Morning Has Broken

Gray skies pressed against my kitchen window as I scattered sunflower seeds for the backyard wildlife. The squirrels were conspicuously absent—probably huddled in their cozy tree nests, avoiding the morning's damp chill. Just like me, they seemed reluctant to fully embrace another depressing day.

Not a single bluebird sang in the forest and I suddenly felt the need for guidance from a higher power, and so I went indoors to seek advice from my personal oracle of wisdom--that's right, Ms. Wonder.

At the bottom of the stairs, I called out, "I've reviewed the work opportunities you suggested!" All I received in response was silence. Typical. When Wonder is in her photography studio, she can tune out the sounds of the Apocalypse or the onset of Judgment Day, and remain focused on adjusting lens apertures.

I entered her workspace, where organized chaos reigned supreme. Abstract photographs on stretched canvas lay strewn across the floor along with camera bodies and lens cases, creating a landscape of professional creativity. She looked up, one eyebrow arched—and a look that implied, What is it this time?

"I've shortlisted three potential career paths," I explained. "But Princess Amy has... concerns."

Ms. Wonder's lips twitched—the closest she ever comes to actually laughing at my concerns. "Let's hear it," she said.

"Your first suggestion seems promising," I said. "Responding to online surveys is appealing, and ZipRecruiter tells me sharing my opinions could bring in as much as $30 hourly. I like the sound of that."

"But Amy has other ideas?" she said.

"She thinks the surveys are used by the Illuminati to harvest thoughts from unsuspecting participants, and then the data is used for their nefarious porpoises."

"Purposes," Ms. Wonder corrected.

"Tonsils," I muttered. "They got in the way. Sorry."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath—so deep I worried she'd hyperventilate. "Market research isn't mind control. Those survey rates are likely inflated, but they might provide pocket money while you explore more substantial opportunities."

"That is true," I said. "I'll keep surveys on the shortlist. As for option two, freelance writing, the market shows solid growth and reasonable compensation. But Amy's worried about "word demons."

"Like in Stephen King's 'The Dark Half'?" asked The Wonder and her disbelief filled the room. "Word demons?"

I nodded. "She's convinced they might control my creative thoughts. Of course, she's thinking of the sewer harpies, not word demons. She suggested they might cause me to write trashy romance novels--like bodice-rippers--instead of thoughtful essays."

"Let me get this straight," she said, holding up her hand in a universal gesture indicating don't try me too high. "You're worried about mind control and word demons. Now, let’s complete the triad. What’s your concern about temp work? I know you must have one."

"Amy is really worked up about that one. She says temp agencies are modern fairy courts. Unsuspecting mortals sign contracts for light office work, only to find themselves in eternal servitude to the Seely Court."

Ms. Wonder's reality check was swift and surgical. "Temp agencies are businesses matching workers with short-term opportunities. Not portals to alternate dimensions."

Having methodically dismantled Amy's elaborate conspiracy theories, she posed the critical question: "Which option best matches your skills and schedule?"

The answer, suddenly, was crystal clear. "Freelance writing," I admitted. "I can work from home without risking eternal bondage in service to supernatural entities."

"Excellent," she said, returning to her portfolio. "By the way, if you write trashy romance novels, I expect the first one to be dedicated to me."

I smiled. Ms. Wonder had once again transformed my scattered anxieties into a clear vision of the path forward. A new morning had indeed broken, reminiscent of that first morning we shared in Brookgreen Gardens.

A new chapter opened in my life--one filled with possibility. As for Princess Amy, she remained suspiciously quiet—probably plotting her next conspiracy theory.

Espresso Enlightenment

I'd come to Café Luna in the middle of the afternoon in the middle of the week because being in the Castle Street Arts District always lifts my mood. 

I hoped the artisanal coffee and ambient poetry readings would realign my chakras, or whatever it is that's supposed to happen in places with exposed brick walls. I didn't expect to find anyone I knew at this time of day on this day in the week.

"Wow, Uncle Genome," said an unexpected voice. "You look like something the cat dragged in the morning after the raccoons had their fun with you."

"Lupe!" I said. "I'm surprisingly happy to see you."

"You mean that having me here is a happy surprise for you," she said.

"Do I?" I said. "Oh never mind that. Sit. I have something I'd like to run up your flag pole."

"Is that something like a lead balloon?" she asked, "Because if it is, I don't know what to do with it."

