Walking Through Paradise

"Look at me!" I said to Ms. Wonder as we sat on the lanai, basking in an afternoon so beautiful that recommending any sort of self-improvement program would have felt offensive. 

The sky was that special hue that we in the islands call Carolina Blue. The clouds were white, puffy, and towering, just the way I like them. The breeze was light, the humidity low, and the bluebirds filled the air with mood-lifting tunes. In short, it was a typical day in County Brunswick.

"What about you?" she said, but she didn't ask it with any real pizazz. I wisely decided to allow it because she, like the Pope, possesses a higher level of wisdom, and unlike Princess Amy, she doesn't share my internal emotional world. Still, while I had the floor, I continued with my presentation.

"I'm living a new life, Wonder. "I'm taking it one day at a time, as recommended in the book, and I'm living in paradise."

"Oh, really?" she replied.

"Don't do that," I said gently.

"Do what?"

"You know what I mean," I said. "Don't use that tone of voice that says you've heard it all before. This time is different for me. I've had five full days of normalcy, and it's all thanks to a new attitude."

"You do seem a bit chipper," she said, "but I've seen this before. What makes you think this is a new beginning?"

"Because I've got Princess Amy on board," I said.

"Get out!" she exclaimed with full incandescence, and just for emphasis, I assume, she placed her hands on my chest and pushed.

Of course, not expecting it from her, my defense shields were down, and  I fell base over apex across the potted palm, causing Sagi, the caramel-colored tabby, to fix me with a wide-eyed stare similar to the one that Hamlet must have given his father's ghost.

Once I picked myself up and dusted myself off, I raised myself to full height and stared down with bruised dignity. I saw in her eyes that she felt somewhat responsible for my tumble, even though it was clearly unintentional. This, I reasoned, gave me the high ground.

"I'm feeling good about it," I said, returning the palm to its upright position.

"Of course," she replied gently. "You should feel good about it." 

"Yes, I'm feeling good from my head to my shoes," I added, revealing my uncertainty about what to say next.

She gave me a knowing look. "I think I know where this is going," she said in a manner that hinted at her Pope-like wisdom.

"Yes," I said, "it was a difficult lesson, but now the wires are uncrossed and life is finally going my way."

"Any worries?" she asked.

"Very few," I said.

"Just be ready," she said. "You know that dark skies and rain will come."

"Life comes hard and fast," I said. "The only thing that's changed is me, not the world around me. Tears may fall, but what do I care as long as I have you?"

I was on a roll now, and it felt great, so I continued, "I think I've been given a new life," I said. "I've got a brand new attitude. Obstacles may come, but we'll get through them, as long as we have each other."

With that, she gave me a playful punch on the arm with far less emphasis than the earlier push. Unfortunately, Sagi startled me by leaping from the ottoman to the sofa, causing me to lose balance and take another tumble.

Ms. Wonder's first reaction was a gasp, her expression a mix of surprise and concern as she reflexively reached out to help. Still, despite her worry, she couldn't hold back a laugh that sounded like a paper bag exploding.

After two surprising tumbles, I'd learned another important life lesson. Walking through Paradise can be like trodding the cobblestone streets of Charleston. Sometimes the footing is uneven and unordered, but it's never dull. The real beauty of dealing with life one day at a time is that you get to count your falls as character-building exercises. 

The uneven footing tends to keep one in the moment, which provides a certain degree of safety, but as our post titled, Mission to Mohs, taught us, it's a good idea to have Anxiety continue running preventive diagnostics, just in case.

 

It Was Raining Cats

You may remember that I woke a few days ago with a sharp attack of euphoria. In fact, I've never known a sharper one. This morning, however, was much different. The sharp attack that woke me involved scimitars and sabers. Actually, it was scimitar-curved claws and saber-sharp fangs. 

The source of the attack was the foster kitten, Eddy, who has been perfecting his stalking skills to match his killer instinct. He's been seen hanging in the corner with Abbie Hoffman, a bad influence if ever. No, not that A. Hoffman! I refer to the cat in formal dress known on the street as Abracadabra.

Eddy (L) and Lucy (R)

It was Eddy, you will remember, who once got me in the fleshy part of the toe, causing me to shoot six inches off the mattress. It's not an easy feat starting from the prone position. My convulsions shook him loose but left him giving me the eye with an expression on his map like that of a Baptist deacon rebuking sin.

"Poopsie," I said. No response.

"Ms. Wonder," I said louder.

"Whumpf?" came the muffled response from nearby.

"Will you please chorral your cat?" I said.

"What?" she said. It occurred to me that she wasn't demonstrating her commitment to our vows to stand by in thick and thin. Could it get any thicker?

"Eddy is what I mean. Will you get him off me!"

"I'm asleep," she said.

At that moment, I realized that Eddy's behavior had attracted the attention of his sister, Lucy, an accomplished little foot ninja in her own right. It could get thicker after all.

"Do you have a towel handy?"

Wonder stirred from the depths of the bedding, raised her head, and asked, "Why would I have a towel?"

"I remember the time you captured another foster kitten in that you-can't-do-that-here manner by using a towel in the way some Roman gladiators used a fishing net. Remember?"

"I don't have a towel," she said. "And it wasn't a fishing net."

