Get Help Too

A damp Monday afternoon last week found me in my usual booth near the window but not too near the door at the café on the corner of Highway 421 and Independence Avenue. My coffee, which aspired to be a blonde roast, had instead slipped into the neighborhood of burnt barbecue. I sipped it with the resignation of a man who has long since stopped expecting life to deliver on its promises.

It was an unremarkable moment, yet suddenly, as if struck by divine inspiration—or perhaps just heartburn caused by the coffee—I remembered a recommendation from Dr. Coast, my therapist. In our last session, she suggested that my life could be vastly improved with one of those artificial intelligence mental health apps. Apparently, they’re all the rage, much like kale smoothies and minimalist furniture.

Now, to be clear, I wasn’t looking for one of those apps that peddle serenity through zen-inspired synthesized music and stock photos of people gazing wistfully at the horizon. No, I needed an app designed to navigate the tangled jungle that Dr. Coast refers to as my mental state. Preferably an app equipped with a machete.

Dr. Coast is quite fascinated by the rise of artificial intelligence. Her recommendation came to her during our last session when she advised me to "Take a deep breath," and I, in the fog of my existential crisis, heard, "Take a deep nap." An easy mistake to make, really, and arguably the superior option.

A quick Google search turned up the very app she'd named. The advert proudly described it as a "breakthrough in the mental health space." It promised "instant clarity and algorithmic wisdom," which, to my caffeine-addled mind, sounded just the ticket.

The tagline, "Instant results with minimal effort," was the clincher. As a modern man, I hold certain principles dear, one of them being that if enlightenment can be achieved without making an effort, all the better. I’m sure you share my sensibilities. After all, you’re a regular here on The Circular Journey, so we’re kindred spirits of sorts.

In the blink of an eye, I downloaded the app, canceled my therapy appointment, and prepared to bask in the glow of my new, algorithmically-enhanced mental clarity.

I won’t spoil the ending, but allow me to provide a touch of foreshadowing: picture a bulldozer in a china shop, wearing a blindfold, and whistling merrily.

One week later, I was back in therapy with Dr. Coast, grateful to be in the presence of someone who did not suggest chanting verbal mudras for serenity or rearranging my bookshelf for emotional realignment. It had been a trying time.

Over the week, I learned that life’s deepest questions cannot be answered by an AI-powered oracle, no matter how many reassuring push notifications it sends. The truth, as it turns out, is far simpler: real conversation, human connection, and the occasional chat with a cat are the true pillars of emotional well-being.

A profound revelation, no doubt. However, when Dr. Coast suggested I delete the app—presumably to avoid being bested by a talking algorithm—I hesitated. That’s right, I demurred. Not because the app had worked wonders (quite the opposite), but because the entire fiasco had led me to an even greater epiphany:

Not all of life’s complexities are solved in therapy. Sometimes, the path to enlightenment involves outdoor escapades, physical challenges, or noble pursuits like learning a new language, documenting local graffiti, or launching a highly questionable AI experiment just to see what happens.

Most importantly, the best approach to mental well-being is rarely a binary choice. It’s a grand, multifaceted adventure. And no matter which path you take, you must include the holy trinity of happiness: a good cup of tea, a hearty laugh, and a friend who doesn’t judge you for occasionally talking to your shoes.

One final thought: While human therapists have the distinct advantage of warm handshakes and sympathetic nods, they do not, regrettably, come with a convenient FAQ section. Apps, for their part, cannot provide the comfort of a reassuring pat on the shoulder or a well-timed "There, there."

There’s a word for that, but it escapes me at the moment. No doubt, Wonder will know.

Ad Blockers

The Great Ad Blocker Paradox

Ad blockers are all the rage on the Internet recently, and frankly, I get it. Search for something simple—like how to get chocolate out of a white carpet—and you might find one helpful article buried under hundreds of ads trying to sell you industrial-grade stain remover or carpet dye. 

And not surprisingly, among all those ads, you’ll find promotions for apps that promise to block ads.

