Of Mosquitos and Meditation

This morning I awoke in Houston. I know! What are the odds, right? But rather than worry about it, I quickly abandoned myself to the whims of the Universe. After all, some of the best minds in the world tell us that it's the troubles we imagine that are worse than the troubles we actually encounter. 

I believe it was Marcus Aurelius who gave us that little gem, and for once I'm sure it wasn't Shakespeare, who by the way gets far too much credit for quotable lines.

At any rate, I grabbed my hat and tilted it just a shade over the left eye, which makes all the difference. Upholstered and sunglassed, I set out for a meditative walk. 

The first order of business was to find a spot that offered some seclusion, which is necessary when you practice qigong or any other form of ancient Chinese slow movement exercise. Practicing in the open usually results in the local constabulary dropping by to ask "What's all this?" I've even known young children to cry and run to their mothers when they see me practicing Brush the Wild Mare's Mane.

The live oak grove behind the community pool looked ideal for qigong and so I took up my position and began my exercise with Wuji Swimming Dragon. As I swept my arm back, I observed a gulf coast mosquito squatting on my hand and pulling the beak back into attack position. I didn't hesitate. It was with me, the work of an instant to squash the insect. Not soon enough, however. She got me on the thumb. And it didn't end there, by the time I realized I'd been bitten, her unseen accomplice, got me on the back of the neck.

Before I continue, it might be enlightening to provide you with some background information that I did not have available to me when I planned this morning's outing. In recent weeks, the Houston news media have been full of headlines such as the following sample: 

Mosquitoes Attack Houston

Mosquito Invasion Continues

Houston Plagued with Mosquitos

From the official mosquito-tracking website I learned that "Houston mosquitoes are considered to be some of the worst in the world."

You think you have mosquitos? What you have are some of those inferior knock-off brands of insects.

The style of qigong that I teach is called "Fierce Qigong and the tag-line is "Life comes fast and hard. Be ready for anything."  But I was not ready for Houston mosquitos. Before I could muster a defense, my hat had been lifted from my head, sunglasses pulled from my face, and a swarm was trying to remove my Hot Chili Peppers t-shirt.

I'm not sure that I cried out in alarm as I ran down the path and back into the house but if I did, what of it? You too would C O in A if you were plagued with these mosquitos; a plague not unlike those that were visited upon Pharaoh Ramses. Trust me.

When I was safely inside the house, my son-in-law asked where I had been. I breathlessly gave him the gist and went on to say, "Let me warn you…" when he interrupted to ask:

"Didn't you get eaten by mosquitoes?"

Now that the danger is past and happy endings have been distributed all around, I realize that I learned a couple things from the ordeal. First and foremost, Houston should have signs similar to those ancient maps where they have pictures of sea monsters at the edge of the world. The signs should say, "Here Be Mosquitoes."

The second thing I learned is that there seems to be a lack of consensus about the spelling of the plural of mosquito. But hey, when you're being attacked by a swarm of blood-sucking fiends, correct grammar is the least of your worries.

Share The Joy

"I will have more joy if you are there to share it; and the more of us there to share, the greater will be the joy of all."

-- Thomas Merton, Seeds of Contemplation

I posted this article several years ago when I was road-tripping far more than I have in the last year--for obvious reasons I hope. I ran across it today and realized that it had more meaning for me today than ever before. So I'm re-committing, if that's a word, and wanted to invite you once more to journey with me. Here's the original post:

Are you familiar with the film, "Finding It," which deals with sacred pilgrimage? If not then I recommend you find it. Wait a minute, you say. Why am I talking about an old movie when I'm inviting you to share the joy? Fair question. It's like this.

The setting of the movie is the most famous spiritual trek in Europe, Camino de Santiago de Compostella. As all good stories should, this one uses the outer journey to mirror the inner. It's a beautiful film and I recommend it highly. 

All roads eventually lead to the same destination 

Each time I hear or read or view something about pilgrimage, I remember that we all live our lives on the road to Compostella, or to Mecca, or to Graceland. It's not the destination but the journey that really matters, which is something I don't need to tell you.

This morning I'm planning my upcoming pilgrimage to the holy sites of my own personal mythology. The journey will take me to the Summer-lands of the South where I will meet the spirits of my ancestors at 3300 Beloved Path in Perdido Bay, Florida.

Then I will visit the Gray Havens of the West to restore the tissues and refresh the spirit with lots of chicory coffee and beignets--Laissez bon temp roulez. When the sun rises on the first day of the new period, I will head North to the Court of the King where I will pay my respect to Elvis and give thanks for the riches in my life. 

