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!"

I Believe in Magic

Moonlight fell softly like a quiet rain outside my bedroom window and I lay awake watching Abbie as he watched the moonlight. And he did watch the light, quietly, intently, and with a singular purpose. There was just enough pale illumination to outline his ears, ever alert, to the sounds of early morning silence. His eyes, wide open, and curious, reflected the magic of a nearly full moon, and I was able to appreciate that magic as a reflection of his fascination.

It has always been this way since he arrived in our lives. He was only a few months old when we adopted him. The name on his passport reads, Abracadabra, named by the 8 year-old daughter of the foster family that cared for him as a kitten. It seems only a few months ago that Ms Wonder sent a photo to me of a little black and white guy, the markings that we call a tuxedo--black waistcoat, white ascot, white gloves, white spats. Very formal.

Although it has been at least 10 years, I still remember that photo in detail. His eyes were wide and round, as though the world he saw through those eyes was full of fascination and wonder. It was magic at first sight.

I was instantly in love with him. But no, it was something more than love. The wonder that filled his eyes was infectious! I wanted to see the world the way he saw it and I knew I had to have him in my life. We made it so.

We call him Abbie, but his name is Abracadabra, just as the 8-year-old named him. She seemed to feel it imperative that we know everything about him that she knew--the games he liked, the food, the way he preferred to be petted. We understood the emotion that caused her to insist that we care for him the way she had. We understood perfectly. It's like being enchanted by fairy music. Once you enter fairyland, you never want to come back.

We considered Abbie a loner when he first came to live with us. A loner and an explorer. I suppose one would feel compelled to explore if infected by the wonder-lust reflected in those eyes. One of his favorite spots to explore was the top of the kitchen cabinets. Many times, when counting cats before leaving home--an activity I highly recommend when you live with 5 cats--I would wander the house calling Abbie! Abbie! At last, remembering to look up, there he would be, atop the kitchen cabinets, watching me. Wonder eyed!

Although the other four cats accepted a routine of twice-daily feedings, Abbie preferred small meals, several times each day. He somehow convinced me to willingly comply with his wishes. For the last 10 years, I've gotten up at least twice during the night to feed him. And the amazing part, the wondrous part, is that it never bothered me. Enchanted!

How could one not fall in love with a little guy that had started sleeping with you, in the same spot every night, just so he could let you know when he was hungry without waking the entire house. Each night when I go to bed, I smooth the spot that is his spot in anticipation of his arrival. Eventually, I wake to his presence and his quiet little "brrrppt" that lets me know it's time to eat.

He developed a routine to communicate with us at mealtime, or should I say to train us. The procedure involved stretching the right foreleg to touch my leg with his paw--meaning that he would like another spoonful--then moving toward the door and looking back over his shoulder toward me to let me know that we could return to bed.

He loved the sound of ice tinkling in a glass or bowl. Simply adding ice cubes to his water dish would bring him racing from some remote part of the house to enjoy a long, cool, sip.

Lying there in bed on that February morning, I thought of all those things and more. I thought about how much we had bonded, he and I, in the last couple of years. I thought of the other four cats and their health issues, and the fact that Abbie was never ill.

"You and me," I said to him while stroking his back. "You and me forever."You will probably be here with me when the others are gone, I thought. It was only a week later that we had to say goodbye to him.

It is so very true, what my friend Bob says about them. "They are so small and yet they take up so much space in our lives, and when they leave us, they leave a great empty space in our hearts.

Abbie has left that great empty space in our hearts and his leaving has shattered a bit of that enchantment, tarnished something of the wonder. But that won't last long. I know that it will change because Ms Wonder and I will be eternally grateful to him for that gift of wonder and we will strive to remember that his leaving can only enhance it in the long run.

Thank you, Abbie! That early morning when you and I enjoyed our last full moon together, you taught me that even on the darkest night, one need never lose the enchantment and wonder of this great, wide world. You taught me to believe in magic.

Coffee Therapy

It was one of those breezy, humid mornings when nature seems to be considering scaring the bejeezus out of local inhabitants with a hell of a thunderstorm.

"Better stay home. Who wants to negotiate downtown traffic in a monsoon?" The words floated up from Princess Amy's control room deep in my brain. The mid-brain is the location of her command and control center, or so I'm told, but I wouldn't know the mid-brain from the suburbs.

"Sorry, Amy," I said. "I need to get out of the house. I feel like a balloon with more than the recommended dose of atmosphere, if atmosphere is the word I want."

Wind Horse was purring smoothly as we crossed the newly renovated Memorial Bridge. I immediately saw the thunderhead rolling up the river from the stormy Atlantic, moving past the port, on its way downtown. Lightning bolts danced about in the depths of the darkness. It looked wicked and I didn't like it.

"Faster, faster!" urged Amy. She was talking to me, not the storm. "Castle Street's going to be a river by the time we get there."

"Easy, Amy," I said. "Don't allow your knickers to get all twisted."

By the time I parked, the floodgates had opened, and the downpour obscured my vision. I walked quickly through the rain with a bowed head and an angry heart. I was fed up with all the nonsense that Life was throwing my way over the past week. I was mad as hell and I wasn't going to take it anymore. That's what I told myself but I was at a loss as to what I would do about it exactly.  

Pausing halfway through the cafe door, I assessed the state of the interior. Several people were in line ahead of me. Not good I thought and I could feel Princess Amy taking it big too. 

