Almost Is Not Enough

It was early morning on the day of the first 9:30 am meditation class that I was to lead at Straw Valley. I'd worked hard for this slot and had every reason to be happy with myself but I wasn't. Instead, I was filled with a nameless dread. I feared that the students would object to the earlier starting time and not be there when the class began. 

We Genomes are men of steel, ask anyone, and yet sometimes, strangely, we struggle to maintain the stiff upper lip.

"Poopsie, I'm not the merry old self this morning," I said.

"Really?"

"Nope. Far from it."

"I'm sorry to hear it," she said.

"But why, is what I ask myself," I said.

"I couldn't say," she said and for the first time since the conversation began, I noticed that she was devoting all her attention to Eddy. I began to wonder if this was the time for playing with kittens. A little more of the rally-round spirit would have suited me.

"It could be that Princess Amy is messing around with the lipid cocktail again." I said, "Or it could be that I'm worried about a gang of students showing up at 10:00 and when they learn that I'm halfway through the meditation portion of the program, they begin throwing chairs around and trampling through the bamboo grove."

"You mean to say halfway through the meditation class," she said.

"What did I say?"

"You said meditation portion."

"That's what I meant to say," I said. "I wonder why Princess Amy gives me such a hard time? After all, we're technically one and the same."

"Difficult to say," she said.

This Amy I speak of always has something sinister in mind for me. And it isn't like I stiffen the neck and kick about it. I usually go along with just about everything she asks--living life on life's terms and all that. The only time I balk is when she starts ladling out that not-good-enough nonsense.

She loves to remind me that I was always missing the mark as a kid. I wasn't a very good student, always preferring the outdoors to the classroom. I wasn't a good athlete, always being the last kid chosen for the team. I was smaller than the average and I learned quite early that staying away from the ball was a really good survival technique.

"I have to leave now," said Ms. Wonder, "I've got to hang that art exhibit."

"Yes, I remember," I said, "And when does it come down?"

"End of the year," she said. "It's like you always say."

"What is?"

"The art exhibit," she said, "It's like everything else--it arises, it abides for a moment, and then it passes away. Maybe your feelings of impending doom will be like that too."

It's amazing how prescient, this woman can be if prescient is the word I want, because half an hour into the meditation class, everyone was sitting quietly, listening to the bamboo leaves rustling in the breeze. Not a single chair was bunged about nor a single drop of blood spilled. I remember thinking how odd it was.

After repeating the goodbyes and passing around the happy endings, I remembered something Ms. Wonder often says, "Our anxious anticipation of future events is almost always worse than what actually happens."

I don't know where she gets these things but I'm sure she has a million of them. And like most of them, this particular one is a good thing to keep in mind. Not that it completely calms the anxious mind but it helps. 

The shortcoming of course, which I'm sure you caught right away, is that annoying little word, almost.

Uncommon Sense

Sometimes the best choice is one that just doesn't make sense. And it can be damned difficult, if not impossible, to get anyone else to see the reason for making that choice. Take my conversation with Ms. Wonder just this morning. 

"Poopsie," I said, "I'm going to Lowe's Home Improvement in Shallotte this morning so if there's anything you need in the way of hardware joy, just point to it and it's yours."

"Oh," she said in a dreamy sort of way, "The Lady of Shalott."

"No," I said, perhaps a little too loudly but only because I saw immediately what was about to happen and I was anxious to prevent it. This Wonder, although gifted with the most amazing brain--it must be a size 10 if an inch--can sometimes leave her stable orbit and fly off into deep space like an electron escaping the pull of the proton. 

"No, not Shalott," I said, "the word is Shallotte. Listen to the difference: you said, Shalott, but I said Shallotte. I'm going to the Lowe's hardware store, not the Lowe's food store, in Shallotte, the village about 2o miles away. And do you know why I'm going to drive 20 miles when I could drive as little as 10 miles to the Lowe's in Wilmington?"

"No," she said, "but do you know why the lady left the confines of the tower on her island prison? It was because she chose to look at reality rather than the shadowy reflection in her mirror. In other words, she chose to live life as it comes rather than pretend."

"Yes, that's all very well," I said, "and I'm sure it was the best decision for her at the time--proper steps through the proper channels and all that--but it has nothing to do with the subject at hand."

"She saw Lancelot," she said with an even more dreamy voice. "And Tennyson doesn't tell us in the poem but I'm sure she fell in love with Lancelot at first glance and thought she must see him again even if the mysterious curse took her life."

"All in the blue unclouded weather," she recited and continued with some guff about Lancelot's saddle leather and helmet feathers burning like one flame, and whatnot.

"The Lowe's in Wilmington may be half the distance to Shallotte but the drive time is double."

"Out flew the web and floated wide," she continued with a spirited waving of the arms.

"Poopsie," I said in hopes of cutting this diversion short, but it didn't work. Never does. Don't know why I continue to try.

"The mirror crack'd from side to side; The curse is come upon me, cried The Lady of Shalott."

The timbre of her voice and the look in her eyes told me that she was possibly under the influence of the spirit. It's a phenomenon not unlike voodoo practitioners when they are ridden by the loa while in trance.

"Surely the term is not is come upon me," I offered. "Perhaps comes upon me or even has come upon me. Don't you think?"

"She lay in a boat and allowed the stream to carry her to Camelot," she said. "Tennyson says that she wrote her name on the boat. I wonder why she did that."

"Perhaps to make it easier to find among all the other boats when she was ready to leave," I said.

"I think the boat with her name was symbolic of the strict role women were forced to play in the 19th century when Tennyson was writing."

