Is That All There Is?

The morning after broke bright and fair and the day was served with all the trimmings: the sun, the sky, the birdsong. But that was on the outside. It was different in the heart. Leaden, I've heard it described as. Athough Nature was smiling, there was no smile in my heart. No, I was still sulking in an overcast corner of my mind.

Bamboo grove at Straw Valley

"Good morning," said Ms Wonder, wafting onto the lanai like she owned the day. The sun brightened as soon as she appeared, no doubt because her bright attitude encouraged it, and I admit that her appearance lightened my mood too, if only a smidgen.

"Is it a good morning?" I asked.

"Very clement," she said with a big smile, and I understood that she intended to cheer and lift the Genome's spirit, but Princess Amy was having none of it.

If Amy's name is new to you, you may want to search The Circular Journey archives for her. Or perhaps not. You're welcome here in either case. 

"It matters little," I said, "when facing a trial by fire that you've got a nice day for it." And I was pretty happy with that one. I don't remember who said it but I like it and I use whenever I have the opportunity.

"No, I suppose not," she said.

"The sun was probably shining when the 600 rode into the Russian gunfire," I said.

"The Light Brigade," she said. I nodded.

"Not feeling up to kicking off a new meditation class this morning?" she said.

"The true nature of reality, Poopsie," I said, "is this--when I form a new meditation class, Fate sends me three kinds of people. First to come are those who think they know meditation but don't. Second, the ones who’ve meditated so much their eyes bubble. And third, the kind I’m hoping will show up, although..."

I paused for dramatic effect. One can never have too much of the dramatic effect, in my opinion, and when the timing felt right, I continued:

"And this is the crux of the matter," I said, "They rarely do show up. Gives me hives just thinking of it."

"Sorry," she said with a dramatic and pleasing pout, and I immediately felt just a little better knowing that this worker of wonders was ready to help if help was required. 

"It’s like that character Shakespeare was always writing about," I said. "You know, the one who agonizes over doing something… but then doesn't?"

"Hamlet?"

"No, not that one," I said.

"The genius and the mortal instruments," she said but I wasn't in the mood for more Shakespeare and raised a hand to stop her.

"Like to a little kingdom suffers then the nature of an insurrection," she said and I held up another hand but then realized it wouldn't be enought to stem the tide.

"Poopsie! Please. Put a sock in it.  Shakespeare before coffee is just too much to bear."

When the time came, I packed up and pointed Wynd Horse in the direction of Straw Valley and the new meditation class. A White-breasted Nuthatch sang to me from the shrubbery as I passed through the gate and into the courtyard.

No reason not to sing, of course. I just mention it in passing. Sing until her ribs squeak if it suits her was my thought.  

Then I heard more voices and realized that I was not the first to arrive. I found them sipping coffee in the bamboo garden. No reason not to sip. I always approve of coffee but these few turned out to be exactly the kind of people I like to attend new classes--new to the practice but familiar with the health benefits. 

"Is there a class here this morning?" asked the bearded one, who looked like he might breed Aberdeen terriers. I assured him that it was the case.

"Let's join in," said the female in the group and they all thought this a sound suggestion. In fact, they seemed to be eager to begin, although I suspected they might be just be happy to hear that it wasn't interpretive dance.

When the appointed hour arrived, I gave instructions, asked a question or two, and rang the bell. As we focused on our breathing, it happened—by the third breath, the scales fell from my eyes. My anxious expectations had been for nothing, and instead, a quiet satisfaction settled in. Maybe I could actually help someone with all this."

That morning, one that is now long past, was a turning point for me. You know how it is, one thing led to another and now I'm writing a book about living fiercely.

"It pains me to admit," I explained to Ms. Wonder later that day, "but the whole thing feels like it has my Great Aunt’s fingerprints all over it. You know the type—gets you to do whatever she wants, no matter that you’ve got a packed schedule?"

"I suppose so."

"My qigong master, Wen the Eternally Surprised, used to say that the universe is conscious and that she's always looking out for my best interests. I haven't completely embraced the concept, but I haven't thrown it out either."

"Ah," said Ms Wonder, "It's a great mystery isn't it?"

I sighed. I was hoping for something more. Could it be that's all there is?

Sweet Baby Genome

Only minutes before the whole thing began, I was seated at an inside table near the windows but not too near the cafe door. I was wearing a mood that might have posed a danger to passersby had I been seated at a sidewalk table.

There. The opening--the one you just read--is a gag that I've revised more than once in an attempt to improve the cadence and rhythm, two things I think are crucial when telling a story of any kind.

