The Gift of Today

"Poopsie!" I cried. 

Just to be clear, when I say that I cried I don't mean that I boo-hooed. Certainly not. The Genomes never shed tears, unless the situation calls for tears, and in those times we cry like the dickens. But, as I say, this time was not one of those times.

What I meant to say is that I called out the nom de plume in a loud voice because Ms. Wonder was in her upstairs office where she first constructs what must be elaborate plans and then performs the many mysterious wonders that are cause for celebration far and wide.

I waited for a reply but it never came. Nothing to worry about; she seldom replies when I yoo-hoo up the staircase.

And let me pause here for a bit of station identification and say that those of you who are composing critical comments about my "yoo-hooing up the stairs" should be ashamed of yourselves, especially if you're members of the inner circle. Such behavior is not becoming of someone who aspires to the level of preu chevalier.

And coming back to our original programming, let me explain that I knew her silence meant she was up to her eyebrows in corporate stuff and had no time for off-topic discussions. It left me with no other choice but to bound up the stairs and enter her sanctum.

I stopped in the doorway and waited for her to look at me. Eventually after a few false starts, she did look at me.

"Each day is a gift, Wonder," I said. "A unique and very special gift that we must live to the fullest. No matter what life bungs into the waking hours, it's still the same day. "

"And?" she said. You will note the obvious lack of interest, not so much as mild curiosity in her response. I didn't like the implications but life seemed to think it necessary and so I accepted it and moved on.

"You've heard me say many times, Poopsie, that life is a prankster. She leads you to think that you've got a bit of apple pie coming your way and then, when you're not looking, it's a pie in the face."

At this point in the conversation, her face took on a look of resignation. She sighed deeply like someone who just learned that her day off was forecast to be overcast with a 60% chance of rain.

The image before my eyes of my one-and-only Ms. Wonder with a look of despair, ever so mild but still.... It was too much. I forgot what I'd come upstairs to tell her. She alone seemed worthy of attention in the present moment.

Princess Amy said, "No, no, no! It's about us, remember?"

"I'm sorry, Amy," I said. "Sometimes it's best to think of others. This time is one of those times."

"Did you say something?" asked the Wonder.

"Just thinking out loud," I said. "How about an afternoon off?" I said. "I was thinking about a trip to Holden Beach to look for some of those 40-million-year-old fossilized whatsits that you're so fond of."

"Saddle up Wind Horse," she said. "I'm logging out, now. With any luck the clouds will clear and we can hang around to watch the sun set."

"I think the clouds have already begun clearing," I said.

Why Write At All?

From my earliest years, I wanted to be a writer. It was not that I had any particular message for humanity. I just wanted to write something light and humorous to make me feel better about my own dreary life and maybe those stories would help someone with a similar life to feel better about theirs.

Crivens!

There was a brief period in my late teen years when my writing teachers in school convinced me that I had some talent and should keep writing. Their encouragement, which I am grateful for, allowed me to think that a muse had called to me and was silently urging me to share the stories in my head. I realize now that if I ever received a call from a muse, it was the wrong number. 

Thank you to P.G. Wodehouse for that bit of wordplay.

It's good that I didn't have a message for the world in mind because, after all these years of writing, not a glimmer of a message has appeared. Unless I get hotted up in retirement, I fear that humanity will remain a message short.”

Whatever the reason, and even if there is no reason, I continue to write.

I have many writing friends who seem to be under a lot of pressure to turn out perfectly crafted stories. Not me. I like to look at my stories as musical comedies. I begin with real-life experiences and then look for ways to make them humorous but there must be something genuinely quirky about the actual event. 

When I find the absurdity, I exaggerate it but I don't make things up just to be funny. That's why I sometimes go through a dry spell with nothing to write.

When I can laugh at the circumstances that first caused me anxiety, anger, or embarrassment, I feel that I have some control over my quality of life. If I exaggerate the events to make them funnier, so what? I don't really give a damn. The time for concern for me is when I can't find anything amusing in my daily life.