And so there I was, Heir of the Ages, one of the highest expressions of life on earth, and I was being chivvied by one of the lessor. If you are a member of the Inner Circle, you will no doubt recognize this as another example of a tiger living like a goat. I mean where is the benefit of being human when you're constantly being harassed by kittens?

{rompt steps through the proper channels were called for, but it's never as easy as it sounds, is it? I remember something from my senior year in high school--a Shakespeare play I'm sure, that went something like this:

Between the first thought of doing something dreadful and the actual doing of it (some guff about the genius and mortal instruments came next and was followed by:), there is often a revolt in the kingdom or words to that effect. You may remember the exact quote.

Although I didn't remember the wording, I knew the feeling well. My genius, if I can call it that, knew what had to be done, but my arms were not happy about it. I just remembered another gag that may better explain my situation: The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. That's the baby.

I'd have preferred to go back to sleep. But after those early moments of hesitation, I took action. I threw the coverlets back to get out of bed but the unintended result was that it began to rain cats. It was a sight to see, let me tell you. 

The heavier elements, Beignet and Sagi, were only rolled inches from their sleeping spots. Lucy was hidden by the duvet. Eddy flew through the air like the daring young man on the trapeze. He came to earth--I should say to rest--at the far corner of the bed. I caught him as he turned to flee, and decanted him into the Saigon room for safekeeping.

"That cat should be bedded in the stables," I said to Ms Wonder. "You and I can care of ourselves but consider what might happen if Eddy discovered a housemaid napping. I don't like to dwell on the aftermath, do you?"

But Wonder wasn't in sight. I heard the bathroom door close and seconds later the sound of running water, similar to Looking Glass Falls filled the silence.

Uma Maya, the brindled little Empress of Chatsford, was surely in the sale de bains with Wonder. Eddy was safely confined to the Saigon room. Lucy was probably hiding underneath the bed. Beignet, the ginger and white ragamuffin, and Sagi, the caramel-colored tabby, were at my feet looking up at me to ask, Breakfast time? 

Abbie was absent, but I expected he could be found in his usual spot atop the kitchen cabinets. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of the tie that binds and the words of a close friend who often says, "The family we choose is the most pleasing."

Looking down at the two cats sitting at my feet, I said, "Stand by to counsel and advise." I didn't need to say it, but I wanted to say it for reasons that words fail to describe--we were a tribe. Wonder, the cats, and I were the Chatsford Hall Tribe.

And the tribe has provided just what I needed, in the fullness of time.

Still Anonymous

"What's that noise?" asked a voice from somewhere in the darkness. I opened my eyes, thinking I was in the slot canyon I told you about--the one in Escalante National Monument, Utah. You remember that I saw the puma's paw print in the dust there. Possibly. 

But I wasn't sleeping in a canyon--I was in my bedroom and the voice...are you ready for this? It was the magical, mystical Ms. Wonder. Before I say more, let me explain that I was still dreaming.

"That's just Sagi," I said.

Sagi M'Tesi is the caramel-colored tabby who lives with us. One of several beings living with us that are also magical, mystical wonders.

"Sagi?" she whispered and I began to think that she wasn't fully awake.

"That's right," I said. "Sagi--he's shredding a roll of toilet paper."

"Shredding toilet tissue?"

"Toilet tissue or toilet paper," I said, "both are correct."

"Why?" she mumbled.

"There you have me in deep waters, I'm afraid, but it's his favorite pastime," I said.

"Past what time?" she said.

"Pastime," I repeated. "He finds it nearly impossible to resist, but he swears he can stop anytime he chooses," I said.

"That's what they all say," she sighed. I'm pretty sure it was a sigh.

"Well, nothing to do about it except wait for him to hit bottom and possibly conduct an intervention," I said.

I suddenly felt the urge to be outside. I don't know why. Just one of those things, I supposed. I hastily pulled on the outer crust and hied for the crepe myrtle alee.

In the early morning stillness under starlight and buoyed up by aromatic pine straw, I was serenaded by a mockingbird singing a selection of Frank Sinatra melodies. Quite pleasant.

In the middle of "I've Got You Under My Skin," the dawn bloomed in all her coastal rosiness, and soon the sun was hot-dogging above the horizon. What a show, I thought. It was a pippin of a mood lifter.

Had Ms. Wonder been with me, not that she's ever with me before 7:00 AM, but had she been with me, I would have said, "I've got a feeling everything's going my way!" She wasn't with me, but I said it anyway.

The walk worked its magic on me. Not actually magic--something to do with endorphins if I remember correctly. And for several minutes, I was caught up in the beautiful ephemera of life.

Keeping on the sunny side isn't easy for me. And who can say why? It may be the path deviates from the dotted line connecting A to B. Or perhaps, as Scott Peck made clear, life is difficult.

Once I arrived at the northernmost edge of Waterford Village, I turned and looked back across the glen, up the terraced hillside, and into the second-floor window of the cottage. From this distance, I could see Sagi sitting in the window, looking my way. Had he been watching me all this time?

I realized as I watched him watching me that my heart was in that window with Sagi. I could feel the heartstrings tugging me back home. He and Uma Maya would be waiting for breakfast when I got back. And there is nothing more satisfying than caring for a cat. Caring for two cats brings twice the satisfaction.

