wait, a second," she said. "I've got it. It's called Horneytown, Isn't it?"

"Horneytown isn't near anything," I said, "and what I'm trying to tell you is..."

"Tick Bite!" she said. "The name of the town is Tick Bite."

"Tick Bite is lost somewhere in the eastern flat lands," I said. "It hasn't been seen since the big blow of 07. Wonder, take a deep breath, and relax. Find Out isn't a place at all--it's a journey of self-discovery."

"Why do you keep saying it with capital letters if it's not a proper noun?"

"It's the name of a song, Poopsie, a song by the artist formerly known as Cat Stevens. And it's not only a song title, it's a state of being--actively seeking and accepting the lessons in whatever life sends your way."

"Oh,", she said with a quizzical expression, followed by an awkward silence.

"You see," I said. "when I look back at all the good times I had in years gone by, it makes today look rather sad. So much has changed. But I've found a possible solution to all that."

"Okay," she said, "I've heard this before but let's get on with it. What've you got?"

"It's like this," I explained. "I attended a meeting at the recovery center yesterday, and one of the speakers reminded me of the Buddha's message: desire is the root of all unhappiness. In one of his poems, Rumi even suggested we stop resisting the slings and arrows and embrace them instead."

As I spoke those words, another adage came to mind, although I couldn't remember the source. I mentioned it anyway. "I believe Rumi's words were, When life sends lemons to your door, invite them in and make lemonade. It's not an exact quote."

"That's not what he said," she moaned, "and his name is pronounced "room-ie," not "ruhm-ie. But go on--I'm listening."

"I've decided to give it a try. I'll stop fighting the things I can't change and focus on accepting myself, flaws and all. To smooth the flow, I'll sing the old songs I love so much, and it will seem like yesterday once more. I believe the Buddha would be proud of me."

"Why are you talking so fast? And why bring the Buddha into it? You say you're Buddhist, of course, but I think you make it up as you go along."

"Am I talking fast?"

"So, you're planning to find serenity by simply accepting your life as it is? You're going to give up your desires, forget about your dreams, and be content with what you have?"

"Well, it doesn't sound very appealing the way you put it," I said. "But remember, Poosie, I still have cherished memories of a life well-lived – a reminder of what I once had."

"Will the memories of your rock star days in the ‘80s be enough for you?" she asked.

"Those were such happy times," I said. "It seems like only yesterday. I can get those feelings back, like finding a long-lost friend, and it will seem like yesterday again."

"You think so, do you? Those happy times will come back all on their own if you only let them?"

"I'm tired of struggling, Poopsie. I did the math, and I'll never finish that book. I'll never be known for my shaman's dreams. I'm going to surrender to the fate of old age, and when I stop fighting everything, I'll find the serenity you mentioned earlier."

"So you're prepared to dine on mud pies and dandelion roots? Your motto, 'Eat no pine needles!' can fly out the window."

 

"Wait a minute," I said.

"That's right," she said. “Give up the struggle and live happy, joyous, and free."

My knees buckled and I sank into a heap on the floor. I felt a strange lightness--a lightness that felt hollow. It didn't come from a release of the burden of care; it was born of having nothing left to lose. I didn't like it.

“It’s never too late, you know.”

“Too late for what?” I asked.

“It’s never too late for right now—for this very moment and this very life. It's never too late.” 

“Do you have any suggestions?”

"I do," she said. "Join me tomorrow for a boat tour of the Cape Fear River. Surrounded by the incredible beauty of the natural world, singing the words to those melodies that sound so good to you, the years will melt away and it will be yesterday once more. I promise you will feel refreshed and re-energized."

"Will I be reborn? Will I become a new man?"

"That's not the way it works. There is no new man. There is only the same man who is singing his songs every day. One day at a time."

"I don't know how you do it, Poopsie. Something about that brain of yours is wondrous. You should donate it to science when you're done with it."

"Every sha-la-la-la, every wo-o-wo-o still shines," she sang. "Every song that I sing is so fine. All the best memories come back clearly to me and, just like before, it's yesterday once more."

No Regrets

“I've lived a full life," I told Ms. Wonder as we shared a quiet breakfast coffee. "And I tried to live each day in a way to avoid regret."