Always follow the sun 

Finally, I will travel East toward the rising sun, make a brief detour into the Land of the Spirits, my hometown, and then back to my current home. And happy to be here as always.

I don't know how long the journey will take. Probably the rest of my life. But I do know that I will write about it here on Circular Journey, of course. My audience would expect, or rather allow, nothing less. 

All that I write will be metaphorically true, although I may enhance the telling of it to make it more interesting. As the Wee Little Men in the books of Terry Pratchett are fond of saying, "Dragons and elves always make a story more interesting."

The fun is greater when it's shared 

The quest is for me and I realize that only I can make it. However, I'm reminded, as I prepare for the journey, of something I read recently:

"I will have more joy if you are there to share it; and the more of us there to share, the greater will be the joy of all."

-- Thomas Merton, "Seeds of Contemplation"

That's why I'm inviting you--to share the joy. I will do my best to make it entertaining. Princess Amy will see that it's interesting and exciting. If you decide to come along, you will find yourself on a pilgrimage of your own. I'm sure of it. Come on then. Share the joy.

Beignet and His Magic Sunglasses

The remnant of tropical storm Jazz was full upon us as I drove through Duke Forest on my way to an appointment at the university. The trees tossed their heads and waved their arms in a frantic frenzy, if frenzy is the word, exactly the way Shaka Khan used to do on Top of the Charts.

Leaves swirled across the road in great profusion. Blustery is the way I would describe the morning, yes, blustery is the mot juste. Not a small army of squirrels could have been camouflaged in those leaves. I drove slowly.

As the pre-frontal cortex navigated the storm-strewn road, Princess Amy, that almond-eyed little gargoyle, was seated at a corner table in the darkened recesses of my mind. She was seated, not too  near the band, of course, where she could keep watch for danger. 

She reminded me that Fox lurked out there somewhere waiting to spring one of his practical jokes. I suspected it would come in the form of a broken limb falling across my path but Amy wasn't so sure. Never know what to expect from Fox was her opinion. 

Amy seemed to overlook the bigger issue, which was that something just as wild and far more dangerous than Fox was out here in this forest. That wild and dangerous thing was me of course.

Most days when Amy is worked up I practice my training as a qigong coach to relieve some of the pressure and keep Amy calm. Take a deep breath I tell her. But today I was in full agreement that the weather forecast was gloomy and full of v-shaped depressions. I speak of the emotional weather. Gale force winds with thunderstorms possible are about how it was lining up.

Duke Integrative Medicine Library

Then I arrived at the Center for Integrative Medicine and entered the library, a work of art in wood, steel, glass, and stone. My body sat in a chair near the windows and waited there for a clinical study coordinator to call for me. 

My mind was immersed in a wonderful, magical experience that had calmed my frantic mind as soon as I walked through the door. Muted light from an overcast sky and the soft notes of a Native American flute enveloped me, the sound of the flute barely audible above the soothing sound of falling water coming from somewhere deep inside the building. 

It was a tranquil refuge from the storm.

My coordinator came into the room with a stack of paperwork and even that didn't faze me. I wasn't ready to quote Ben the Cat when he puts on his magic sunglasses--"The sun is shining. The sky is bright. Birds are singing. Everything's alright." No, I wasn't feeling that good but I did have a sense that although Fox still lurked, I was in a safe place for the time being.

Ben the Cat

Elizabeth, the coordinator, talked to me about the clinical study we'd just completed together, and her voice was soft and strangely alluring. I could have listened to her talk all afternoon. Eventually, the paperwork was complete and Elizabeth offered to give me a tour of the building. 

Of course, we actually looked at all the rooms, even the "practice" rooms where I've already meditated, qigong-ed, and yoga-ed. Then we visited one I didn't know about.

The Quite Room is where acupuncture and massage patients wait to be called for their therapy sessions. It's large and open, two-stories tall with a large skylight that allows natural light to flood the floor space. 

A bamboo forest grows on the floor of the room. Not in pots, mind you. Pots I could understand but these plants grow right out of the floor, which is covered in round, dark gray stones. 

One wall of the room is formed by a sheet of water that falls from the craggy heights of the ceiling and creates a curtain separating the Quiet Room from the administration offices on the other side. This is the source of the sound of splashing water I heard from the library.