Sometimes life seems full of problems and just one damn thing after another. But if we pause and take a few deep breaths, we often realize that love puts the purpose and the meaning in life. And keeping love in the forefront makes all the difference.

It may be true that I can't always be on the sunny side of life, but with a little effort, I can stay on the loving side.

Cat of the Year

He's the best cat in the world. Everyone agrees. He's won the Chadsford Hall Best Cat of the Year award for 6 consecutive years. He's nine years old and weighs 15.25 pounds--in other words, peak condition. If you think he's a bit heavy, you're probably more familiar with the smaller, run-of-the-mill kitty. 

Beignet Lafayette, often called Ben or Benny, is a child of the Lost Kitty Tribe--he was left behind when a previous owner relocated--and I'm sure she's never recovered from the heartbreak. Beignet is a keeper.

But then, all cats are keepers because they shine the light of joy that dissipates the darker emotions. Even kittens that are too young to walk straight and have tails that look like lint brushes get the job done. It's simply their nature.

So, by all means, get a cat. Get two. You can't have too many. The more you have, the less chance they will all be sleeping when the zombies--those dark emotions mentioned above--begin prowling.

Earlier today, during our visit to the cat hospital, the veterinarian suggested we begin yearly lab workups to keep Ben around forever. None of us can imagine life without him--not even the veterinary staff. Naturally, Ben agreed to donate a little blood for analysis. 

Before leaving, the vet tech wrapped a scrunchie bandage around Ben's leg to prevent bleeding. When we arrived home, I decided to remove the bandage quickly and get on with other tasks, but Ben had a different agenda and it didn't include bandages. 

I cradled him and began brushing, a surefire way to put him in a good mood while distracting him from my sleight of hand. As I brushed with one hand, I searched for the end of the bandage with the other. Ben tolerated this for exactly two seconds before deciding he'd had enough.

I might have given the whole thing a miss for an hour or so and perhaps gotten some editing done on the book--you remember the book--but no, I stubbornly decided the bandage was coming off and I knew how to get it done. I rolled up my sleeves, commended my soul to God, and set about it.

Cat wrestling, much like alligator wrestling, should be done sparingly—and only in season. I stretched out on the floor for stability and attempted a move I’d seen pro wrestlers use. Ben, ever the sweetheart, took this as a gesture of affection and began to purr. I seized the moment. My fingers found the pull tab. I gave it a firm tug.

It was the tug of no return. Ben bolted for the doorway like a crazed weasel.  Clinging to the trailing bandage like an Iditarod musher pulled along by her sled dogs, I was pulled along the polished hardwood floors. We made a sharp right-hand turn and began descending the stairs. A turn of events I never anticipated.

Now, if the cherry floors can be called smooth, then the oak staircase is best described as bumpy. Over the years, I've developed a sort of wisdom about situations where I'm in control and those where I am clearly not. This situation was one of the latter.

I took the stairs with relative calm--not too anxious, given the circs. I remember thinking, for some reason that I can't fathom now, that when we hit the tile floor on the lower level, I would have more options. 

I remember being attracted to the sport of rock climbing some years ago. You may have done the same. In those days, my toes could find purchase in the smallest crevices, and perhaps I thought the grout lines in the tile would give me something to work with--something to stop or slow our forward movement.

The plan I had in mind if you can call it a plan, turned out to be no more than the idle wind, which Ben respected not because he continued through the kitchen with me calling out to my mother to look sharp and not get overturned by our wake. 

Eventually, Beignet found a quiet and comfortable spot underneath the sofa in the den and we were done. I pulled the bandage off and he seemed not to notice.

Once again, we see that life comes hard and fast. It sneaks up on us when we least expect it. Be prepared for anything, my friend, and always remember a little thing I heard from our veterinarian, Dr. Kirch, who said when it comes to cats, "It's our job to do what's right, not what's convenient." Amen. 

Uma Maya's Gifts

I woke from a dream featuring Uma, my beloved cat, lounging serenely in her favorite hideaway – the blue box (with the half-moon doorway) in Ms. Wonder's upstairs sanctuary. 

The dream wasn't a narrative, but an image: Uma gazing at me with a peaceful serenity that seemed to whisper, "Don't worry, food guy. I'm with you, always." It felt less like a dream and more like a visitation.

Uma & Me

Awakened by the haunting melody of "Total Eclipse of the Heart," I was initially puzzled. The dream, though tinged with a touch of melancholy, didn't feel entirely eclipsed. This disconnect between the song and my emotions left me unsettled.

Are you as frustrated as I am by these mixed messages the Universe seems to favor?

The early hour felt less like the dawn of a new day and more like the middle of the night. I debated whether to rise, the prospect of coffee battling with the allure of sleep. Finally, I pulled back the kitchen curtains, revealing a dark backyard illuminated by a single, lonely solar light.

ICuriously, I approached the light, gently nudging it with my toe to realign it. The instant I touched it, it extinguished. "What the hell, Louis?" I muttered to myself.

Despite the odd encounter, I brewed coffee and carried it to the lanai. As I began recording bird calls on the Merlin app, I decided to embrace the unexpected gift of this early morning, a time I rarely savor.

Ms. Wonder, I knew, would be awake by now, brimming with ideas for a fulfilling day. But then I remembered she and her friend were on Oak Island, climbing the lighthouse. 

