Every Day Should Be Just So

Joy cometh in the morning, or so the  psalmist tells us. But all things are relative. It wasn't a bad morning so long as I lay enquilted, if that's the word I want, in a mother's hand-sewn comfort, with a couple of cats and the remnants of my dreams.

"Poopsie, what's it like out?" I asked and immediately learned that I was right to assume that sounds of running water meant Ms Wonder was enjoying a dunk in a Volga tributary.

"Overcast and blustery," she said and I nodded--useless of course, as she was in the next room.

                                                           Zen garden at Straw Valley

No, not a bad little morning, but life doesn't loiter underneath the coverlets. It moves fast and eventually one must face the reality of gray skies and coolish breezes. 

The morning's meditation class was making it's last call before raising the curtain on today's performance. To drape myself in something loose and comfortable and flash from east to west along the southern corridor of Durham was for me the work of minutes.

Straw Valley was quiet. It was not expected to be a large class and expectations proved correct. I'd been notified by text and voicemail that about half the regular crew was otherwise engaged. No, not a large class but I didn't expect to be the only one there. 

Now, as you know well, I have no sympathy for those who whine. I brook no thought of surrender and my motto, well you know my motto, "Life comes fast and hard--be ready for anything."

Still, I don't want to mislead you. I hate as much as anyone the sock behind the ear that Fate delivers when I'm not looking. I may howl and chew the carpet when alone but the Genome is eternally bright and cheerful in public. 

When the light dims, I practice the three deep breaths, and with mindful clarity I am able to see reality. This mindful awareness has taught me that the most important gift in life is not enlightenment, nor is it joyful exuberance, and whatnot.

The most important gifts in life are Time and Place. And so, here was I with time for Fierce QiGong and a place for Fierce QiGong. 

I entered the Zen garden and performed Wuji Swimming Dragon. Under the arbor, I did Parting the Clouds. In front of the art wall--Embracing Heaven and Earth. It was in the middle of this that a young man and woman entered the courtyard with laptops and coffee.

                                        Entrance to bamboo grove

"Are you with the meditation class?" she said.

I admitted that I was the meditation class because she had caught me waving my arms around my head and it seem futile to deny it.

"Is that 'ki gong?' she said.

"Chi gung," I said because I always like to get it right.

"We were wondering about that," said the male half of the sketch.

"Wonder no more," I said, "just do what I do."

"Want to?" she said to him with eyes that sparkled like fireworks after a Durham Bull's game. Her smile to him was like the sun and he was her Chanticleer, ready to flap his wings and strut his stuff. 

They joined me and we worked our way around the courtyard until we came to the cabanas where another couple, friends of the first, joined in our party.

"This isn't what I expected meditation to be," said the new woman.

"Ah," I said, for the Genome is quick and I knew exactly where she was headed with this comment. "We have a few minutes left. Let's go inside and I'll introduce you to zazen." 

                                 Pulled Orange Blue-Andy Fleishman

No sooner had we entered the back room of Sanderson House when I realized that the room was not as empty as I'd left it. Another couple was enjoying coffee and scones was surprised to see us. After a few pour parlers, they had joined us on the floor in front of one of the paintings, Pulled Orange Blue, by Andy Fleishman.'

And so with a little acceptance and willingness to live life on life's terms, we not only bucked up the immune systems and improved the cognitive abilities, we had a great Sunday morning in the Courtyard. Every day should be just so.

Ho! The Emperor of Woodcroft!

It was early morning, if you remember that early is a relative thing, and I was enjoying a steaming cup of holiday blend when a figure appeared in the doorway of Dulce Cafe wearing a hat that only one in the South End would consider sporting. 

It was the Emperor of Woodcroft, as beneficent a tyrant as you can find nowadays. I joined him in line feeling that if one cup was good then a refill would be better.

"Ho!" he said and I didn't like it. All wrong the tone. "Swilling cocktails, eh?"

I could make nothing of this. "I fail to understand you," I said. "Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't this the hour one might expect to hear, 'Good morning?"

"Out to all hours last night?" he said.

I bridled at the accusation, at least I think I bridled. I'm not sure the meaning of the word but it sounds good.

"You will have to provide more detail," I said, "and I'm sure the explanation will hold me spellbound."

"I mean you were probably out until all hours last night coming in just before dawn and waking the entire neighborhood."

"It could scarcely have been later that 2:30 a.m. when I got home and I was seeing an old friend off to the spend the holiday in the Catskills." I said it with a good deal of hauteur, if hauteur is the word I want.

"Did you have a cold shower this morning?" he asked giving me the full effect of one eye.