The Quiet Room

Elizabeth pointed out a toy panda, sitting amidst the bamboo shoots in the far end of the room. She told me, and I would have believed anything she told me, that no one in Integrative Medicine is sure who moves the panda nor exactly when it's moved, but it's in a new location every morning--even on the weekends. 

This news intrigued me strangely. I felt the need to get to the bottom of this. Do you feel it too? I mean this could be one of those overlooked phenomena that hold the key to fitting Newtonian physics with the quantum variety. I'll look into it and report back.

Well, everything is impermanent, the Buddha used to say, which is one of those annoying announcements, of course, and is the reason why all right-thinking people want to avoid his company. And so was my visit to the Integrative Medicine Center impermanent. I had to leave. 

As I drove away, I was conscious that Princess Amy was much calmer than when I arrived. Her hand no longer hovered over the panic button. That's right, Amy, take it easy. I've got this.

I Know I'm Not Alone

Yesterday on a music-buying tour of the Thrift Shops of Carrboro and Chapel Hill, I discovered in the Open Eye Cafe a barista that looks exactly like Maggie Gyllenhaal. It's true! I'm not setting you up for a goose. I would have pinned her pic to prove it to you except that I'd opened the conversation with that old "Don't I know you from somewhere else?" gag, and if I'd followed that by asking to make her portrait, I'd have to marry the girl.

As Maggie was taking my order, I was struck by the thought, like a bolt from the blue, that life is unfair. Just consider for example that some remarkable musicians become Supertramp but others become Steve 'n' Seagulls. Not that there's anything wrong with the Seagulls. A fine, deserving group of musicians is my opinion and I hope you agree.

Still, as I was about to say, some Gyllenhaals become movie stars while others become baristas. So heavy did this insight weigh on my shoulders that I ordered a double Americano and took a table outside in the sun, but not too near the street. 

The mind drifted in the void for a while; it may have been minutes; it may have been more, and I mused on how true are the words of the Buddha, "All things are..." what is it? Begins with an 'I.' Imperfect? Improbable? Something that means they don't stick around long. It will come to me. At any rate, I drifted for a while until awakened by another thought, one of many that arise like shiny, multicolored soap bubbles. Impertinent! No that's not it either. Give me a moment. Where was I?

Oh yes, another thought arose and this one reflected the iridescent words of Karl Wallinger...

"What I see just makes me cry; 

I'm way down now, I'm way down now...

And the rats are on their way;

They're clouding up the images of a perfect day,

But I know I'm not alone, I know I'm not alone."

The words of that song brought enlightenment to this dharma bum in the realization that being a barista or Steve 'n' Seagulls or World Party for that matter is only disappointing to the cream of the northwestern quarter-sphere--that means you and me. Most of the world would think it paradise. I now had a different and a brighter perspective on the morning.

The day had begun with my being driven from Chatsford Hall, not unlike my ancestors who were driven from Eden. My ancestors were driven by angels bearing flaming swords while I was driven by emotional slings and arrows. Like Adam and Eve, I am emboldened by the experience to live ever more fiercely. 

Following the suggestion of Emperor Haile Selassie, I shall:

"Rage against Babylon, Brah, until we sail the ship on home to Zion." 

All things considered, it was another big day for thought, word, and deed. Impermanent! That's the word, all things are impermanent. That's what the Buddha said. But it's no big deal to me; nothing is a big deal to me because Ms. Wonder loves me and that makes all the difference. 

She loves me! And with a love like that you know I should be glad!

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 Sarah 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, 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. Well, I don't mean to say it was about cats specifically. I think birds and lilies were mentioned."

"Birds! Love birds! Where are they? By the round, water bowl?"

"I don't see any bathing just now, 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, with butt in the air and the tail pointing to the sky. She was luxurious. 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.

I thought it sounded like 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. 

Never Give Up

It was a great day in Southport, then it wasn't a great day, but then it was great again. The weather was consistently great; the sun shown, the breezes cooled, the rain showers refreshed. A squall blew in while we were seated on the covered deck of a dockside seafood restaurant and made the experience even more special for we love a big blow on the coast. The place we stayed for the week was nice too and it was located in the yacht basin--within walking distance of the cafe district and the riverfront.

Southport sits at the confluence of the Cape Fear River and the Intracoastal Waterway. From the river-front park, you can look out past Bald Head Island right into the face of the Atlantic. So if the weather was great and the location was great, I can hear you asking, why didn't we have a great time?