And so I don't worry about the exaggeration. The story is still true, just a bit more interesting. The Nac Mac Feagals, a race of wee people created by Terry Pratchett, would offer two versions of any story when asked for an explanation. One story contained only the facts. The one the Wee People preferred had elves and dragons woven into it. When people asked for the bare facts the Nac Mac Feegle would show their disapproval by exclaiming, 

Crivens!

Don't you agree that the Elvish and Dragon version offers greater possibility for entertainment?

I suppose the greatest benefit that comes from fictionalizing my daily life is that it gives me some distance from the otherwise uncomfortable nearness of dark, foreboding thoughts. I can detach myself from the tyranny of emotional disorders.

In that calm, friendly, sometimes funny space that comes from detachment, I can find hope for today and purpose in tomorrow.

Power Principles

"It's like this," I said, explaining to Ms. Wonder why I was having trouble keeping abreast of her photography exhibits.

"It's the sewer harpies that I've mentioned before. They're agents of pure evil and they seem to be getting stronger. I'm thinking that 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, facing me as if to ward off any negative influence coming from my direction.

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

"Is yammering the appropriate word, Poopsie, considering my struggle to keep my head above the clouds?"

 "But," she continued, "and listen carefully because what follows is the most important part. You must get your head around this--there are no sewer harpies."

"Mabd is the worst of them," I said. "I can deal with Macha and Nemain, but Mabd--pure evil."

"Amy is making all this stuff up," she went on as though I'd said nothing. "It's all simply natural, random, happenings that Amy misinterprets as supernatural."

"I've heard all that before," I said. "I've considered it, even believed it. Then again, I'm not sure that I ever really believed it; rather I accepted it as good enough to be getting on with. As I've mentioned several times, it's not so much the events that prove an evil intent as much as the frequency of their popping up. Like the demon king in a Thai water opera."

Once more, the rolling eyes, the lifted chin, a deep breath this time, and then the open palm. Reminds me of Arnold Schwarzenegger and his famous line from the film Terminator 2: Talk to the hand."

"Let's get grounded, shall we?" asked the Wonder. She wasn't suggesting anything, she was getting down to business and I realized that if I knew what was good for me, I'd pay close attention.

"The solutions," she said, "are, first of all, to look for humor in the situations that trouble you. You're on target with The Circular Journey. All that's needed there is a bit more regularity. Blogging every day is my suggestion."

"Wise counsel, Wonder," I said, "I'll post every day."

"You're also doing the right thing by relying on music to cheer you. But most of your listening is done in your car when running errands. Why not listen more at home?"

"Excellent observation," I said and I meant it. This little nugget of wisdom had lit a fire under me. "Continuous music," I said.

"And finally," she said, "socializing. You're falling down on the amount of time you spend with others. You rarely go to meetings and your social gatherings are limited to Native Grounds Cafe with Lupe on weekdays and Island Irv on Sunday mornings."

The meetings she mentioned, if you're new here, are recovery program meetings for those who abused alcohol and other substances like the white powder that we used to sprinkle in our hemp doobies. There are different programs for the two but I combine them into one. More convenient, fewer meetings."

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

"Oh," she said as if suddenly receiving a jolt of information from the Akashic Record, "exercise is one of the most important practices. You have a good workout program. You're just not consistent. Meditation is part of your morning outing in Brunswick Forest but you're not any more consistent there than you've been in the other routines. Make it a top priority."

"I call those activities my Power Principles," I said. "It's something I picked up from SuperBetter."

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

I reeled! Was it possible that after all these years, that wonderful brain of hers had come undone? Not important what I call them?  I watched her lips move as she continued to speak but I heard no sound. 

My mind had jumped the rails and was mired in the drainage ditch of my limbic pathways, not unlike the spoiler I made as a young teen when I, bike riding with my hands on my head, tried to make the turn onto Old Thatcher Road using body English only. Well, I don't need to tell you how that day turned out.

I couldn't wait to take the subject up with Lupe in our next Native Grounds meet-up. Lupe's counsel is the next best thing to Wonder's mysterious ways and it's no secret why. She cubbed under the Wonder after all. Stay tuned to The Circular Journey and I'll update you on developments as they occur.

Something tells me that we're onto something big.