You surely remember Charlie, the terrier with an expression that sometimes says, 'I love you because you're amazing.' and at other times, looks like a Baptist minister rebuking sin in the congregation. I mention it here because Charlie's housekeeper is the friend climbing the lighthouse with Wonder.

Their penchant for these adventurous outings puzzled me – I mean, why climb lighthouses? Is it just because lighthouses exist? I'll ask Dr. Coast, she probably studied these aberrations in graduate school.

Determined to shake off the "eclipse of the heart" and elevate my mood, I formulated a plan: to simply enjoy the morning. The idea of journaling appealed to me. I envisioned myself writing to you, dear reader, and that thought brought a smile to my face.

By half past nine, it was clear that journaling would be nothing but a series of fits and starts. Not what I was hoping for. Time to initiate Plan B: I fired up Wynd Horse and headed towards the Memorial Bridge, then turned onto Castle Street.

Feathery clouds had sneaked into the sky while I wasn't looking, and a brisk wind caused dry leaves to crab-walk across the street. I drove slowly half-expecting to glimpse Piglet soaring overhead. Stranger things have happened on Castle Street. 

At the coffee shop, I selected a cozy window seat, not too near the door, and savored a cup of Jah's Mercy. The music was upbeat, the atmosphere relaxed, and a sense of peace settled over me.

As I sipped my coffee, I recalled the most important life lesson Uma taught me:

"Every day is a gift and a reason to celebrate life."

A smile spread across my face. The "eclipse of the heart" began to lift. In this moment, in this place, I realized that life is indeed, the most precious gift and a reason for continuous celebration.

Thank you, Uma!

I Love Lucy!

I bobbed to the surface from the depths of a dream, having been roused by a sound like that of distant thunder. Clearing away the mists of tired nature's sweet restorer, I was able to trace this rumbling to its source. It was the current Cat of the Year, Beignet.

Lucy, The Princess of Sweetness and Light

The super-sized Beignet has never seen eye-to-eye with me on the subject of early rising. I like to sleep to the last possible moment and then leap out into the day, taking full advantage of the element of surprise. I'm told Napoleon did the same. But this long-haired, ginger and white is absolutely up and about with the larks every morning.

Having bounded onto the bed, he licked me in the right eye, then curled up and settled in with his head on my arm.

"Isn't that sweet?" said the Wonder who had shimmered into the room. I could not fully subscribe to this point of view. What is sweet about getting out of bed before God wakes, only to go back to sleep again? Silly, it struck me as.

I extricated myself from the cat and brought myself to a fully upright position, the better to slosh a half-cup of tissue restorer into the abyss. It was only then that I realized Ms Wonder was knee-deep in boxes, looking like a sea goddess walking on the rocky shore.

"Unpacking?" I asked.

"Getting the Halloween stuff out. I thought it might help to keep busy today," she said. "Takes my mind off things I don't want on my mind."

I understood her meaning to the core. 

"Then unpack 'till your ribs squeak," I said, "and let me help."

It seems nothing brings more healing balm like anticipation of the holidays and our hearts were sore in need of healing. Lucy, the recently rescued little princess of sweetness and light has been adopted by another and is even now getting used to her new surroundings. 

It's an excellent situation for her, of course, being the absolute center of attention and becoming a member of a permanent family. Still, it leaves a void in our hearts. It seems that when Lucy left, the sunshine and bluebirds followed her.

We love you, Lucy, and we miss you terribly and if history is any indication, we always will.  I will always remember being wakened by your tiny, cold, wet nose.

Be happy, be healthy, be safe, my little girl.

Abracadabra, Alakazam!

This morning I woke with the feeling that I was sitting in a blue bird's nest surrounded by a chorus singing of sunshine, blue skies, ocean breezes, and all the fixings. I can honestly say that I was feeling boompsie-daisy. 

"Wonder," I said on my way to the sal de bains, "I'm feeling boompsie-daisy."

I never expect Ms. Wonder to take anything I say big and she didn't surprise me this morning. These descendants of Russian nobility do not let excitement move them from their center, remaining balanced at all times.

She continued to pluck her brows while she expressed her opinion but, I'm happy to say, that her expressed opinion was good. 

Yes, the morning began with a decidedly pro-Genome bias. And yet, you will hardly credit it, but when I emerged from the shower, Princess Amy cast her veil over my eyes. The bright sparkly thoughts that filled my head only a few minutes prior were now "layer'ed o'er with the pale cast of thought." as I've heard Wonder describe it.

Up one minute, down the next, that's the Genome known by most of the Villagers. It's a chemical thing with a lot of technical jargon and a lot of guff about the amygdala, the little organ in the brain that's the center of the limbic system and the source of emotion. 

The species of amygdala that sits behind the control panel of my emotions is a very stubborn little organ and most insistent on getting her way. She reminds me of a spoiled little princess who relies on temper tantrums to make her the center of attention. I call her, Princess Amy.

Who was that Roman guy who wrote about everything being part of the Great Web? He understood that everything in life was interconnected. Wrote books about it I believe. No matter, it will come to me later.

My point is that I see my depression as being part of that Great Web. In my case, the web is one of Serotonin reuptake inhibitors and whatnot. Marcus Aurelius! Yes, that's the perp I was thinking of! 