"Lupe, you're looking at a man who's living in the Twilight Zone." 

"I'll bet it's nothing more than quantum fluctuations," she said.

"Can I get you something?" asked a nearby voice. "A double cappuccino, please," said the godniece, with the casual confidence of someone who's been drinking coffee since kindergarten. 

"Sir?" asked the barista. 

"Oh, yes," I said, still processing how a 15-year-old ordered coffee with more authority than I've ever had. "A flat white please."

"You were saying?" said Lupe.

"Lupe, the most unusual things have been happening," I said. "Synchronistic events have been occurring at abnormal frequency."

"There are so many things wrong with what you just said that I don't know where to begin," she said.

"Then don't," I said. "Let me give you just a few examples."

"No need," she said. "I understand well enough that you've experienced almost simultaneous occurrences of events that seem significantly related but have no discernable causal relationship."

I must have taken on an expression of lost in translation because without waiting for a reply she said, "Synchronistic events have been occurring at abnormal frequency."

"Exactly!" I said.

"Well, you're in luck," she said, "because I watched the latest episode of Hack Your Mind on YouTube last night, and the topic was Quantum Consciousness. I've watched one and a half episodes and by now, I must be an expert compared to most people."

"One double cappuccino and one flat white," said the barista placing the cups on the table.

"Excuse me," I said. "Did I ask for oat milk?."

"No you didn't," she said. "I'll remake it for you."

"Are you saying that I don't actually see what I think I see?"

"According to Dr. Mindbender, hallucinations are often the result of stress. Have you tried relaxation techniques like deep breathing for example?"

"I'm taking deep breaths now," I said. "It seems necessary to get through this conversation."

"Good," she said after sipping her cappuccino, "Take three is my suggestion. And then close your eyes and visualize a peaceful beach. Hear the soothing sounds of the surf and the call of seagulls."

"Ok," I said, closing my eyes, "My eyes are closed, and all I see are sandcastles and flying fish."

"Ah," she said, "not a problem. Dr. Dreamweaver teaches us to remain calm in the face of the bizarre and ask the visions to explain the message they have for us."

I closed my eyes again and asked the sandcastles to explain. I got no satisfaction. 

"I asked but only got a request for coffee," I told her. "Speaking of coffee, where's mine?"

"My goodness, you are demanding this morning, aren't you?"

"I'm not demanding this morning, I have this morning. What I'm demanding is caffeine."

"Chillax, I'll get your coffee," she said as she stood and headed for the Order Here spot.

"Thank you, Lupe. I'm so happy you've decided to rally around."

"I'm always looking out for you, you helpless jamoke," she said when she returned to the table. "You just don't always see it."

"Lupe," I said after the first sip from the cup. "Did you ask for chai in this coffee? If I wanted chai, which I don't, I would have requested it."

"What you need to do," she said, speaking with the same authority she used ordering espresso, "is to embrace the absurdity of life's little quirks and stop making a big deal out of every little thing. Now, drink your coffee. The unusual taste is probably the goat milk."

"Not goat," I said, "--oat. Is everyone your age as sassy as you?" 

"We rage against Babylon, Brah," she said, pulling out her phone to TikTok the moment. "And that pays dividends. But only if you pay attention. Want me to explain that again in emoji?"

Not So Secret, Obviously

I'm writing a book about managing the disastrous effects of mood disorders without mood-stabilizing drugs. If you're a veteran of The Circular Journey, you're familiar with many of my techniques—my "power principles." They are the foundations of my recovery program, although they're not so much the "secret" principles as the "obviously desperate."

For example, when feeling blue, I like to go for a little road trip. I lower the windows in my car—Wynd Horse, if you're keeping score (yes, I named my car, and no, I won't apologize for it)—turn the music up to 11, and belt out everything from Jagger to Joel, Diamond to Houston. My neighbors have suggested I stick to humming, but I believe enthusiasm trumps talent.

 Another daily routine is taking a twenty-minute walk in the sunshine. I chose one of the parklike savannahs near my home, where songbirds provide backup vocals for my internal monologue. They're much more forgiving than my neighbors.

I've tried medication, of course, but I'm one of the almost 70% of people for whom the drugs just don't work. Through my own journey to regain control of my life, I have learned that not everyone diagnosed with a mood disorder needs medication to live stable, productive lives.

Just to be clear about living a stable and productive life--it doesn't preclude public appearances while waving the hands, raising the voice, and dancing around like a 4-year-old needing a bathroom break.