Ads for ad blockers are designed to be like shiny objects--they grab your attention. And I must admit, some of them do sparkle. Admit it, you’ve clicked at least one. And when mild curiosity causes you to click, you're suddenly spiraling down the rabbit hole of pop-ups, testimonials, and big flashing buttons that scream, “Click here for a free trial!” Irony, thy name is digital advertising.

Here's my point and my confession: I don’t use ad blockers. I know, shocking, right? Why wouldn't I want to make life easier by eliminating those annoying ads? But consider for a moment: if I blocked ads, I’d lose easy access to some of the most valuable—and hilariously absurd—content the Internet has to offer. Let me explain.

• Simple, natural cures for every ailment. Did you know a paste made of parsley and moonlight can cure hiccups and probably fix your credit score? Neither did I until an ad told me so.
• True, lasting weight loss without sacrifices. Yes, it’s possible to shed pounds without giving up donuts or breaking a sweat. You just have to buy a $99 eBook called Lose Fat While You Nap!
• Saving hundreds, even thousands, on insurance. I don’t know how switching my car insurance will net me a new yacht, or a swimming pool, or a cruise around the Aegean islands on a luxury liner but the people in the ad were thrilled about it.
• Making a 7-figure income from my phone. And the best part? I can do it in my “spare time.” Apparently, billion-dollar empires can be built between episodes of Emily in Paris. Who knew?

My personal favorites are YouTube videos that promise enlightenment in 30 seconds or less. They're the fortune cookies of the Web. Then there are promises of great achievements with no effort--"Become fluent in French while you sleep." Others tempt you with headlines like, “This discovery changes everything! Learn why doctors don't want you to know!”

Sure, the avalanche of ads can be frustrating, but it’s also endlessly entertaining. It's all about attitude, isn't it? Rather than annoying ads, I think of it as a steady stream of pop-up soap operas. 

Dr. Coast put her finger on the nub when she said, "Think of all you'll miss if you install one of those ad blockers!"

And so, I’ll pass on the ad blockers for now. After all, without that steady stream of advertising soap operas, I'd never have learned about the revolutionary power of Himalayan goat milk to reverse aging.

Emergent Surprises

Emergent behaviors are system properties not present in their lower-level components. They arise when those components interact with each other. The technical name for emergent behavior is “surprises.”

“Ah, I see,” said Ms. Wonder. “Now it becomes clear why you associate emergent behavior with our squirrels--surprises! You got that right. In the good old days, we had seven of them, and their silly antics were fun. You even blogged about them.”

“What you call silly antics,” I said, “is what I call disordered behavior.”

Ms. Wonder had graciously agreed to hear one of the ideas I was considering for my new SubStack blog. I’m thinking about writing on emergent behavior in the context of systems theory and biological organisms. It sounds terribly nerdy, I admit, but my goal is to make it interesting—dare I say, even fun—for the layperson.

But don’t roll your eyes just yet! This new project won’t interfere with The Circular Journey, the blog you’ve come to love and depend on. It’ll continue as it always has—equal parts wisdom and squirrels, with the occasional cameo from Ms. Wonder herself.

“One familiar example of emergent behavior,” I said, “is when a group of starlings flies in synchronized formation in the evening sky. Each bird in the flock merely mimics its nearest neighbors—a fairly simple act that results in a surprisingly complex behavior.”

“Yes, but what does that,” she said, “have to do with our squirrels?”

“Bear with me,” I said. “I’m getting there. When the squirrels moved into our backyard, resources were abundant, and competition was limited. That’s why they chose our yard in the first place.”

“Yes, I see,” she said, nodding. “Makes sense.”

“Those favorable factors allowed them the freedom to reproduce at full capacity.”

“In other words,” she said, “our squirrel neighbors are enjoying an orgy of fruit and nuts, carousing all evening—sex, drugs, and rock and roll about sum it up.”

I thought of many things I could say in response—perhaps too many things—so I let that one slide.

“Chaos theory,” I continued, “you probably remember me mentioning. It tells us that small changes in a system’s initial conditions can trigger drastic changes over time. It’s called the butterfly effect.”

“I've heard about the butterfly effect,” she said, “but what I’d like to know is why Texas. What’s Texas got to do with it?”