I think it's something common to writers in general. For example, James Taylor, the wonderful songwriter and musician, once wrote a verse or two of a song that was playing around in his head.

The song began, "There is a young cowboy, he lives on the range. His horse and his cattle are his only companions.

He works in the saddle and sleeps in the canyons.
Waiting for summer, his pastures to change."

Those words have perfect cadence and rhythm, in my opinion. Taylor added five more lines to finish the verse, and then he was stumped. He didn't know where to go with it. So he put it away for later--maybe. Just like I put the opening words of this post away until I can find that perfect phrasing.

Here's another personal experience that I've wanted to write about for years but haven't yet found the flow that I like. It goes like this.

One morning, while working on-site, I happened to walk by an open office door where a young woman was seated at her desk, staring at a computer. She happened to glance my way as I happened to glance hers. Well, you know how it is, one can't share a glance and not say something.

"OMG!" I said. "I love purple!" It wasn't that I was at a loss for anything better to say. It was just that her office was decorated in a disquieting array of purple. It delivered quite a shock so early in the day.

"You do?" she said in a tone that reeked of doubt.

"Yes," I said, "my favorite color." Take that, I thought, slightly offended that she seemed to question my honesty.

"Since when?" she said.

I don't know about you, but I think that's funny and should be an introduction to an entertaining piece of work. But, I swear, I don't know what to do with it. In fact, I revised it once more while you were reading it just now. 

According to my sources, Mr. Taylor also had the recurring experience and came up with yet another bit of song lyrics that began like this:

"Now, the first of December was covered with snow. So was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston. The Berkshires seemed dream-like on account of that frosting with ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go."

And he didn't know what to do with that verse either. Eventually, he remembered that other half song that he'd put away somewhere, and he dug out the lyrics about the cowboy. He wrote a refrain to glue the two verses together, and that merger became one of his signature compositions--"Sweet Baby James."

James Taylor is one of my all-time favorite singer/songwriters, and if he can do it, then it's OK for me. So, without further introduction, I offer the following paragraph to complete this blog post, which I hope will be as well received as the one titled "Coastal Camelot."

The experience of discovering that the lock on a public restroom door is broken differs wildly depending on which side of the door you're on when you make the discovery.

And there you have it. That completes my "Sweet Baby Genome." Thank you for taking the time to read it. See you again soon.

A Circular Journey Day

Some mornings you wake up knowing deep down inside that it's going to be one of those days to write home about; one of those days to take home to Mother.

Golden-crowned Kinglet

You wake up feeling like you've got the world on a string, you're sitting on a rainbow, and you've got a song to sing that can right any wrong.

And I, of course, have an additional blessing, I've got a miracle-working woman in my life--I have, Ms. Wonder, and she keeps the world in balance--not too little and not too much, but just right!

What a world! What a life! I'm in love!

But brace yourself, and forgive me for bearing bad news, but this morning is not one of those mornings.

Instead of rainbows and worlds on strings, I woke this morning with a return of the dreaded vertigo. And to make it worse, Ms. Wonder has left for Raleigh.

Consequently, I'm alone for the entire day with nothing to depend on but me--well, me and my walking cane made from a red oak tree that once grew beside the Brazos River near Waco, Texas.

What's the Brazos got to do with it? The Brazos, known to the early Spanish explorers as the Río de los Brazos de Dios ("the Arms of God"), originates in the high plains of New Mexico and empties into the Gulf of Mexico near Galveston Bay in Texas.

Why am I bringing the Brazos into this post? It's because with so much history and heritage behind that red oak tree, my walking cane must surely have powerful mojo and what I need today is all the mojo I can get.

And so the setup is like this: vertigo, dizziness, and a complete absence of Ms. Wonders versus, the Walking Cane of God, plenty of Jah's Mercy, and a box seat view of the animal circus in the backyard.

Reflecting on the circumstances, I decided the day was going to be survivable. In fact, I was feeling somewhat bucked as I took my seat on the lanai, caffeine in hand, and began recording birdsong with the Merlin app.

I opened the app and immediately Merlin suggested my randomly selected bird of the day would be the Golden-crowned Kinglet.

Now, I don't expect you to be an ornithologist and I don't expect you to be an Audubon Society member so let me explain.

In folklore, the tiny, fragile, G-c Kinglet symbolizes the importance of remaining flexible and open to change throughout life's journey. My American Indian ancestors viewed the kinglet as a symbol of new beginnings, and hope. 