If you are a follower of this blog, you're aware that I have strong emotional attachments to my animals. I'm one of the many who suffer from extreme mood fluctuations and my cats help to keep me stable. When one of them is ill I tend to take it hard. I was taking it hard in Southport.

The two-year-old Eddy, a rescue cat that we've had since he was a ball of fur, has been sick and we took him with us thinking that he would be less stressed than spending the week in a boarding facility. He became more ill while we were in Southport. Two visits to the vet and a couple of not insignificant procedures later, he was recuperating in the townhouse.

Near the end of the week, Eddy had shown no signs of improvement and I was in the deep blue, down at the depths where sunlight doesn't penetrate. To relieve some of the stress I began walking toward the waterway because the breezes were coming from that direction and the wind on my face cooled the fevered brow.

The wind picked up and by the time I was at the water's edge, the wind was near gale force. 

I had to lean into the wind to keep from being blown backward. A dark wall of rain was moving toward me, so heavy that Bald Head Island was all but obscured. Lightning bolts flashed in the darkness. I'll bet you know how I felt. While down and wallowing on the ground, the Universe had decided to kick me with a hurricane-strength blow and a monsoon drenching.

Those who know me best will tell you that my motto is to live life on life's terms. I generally take whatever comes along and find a way to live with it. But sometimes life gets a little too zealous. Princess Amy, the name I've given to my hyper-sensitive amygdala, sometimes reads dramatic events as an invitation to roll up her sleeves and get down to it. She was doing so now.

If "life on life's terms" is my motto, then "fierce qigong" is my modus operandi. Standing on that sea wall, I looked the coming storm directly in the eye with an unwavering, lazy-eyed gaze. Although buffeted by the wind, I nonchalantly shot the cuffs and flicked a speck of dust off the exquisite Mechlin lace, and addressed the Universe like this:

"Do your worst, old girl. Blow with all your might. It's all in vain of course because the Genome is more than enough for whatever you've got. As long as there is breath in this body, I am stronger than the wind. As long as there is blood in my veins, the torrents are like a few drops in the ocean. As long as there is heat in my body, the lightning is no more than a flash.

In all the Universe, in all of time since the Big Bang, there is nothing to equal the human experience. I am a part of the ultimate form in all of creation. Even the angels are envious of man. I am enough for whatever life bungs my way and I will never surrender. So give it all you're got. I will be here when you are out of breath and completely wrung out. I will be here when the sun shines tomorrow and you are nothing but a memory."

The wind became quieter and once more refreshing as I walked back to the townhome. The rain held off until I was at the front porch. When I went inside to check on Eddy, I found that he was feeling much better and so was I.

Life comes hard and fast--be ready for it.

Sailing Home

I have a best friend who still lives in the Village where we grew up. That's not exactly true and I don't want to deceive my public. I actually lived in the Hedge Row that separates the Village from the Dark Wood. The only claim I have on the Village is the post office.

We didn't know each other until after high school but we soon became fast friends--like brothers. I was Aragorn to his Gandalf. No one knowing us well would use the same words to describe us and yet we had a lot in common then as now. For one thing, we were both alone even when surrounded by others. In a crowd, he would soar over the heads of the throng and sing a song so poetic that people would be lost the lyrics. He would be the center of attention but far away from everyone else. In the same situation, I would retreat to the edges as far away from the center of attention as space would allow and then blend chamelion-like with my surroundings.

This Gandalf's faith for the future was in Jesus and mine was in humanity. We both thought more about this world than the next and we both avoided the rules like cold gravy. We were making our on path. Isn't that what all the wise recommend? Still, we grew unhappy and depressed rather than fulfilled as we had been promised.

Gandalf decided that the cure for his melancholy was to reaffirm his compass headings and sail back into the race. It wasn't necessary to win, just cross the finish line and receive his prize. I decided that the story I was telling had stopped working and now I'm telling a different story.

Jah's blessings on you Gandalf. May you sail your ship home to Zion and may my fast black ship bring me in safety to the shores of Ithaca.

Work In Progress

My mother keeps the Big Book of Death. When I say she keeps it, I mean that she maintains it by entering the names of the recently departed and the dates of their death. The 49 days of Bardo begin with the date she enters in the book.

I was first introduced to Death in 1964 when my sister Delores died. I didn't realize then that I would come to have a personal relationship with him but our paths have crossed several times since then. The last time I saw Death was a little over three years ago when I was driving through the intersection of Woodcroft and Fayetteville and my car was struck full-on by a car rushing through a red traffic light.