I knew his name would come to me. That Great Web in my brain is like a personal Internet of ganglia and synapses. Names can be hard to find unless I have the appropriate keywords in the search string.  

Now, where was I? Ah, right, I was about to say that Princess Amy is not the boss of me! I am the chosen one, the hero of my personal life story. I have that on the authority of Joseph Campbell and he should know. And according to C.S. Lewis, all heroes have magic swords. My own magic sword is my fierce intent. And it was fierce intent that pulled me out of the soup this morning.

Having clad the outer crust in the upholstery of the casually employed, I bunged myself into Wind Horse and gave her rein on the open road. But most importantly, I held fiercely to the intention that the open road and whatnot would return the bluebird to her rightful position.

As soon as I set out, I tuned the radio to "60's Gold" where Louis Armstrong sang "What a Wonderful World," which was followed immediately by The Loving Spoonful singing, "It's a Beautiful Morning." 

Alakazam! (The Arabic magical word, not the Pokemon character.) Alakazam is a sort of versatile magical command, along the lines of abracadabra. Regular fans of The Circular Journey will remember our tuxedoed magical feline who was called Abbie Hoffman. His real name, of course, was Abracadabra. But then you knew that already.

But I've jumped the rails again. Let's get back to the story. Alakazam! The effect was immediate. The sky cleared, the sun shone, and the birds began singing on key. Not in the outside world, which remained rainy and gray, but it was inside where the weather cleared.

I may never be completely depression-free and I may have to feel those blue emotions forever, but I don't have to let them steal my song. With sweet memories of the loves of my life, one of them being Abbie Hoffman, I can rise above the clouds of depression on the back of the spirit horse of fierce intent. 

Sweet memories make sweet dreams. And so I say, Abracadabra, Alakazam! Not today, Amy! I eat no pine needles today!

A Story I Can Believe In

Today was the yearly checkup for Uma Maya, Queen of Cats, Empress of Chadsford, and, as per the rule book, she is perfect. When she lounges peacefully in an upper-story window, gazing out upon the lawns and gardens of Chatsford Hall, there flickers in the air around her a shimmering image of the Hermitage with Uma reclining on a velvet cushion in a gilded Louis XIV chair. The vet crew at Cat Hospital of Durham are in awe of Her Majesty, as are we all.

Given that this feline has her paw on the thermostat of my happiness, you would expect the Genome to be proclaiming his standard, 'It's a beautiful day!' But no, it was not in the works. There was a somber and low-spirited mood in evidence. And I'll tell you why. It wasn't the gray sky and threatening inclemency. No, the reason for the leaden heart is the recent arrival at Native Grounds of one who gets the Lord Sidcup treatment, but one that I shall call Spode.

I don't have to tell you how important to my mental health are these morning assignations at the den of caffeine. But one sowing discord has recently joined our little klatch. You probably know someone whose presence causes you to fiddle with the keys in your pocket, do a little dance from one foot to the other and generally behave like a turkey caught in the rain. Well, in the case of this slab of gorgonzola, that's just the beginning.

This guy dominates the conversation, telling stories that make everyone uncomfortable and then offering an unspoken eye-to-eye challenge in his theatrical pauses daring you to disagree.

I want to ask him to leave, explaining that he is taking up space that's better used for other purposes. But I don't. Instead, I shush the proud spirit of the Genomes, the one I encouraged yesterday to stand up and speak out, declaring to the world that it is worthy and good enough to deal with whatever comes. You're probably thinking, 'So why don't you tell him to buzz off?'

The reason I hold my tongue even though the urge to beat his brains out with a brick descends upon me like Papa Legba riding a Voo-Doo devotee is that I don't know him well enough. You see, there is always a lot more to the story than what we know. I don't want to take away from someone the very thing they need to cope. Perhaps this man needs a group to hang with. Perhaps he's vulnerable and the challenging looks are his way of determining whether or not we will accept him. 

You see, at the foundation level, he is simply telling his story. We all do it. We all have stories. You're reading mine now. Stories aren't the drivel we spout at the coffee shop as we hobnob with friends. Stories are the lives we think we are living. If the story supports us and helps us to get through the day, that's a good thing. 

The reason I didn't speak out is that I don't know the man well enough to know that it's necessary. I could take something away that is propping him up until he can get real help. Still, knowing the right thing to do isn't the same as knowing what I want to do. And as I noted in a past installment, knowing what you want is vital. Now, I love the assembly at Native Grounds but I cannot sit and smile like an idiot while someone is spouting bilge that conflicts with my version of what's right.

I have made a decision and having made that decision, I shall ignore any and all evidence that doesn't fit with my plan. Here is the plan, as I see it. I am booking passage on the first freighter to the interior of the Amazon where I will live with the Tupi Indians as one of their own. That is my first choice. If that requires more time than I have available, then I will find another local caffeinery and begin building a new tribe. That is the plan for now and as always, the plan is flexible and may change.

The Buddha pointed out that all things are impermanent and I certainly don't want to seem in conflict with the man. After all, I have taken the oath to uphold the Sangha, or is it abandon myself to the Sangha, I forget which. I'll check with Ms. Wonder. The point I'm trying to get at is that no matter how I resolve this little crisis, there is one thing you can bet the mortgage on. I will not give up. The Genome does not eat pine needles.