Eureka! I'm sure you understand why my outlook on the day was back in the sunshine.

Once I clicked "OK", the new recording began, and right out of the gate, you know what I'm about to tell you, don't you? Merlin found a Golden-crowned Kinglet. The very first bird of the day!

I know what you're thinking. You think I'm exaggerating just a teeny bit. But no, my friend. It's true. I'd received a thumbs-up from the Universe telling me that all would be zippy. I mean think of the odds!

Need I tell you that I was bucked? Zip-a-dee-do-dah! You'd be bucked too. Admit it.

I felt like I had the world on a string, sitting on a rainbow, with a song to sing that could make the rain go away if there was rain.

I decided to go for a drive. Nothing major. I wasn't going to Ocean Isle and not going to Southport. No, I would be sensible and not tempt Fate. After all, she has been known to act the Bitch. I'd simply go to Belville, taking the backroads and following the slow speed limits.

I headed out, following the shorter and less traveled back entrance. I had the windows down and was listening to the Billboard Top 40 countdown for the week of Halloween in the year 1980.

Whoomp! What the hell? Suddenly I felt like...well, I'm not sure what it felt like but it wasn't pleasant. 

It was a feeling like Napoleon must have felt when he woke one morning and remembered that Nelson sailed into the Port of Cairo yesterday evening and burned the French fleet. It couldn't have been pleasant for him.

I decided to do a U-turn and go back home. Getting off the road now was my plan. Without room enough for the simpler maneuver, a K-turn was called for, but, foiled again! Another car was close behind me.

I continued out of the village and onto the cross-town highway, which brought me to the main entrance. I made the first right turn and was back in the community commons. Minutes later I was home again.

In less than 10 minutes, I had made a small circle and a steep emotional freefall to arrive back where it all began. Not on the lanai but back in bed, at least until the world stopped spinning. 

For the rest of the day, I'd try being grateful for what I have instead of regretting what I don't. I was reminded of the Rolling Stones theory that...

"You can't always get what you want, but, if you try sometimes, well, you might find you get what you need."

I tried hard to embrace that thought, however, what I couldn't get out of my head was the assertion by P.G. Wodehouse that...

"Life is filled with promises of eternal springtime and a God on his throne making all right with the world."

But what is life really? It's a series of sharp corners where Fate lies in wait with another of her practical jokes?"

I hoped I wouldn't encounter another post that ends abruptly, and yet here we are. I'll do my best to return soon to update this post with a happier ending. So, don't lose hope. Remember, we always have tomorrow, and as we all know, tomorrow is another day—and that's something.

Remembering Grandpa

I've been thinking of my grandfather a lot lately. He was a very important man in my life and I miss him. All my memories of him are fond ones and I'd like to share a few of those memories with you.

Granpa Will & GranMa Mexie

My Grandpa Will taught me that the only meaning in life is the meaning we give it. His was high-stepping proof that a life of gaiety and joy is as much a tonic for the elderly as for the young. Surely, living life to the fullest and enjoying every day while spreading goodness and light is the recipe for a meaningful life.

I try to follow in his footsteps but I find that just as Ringo reminded us, "It don't come easy."

I remember my grandfather as having an attitude much like that of a giddy kid goat frolicking through a meadow of skylarks and wild onions in the springtime. I'll tell you why shortly.

Grandpa was considered a man of few words. Many people, spoke of him as 'the silent type' but he wasn't silent with me. He told me many stories, most of them stories of his younger days. I don't know why he chose to be so open with me but I'm happy that he did.

Mademoiselle from Armentieres

Grandpa didn't tell me war stories. But he often spoke of his time in France during the First World War. I like to think that he would have been a resistance fighter in the French Underground if not for the diverting allure of the weekend barn dances in the villages near the front lines.

He often remarked that a man must fight against the thought that he can quit dancing anytime he likes. A man is easily tempted that he can have one dance without getting into trouble. And then he finds it's the first dance that works it's magic.

He told many tales of sneaking into the villages to dance all night with the French girls and then sneaking back into the trenches before dawn for a couple hours' sleep before the day's fighting began.

 Those stories sometimes ended with him singing a snatch of the Mademoiselle from Armentiers. All I remember of the song is: 

    Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parley-voo?

    Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parley-voo?

    Mademoiselle from Armentieres,

    She hasn't been kissed in forty years,

    Hinky, dinky, parley-voo.

Abner had a goat named Finnigan.

If you're not from these parts, I should probably mention that this story my grandfather tells took place in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains in Tennessee. The year is somewhere in the mid-1920s.

