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 and what? But 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, and already, the forest canopy, lush and towering, closed in around us. Ms. Wonder walked ahead of me, closely surveying the terrain. She was undoubtedly wary of the danger posed by spiders, bees, and snakes. I know I was.

"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. 

I'm An Influencer!

"What are you working on?" said the woman sitting next to me at the window counter. It was Claudia, one of the regulars at Luna Caffe'.

"My blog," I said.

"You've got a blog?"

"Sure, everyone's got a blog."

"I don't," she said. 

"Well, you should start one,” I said, “and get a cat if you don't have one. Cats make blogging easier--they make everything easier. Come to think of it," I said, "you should get two cats. You need a makeover anyway."

A concerned wrinkle furrowed her brow. She looked down at her shoes. She shot her sleeves. She smoothed the front of her jeans. Then she stroked her hair and glanced about the room.

I immediately realized I’d blundered in my choice of words. I didn't want to be rude. After all, she’s a regular here, like me, which makes us practically members of the same social club.

"I meant to say do-ver, not makeover. You would benefit from a change in your life,” I said. “That's why I recommend two cats."

I thought that would smooth things over, but the atmosphere remained strained, calling for a change of subject matter.

"I have a blog," I said, “and it has changed my life in so many ways. In fact, I'm thinking of becoming an influencer. Many bloggers are, you know."

"How do you become an influencer?" she asked after finally settling in at the window.

"I don't know," I said, "but there are people on YouTube explaining how to do all sorts of things. And if anyone can influence the hell out of stuff, it's me. I'm a natural influencer."

"No doubt," she said but her words didn't have zing.

"Can I help you," said a voice from behind me.

"Maybe," I said.

"I was talking to her," said Bijou, the master barista and the artist who painted the Caffe's murals. She's a true artist, which you can confirm from the image attached to this post.

Claudia took Bijou's appearance to shake her head and walk away into the throng of customers. A lost gazelle, I thought.

"What's your blog about," asked Bijou.

"My daily life," I said. "My blog is about my daily life," I repeated the daily life part in case she'd forgotten what we were talking about or had misunderstood my meaning the first time I said it.

"Oh, like a memoir?" she said. Damn! I thought. I was so careful to be understood and still missed the mark.

"Not a memoir," I said. "I write about my everyday life; the people I meet, the conversations we have--stuff like that."

"No way!" she said. "You can write a blog about everyday stuff? That's like Seinfeld! A blog about nothing."

Nothing? I thought. Really! Does she think my life amounts to nothing? I'll have to check with Kierkegaard and Nietzsche to see what they say. Better yet, I'll defer to Sabine Hossenfelder--she wrote a book about existential physics.

"I write about the barely tolerable loonies I meet," I said. "I exaggerate the absurdities in my social interactions to make them funny." My unspoken words were, I’ll make her think nothing!

Her ears perked up at hearing some of the nitty-gritty of The Circular Journey, and I began to warm up to the subject even more.

"For example," I said. "The general public strikes me as those who have bust-ups with their families and run away to places like California or New York to recover. Human beings can be so disappointing." 

"Disappointing, for sure," she said, "but I guess that's why God made hair extensions and purple hair dye--sometimes the only option is to compensate."

"But no matter the extent or degree of the nonsense," I said. "I always close each post by distributing happy endings all around. Always spread goodness and light, is my motto.”

"Dope!" she said, and I would have been offended if not for the upbeat way she said it.

"I want to write a blog," she announced, and her words instantly lifted my mood to one of silly joy. 

"What's your blog called?" she said. "I want to read it to see how you do it."

And just like that, I became an influencer. I never thought it could be so easy. It's another example of what I always say, “In the course of life, you just never know!"

Keep On the Sunny Side

Sunshine stole across the mews from the general direction of the Atlantic Ocean, not that it was remarkable in any way. I mean, I'm damned if I know how it's done--smoke and mirrors probably--but that old sun rises each and every morning and has done so for a good long time if what I read is true. 

Statistically, it has to fail one day soon, of course, but the Genome doesn't plan to be around when it does. If you're smart--and I readily accept that you are smart because you frequent these pages on The Circular Journey--you'll book your getaway with me.

But, as I say, sunshine stole across the mews, and then it oozed its way onto the grounds of Chadsford Hall. It made its way up the outside wall to the second-floor bedroom window, and if you're wondering how such a thing could happen, you won't be surprised to learn that I, too, wonder how. Perhaps it climbs up the waterspout. the gates and o

The morning was a perfect ringer for the one we'd been waiting for, and we had a song in our hearts when we rose and began preparing for our trip. I'm not exaggerating when I say the general mood was bumpsie-daisy.

Twenty years ago this month, Ms. Wonder and I published our first travel article in the Birmingham News. And now we were on our way to those same Eden-like gardens to do yet another article, one that our biographers may refer to as "Brookgreen Gardens: Then and Now."

The Genome that waded through a half-dozen cats and padded across the Persian carpet was not the usual Genome. The spirit was soaring. I may have sung a few lines of "59th Street Bridge Song" and if I didn't sing them, I surely hummed a few bars.

When I reached the sal de bains, I entered a world of mists and fruitful mellowness, and I expected to find Ms. Wonder in attendance. I was not disappointed. She was there, bubble-covered and lilac-scented to the core.

"Good morning," I called into the billows of steam.

"Oh, you startled me," she said.

"Not like you startled me," I said, "I thought you were Venus, rising from the sea."

"You came to bed late," she said.

"Went for a walk in the garden," I said.

"Good for you," she said, "the garden is nice late in the evening. Very soothing."

"That's your view, is it?"

"And the stars," she said.

"What about the stars?"

"You know," she said, "the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold."

I immediately realized the conversation was coming dangerously close to saying something about the blessed damozel leaning out from the gold bar of heaven. I decided to take prompt action through the proper channels to prevent it.

"Poopsie," I said.

"How does it go?" she asked, "the smallest orb in his motion like an angel sings..."

"Poopsie."

Such harmony is in immortal souls..."

"Poopsie!" I cried and the sound of my voice dislodged a cat from a bubble cloud at the foot of the tub. It turned out to be Eddy. The cat I mean, I don't have names for bubble clouds.

"What?" said the Blessed Damozel.

"You couldn't possibly put a sock in the floor of heaven, could you?"

"Sorry," she said. "Not in a good mood then?"

"I've been loonier," I said.

"I'll say," she said.

"Pardon me?" I said.

"Looney to the eyebrows," she said.

"I'm in the room," I said. "I can hear you."

"Sorry," she said, "Are you still thinking about the lost opportunity at Straw Valley?"

"Definitely, not," I said. "I work through these little setbacks and then get on with life. Live for today, is my motto."

"Still," she said, "It's a sad thing to lose a gazelle."

"Ms. Wonder," I said, "don't try me too high. I'm not in the mood to discuss losing gazelles."

"Over it then?" she said.

"No doubt about it. Fierce living is the thing you know. Take life just as it's hurled at you." I said.

"Good," she said, holding out a shapely arm with the expectation that the Genome would put a towel in it. "That means it's a good day for a trip to the low country. Let's get ours while the getting's good."

"I'm with you," I said. Sometimes all it takes to turn the tide is being with people who are on your side. Try it now is my suggestion, and if you have trouble finding someone, don't worry; I'm here for you.