More Joy in the Morning

His response lacked any real enthusiasm and this got right by me. Why? That's the question I asked myself. Consider the circs I mean. 

Going about his business on what was presumably a typical day for a rock troll--he's a personal injury lawyer in Uberwald--and then Biff! without warning, he finds himself sitting here in my studio. 

You would think, wouldn't you, that he would rally round and support the team in doing something about it?

"Life comes hard and fast," I suggested in an attempt to make him appreciate the importance of our work--Abbie's and mine.

"And sometimes it takes us by surprise," he said.

"You took the words right out of my mouth."

"Sir?" he said and I remembered that English isn't his native tongue and he's not fully equipped with all the gags and wheezes in the language.

"I was just about to say that," I said.

"My concern," he said, "is that fighting the negative forces seems ill-advised. It's well known that struggling against magic, we become more entangled."

"Ah," I said, "having found a talking point. "We do not struggle. We do not fight."

"We?" he said.

"Abbie and I," I said.

Abbie sat up to receive the recognition.

"Yes," he said in a soupy sort of voice, "the cat."

Abbie squeaked and directed one cold eye in his direction. This cat is a weapon when annoyed and channels the ancient Irish hero, Chuhulain, when in fighting mode. When one eye becomes larger than the other and steam escapes from the seams, the wise observer gets into the lead-lined jacket.

"We don't oppose the Witch of Woodcroft," I explained. "She's full of good works. She pulls the elements of decay from our environment and uses them as compost to feed a garden of wholesome and healthy delights. It's all on her website.

"I don't consider it delightful to be pulled away from very important business with the court," he said.

"Yes, I fully understand," I said. "The dross of her distillation, if it is dross, accumulates to critical mass. Then a loud report is heard and something that would rather not, pops in or pops out of one world and into another.  Like you. It's all very disturbing."

"You'd go so far as that would you--disturbing? Well, what can you possibly do about it?"

"That's where our plan comes into play," I said and Abbie Hoffman, who seemed to have calmed somewhat, stopped washing a paw and gave Feldspar another warning look to make it clear that he would harbor no backtalk about cats.

 "We will intercept the dross as it accumulates and replace the negative charge with a positive one--an effect greatly to be preferred because it will be healthful and enjoyable."

"How do you intercept the accumulation of dross?" he said.

"Ah, there you have me. It's something that Abbie Hoffman does but it's a trade secret and known only to him. But intercept it he does and then we use the raw material of it, he and I, to build a humorous story and then have a laugh. You can't be hurt by something that makes you smile."

"That sounds like Fierce Living," he said. "It's the solution you write about for managing runaway emotions. You're writing a book, aren't you? Is it finished?"

"Almost," I said. "Thank you for asking and yes, I am talking about Fierce Living. It works on everything. It's unbounded; it's wild and free; it's as wide as the sky and as deep as the sea. Why don't you join us, Feldspar? It will be like old times. We will make a team of three and nothing can stop us."

"Well," he said, and then looking at Abbie he added, "I don't know."

Abbie sat bolt upright at this, leveled a gaze at the troll and began washing the right paw with the intention, no doubt, of being prepared to deliver another single whip or possibly a repulse-the-monkey or a white-crane-spreads-her-wings. I'm sure you would know better than I.

Then suddenly Abbie Hoffman jumped down from the desk and approached Feldspar. I wondered if he was advancing to attack but then realized he was sniffing the chair. It was at this very moment that I noticed a distinctive odor.

"What is that smell?" I said.

"When the curtain between the worlds was rent," began Feldspar, "I was meeting with a gaggle of goblins and I fear that one of them fell through with me and I inadvertently sat on him."

"A goblin is beneath you?" I said leaning forward to get a better look.

"I'm afraid it's true," he said.

"Shouldn't you let him up?"

"On no account will I be responsible for releasing a goblin into your world. Remember the Middle Ages, sir."

"Right," I said. "So when you pop back home, he will pop back with you, is that it?"

"We can only hope, sir."

"I'm never going to get the smell out of that chair."

"I suggest burning it," he said.

Lucy Lucille Lupe

Chadsford Hall lay drowsing in the sunshine. Heat mist shimmered above the smooth lawns and the timbered terraces. The air was heavy with the lulling drone of insects. It was the most gracious hour of a summer afternoon, midway between lunch and tea when Nature kicks her shoes off and puts her feet up.

I was enjoying the shade of the cypress grove, near the rhododendrons, opposite the camelia glade. While sipping the contents of a tall, tinkly glass, and reviewing the latest acting-up of the social quality in the pages of The Independent, I was startled to hear a voice coming from a rhododendron that had until now remained speechless.

"Whatcha doin'?"

As soon as I regained my composure, if any, and restored calm to the mind, if it is a mind, I gave the offending shrub a stern look of censure. Wouldn't you? I saw that the bush was giving me the same. Not the bush in fact but something peering from it. It might have been a wood nymph for I couldn't see it clearly, but I thought not. As it happened, I was right.

"Sorry, sir," said the year-old Siamese kitten, the one I've named Lucy Lucille Lupe because Old Possum says that cats require three names. Ms Wonder tells me that Mr Possum had something entirely different in mind but So what is my comeback to that. I reserve the right to take the road less traveled sometimes. Napoleon, I believe, did the same.

 "Didn't mean to startle you," said L. L. Lupe.