Grandpa had a friend, back in the day, and the friend was a goatherd of sorts--he kept a small herd of milk goats. He also kept Finnigan, an adult male goat, for the same purpose, I suppose, that one adult male human is often found in small herds of people.

 

Finnigan was known for sneaking up behind people and giving people the butt in the butt. Sort of a battering ram, except in this case a battering goat.

One day my grandfather and Mr. Perrin decided to prank Abner. They hid themselves and waited for Abner to go inside the goat enclosure to fill the feeding trough, which was attached to the outside wall of the small barn. When Abner began pouring corn into the trough, the two practical jokers walked up to the fence and began a conversation with him.

Abner paused, of course, and turned to greet his visitors. This diversion allowed Finnigan time to walk closer to the barn to see what all the fuss was about. When Grandpa and Mr. Perrin saw Finnigan taking an interest, they pushed 'play' to get their little plan started.

"Finish feedin' the goats," Granpa told Abner. "When you finish we'll have a beer on the porch."

"Sure thing," said Abner. "I got a powerful thirst for sure."

Abner turned back to face the trough and the barn wall. That move caught Finnigan's attention. I'm sure Grandpa and Mr. Perrin were elbowing each other as they imagined what was about to happen. Abner bent to pour the grain and Finnigan pawed the ground. It must have been a struggle for the two men to hold their laughter. Finnigan charged.

The goat caught Abner in the seat of the pants just as he was bending. It was a perfect storm of just the right alignment with Abner's head and the barn wall.

The poor man went straight into and through the wall with the feeding trough following him. 

By the time Granpa was halfway through the story, his laughter was as genuine and as hearty as it had been on that day so many years before. Long before he came to the punchline, he was crying with laughter.

Grandpa never repeated stories the way most of us do and although I heard it only that one time, I still remember him sitting on our porch and sharing it with me.

Welcome back to the 21st Century.

My grandfather, W.C. as he was affectionately known, is at the top of my list of favorite relatives. I miss him every day. I always remember him coming out onto the porch after a good meal and pausing to take in the view before placing his hat on the side of his head, dipping it ever so slightly over the right eye, just so.

I used to have a hat exactly like the one he wore and I'm going to have another like it one day. Come to think of it, that's what I want for Christmas. I'll begin looking for it now.

Thanks for reading. It's always good to see you here at The Circular Journey.

A Marvelous Mystery

"‘In the beginning…’—that’s how the first paragraph kicked into gear, and I remember thinking how strange it sounded. The book, "The Story of Earth," was written by Robert Hazen, a prominent scientist from the Carnegie Institution’s geophysical community. 

What I really want to highlight, though, is that this paragraph contains one of the most fascinating, to me at least, and, in some ways, baffling—scientific observations of the century on the origins of the universe.

The author makes the astonishing claim that all space, energy, and matter came into existence in a single moment from—nothing! Yes, you read that right. According to Hazen, before the Big Bang, there was nothing, and then, in a flash, there was everything needed to create...well, everything we know today.

This is where I raise an eyebrow and give Mr. Hazen (and his astrophysicist colleagues) a skeptical look. Why? Because we’ve all heard a thousand times that scientists only trust ideas backed by evidence. And yet here these guys are, asking us to believe that the entire universe sprang from nothing—no evidence, just… belief.

But that’s not the real point I want to dive into today. I know your time is valuable, and I don’t want to waste a moment of it. The real punchline comes when Hazen drops this gem:

“The concept—nothing one moment, everything the next—is beyond our ability to craft metaphors."

It was after reading that sentence, that I had my own Archimedes moment. You know the story: Archimedes, splashing around in his bath, suddenly shouting "Eureka!" Not that I wouldn’t have done the same. 

In fact, that’s exactly what I did when my mind clicked into place, sorting through the data and finding the perfect metaphor for the very concept Hazen thought was beyond our grasp.

How had I not seen it sooner? The metaphor was right in front of me—actually, it was right in front of the paragraph. Another best-selling book contains the perfect metaphor for explaining how everything in the universe came from nothing in an instant. It too begins with the words: 

“In the beginning…”

Those words, so simple, so familiar, are actually one of the clearest metaphors for the mind-bending concept of creation ex nihilo. 

I can't help but think that Hazen knew this all along—that the metaphor was hiding in plain sight. He wasn’t asking us to understand it but to marvel at the mystery of it all. Maybe that’s the real lesson here.

It's all a marvelous mystery and we will probably never fully understand it.