Where Am I Going?

The Circular Journey is a blog that I use as a sort of journal to record my attempts to become the very best me that I can be. And yes, despite the numerous indications to the contrary, I do try to become a better version of myself. I like to say that I try to escape the limitations of yesterday. 

Despite what Marie Forleo, Gary Vee, and  Seth Godin would have me believe, as inspiring as they certainly are, progress is a slow, difficult, and inconsistent process. It also, for some mysterious reason, causes me to write long, rambling sentences.

Sarah Hall assures me that there is a vast, universal intelligence that loves me and wants only what's best for me. That intelligence is bombarding the entire world with a loving energy that will upgrade our chakras and help us to ascend. 

I'm not sure if ascending means that we're rising to a higher dimension of existence, or whether we'll experience a higher level of consciousness. I'm not even sure what a higher level of consciousness means.

Whatever she means by that higher-level stuff, it makes me feel better to hear her say it even though I don't know what she's talking about.

And even though I like to listen to her messages from the angels, the help we receive from this all-loving and all-powerful being doesn't make the process any easier or faster.

It would be so nice to say a few affirmations, declare a clear, coherent intention, and become transformed into a new and better mindset. They do it in movies.

The gist of the matter is that although I don't know where I'm going, I do know where I've been and I don't like it there. Until the day I arrive at where I'd like to be, I'll keep working step by step on my self-improvement journey--the circular journey--until I get good enough to qualify for a better go of it in my next life.

Never Too Late

"Poopsie," I said, "I'm surrendering to Life and intend to live life on life's terms, as the saying goes. I'm convinced it's the only way to win freedom from the limitations of the past and my only chance to be reborn through the transformative power of Rumi."

Gene Jirlds Copyright 2000 - 2024

"What are you talking about, if anything," she said, "and why are you talking so fast? Have you relapsed? Are you into the fairy dust?"

"Wonder!" I said. Or perhaps exclaimed is a better word. "I'm shocked that you'd think such a thing. I am as clean and sober as damn it. I happen to be a little more sane, if anything. As for talking fast, you'd talk fast too if you were as excited as I am. I am finally free of the tyranny of desire."

"I'm guessing that you're referring to the Buddha's argument that desire is the root of all suffering. I suppose there is truth in it as long as one considers the qualifiers."

A short period of silence followed her words while she waited for my response and tried to come up with one. It wasn't easy on short notice after that crack she made about the Buddha.

"Why do you think that giving up your dreams will make you happy?" she said after waiting a polite moment for my response that never came.

"You speak of dreams," I said, "but what if they're actually illusions? And who needs dreams anyway? I have my memories of once having it all and I shall always treasure them. In the mid-eighties, I was the rock star of systems design at the NASA Johnson Space Center in Houston."

Thinking of those days as I spoke to her momentarily took me to a happy place. "Those were the days, Poopsie," I said.

"And so now, you plan to give up the chance of becoming a rock star once again and instead, you will eat pine needles for the first time in your life."

"What did you say, Wonder? Eat pine needles?"

Well, correct me if I'm wrong," she said, "but it sounds as though you intend to give up, right? You're going to surrender to whatever life brings your way. That sounds very much like quitting to me."

"Eat pine needles," I said and I mused as I said it. It was a shocking idea for someone like me who has lived a full life under the flag of I Shall Not Eat Them. 

"That's the gist of it, isn't it?" I said.  "But tell me, what can I do when a vast conspiracy continues to thwart my best efforts? A conspiracy that involves the complex coordination of multiple interacting agents."

"Have you considered simply following your bliss and forgetting about the outcome?"

"Are you suggesting something along the lines of damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead?

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting. To quote Beignet Lafayette when wearing his magic sunglasses, Let's do it!"

"Do you really think it's possible?" I said.

"I'm certain of it," she said. "I believe in you, even when you doubt, and I believe, as someone once said, It's never too late for now!

"I love that!" I said. "It's never too late! Possibly one of Shakespeare's gags." 

And with that, I was down the stairs and out the door but I heard her exclaim, ere I drove out of sight...

"Fierce Qigong, Genome!"