"Not at all," I said having immediately forgotten the annoyance I felt at being shaken from a pleasant semi-slumber of the afternoon because this Lucy Louise fosters a warm, soft spot in the center of my chest near the heart. "It's good to see you again."

She did a little dance, her front paws moving two steps to the left and then two steps back to the right while the rear feet moved to a different rhythm entirely. I know this particular dance well, and I interpret it to mean, I like you because you give me good things to eat but, oooh! you've got big feet and I'm so small. I'm not fluent in the language of dance, of course, I offer only the gist of meaning.

"Got something to eat?" she seemed to say.

"It's not dinner time," I said.

"What's that?" she said adding a new step to the dance.

"I'm stroking your back," I explained.

"Don't touch me please," she seemed to say.

"OK, if you don't like it," I said and I stopped immediately. Protocol is very important to cats because there was a time when they were worshiped as gods and they haven't forgotten it.

"If not today, then maybe tomorrow," I said.

"Don't think about tomorrow," she said.

"Yes, I read about that somewhere. I don't mean to say it was about cats only. If memory serves, birds and lilies were mentioned too."

"Birds! Love birds!," she said turning round and round hoping to see them, I'm sure. "Where are they? By the bird bath?"

"I don't see any bathing just now," I said, "but don't distract me, I'm trying to remember something I heard when I was just so high. Probably not much bigger than you."

"Me? You were never my size," she said.

"Where was I?" I said.

"Birds!" she said.

"Right, birds. The passage I'm trying to remember went something like this, Behold the birds, for they sow not, neither do they reap, something, something, something--and then, pay close attention because the big payoff is coming up--take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for itself. I'm paraphrasing of course."

"That's me," she said.

"I thought as much," I said and I was being sincere about it. These cats have never completely given up their wildness and it's my position that their popularity has something to do with a human being's desire to fondle a tiger.

She stretched her front legs out and bent the body into the stretch. Her butt was high in the air, as high as it goes rather, and her tail pointed skyward. She was lovely. She was beautiful. She was so delightful that nothing else was required of her to be perfect in my esteem.

"Think I'll take a nap," she said and sauntered off toward the rhododendron.

It seemed a good idea and I decided to do the same. Perhaps I would dream of a perfect world, where no cat suffers from human malice, for as Robert Heinlein put it, "How we behave toward cats here below determines our status in heaven." 

I like that. I keep it in mind always. I suggest you do the same.

Sing In The Sunshine

We'll Sing In The Sunshine

A song written and recorded by Gale Garnett in 1964.

In the song, a woman tells the person who loves her that they will be together for a time but then she will go away. She promises him that he will always treasure their time together.

We first met Uma at a pet adoption fair promoted by Best Friends, the adoption agency. Her name then was Reeces, because her fur was dappled and spotted, and brought to mind the popular candy known as Reeces Pieces.

Only a few months old, it was clearly evident that she wasn't very sociable. In an open crate with three other kittens, perhaps her siblings, she was alone in one corner as far away from the others as possible. 

My heart went out to her when I recognized that solitary nature. You see, I too am a lot like her. I prefer my own company to that of others although I've learned to pretend well enough to fool most people. 

I knew right away that she was going to come live with me and that I was going to give her the best life possible.

About a week later, with all the paperwork and veterinary exams complete, the Best Friends reps brought Uma to our home. 

I'll never forget the sight when her carrier was placed on the floor across the room from Ms. Wonder and me. The rep opened the door of the carrier and Uma came dancing out and crossed the room to introduce herself.

When I say that she danced across the floor, I mean that she seemed to be floating inches above the carpet and moving to music that only she could hear. She never stopped dancing to that music for the next 19 years.

She stole my heart in that moment. Forever more when I spoke of her, I told people that she was my heart.

Not long after coming to live with us, she stopped eating. I was inconsolable. Her veterinarian, Dr. Barbara, told me to leave her in the cat hospital for the rest of the day so that she could work with her.

For the remainder of that day, I thought of nothing else but Uma. I stayed in a bookstore across the street from Durham Cat Hospital, so that I could get to her within minutes.

I'm not a religious person, but when someone you love is in trouble, you do everything you can to help. That includes praying. And I prayed. I didn't know who or what the prayers should be directed to, so I just prayed to the sky. Continuously.

Toward the end of the day, Dr. Barbara called me and told me that Uma was eating and that the exam and lab work were normal. I felt a gratitude so deep that I doubt I've ever felt a deeper. 

When we were back home, I never left her presence for the next few days. But during that time, Uma told me that for the remainder of our time together,

We'll sing in the sunshine

And we'll laugh every day.

We'll sing in the sunshine

But then I'll be on my way.

And she was right. She was the delight of our lives for almost nineteen years. In truth, she wasn't the most loving of our five cats. She wasn't the sweetest. She wasn't the least trouble. But even though she never weighed more than ten pounds, she took up most of the space in our hearts.

During those years, she told us that,

I'll sing to you each morning.

I'll kiss you every night.

But don't cling to me

Because too soon I'll be out of sight.

We said our final goodbyes a few weeks ago, but I can't seem to let her go. And just as she made clear so many years ago when she was only a kitten,

When our time together is ended

And I have gone away

You'll think of me every day, and you'll say,

We sang in the sunshine.