Having said that, it's crucial to note that many people do need medication, and we should all follow qualified medical advice. (In the interest of full disclosure, I must state my interpretive dance therapy has not been FDA-approved.)

Now, about writing this book. I'm not new to writing—I've published over 80 non-fiction articles in magazines and newspapers. None about mood disorders, unless you count that one piece where my laptop crashed right before a deadline. 

I know how to organize and present information in short formats, guiding ideas from introduction to summary like a well-behaved tour guide. But stretch that journey beyond 5,000 words, and suddenly I'm a guide who's forgotten the map and is pretending my rambling is an intentional scenic detour.

Thankfully, I found and read Austin Kleon's inspiring book, Show Your Work. Kleon suggests that we share our works-in-progress on social media channels. He believes sharing imperfect work is a valuable part of the creative process. "The act of sharing is one of generosity," he says, and I must assume he's never witnessed my karaoke performances.

The idea frightens me a little. Still, Austin Kleon is someone I consider a winner, so I've decided to follow his advice and start showing what I've got. I should mention this isn't my first rodeo with "putting myself out there." Each previous attempt was like riding a bike using body English to steeer--it never ends well.

All this talk of 'showing my work' and 'putting myself out there' reminds me of a Seinfeld episode where Kramer decides jockey shorts are too confining and boxer shorts are too baggy. 

When Jerry, horrified, says, "Oh no, Kramer! Tell me it isn't so," Kramer responds with, "Oh, it is so, Jerry. I'm out there, and I'm loving every minute of it!"

So here I am, metaphorically going commando with my writing. I'm out there, and I can only hope to love every minute of it—even if I end up in a ditch underneath a bicycle.

Indigo Wonder

It's like this," I said, explaining to Ms. Wonder why I was having trouble keeping up with her photography exhibits. "It's the sewer harpies I mentioned before. They're agents of pure evil, and they seem to be getting stronger. I think it has something to do with my giving up the reselling business."

Princess Amy

She closed her eyes, lifted her chin a couple of inches, and held up a hand, palm open as if to ward off any negative energy I might be emitting.

"If you're going on about soul vessels, Celtic goddesses, and Charlie Asher, just stop now. Your agents of evil are nothing more than Princess Amy. In fact, Amy is simply another term for your dysfunctional limbic system, but I can work with that." 

"But...," she continued, "listen carefully because what I'm about to say is the most important part. You need to understand this—there are no sewer harpies." 

"Mabd is the worst of them," I replied. "I can handle Macha and Nemain, but Mabd is pure evil." 

"Amy is just making all this up," the Wonder said, ignoring my comment. "You're blowing things out of proportion—these are just random events that have Amy worked up, and she tells you it's supernatural."

"I’ve heard all of that before," I said. "I’ve considered it and even believed it, or, if not truly believed it, I accepted it as good enough to get on with. I’ve told you before that it’s not the events themselves but how frequently they keep occurring that bothers me. Like the Demon King."

Once again, I saw eye-rolling, a lifted chin, and a deep breath, followed by an open palm. It reminded me of Arnold Schwarzenegger's famous line, "Talk to the hand."

"Let's get grounded, shall we?" asked the Wonder. She wasn't making a suggestion; she was getting down to business, and I realized paying attention would be in my best interest.

"First," she continued, "we need to address the demon king once and for all. I've told you a hundred times that the Thai water opera demon king you sold on eBay was not authentic. It was just a souvenir sold at the Bangkok airport."

"The solution to your problem," she continued, "is to find humor in the circumstances that trouble you. You're right to turn to The Circular Journey. What it lacks is consistency. My suggestion is to blog every day."

"Wise counsel, Wonder," I replied, and I genuinely meant it. She had touched on a truth that I hold dear but often overlook, as if I have more important things to focus on. "I will post every day."

"You're also doing the right thing by using music to lift your spirits. But you limit your listening to road trips. Why not listen more at home?"

"That's an excellent observation," I said, meaning it wholeheartedly. This piece of wisdom sparked something in me. "Continuous music," I declared.

"And finally," she said, "you're not socializing nearly enough. You seldom go to meetings. Your social life is limited to seeing Lupe and Claudia on random weekdays and Island Irv on Sunday mornings." 

The 'meetings' she referred to are a part of the recovery program for those who have abused alcohol and other substances, like the white powder we used to sprinkle in our hemp doobies.