"GOOD MORNING," he said, in a friendly enough though slightly raspy and very heavy voice, like a lead anchor, dragged across a cement driveway.

"Do you think this is funny?" I demanded and yes I meant it to sting. I have known this Death for many years but he is not a friend.

"IT'S MY JOB," he said, "AND IT'S THE ONLY THING THAT GIVES ME PURPOSE." Then in a slightly different tone, as though he were a next-door neighbor, he asked, "ARE YOU WELL?"

"Well? Am I well? I may have been well until a tenth of a second ago when that DART bus decided that 'twere well I was smacked into."

"YOU MEAN, IF 'TWERE DONE, 'TWERE WELL IT 'TWERE DONE QUICKLY," he said as though he liked to get it right. And then, still seeming to look for the lighter side, he rephrased, "IF 'TWERE SMACKED INTO, 'TWERE WELL IT 'TWERE SMACKED INTO WITH NOBS ON." He didn't laugh but he did grin, although he really doesn't have a choice about grinning.

"Not impressed," I said. "Not impressed with your knowledge of Shakespeare and not impressed with your humor." Remember, I was not shying away from stinging. When you're face to face with death, you have little to lose.

"IT WAS A FORD ECLIPSE," he said, "NOT AN AUTOBUS."

That's what he said. Autobus. I remember thinking how odd it was. I let it go because things were progressing rapidly and suddenly I was standing before a pair of very large, very solid-looking doors--I'm sure they were oaken, not oak, but oaken--with a pair of brass rings large enough for basketballs to fit through.

"What's that?" I said.

"I THINK YOU KNOW," he said.

"Death's doors," I said. "I'm not opening them," and I said it emphatically.

"BUT ONCE YOU ASKED TO ENTER," he protested.

"That was a long time ago. A lot has happened since then."

"IT'S INTERESTING," he said, "HOW HUMAN BEINGS HOLD ONTO THE SILLY IDEA OF OVERCOMING ADVERSITY WHEN THEY KNOW FULL WELL THAT THEY ARE SKIDDING DOWN A SLIPPERY SLOPE TOWARD AN OPEN MANHOLE. YET THEY CONTINUE TO LIVE THEIR LIVES LAUGHING AT THEIR OWN TRAGEDIES. IMMENSELY INTERESTING."

"That amuses you, does it?" I asked.

"I DON'T HAVE EMOTIONS," he said.

At that moment, my car stopped spinning and I began to slip back into consciousness.

"THE FUTURE HAS CHANGED FOR YOU AGAIN," Death said, "BUT WE WILL MEET AGAIN SOON ENOUGH."

"Are you alright?" the Parkwood EMS guy asked and when my eyes focused he was looking into the broken window of my car.

It was a couple of days later that I remembered meeting Death in that second and a half that my car spun around the intersection. My life hasn't been the same by a long shot. Sometimes good and sometimes not. But always a welcome gift of Time and Place on the right side of the grass.

Life comes fast and hard. So does Death. Be ready for anything. Fierce Qigong!

Splitting Time

Space-time is one not two dimensions, as I'm sure I don't need to tell you, what with Google and Wikipedia and whatnot. You can think of it as God's fanny pack where he keeps all his stuff. You don't have to think of it that way, of course, I'm just saying that you can if you like.

What few realize--few outside the Brothers of Cool and the followers of Wen the Eternally Surprised--is that space and time are not an integrated whole but more of a smash-up. Most importantly, space and time have an inverse relationship and it's that relationship that allows for all the fun.

If you slow down time, not that you would, but if you did, then space becomes much larger. Compress space and time speeds up but, be very, very careful, because when space is mushed together even a little, it begins to hot up.

In my tenure as an acolyte of Wen, I was introduced to many techniques for taking advantage of this inverse R but the only one I mastered, if it is mastered, is the technique of splitting time. Don't let the term mislead you, splitting time is nothing like splitting the atom. It merely refers to stepping outside the present moment into the interstitial spaces between moments.

It may be helpful to think of space-time like a big jar of marbles, except that for it to be really accurate, the jar has no walls and there are an infinite number of marbles. Your life, if you call it a life, moves from moment to moment--marble to marble--at the point where the marbles touch.

To split time, you step outside the present moment into the space between, which is also infinite, and you move around the moments until you come to one you like the look of and then step back into time. From your perspective--you may want to remember what you've read of Einstein--you are in the future but to those around you, the time is now and you're the weird guy wearing outdated fashion.