"I told you!" she said. "We never should have left home. Maybe you'll pay more attention to me next time"

Rather than getting in line, I waved to the barista behind the bar in a way designed to indicate I was desperate for an infusion of Jah’s mercy, and pleading for her to do her utmost to do something about it.

She nodded in a way that assured me she would attend to the matter immediately. I knew this maiden well and I was certain that just like an Arabian genie when her lamp is rubbed, it would be with her the work of an instant to vanish from the crowd and reappear at my table with the promised elixir.

"There's nowhere to sit," said Amy.

I scrutinized the room and there to my wandering eye appeared, my old pal, Doyle Jaynes, seated in the middle of the room, with a peculiar look on his face. It was a look usually seen on the faces of dog walkers who, on rainy days like this one, wish they'd chosen another career. 

I crossed the room and nodded to Jaynes who had finally looked my way. As I sat, I asked, "What's wrong with you? You look like...well, never mind what you look like. I probably look the same."

"Mine is a long story," he said, "full of heartbreak and grief. I've been abandoned by the one I most depended on."

"Well, so is mine a long story," I said, "although I'll bet it shares nothing in common with yours. Still, a warm, friendly environment and a bottomless supply of steaming brew-ha-ha help to make a fine day for it. Who'll get us started, you or me?"

And just at that precise moment, the barista arrived with my cappuccino. Perfect timing. A good day to die, as my ancestors would say. It's a traditional term meant to indicate that one has lived a good life and has no unresolved regrets hanging around.

Each day is a special and unique gift. No matter what comes with it, it's the same day--good or bad, happy or sad. Seems to me, we might as well accept life as it is and get on with it. When there's a dry spot with a friendly face in it and a mug of globally brewed and locally roasted, who needs therapy?

Traffic Was Terrific!

"Genome!" I heard my name as soon as I stepped inside the door to Native Grounds. It was my two favorite caffeine addicts who, bless their hearts, had not expected to see me on this Easter morning.

I faced them and opened my arms wide to show that I was as happy to see them as they were to see me. Lupe immediately jumped up as though a stick of dynamite had warmed her seat and she began doing her Genome dance to the amazement and amusement of the holiday morning crowd.

"We didn't think you'd be here this morning," said Claudia. "Wasn't the traffic terrific?"

"If by terrific you mean terrific as in the song, There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays," I said. "As I remember, the words are, From Atlantic to Pacific, gee, the traffic is terrific. If that's the meaning, then I'd have to issue a resounding, No."

"You may not be aware," I said, "but the Memorial Bridge has reopened! That makes this day not only a holiday but a zippy-dee-do-dah day!"

"Wonderful!" they said in two-part harmony, or so I like to think.

"Yes," I said, "so much better than the previous weeks when Wind Horse was forced to circle the city before getting the all-clear to enter the downtown traffic stream. As I remember, the exact instructions from the traffic controllers were, Tuscon, you're cleared for landing as long as you stay in the two right lanes then take the second exit to 3rd Street Wilma. 

Upon hearing that last statement, Lupe gave me a crooked smile and shook her head to indicate that she'd rather I didn't go there.

"Complicated," said Claudia, "sounds like landing instructions for an airplane." Lupe turned toward her with a wrinkled brow. She seemed to think that we'd been diverted from the subject at hand. She was right of course but the whole thing suited me well so I continued to move it along.

"It was only Princess Amy up to her usual hijinks in an anxious moment," I said. "Last week you will remember, I was quite nervous about being in the left lane when I needed to be in the right. The traffic next to me was so dense, I couldn't see any possibility of merging."

"What did you do?" asked Claudia. Lupe placed her arms akimbo--is that the word I'm looking for--and then stamped a foot. She didn't approve of the direction of the conversation and wanted to make it clear.

"Princess Amy got hotted up," I said, "and shouted, Be worried!", but I remained calm and reassured her that although I was a bit nervous about the situation, it was not my first time."

"But when the truck ahead of me tried to occupy the same space that Wind Horse was occupying, I asked the Universe if there was anyone in the next lane who knew how to safely and responsibly drive a car. I also reminded her--the Universe--that a safe driver who had not had fish for dinner would be preferable."

"What did fish have to do with it?" asked Claudia. Lupe sat down and began thumbing through her phone. No doubt she was looking for something to help pass the time.

"Fish?" I said. "I'm afraid you have me in deep waters there. I heard it once in my youth while watching the movie Airplane, and thought that if it was important when flying then it was probably important when driving."

"Today is Easter," said Lupe, and I don't have to tell you why she brought up this new subject when the subject at hand was completely bereft of Easters.

I decided to give the young geezer a break, meaning Lupe, not Claudia, and follow the path of her diversion as though I didn't notice her attempt at misdirection.

What I had noticed when she mentioned the holiday was that a throng of coffee addicts, all of them complete strangers, never before seen in the Castle Street District, occupied Native Grounds this morning. All of them were probably visiting the metropolis of Wilma to take Mom to Easter brunch.

All these unfamiliar faces gave the place an air of Bizzaro Bean Traders. Not a pleasant experience by any reckoning. Still, it was made tolerable by the unique aroma of the globally grown and locally roasted.

All in all, I'd say it was a pleasing gift of a fine spring day and one worthy of appreciation. I wish you a day just as fine today. Thank you for being here to share a little piece of my holiday. Jah's blessings to you.