“Never mind Texas,” I said. “It’s not germane. Molecular chaos tells us that confined molecules, even in something less than complete disorder, will inevitably move toward greater disorder as they collide.”

“I’m listening,” she said, and I was relieved to finally have her attention. I get a little wound up trying to impress this woman. She’s the family member with the superior cognitive powers, and when she really lets that brain loose, she’s a force to be reckoned with.

“So you see,” I said, “it all boils down to this...”

“Do tell,” she said, leaning forward. “I’m holding my breath.”

The part about holding her breath sailed right past me, but I was buoyed by her attention and pressed on.

“A few squirrel families arrived in our yard and enjoyed abundant food and freedom from predators. Sitting atop the fence day after day, leisurely enjoying a feast of fruit and nuts—they were soon noticed by other squirrels.”

“And crows,” she said. “Don’t forget the crows. They sat in the tall dead tree and announced the feast to all of Waterford. It was like free Dunkin’ coffee and doughnuts.”

Once again, the Dunkin’ motif caught me off guard, but I let it pass.

“The ‘components’ of the squirrel population,” I said, “began to interact exponentially. The more excited they became, the more disorder they achieved, until reaching total chaos.”

Her eyes grew bigger as I approached the punchline. By the time I stopped talking, she was out of her chair.

“The result was inevitable,” she said. “Quantum determinism realized once more. Where we once had seven quiet little tree monkeys playing in our backyard, we now have 20 components interacting in total chaos.”

“In other words,” she added with a smirk, “surprises have emerged!”

Celebrate Your Life

Why Not Celebrate Life?

We’ve embraced bucket lists as a cultural phenomenon—a checklist of adventures and dreams we want to tackle before we kick said bucket. Life Reviews, meanwhile, have crept onto the scene, offering us a way to reflect, recalibrate, and gain clarity about what’s truly important. But there’s one glaring omission in this trio of life milestones: a Life Celebration.

Let’s affirm it--life is good, the world is amazing, and we don't appreciate it enough. Even those of us who truly do appreciate our lot in life, we don't show enough gratitude.

Now, I could regale you with the story of my life, framed as a tragic tale. You’d nod sympathetically as I recounted episodes of depression, anxiety, grief, and attention deficiency, marveling at how I’m still standing. “How do you even function?” you’d ask, wide-eyed. And I’d shrug modestly, accepting your awe.

Or, I could tell you the story of my magical, charmed existence—the serendipitous moments, the inexplicable twists of fortune. You’d lean in, enchanted, and agree that my life has been a delightful mosaic of wonder.

Here’s the kicker: both stories are true. But which one I tell—and how I tell it—is entirely my choice. Neuroscience and psychology have plenty to say about why we’re wired to lean on the tragic tale, but here’s the epiphany: I don’t have to. And neither do you.

From Reviewing Life to Celebrating It

So, where am I going with all this? Just as we create bucket lists to inspire adventure and Life Reviews to help us gain perspective, we should also have Life Celebrations to honor the beauty, meaning, and inexplicable joys of the journey.

I hope you agree that there are inexplicable joys along the way. If you doubt it, then I wish you that joy, and I offer the only advice that I have to give on the subject--you will find inexplicable joy if you look for it.

Life Reviews, by the way, are not just about nostalgia or dredging up regrets. They’re about understanding. Studies suggest that reflecting on life helps us see the threads that connect our experiences, allowing us to learn from the past and make sense of who we are. 

Life Reviews foster gratitude, offer closure for unresolved conflicts, and provide a sense of peace. It’s like taking inventory of your life’s emotional treasures—and realizing how rich you truly are.

But why stop at reflection? Why not move to celebration?

The Case for a Life Celebration

We already celebrate birthdays—milestones marking our journey around the sun. A Life Celebration might be similar, but with significant differences: a formal, ritualized way to honor the life you’ve lived so far. 

Think of it as a personal festival of joy and reflection. Imagine friends and family gathering not for a farewell party or an obligatory anniversary dinner but for a heartfelt celebration of your existence.