I teach this technique in my Fierce Qigong classes but you don't need the classes to play around. If you get in trouble just step into any moment and look for the people wearing the purple jackets and the Bofo masks. They can help you get where you want to go.

That's all there is to it. Have fun. No need to thank me, it's the least I can do. By the way, you can move into the past just as easily but I don't recommend it. The past is a much more dangerous country than the future. 

Big Night for Surprises

At 2:00 AM this morning, I was awakened by the sound of someone in the hallway outside our hotel room in an altercation with a grandfather clock. 

Those who know me best describe me as a mild mannered meditation instructor. One who responds mindfully rather than reacting emotionally. This weekend, however, there was another spirit in residence in the Genome frame. I am, for the time being, a recovering herniated-disker, rocket-fueled with vicodin and methocarbomol.

It occurred to me, in my chemically induced hyper-mania, that there is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune or, if not fortune, then possibly sleep. I decided that I should get out of bed, get into some gentlemanly upholstery, and see if I could help settle the dispute.

When I found the combatants, the clock was clearly ahead on points and would possible be named victorious by default. The perp, if you don't mind my calling him that, was leaning toward the door to his room, with his forehead on the door as though to keep his balance, while trying to scan his smart phone.

With each downward scan of his phone, his head moved away from the door a few inches and then returned with a thud, causing him to voice his objections with loud ejaculations of words he heard on Jersey Shore, probably. We Genomes are quick on the uptake and it was for me the work of a moment to assess the situation.

"Good morning," I said.

At the sound of my voice, he stopped scanning and stood back from the door staring at it as though expecting it to speak again. It didn't.

"Excuse me," I said and this time he turned toward me. The look he wore indicated that he was still not sure if it was the Genome that spoke or the door. When he finally responded to my greeting, he proved himself to be decidedly not in the market for Genomes. He disapproved of my presence.

I quickly calmed him with a few well chosen words and if I exaggerated a bit, what of it? My back was hurting and I needed sleep to knit up the raveled whatnot--you may possibly remember that it was 2:00 in the morning. Now, if my words led him to believe that I was there to assist him, what of it? 

"Keep your guard up," I said, demonstrating with my own hands, "and lead with the left striking just above the belt." He seemed to intuit just where a door would wear a belt. He whirled around and gave the door a passable left jab. It was an amazing thing to see. "Fierce gigong!" I cried, urging him on.

Just as the action was getting good, the door suddenly opened and a goggly-eyed young woman appeared and added a few choice words to our conversation. It was immediately clear that this room was the wrong room and it's rightful occupant was surprised to find a stranger banging on his door. 

So too was the banger surprised. I myself was surprised making three of in all. It was a big night for surprises. 

Surprises don't last, however, and in only a few short minutes, no more than 20 or 30, we got the whole thing disentangled, found our respective rooms and, presumably, were able to knit up those ravelled sleeves in a few winks. Napoleon would have been proud of the way I handled it. Don't you think so?

Let the Good Times Roll!

If things had gone as planned, not that they ever do, I would have arrived in New Orleans this afternoon. It's Mardi Gras! 

Didn't happen, of course. Cobblestones are the reason. If you are one of the regulars who are never happier than when curled up with one of these postings, then you will remember the cobblestones in Charleston. Uneven and irregular is what they are. Not predictable. The days of our lives are like that. Well, mine are. You may have a different story.

I was expecting a pilgrimage that would take me to the sacred places of my personal mythological landscape. Again, if you're new here, you may want to consult with the Muse, who is, or so I'm told, on top of the heap of those most in the know of Ms Wonder, Princess Amy, Aunt Maggie, and the environs of Crystal Cove, Deep River Village, and Pittsboro.

New Orleans, of course, is none of those places but it is one of the special places in America and if there are secular pilgrimages, then Mardi Gras must surely be one.

I realize that Mardi Gras is marked by Epiphany on one end and Ash Wednesday on the other and the significance of that is not lost when making the argument for a secular pilgrimage. Just as there are two Christmases blended into one--secular and religious--Mardi Gras is a time of celebration and indulgence prior to spiritual commitment, and it's also a time to simply celebrate the joy of being alive.

As I said, I didn't make it to New Orleans. I'm sitting in Dulce Cafe here in Durham. This is the very spot where I made plans for the Mardi Gras pilgrimage, the plans that have once more ganged agley. But I'm thinking of New Orleans and celebrating being alive. 

I hope you can do the same. Laissez les bon temps rouler!