"I have hot water," I said.

"Did you do Swedish exercises before breakfast?"

"I'm Danish. We don't indulge in such excess. At least my grandfather was Danish but I believe that entitles me to make the same claim."

"Then why do you look like something in the chorus of a touring revue?" he said.

"Ah," I said, "that's easy enough to answer. I just need a second cup of Jah's mercy this morning."

He seemed to consider this but after a few seconds his inward gaze turned out to settle in vicinity of the lower portions of my map. His expression was one generally found on someone who has just found caterpillars in the salad.

"Ho!" he said, "what's that?"

"Ah, you mean my goatee," I said. "It's just a kitten now, of course, but in time it will grow into something that adds a bit of espieglerie and I need all the espieglerie I can get. Do you like it?"

"No, it looks like a soup stain."

"Well, I like it," I said and I was now aware that others were listening and I felt that this conversation was becoming a bit sticky. I was ready to change the subject.

"What does Ms Wonder think of it?" he asked.

"Does it matter what others think?" I said with all the hatuer I could muster remembering that other bit of hauteur.

"That's good. She doesn't like it. You'll have to shave."

"I will not shave. I'm growing this bit of facial joy for the FHI fancy dress ball in January and it's going to be with me through the holidays. J'y suis, j'y reste about sums it up for me.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Up to you, of course, if you want to be an eyesore."

"An eyesore!"

"Eyesore is what I said."

I suddenly felt the need to practice the three deep breaths. First breath, power and balance to be ready for whatever life bungs my way. Second breath to remind me that I am enough for the present circumstances. Third breath to recognize that there is more good than bad in this moment.

"Ho!" he said a third time, "what's that on your chin?"

But this is where you came in I believe.

She Was Perfectly Correct

"What a beautiful day!" I said to Ms. Wonder who waded knee-deep in suitcases and socks, like a goddess of the sea cavorting on the rocky shore. "Packing?" I asked as if the ritual was unfamiliar to me. 

"Un-packing," she said for we keep no secrets between us. And it was at that moment that the dirty work of yesterday raised its ugly head and smirked at the joy that had greeted me when I woke. 

Every year, starting about the middle of October, there is a good deal of anxiety and apprehension among owners of the better-class country houses throughout coastal Carolina waiting to hear which one will get the Genome’s patronage for the holidays.

This year we had decided early, and a sigh of relief went up from a dozen stately homes, all listed on the Historic Register, as it became known that the short straw had been drawn by The Summerville Inn outside Charleston. 

And yet, scarcely 10 hours earlier, this daughter of the Russian revolution and I sat at William's Gourmet Kitchen—"It’s not fast food; it’s awesome food fast" —and we agreed that the outing was off.

Once again, Shakespeare has put the finger on the nub when he said, it's when you're feeling really good about the way things are going that Fate sneaks up behind you with a blunt instrument. Not a direct quote but it conveys the sentiment nicely. 

As if waking from a dreamless sleep, I gradually became aware that Ms. Wonder was looking at me as though waiting for an answer. 

"Hmm?" I said. 

"Did I hear you say something about aunts?" she said. 

"Did I say that out loud?" I asked. She nodded. 

"I was thinking about how the Aunts like to ambush and blackmail," I said. 

What I didn't say was that I felt like Count Orlov must have felt after Katherine the Great told him she never wanted to see him again in this world or the next and then opening the cupboards he found there was no more vodka.

We had originally come to the decision to give the Summerville Inn our custom for several reasons, not the least of which is the fact that we have visited and photographed the place for a number of travel articles back in the day when travel magazines paid for our vacations. 

We knew the browsing and sluicing would be above criticism and I was pleased that the owner speaks native French because, as I’m sure you know, les Francais pensent aussi admirablement qu’ils parlent. It translates to "the French think like they speak. I suppose the same can be said for most of us, now that I think about it.

All this, along with the assurance that no matter how close to the holidays we get, there will be no pressure to join a party of strangers and tramp around the village singing, 'Oh Come All Ye Faithful.' 

A deep silence ruled the next several moments after my crack about the aunts and blackmail. Then Ms. Wonder spoke. "Are you going to stand there all morning?" 

"There are times, Poopsie," I said, with a small tremble in the voice, "when one asks oneself if there is any point in making an effort." 

"The mood will pass," she said and I had to admit that she was probably right. 

I nodded in response but it had no chirpiness to it. It was the nod that Napoleon might have given in the Paris coffee shop on a morning in 1812 when someone said, Back from Moscow so soon?