I didn't plan to say it; it just came out. Ever notice how often we say things we didn't plan to say? Perhaps not. It may be a Genome thing. So many things I do are influenced by the Genome DNA.

Wonder took a break from her Brunswick Community College program long enough to sip her latte. "What did you say about regrets?" she asked.

"A day without regret is a perfect day," I said.

"I suppose so," she said. "I don't think I have any big regrets--do you?" she asked.

"Regrets?" I said. "I have a few. But then again, few worth mentioning. As a young man, I hoped to travel cross-country to San Francisco. That city was a mecca for young people in those long-ago days."

"Why San Francisco?" she asked.

"It was a troubled time in our country, but the allure of that one city promised a new and better world." I paused a moment, reminiscing about the comfort those promises once brought me.

"I haven't heard about that trip," she said.

"I didn't go," I said. "It's hard to say why. When I share that dream with others, I often say I didn't want to travel alone. It's a perfectly understandable reason but I'm not sure it's the real one."

I continued to think about regret and the few that haunt me. Most of them are not truly troubling, but they do nag at me. Perhaps it's the thought that some of my dreams are no longer possible--another kind of loss that comes with age.

One of my biggest dreams is to make the all-American road trip. This journey involves driving from the East Coast to the West Coast and back again, taking a different route for each leg of the trip.

I was ready and willing to do it for most of my adult life and yet, believe it or not, I kept waiting for the 'right time'. In the end, I waited for a lifetime. I don't think I could make that trip now.

"Sounds like too much time in a car," said Irv. I probably should have mentioned that after breakfast, I drove into Wilmanwood and met Island Irv at Caffe' Luna.

"I love exploring the country by road. You can learn about how people enjoy their coffee and what they do in their spare time—little details like that. Everyone has an interesting life, and America is full of fascinating places."

He didn't say anything. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled as if to say, It takes all kinds.

"The love for travel across the country is a significant part of the American spirit. Consider the covered wagons that journeyed from east to west in the 19th century. Today, there are numerous books, songs, and movies that celebrate road trips, with many more using the journey as a backdrop for their stories."

"Like Thelma and Louise," he said.

"Exactly," I said, "and Little Miss Sunshine and .It Happened One Night, and Blues Brothers."

“Blues Brothers  isn’t really about a road trip,” he said.

"Trust me," I said.

"I'm not so sure," he said.

"Let it go," I said. "it's like Die Hard is a Christmas movie and it’s not a Christmas movie. Blues Brothers is like Die Hard.” 

"What?" he said.

"Too-may-toe, too-mah-toe," I said.

He said nothing but he gave me a look that I've never seen before. I'll need to consult my book on non-verbal communication for the interpretation.

"Think of all the books," I said. "Books like On the Road by Jack Kerouac, and Travels With Charley, by John Steinbeck, and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert Pirsig."

"Are you sure Pirsig is the right name?" he asked. "Doesn't sound right." We eventually got it sorted out but only with the help of a second coffee.

If you regularly follow my thoughts on The Circular Journey, you're familiar with my strong urge to travel. But, as I get older, I question my ability to meet the physical demands. Will my vehicle be able to keep up? I ask myself.

When I refer to 'vehicle,' I mean both my body and Wynd Horse--I think of that car as more than a means of transportation. I question whether I want to make a long trip in any other vehicle.

Having said all that, I'm no closer to knowing how to deal with this particular regret. Fortunately, Ms. Wonder will fulfill her obligation to make the world a better place at the end of the year and we’ve planned an extended road trip together.

Our intention is to cruise up the Eastern Seaboard all the way to Quebec City. The plan has become my dream trip, one intended to mitigate the regret over not driving to San Francisco. You see, regret is something that feels like a loss to me and I've had my fill of losing.

Oh, well, not everyone should be expected to enjoy sitting in a car for hours on end. And you may be one of them. If you must make a long drive this year, I hope you will have a surprisingly good time. On the other hand, if you're a veteran roadster, then I wish you an unexpected happy surprise outing.

If Life doesn't have a road trip in store for you this year, I wish you a year of living with no regrets. A year without regret is a year in which every day is a perfect day.