"There are no lunch-hour meetings here in Waterford," I replied, "so with the Cape Fear bridge closed, I’ll be going to Southport for meetings instead. And just so you know, there are no recovery programs for coffee consumption, so I’ll continue to abuse caffeine--just saying."

"Oh," she said, as if suddenly receiving a jolt of information from the Akashic Record, "exercise and meditation are most important. You have a workout program, but you're not consistent. You need to make it a top priority."

"I refer to those activities as my Power Principles," I replied. "It's something I learned from SuperBetter."

I added that last part because I was beginning to feel like the student, and I much preferred being the teacher. I used to teach. In fact, I used to do a lot of things. Perhaps the core issue was the past tense. I'd feel better being the teacher rather than someone who used to teach.

"It's not important what you call them," she said, "as long as you practice them regularly."

I froze! What was she thinking? Not important what I called them? I watched her lips move as she continued to speak, but I heard nothing she said.

My mind had gone off track, caught in a tangled web of emotions, similar to the time I attempted to turn onto Old Thatcher Road as a teenager while riding my bike with my hands on my head. I don’t need to explain how that ended. 

Yet, my wondrous life partner was offering her wisdom of extraordinary possibilities. If you know me at all, you know that when Wonder speaks, I listen, and not only listen--I act!

First, I checked in with Princess Amy and found her in a good mood. Then, I renewed my commitment to taking sober, rational steps. "Reasonable action" is something we'll need to define as we go along—I don't have much experience with being reasonable. So, stay tuned to The Circular Journey for updates as they unfold.

I have a feeling that I'm onto something big!

Making Waves

You probably remember the story I told in a previous post about how I dove from atop the Armstrong Bridge railings as a rite of passage. The whole thing seems wondrous to me, even after all these years.  

You surely remember I had just turned thirteen, and in Shady Grove, that called for one of our hero labors, similar to those performed by Hercules. If you don’t remember reading that post, for God's sake, don't look for it now. Finish this post first. You can always look for it later. To leave before finishing this post would constitute a lapse in judgment. No offense intended.

You’re probably thinking, But Genome, you’re not the type to go in for platform diving. You’re more inclined to sit-on-the-couch-and-watch-Olympic-diving. And you’re right. I absolutely am. My spirit animal is a housecat stretched out in a sunbeam, batting lazily at life’s demands. But occasionally, life sneaks up behind you, shoves you off the metaphorical (or literal) bridge, and forces you to conform.

In this case, it was my daredevil friend’s birthday. She’d always wanted to outdo the boys, and as a card-carrying member of the Friends Code of Honor, I couldn’t sit on the railing and let her go alone. Who else would hold her hair back when she inevitably puked mid-jump? 

So there I was, standing on the top rail of the bridge, looking down at the water far below. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweaty, and I was 87% sure I’d made a huge mistake.

I’d love to say I faced my fears with grace and poise, but that would be a lie. I forced myself to go through with it, kicking, and screaming on the inside, and making a mental note to edit her out of my will. Still, I saw her giddy face, her uncontainable excitement as I climbed the rail, and I knew—against all my better instincts—I had to do it.

So, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and leaped. And you know what? It was…unreal. It was like hitting the reset button on my senses. Gravity and adrenaline teamed up to make me feel alive in a way I’d never experienced before. For a brief, glorious moment, I forgot all my worries. Plus, I managed to keep my breakfast down, which I consider a significant win.

Now, platform diving isn’t for everyone. In fact, for most people, it’s a firm no thanks. But the real takeaway here isn’t about flinging yourself off bridges—it’s about those moments in life when you just have to take a leap. Whether it’s diving, bungee jumping, asking for a raise, or admitting to someone you love them, there’s a thrill that comes with stepping out of your comfort zone. Life’s too short to sit back and wonder, What if?

That’s the type of thinking to convince Ms. Wonder and me to name 2025 The Year of Making Waves. We plan to climb up high enough to make a splash and then leap into a renewed way of life holding back nothing.

And let’s be honest: If you decide to plunge into the pool of limitless possibilities, maybe you’ll discover a hidden passion, snag that dream job, or sweep your true love off their feet. Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll find yourself high atop a bridge railing, wondering how you got talked into it, while your best friend screams joyfully beside you. Either way, you’ll have a story. And stories, my friends, are what make this whole wondrous, ridiculous ride worthwhile.