"You know how it is," I said, "I'm in agreement with the general principle but I seem to be in neutral gear and having a little difficulty following through.

"I understand," she said, "it was much the same with Hamlet."

"I mean it's no use telling me," I said, "that there are good aunts and bad aunts. At the core, they're all alike. Sooner or later out pops the poisoned apple."

"Can't blame Fate," she said.

"Maybe not but I can blame Princess Amy," I countered. 

"Don't be a victim, abused by Amy," she said. "We may not be able to go out of town but we still have the time off and we can use it to refresh, rebuild, and reinvigorate."

"Poopsie," I said, "don't allow yourself to be lulled into dropping your guard. That's just what the Aunts want. Having a few days off isn't a gift, it's not a…."

"Amende honorable?" she said in the way this Russian spinoff has of wrapping things up in pretty packages with a French quote.

"I was going to say olive branch," I said.

"That works too," she said. "Virtually the same thing although the French expression may be slightly more exact since it carries the idea of remorse and restitution. But you can use olive branch if you prefer."

"Thank you," I said.

"Not at all," she said.

"I suppose you know that you made me forget what I was saying," I said.

"Oh, so sorry. I shouldn't have interrupted you."

"No worries," I said. "Because, whether an olive branch or whatever, it’s neither here nor there and doesn't matter a single, solitary damn."

"Still," she said, "there it is." And I had to admit that once again she was perfectly correct.

Joy Cometh in the Morning

"You know, the longer I live, the more I feel that the great wheeze in life is to be jolly well sure of what you want."
                                                                       -- Bertie Wooster

I wonder if you are familiar with the works of the poet Browning. It is his words that I remember each morning in my attempt to put the proper English on the day. The lark is on the wing, the snail, the thorn; God is in his Heaven and the bluebird is strutting her stuff. Or words to that effect.

If you've no time for poets, Browning or otherwise, then you might string along with the psalmist who said, "Joy cometh in the morning." That about sums it up for me. No matter how active the slings, no matter how thick the air with arrows, when the new day arrives, it frees us from the limitations of yesterday.

But I confess this was not my mood as I upholstered the outer crust for meditation in the courtyard at Straw Valley this past weekend. It was a somber morning full of thoughts on what life was to be like without Lucy in the house. Somber yes but the Genome does not eat pine needles and he maintains zero tolerance for the activities of Princess Amy, as I'm sure I don't have to remind you.

I was more or less a thing of fire and steel as I drove through the streets of the Renaissance District and blew into the doors of Dulce Cafe. I don't suppose I've been this close in years to shouting the ancient battle cry of the Jarls but just as the the mouth opened to vent, I spotted a familiar form in the shadows.

"Morning, Vinnie," I cried to The Enforcer causing him to miss the lips and dribble coffee down the chin. His reaction was much like the warhorse upon hearing the bugles, not that I've seen them first hand mind you, but I'm told that they start, they quiver, they paw the field and rejoice in their strength saying, "Ha ha" among the trumpets. Well, give or take a "Ha" or two, that was pretty much Vinnie.

I took my seat with Ms Wonder on one side and The Enforcer on the other with the feeling that these two had been ordained from the beginning to be with me on this morning. As the storm raged in the soul, I was seated at a table with the civilian equivalent of the United States Marines. All would be well is the thought that filled the coconut.

After a few minutes talking of this and that, something caught my attention coming through the door.  "What's wrong?" asked the Wonder, looking at me with concern. "You look like a startled cat." Then she said something about it being very becoming on me. But I barely heard the words.

There are times, to be sure, when one with a burden of woe is happy to welcome any acquaintance to the table, even a disambiguated one with a marked resemblance to a barnyard fowl, but this morning wasn't one of them. What I found particularly irksome in the Duck Man was the look he wore of owning the world and having paid cash for it, avoiding finance charges.

When he took his seat, he opened a discourse on a subject of interest only to him and he refused to relinquish the floor even when vigorously opposed. In fact, he seemed to relish the opportunity to offend. 

Even when Mary arrived--the good and deserving Mary who always has something of interest to say and who always leaves us feeling encouraged and optimistic, even this Mary was buffeted by the Duck Man's insistence on attention.

"Please join us," I said to Mary hoping against hope that we could turn the tide of avian impersonators and save the morning. "I'm sorry," she said, "I need to hurry home and get ready for church." As she walked away, Vinnie gave the Duck Man a quick glance and then called out to Mary, "Pray for us, Mary."

That having been accomplished, I pushed off and got on with meditation in the courtyard. Live comes hard and fast--accept any help that comes your way, no matter the source.