Defining Moments

"Ms. Wonder", I said. "Have you ever gotten your knickers in a wad?"

And I'll bet you can guess why I asked the question. It's because, as you are certainly aware by now, that she seems to never be rattled by any circumstance. Concerned, might be the word to describe her most excited reaction. Slightly worried on rare occasions, but never, never does she jump the rails.

She didn't answer right away but seemed to be searching the data banks for salient memories. 

"I suppose I did when I was a small girl", she said.

"Did you wear knickers when you were small?" I said.

"You're silly," she said. "You didn't literally mean knickers when you asked the question and you know it," she said. "I do remember being upset that I never got anything to go in my cereal other than bananas. That's why I never eat them today. I prefer peaches and blueberries."

"I wore knickers as a child," I said.

"When you were a baby you mean? she said.

"I also wore short pants and sandals," I said.

"So?" she said.

"I didn't like them," I said, and when I say I didn't like them, I mean that I hated them."

"Why?" she said.

"Because big boys didn't wear shorts. Shorts were for girls, was my opinion."

"Why didn't you like sandals?"

"Because pebbles got in them, underneath the arch of my foot, and that hurt. Added to the physical pain was the embarrassment of sitting down and inserting a finger between foot and sandal to extricate the pebble. The word is extricate, isn't it.

"The word is extricate," she said, "but I wonder why you use it. Why not withdraw, free, clear, wriggle out? But never mind that now. Why was it embarrassing to remove the pebble?"

"Because it drew attention to the shorts and knobby knees," I said.

"Yes, well I feel your pain but if that's the biggest problem you had, then life in Shady Grove must have been pretty gentle on the mind," she said.

"Ah," I said, "you may think so but you haven't heard about the socks that didn't fit properly. And if that doesn't change your mind about my childhood, then wait until I tell you about being forced to eat pine needles on the school playground."

"I've heard that one," she said. "And it's disgusting. Any why is it called a monkey's paw anyway?"

The last remark got past me. I assume it was meant to be a diversionary tactic and so decided to give it a miss. I include it here only because it may have some meaning for you. If you recognize it, please leave a comment below and clue me in.

I forged ahead with the theme, the nucleus, the heart of the matter as I saw it. 

"That pine needle moment was the single most defining moment in my young life," I said.

"Fierce Qigong," she said.

"Rem acu tetigisti," I said.

"Yes," she said, "a pine needle."

Blinded By The Light

The morning was about average as mornings go on the Carolina coast. Skies were blue and clouds were something that you've heard from me hundreds of times. But driving down Grandiflora, there was no indication of just how big the day was going to be.

Apparently, an offshore ocean breeze, the one I call Queenie, had taken her eye off her youngsters for just a moment--that's all it takes--and a couple of juveniles were now running around Waterford teasing the residents with thoughts of tropical climes.

It was a morning that promised a modicum of tranquility and dreamy something-or-other. Then I turned left off Grandiflora and onto Waterford Way. As Wynd Horse veered to the east, Bam! Pow! Blinded by the light!

There he was, just above the trees, at just about the right spot for a window, if the sky had windows. The young sun was hot-dogging in the Carolina blue sky. Shamelessly brilliant is the way I'd describe it.

The whole spectacle reminded me of that line from the King James edition where God told Moses to look away when he passed by because mere mortals are incapable of absorbing his full glory--not even a reasonable facsimile.

I had to shield my eyes and look to the shoulder of the road as I drove to Brunswick Forest and when I passed the welcome sign, I saw that the mockingbird, instead of singing the usual welcoming song, was taking refuge in the shade instead.

I'm certain the spectacle was intended to impress his mother. I mean the sun's mother. I'm speaking of the sun's mother, of course, not the bird's. It's a common character flaw among young suns or so I'm told. And I'm sure that all this unbounded glory made the sea very proud indeed because it was she who gave birth to this monarch of the heavens. 

I know it's hard to believe unless you have witnessed the sun rising from the sea, that water could give birth to fire but that's only a fraction of the weirdness of quantum reality.

"Just look at my boy," I imagined the sea to her sister, Queenie, the wind. "He's so strong."

"Yes, he's something alright," said the wind, "but he's not so strong as I."

"What do you mean!" demanded the sea, "He's stronger than you by a long shot."

Again, this is the conversation that I'm sure they must have engaged in that morning. I offer only the basics of their remarks; I can't do the dialect.

"Want to bet?" said the wind, and just like that, they were off on that old argument again. 

It was enough to make me consider going back to bed but it was an idle thought and quickly passed for there is much to be done and I am the only one with the perfect combination and experience and a randomly ordered limbic system to make it happen.

Gazing once more to the east, the skies were blue as blue and the towering white clouds were gold-tinted by the alluring golden light. I stared into that seemingly perfect place and contemplated the impossible distance. My heart began to steam with the desire to be there.

I know this may all sound questionable to you but it's something I often do; homesick for the first world probably.

And so, life being what it is, I paid my respects to the morning, made a short visit to my rock, thanked the mockingbird for her appearance, and then rolled up my sleeves and got busy following the dictum of someone-or-other from my childhood: So let it be written, so let it be done.

