"Not like a watermelon?" I said to myself, looking at my reflection in the mirror as I got ready for my Sunday morning coffee klatch with the Luna Cafe crowd. I was having one of those moments where the bathroom lighting conspires with gravity to reveal truths best left unexamined before 9 AM.
From the depths of my mind, if I can still call it that, came a soft, soothing voice. "Certainly not," said Princess Amy, and I felt much of my anxiety fade away as soon as she said it.
"Not like a watermelon at all," she continued with the reassuring tone of a doctor delivering a prognosis. "If anything, it's more like a honeydew."
I knew she meant well and was trying her best to reassure me because this little geezer and I have come to a sort of truce lately. You may have read about it in a previous post, and if you haven't, I recommend it highly. Search for 'A Glimmer of Hope.' It marks what I believe is called a turning point in our relationship—the kind where your inner critic stops hurling insults and graduates to gentle fruit-based observations.
Although she spoke from a place of goodness and light, and I was favorably touched by her words, they still left me nonplussed for the moment. I mean, it isn't every day that one of the nearest and dearest tells you, in a soft, caring voice, that your head resembles one melon more than another. It's the sort of compliment that makes you wonder if you should call your dermatologist.
When I entered the kitchen, I found Ms. Wonder preparing her breakfast with the methodical precision of someone who has learned not to ask about my conversations with invisible princesses. If you're new to The Circular Journey, I should point out that Wonder is one of those whip-smart urban girls who works in mysterious ways her wonders to perform, and she always knows just the right thing to say in any situation.
She didn't fail me. Apparently, having overheard the conversation that opened this blog post, she took my hand in hers and gave it a reassuring pat as if to say, 'There, there.'
What she actually said was, "Not at all like a melon of any kind."
"No, not like a melon?" I said, and I hoped the question would lead to more encouragement from her. Perhaps something along the lines of "distinguished" or "noble" or even just "adequately shaped for containing an artificial intelligence."
A small, caring smile touched her lips, and she dipped her head slightly when she said, "Not like a melon at all. More like the dome of St. Mary's."
I was struck mute at her words and could only return her look, which immediately softened and took on something resembling what I've heard described as that hangdog look of a native English speaker who is about to attempt French for the first time in Paris.
"Are you familiar?" she asked, and then clarified, "With the Basilica of St. Mary, I mean."
"Of course," I said, "it's the cathedral on Fifth Avenue. The one with the distinctive dome that has crowned the downtown skyline since 1912 and can be seen from several blocks away. The large, prominent, impossible-to-miss dome."
I cringed when I said those words--large, prominent, impossible-to-miss--but, as the meme makes clear, the cringe will set you free.
She brightened when she heard my words—clearly relieved I'd made the architectural connection—and said, "Yes, that's the one! Good." With that, she patted my hand again with the satisfied air of someone who has successfully delivered difficult news, excused herself, and took her coffee out onto the lanai, where I assume she enjoyed watching the doves and squirrels compete for unsalted peanuts.
I followed her, with my own cup of Jah's Mercy, feeling that things always go better with caffeine and Ms. Wonder, even when they involve unsettling revelations about one's cranial topography.
As I settled into my chair, watching the morning light filter through the Spanish moss, I reflected on the curious journey that had brought me here: from watermelon to honeydew to cathedral dome, all before my first sip of coffee.
It occurred to me that this is what passes for encouragement in Waterford Village—a gentle escalation from produce to historic architecture. At least we were trending upward in terms of grandeur, as we avoided conventional flattery.
Princess Amy, sensing my thoughts, offered one final observation: "You know, the dome of St. Mary's is considered one of the finest examples of Byzantine-inspired architecture in the Southeast. People travel from all over to admire it."
"Are you suggesting," I said aloud, causing a nearby mourning dove to pause mid-peck, "that my head may become a tourist attraction?"
Ms. Wonder, without looking up from her coffee, replied serenely, "Only for very cultured tourists, dear."
And so, I raised my cup in salute to the morning, to Ms. Wonder, and to Princess Amy. Here's to turning points, architectural comparisons, and the strange comfort of knowing that at least my head is more than a common tourist attraction.
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