Here are a few ideas to kick-start this beautiful tradition:

1. The Story Circle: Invite loved ones to share their favorite stories about you—funny moments, meaningful encounters, or even the quirky things that make you uniquely you. It’s a live highlight reel, reminding you of your impact on others.

2. Ritual of Gratitude: Set aside a moment during the celebration for everyone to express gratitude—not just for you, but for the shared experiences that have shaped your friendship. Pass a candle, write messages on a shared board, or create a gratitude tree.

3. Legacy Keepsakes: Create something tangible during the celebration, like a scrapbook of memories, a video montage, or a quilt made from pieces of your story. It’s a keepsake for you and a treasure for generations to come.

4. Symbolic Ceremonies: Incorporate meaningful rituals—perhaps lighting candles for each decade of your life, planting a tree to symbolize growth, or even creating a "time capsule" filled with mementos and dreams for the future.

5. Your Own ‘Drink Me’ Potion: End the event with a signature drink or dish that reflects your journey—something that’s uniquely “you.” Serve it with a story about why it matters.

Why Not?

Life is beautiful, fleeting, and unpredictable. A Life Celebration isn’t just about looking back—it’s about recognizing the miracle of being here, in this moment. It’s about shifting the narrative from “survival” to “appreciation,” from “I have to” to “I get to.”

So, what do you think? Why not start your own Life Celebration? Why not honor the story you’re living, the connections you’ve made, and the joy of simply being alive?

Why not, indeed? Ms. Wonder would approve.

Mockingbird and Bluejay

The day opened with promises of blue skies and cheerful bluebirds, all day long. How does that song go? "Blue skies smiling at me. Nothing but blue skies do I see. Never saw the sun shining so bright. Never saw things going so right."

It reminded me of something P.G. Wodehouse wrote about glorious mornings and how they flatter mountaintops. I can’t recall the exact words—pretty highbrow stuff—but I couldn’t have put it better myself. Of course, one must always budget for the weather, so the key is to enjoy yourself when you can. You never know when some cocky politician will come along and mess things up.

Armed with birdseed, I headed outside to greet the day—and the birds, who were already busy greeting it themselves.

Mimi, a perky Mockingbird, is my morning companion. She alights on the fence near enough for me to touch, then fixes me with her inquisitive eye. I place the feed atop the fence rail, and she follows me as I move along. She nibbles here and there but seems more interested in watching me.

I chat with her as we go, and she tilts her head, side to side as if wondering why I don’t have a song like hers. Maybe she’s studying my voice, planning to mock me later. Who knows what runs through a bird’s mind?

Eventually, Chester, a jaunty, self-important, and perpetually suspicious Blue Jay—spots us. Chester fancies himself the head of wildlife security and takes it upon himself to monitor all forest activity. He seems to think Mimi is up to something, though what he suspects, I can’t imagine, but security types like Chester don’t need probable cause.

As soon as he sees us, he sounds the alarm, screeching as if the house is on fire. Mimi flees, along with every other bird within earshot. Chester puffs up with pride and perches victoriously on the fence, basking in his success.

It’s better for him to feel satisfied; otherwise, he calls an emergency 'Council of Birds,' which leads to high-decibel accusations and wildly bizarre conspiracy theories. 

The council inevitably disperses once the birds realize Chester’s crisis is just more of his self-important bluster. Unfortunately, birds seem to have short memories because the charade replays every morning like clockwork.

The backyard comes alive again once I finish my chores. Mimi returns, along with Chester (still smug), the squirrel circus, and the Mourning Dove choir—the Sisters of the Order of Brunswick. The doves rarely partake in the goodies, presumably fasting to set an example for the ever-rowdy squirrels.

By evening, as the sun dips below the treetops and casts a golden glow on the backyard, Chester can be seen perched atop the old dead tree at the forest’s edge, surveying his “secured” and "safe" domain. The early evening quiet is unremarkable, but Chester takes pride in it. I imagine him puffing out his chest and muttering, “Better safe than sorry.”

You might think I have an overactive imagination, but if you were here to experience the day with me, I have no doubt you'd agree with my assessment. Bird psychology is just as easy to understand as human psychology. If it looks like a self-important Blue Jay and sounds like a self-important Blue Jay... etc., etc.