Nothing But Blue Skies

The problem...

"Nothing but blue skies do I see," go the words to the song, and it’s blue skies that I look for to keep my emotions manageable.

When I think of blue skies, I picture the American West and its vast, open sky. Out there, I feel happy, joyous, and free, as my spirit rises into that wide blue dome of heaven.

A few years ago, on a trip to Utah, I stood looking down on a small herd of bison grazing on the plains below. One young, not-yet-mature bull seemed intent on proving his courage and testing his independence, grazing out beyond the fringes of the herd.

Every minute or so, the young bull looked back over his shoulder to be sure his family was still where he’d left them. Reassured, he seemed confident—happy, I imagine, under those blue skies smiling down on him. Yet sometimes he would suddenly start and swish his rump furiously, as if something had just bitten or stung him.

He had help dealing with the irritating insects from a little buffalo bird, busily pecking through the fur on his back, shoulders, head, and rump. If that were the whole story, all would be well—but it wasn’t, and it rarely is when ‘happily ever after’ is involved.

Now and then, for no reason I could see, the little bird suddenly grew excited. Maybe she saw a hawk too high for me to notice, or a shadow slipping across the prairie. Whatever she saw—or thought she saw—stirred her to the core. She puffed out her chest, opened her beak wide, and cried a high-pitched, “skee-reeeeeeeee.”

Each time she cried out, she lunged forward as if to force all the air from her lungs, nearly toppling onto her face. I found it cute and funny. The young bull didn't like it. He took it hard; he was sure the sky was falling.

In one swift move, he would abandon his dream of independence and race back to the safety of the herd. And then, a few minutes later, believing it was safe, he would venture out again, and the entire sequence would repeat itself.

I’m like that young buffalo in many ways. I’m pestered by small bugbears that distract and irritate me like biting insects, and the emotional pressure builds from these minor annoyances until I begin to fray at the edges and am ready to explode.

I even have my own little buffalo bird, a mercurial limbic system, that I call Princess Amy. Although I have all the tools I need to remain in control of my behavior even in stressful situations, I often ignore what’s happening around me until Amy, like a little buffalo bird, starts screaming, “The sky is falling! Run for your life.”

The Solution...

There are many definitions for mood disorder, but the one I like best is "a change in a person's mood that interferes with everyday life for an extended period of time." 

That definition works for me. We live our lives on an emotional spectrum, and it isn't a matter of "normal" and "disorder" as much as a matter of control.

My recovery from emotional seizures has been a lengthy one, and I would never have gotten started in the first place without the help of people who had suffered as I had and who found ways to overcome some of their own limitations. 

Princess Amy

I stole Amy from Therese Borchard, who writes the Beyond Blue blog. Therese calls her amygdala "Amy," and since I think of my Amy as a heartless little tyrant, much like Lewis Carroll's Red Queen, I added the title, "Princess." 

I try to always keep in mind that it isn't Amy who has the problem. She's only doing what she's supposed to do. If I'm to stay on the sane end of the spectrum, we must work as a team.

Life comes hard and fast; be ready for anything.

Personal Mythology

"Lupe," I said, getting right down to the nub of the thing, "I'm opening the gate and stepping out onto the yellow brick road." I expected the movie references to grab her attention and I was right.

"Oh, good for you", she said. "Remember to get in touch with your personal mythology."

Her remarks captured my attention but the meaning got right by me. If you want to get the kind of results that will bring home the goods, you must take the Buddhist approach in my opinion. No time for mythology, personal or otherwise.

"What are you talking about, you little geezer," I said. "What's mythology got to do with it?"

"Don't you remember when we talked about how everyone is the hero of their own life story? You should pay better attention," she said. "Myths exist because stories are the way humans understand life. You, for instance, in opening the gate and starting your journey are like one of the knights of the Round Table beginning a grail quest. You're looking for your personal holy grail."

"Excuse me," I said, not a little miffed at the suggestion that I was playing make-believe. "I'm not talking about a fairy tale. This is real life that I'm concerned with--my life." 

Without waiting for her response, I said, "I'll be in touch later." With that said, I left her presence and wandered off looking for a more sympathetic ear.

Wandering brought me into Ms. Wonder's office. I don't know what she actually does there but I imagine it to be the place where she researches universal philosophical ideas. She seems to know everything. I suppose you could say that she plans her wonders there.

"Whoa," she said. "You look like you've lost your best friend."

"Who?" I said.

"If you mean which friend you lost, I haven't the slightest. It's just an expression."

"I just left Lupe," I said, ignoring the tangent expression she'd introduced, "and you'll never guess what she said about my yellow brick road journey."

"Let me guess," she said. "She probably brought up the mythology of the individual."

"How did you know that?" I asked. "And it's personal mythology."

"Oh, that's easy," she said. "Lupe relates everything to personal mythology. It's her thing."

"Why didn't I know that?"

"That's easy too--you don't pay attention."

There it was again--another reference to my attention deficit--and I didn't like it. But it's not germane to the subject at hand and with not a little effort I let it go.