We laughed every day.

We sang in the sunshine

And then you went away.

Thank you, Uma Maya, Queen of Cats and Empress of Chatsford Hall. I hope that when it's my time to go away, you will be the first to greet me on the Rainbow Bridge. Until that time,

I promise to sing in the sunshine

And remember you fondly every day.

Feel the World Shake?

I looked out my bedroom window at the two cats waiting for breakfast in the meager shelter on my deck below. I wished I could bring them inside but I'm told by reliable sources that bringing feral cats into the house never really ends well. I suppose it might be different if they were kittens but they aren't of course. They're first cousins to Eddy, that miniature panther that gave us the idea for Happy Cats Wellness and he's almost 7 now.

But it wasn't cats that filled my thoughts this morning. It was fine art. I'd recently had a close encounter with the stuff and was still reeling from it. Napoleon must have felt the same way when his aide reported that Nelson had just sailed into Cairo Harbor and set fire to the French fleet. 

Ms Wonder is an artist, of course. You don't need reminding of that. You've been here through the thick and thin of art gallery galas and whatnot, so you're well aware of her photographic talent. I thought she might be able to enlighten me on the reason for a certain motif--one that, so far, had eluded me.

"Poopsie," I said, getting right down to it, which, as you well know, is the Genome way. "Why the reclining nude?"

She stopped splashing and sloshing, an activity she seems to enjoy when submerged in the bath. Her face took on a familiar questioning look, which told me that I'd gotten her attention. So good so far.

"Did you say, nude?" she asked.

"Nude is what I said. Reclining to be exact. It's a common motif in the art world. The first one, I'm told, was done in 1510 by a Venetian painter named Giorgione, although I read yesterday that some scratchings, found on cave walls in Spain, are actually 40,000-year-old reclining nudes. So you see, it's a popular subject for artists. I don't suppose you've ever photographed any? Reclining nudes, I mean."

She frowned at that and shook the noodle as though warding off a swarm of no-see-ums. She has a particular dislike for those. I'm not sure why.

"What about reclining nudes?" she said.

"Exactly!" I said, "Just what I want to know! What about them? We seem to be deeply connected to the unclothed female form lying on a bed."

"And when you say, 'we', you mean men, of course."

"You wouldn't have these shallow views if you were familiar with Fernando Botero's work."

"Who?"

"A painter who spoke out, if I can use that term, against the deplorable human rights conditions in his native Columbia. He was able to paint the most troubling scenes that somehow didn't turn us away but invited us to look and consider."

"And these troubling scenes included reclining nudes?"

"No, no!" I said. "No, the nudes were something different. One of them sneaked up on me yesterday at Dulce Cafe. The owner, Carlos, is a native of Columbia and admirer of Botero and has a print hanging in the cafe. It's a painting called 'The Letter' and that work is surrounded by mystery. Art historians and scholars wonder who the subject was and what the letter was about."

"And the mystery subject is a reclining nude woman?" she asked.

"How many paintings of a reclining nude man have you seen?" I asked. It wasn't one of my better comebacks so I wasn't surprised when she ignored the question. 

"It seems you've researched the subject well," she said. "What are you thinking?"

"Never mind what I'm thinking, Poopsie. What are these art historians and scholars thinking? That's the question I ask myself."

"I'll bet you have a theory," she said, and let me just pause here to say how happy it made me to know that she was allowing me to drive the conversation for a change.

"First of all," I said, "these historians and art scholars are too deep in the status quo. They see a woman in a painting and fall too quickly into the Mona Lisa Syndrome."

"Mona Lisa Syndrome," she repeated.

"That's right," I said, "the MLS is that comfortable niche where they wax eloquent about mystery and whatnot. It allows them to write all sorts of bilge."

I paused to give this opinion more thought because I was impressed that I'd come up with this insightful nugget. It doesn't happen often and on those rare occasions, I like to appreciate the experience fully. For her part, nothing more was said and I was allowed to continue.

"There is no mystery," I said. "It should be clear to the meanest intellect, that the woman represents the nation of Columbia, reclining in spartan surroundings, and saddened because her lover--and by lover I mean the citizens of her country--don't enjoy the comfort of her arms and her bed. Love is absent. Only loneliness and the estrangement of the spirit, which is represented by that mysterious letter."

There was a quiet moment during which I waited again for her reply. Again, there was only silence. But she had a look on her map that caused me to think she'd taken my remarks in a big way. There was something definitely going on behind those eyes. I began to feel like one of those orators who incite mobs to action. Not one like Trump but rather one like Thomas Payne.

"What are you thinking?" I said.

"Just wondering," she said, "if there's something I could do with my photography to speak out in support of people in Ukraine or Palestine. Like the way Botero speaks out about the struggles in his Columbia."

"Many people are struggling in the world," I said. "And we live in the land of opportunity--even though many in this country struggle too. It does seem that we could be doing more to help others."

"The good I would do, I do not," she said. 

"Very well put," I said, "One of your own is it?" 

"Saint Paul," she whispered, which got right over my head but I realized from the whisper that she was deep in meditative thought and not to be disturbed.

"I'll go feed the cats," I said, "they're waiting in the rain." As I walked downstairs, I had the feeling that the world had just changed. And I'm sure Napoleon must have felt the same at one time or another in his career.