I decided to try once more to get back to the subject. I knew that chances were slim but sometimes you just have to do whatever you can muster.

"She may have arrived during rush hour on the river," I said. "A lot of traffic."

"There was no traffic on the river," she said. "At least Tennyson didn't mention it."

"Probably just an oversight," I said. " Did he mention that the road to Shallotte is a 4-lane highway with no traffic lights?"

"You can't mean Camelot," she said. I'm certain it was a single-track dirt road unless...are you implying that the road may have been one built by the Romans when they occupied Britain?"

"I'm talking about the drive down Ocean Highway to Shallotte, not the road to Camelot."

"When Lancelot saw her, he thought she was very beautiful. He said, She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace...."

"I'm talking about why I'm driving 20 miles to Shallotte when I could drive a mere 10 miles to Wilmington."

"Then you'd better get started," she said, "the Lady of Shalott was dead when she arrived."

"I'm not sure what you mean by that," I said, "but I'm sure I don't like it."

And with that, I wished her a ta-ta and ankled out the door. In mere minutes I was on the Ocean Highway, windows down, 38-Special singing Caught Up In You, and the volume turned up to 11. Halfway through the song, I felt the way I'm sure Donnie Van Zant must have felt during the recording sessions for the Special Forces album.

And now I'm sure you see why I began this post by saying that sometimes the best path is to forget common sense and rely instead on the uncommon variety.

All About Nothing

After a bit of morning inspiration from the Muse, I walked onto the screened porch where I found Ms Wonder deep in meditation with the octopus, Olivia. Not a real octopus, you understand, merely an understudy.

"This morning I plan to blog about nothing," I said.

"That's it," she said. "Not good morning, Miss Wonderful? Just walk out and begin talking about nothing?"

I held up a hand to indicate that what I was about to say was off topic and not to become the topic. "Not Miss Wonderful," I said. "That would be the love interest of a boy in middle school. Ms Wonder is the correct sobriquet and it's an honorific for one who works in mysterious ways her wonders to perform. 

She clicked her tongue, got off her meditation cushion, and gave me a couple of whacks on the back. "Feel better now?" she said. "Think you can talk like a 21st century Carolinian?"

"Did you say, Canadian?" 

"Carolinian," is what I said.

"Then I'll try," I said. "I don't think I could manage Canadian this early in the day. It's the dipthongs."

"Oh, God, help me," she said and it did leave me wondering why but you're surely aware that this woman, no matter how strong a leading lady she may be, loves to practice subterfuge and misdirection and it's my job to ignore it. Still, I wonder why she said, 'Oh, God, help me'. 

"At any rate," I said, "the Muse reminded me about de nihilo nihilum, blah, blah, blah..."

Now she held up a hand. "Please," she said. "It's way too early in the morning for this conversation. Table it for the afternoon. Maybe I'll be ready to listen after a walk around the lake."

Well, I don't have to explain to you how that made me feel. A blow too low was my opinion. Too early for conversation! What would you have done in my position? Not that you ever are, of course.

I chose to end the conversation and you would have done the same, I'm sure if you were in the same situation. After all, we aren't orangutans or howler monkeys. No offense, if you're partial to our primate cousins. I merely use them as examples of what we're not.

I took a seat on the sofa and made preparations for the arrival of a cat. In seconds, there was a cat. But not from nothing. There was an unseen, unknown cat and then there was a known cat. Do you see where I'm going with this?

"What did you say about a cat?" she said and I was as surprised as you are. I remember wondering if I'd spoken out loud.

"Not a cat," I said. "I'm thinking about the big bang. First, there was no universe and then there was. Do you see what I mean?"

"Oh, I love that show," she said. "Have you seen the one where they go to the Star Trek convention?"

"No, no, no! Not the Big Bang Theory! It's the beginning of everything that I'm thinking about!"

"Oh, I get it,' she said. "You're talking about something coming from nothing."

"Yes!" I said. "Thank you. I'm talking about the Catholic concept of creatio ex nihilo or..."

"No, you're not," she said, "and stop talking in italics. You're planning, unless I miss my guess, to begin some deep drivel about how the universe could not come from nothing. Because only nothing comes from nothing. 

You probably want to make the argument that the very idea of something from nothing requires some all-powerful outside force with conscious intent. 

You probably want to say something like, the latest scientific thinking about the big bang is built on the foundations of the same original miracle upon which the Catholic concept of creation is built. Am I right?"

"Well, yes, since you put it like that," I said.

"Let there be!" she said with a grand flourish. "BIG Bang!"

I stared at the woman and I was speechless. Once again, when I thought I had a new perspective to share, she demonstrated that she knows everything. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me.

No, I shouldn't be surprised because I've learned that she knows all about any subject you throw her way. Still, I thought it might be fun to test her once again.

"Poopsie," I said, "you remember that thing I quoted when this conversation began?"

"You mean, from nothing, nothing can come?" That quote? Persius," she said. "Probably Etruscan."

"Like the Gherardinis," I said.

"Don't flatter yourself," she said. "It's not like they were your grandparents, or anything." Then seeing, no doubt, the shadow that moved across my face, she added, "But there is hope for you yet."

"Of course," I said. But I didn't say it with any real chirpiness. 

"See?" she said, and I had no idea then, and I still have no idea what she meant by it.

"By the way," I said, "I get that Persius guy confused with Perseus, the one that whacked off the Medusa's head.

"I know, you do," she said and then in her characteristic way she changed the subject like changing the sheets. "Let's go to Lake Gaston. The Virginia side this time," she said.

"Of course, the Virginia side," I said. "I care only for your happiness, Wonder."

"Sure you do," she said, and I was happy that we could finally agree on something.