"I wonder how she came up with such a loopy idea?", I said.

"Probably because it is in every sense a truly Lupe idea."

"At any other time I'd laugh, but my plan to find meaning in my life is serious business. It is for me. Sometimes. But it seems no one else feels the same."

"Then everything is working out perfectly," she said. "Lupe developed her ideas of personal mythology, or the mythology of the individual, as the result of looking for meaning in her childhood past life memories."

"Lupe has past life memories?"

"Wow, you don't pay attention, do you?"

I bit my tongue if you understand the expression.

"You should ask her about it," she said. "Do it now is my suggestion. I'm sure it'll help with your stroll down the yellow brick road."

I gave her a look and I meant it to sting.

"Trust me," she said.

Back in the presence of the little shrimp, I asked her to tell me about her childhood experiences with reincarnation or whatever.

"You really came to hear about your personal mythology, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, to be honest, I am curious to hear what you have to say, but only if it has a bearing on my quest for Emerald City."

"All you need to know, at least for now," she said, "is that when King Arthur's knights began a grail quest, they were told that after entering the Enchanted Forest, they should avoid the temptation to follow any paths they might find."

"Seems silly to me," I said. "Why not take advantage of someone else's work? Standing on the shoulders of those who came before so to speak."

"Whenever a knight of the Grail tried to follow a path made by someone else," she said, "they became lost. Any path you find is made by and for someone else. Each of us has to find our own way--make our own path. Nobody can give you a mythology. The images that mean something to you, come to you in your dreams or in your actions. But you'll not understand them when they come to you. Only later when you can put them into context will their meaning and importance become clear."

"These are deep waters, Lupe."

I paused, floating in those deep waters, and Lupe remained silent allowing me uninterrupted time to get my bearings.

"So what you're saying is that I have to find my own personal path."

"What I'm saying is that you have to make your path, not find it," she said. 

I didn't like it. "Disappointing," I said.

""True since the beginning of time," she said.

Happiest Seaside Town in America

Occasionally my brain feels like it's floating in a jar of dill and vinegar brine, stored in a glass jar, sitting on a shelf in a dark closet, and waiting to be transplanted into the head of the New Genome. Some days begin that way. Not all days, of course. If all days began that way, it would constitute a Code 10 situation. But today is one of those days and trending is not positive.

I realize that steps must be taken and not just any steps but the proper steps through the proper channels. Can't just allow the trend to continue or one day soon I'll find myself on the edge of a cliff, similar to Carlos Castaneda, and I don't have the benefit of a shaman spiritual guide on my side. You remember Carlos and his spirit guide, Don Juan. You should remember. His book is what got us where we are today. Better look it up is my suggestion.

The only spirit guide I have to rely on is Vulpes, the Red Fox, aka Reynard, and he's a practical joker. He'd tell me to jump into the abyss in order to find my wings and, if I did jump, the only wings I'd find would be in a Colonel Sanders box at the bottom of the chasm. 

And so I've decided to take proper steps through the proper channels, as Jeeves put it, and I'm taking Ms. Wonder to Southport. Just in case it isn't obvious, let me explain by saying that Coastal Living Magazine once named Southport as one of the top 10 finalists in their search for America's Happiest Seaside Town. 

Let's take a moment here for station identification and say, in the interest of transparency and full disclosure that the Coastal Living editors were listening to Jimmy Buffet and sipping margaritas while making their decision.

Wonder loves Southport and I reckoned what could be better than a Sunday afternoon in the happiest seaside town in America. And now, this happy little village will be the temporary home of Ms. Wonders's latest photography exhibit, "Ships of the Cape Fear River." That's right. Having completed a successful showing in downtown Wilmington, the exhibit has gone on tour. But if you can't make it to Southport, you can see the entire collection here: Ships of the Cape Fear River

From now until the end of June, Southport will showcase those incredible abstract images of the magnificent ships that leave the Atlantic and enter the Intracoastal Waterway about a stone's throw from the High Street.

Wonder isn't alone in loving happy seaside villages. I'm sure Coastal Living Magazine wouldn't spend time looking for them if they weren't popular with a host of discerning vacationers. Many well-known personalities spend time here when they require freshening. Don't worry, I will not allow myself to fluff up the content by dropping names--not the Genome style; I will only pass along this one little note of general interest by saying that, according to locals, Cher's yacht crew wears the uniform of the Italian navy. Curious, don't you think?

I fully expect that after spending a few hours in the sun, walking the boardwalks through the salt marsh, breathing the air that Cher breathes, I'll be catapulted into a new dimension and the brain will be working with the usual efficacy if that's the word I'm looking for. The ability to perform as desired or expected? I'll ask Wonder, she'll know. She knows everything.

It's my understanding that Napoleon often took a little time for himself to walk on a quiet beach and consider his next move. If it worked for him, I'm sure it will work for me.

Watch for the next post with the word "Southport" in the title. I know how you love to follow my little adventures and I promise to tell you all about our sojourn, leaving nothing out, and including a few photographs to illustrate. Until then, stay safe, and by any and all means stay happy.