Yesterday Once More

"Poopsie," I announced as I walked into the kitchen and found her enjoying the squirrel circus in the backyard, "I have an announcement to make, and you should be the first to know: I'm finally on the road to 'Find Out.'"

Yesterday Once More ~~ The Carpenters

Her face lit up like the Christmas lights on the Riverwalk and I'm pretty sure I saw a twinkle in her eye. I half expected her to throw her arms around me and ask, Where have you been all my life? Nothing like that happened, but she did ask, "Is that the funny little town near Zebulon?"

"No, you're probably thinking of Lizard Lick, but honestly, Zebulon is a funny enough name on its own."

"Wait, a second," she said. "I've got it. It's called Horneytown, Isn't it?"

"Horneytown isn't near anything," I said, "and what I'm trying to tell you is..."

"Tick Bite!" she said. "The name of the town is Tick Bite."

"Tick Bite is lost somewhere in the eastern flat lands," I said. "It hasn't been seen since the big blow of 07. Wonder, take a deep breath, and relax. Find Out isn't a place at all--it's a journey of self-discovery."

"Why do you keep saying it with capital letters if it's not a proper noun?"

"It's the name of a song, Poopsie, a song by the artist formerly known as Cat Stevens. And it's not only a song title, it's a state of being--actively seeking and accepting the lessons in whatever life sends your way."

"Oh,", she said with a quizzical expression, followed by an awkward silence.

"You see," I said. "when I look back at all the good times I had in years gone by, it makes today look rather sad. So much has changed. But I've found a possible solution to all that."

"Okay," she said, "I've heard this before but let's get on with it. What've you got?"

"It's like this," I explained. "I attended a meeting at the recovery center yesterday, and one of the speakers reminded me of the Buddha's message: desire is the root of all unhappiness. In one of his poems, Rumi even suggested we stop resisting the slings and arrows and embrace them instead."

As I spoke those words, another adage came to mind, although I couldn't remember the source. I mentioned it anyway. "I believe Rumi's words were, When life sends lemons to your door, invite them in and make lemonade. It's not an exact quote."

"That's not what he said," she moaned, "and his name is pronounced "room-ie," not "ruhm-ie. But go on--I'm listening."

"I've decided to give it a try. I'll stop fighting the things I can't change and focus on accepting myself, flaws and all. To smooth the flow, I'll sing the old songs I love so much, and it will seem like yesterday once more. I believe the Buddha would be proud of me."

"Why are you talking so fast? And why bring the Buddha into it? You say you're Buddhist, of course, but I think you make it up as you go along."

"Am I talking fast?"

"So, you're planning to find serenity by simply accepting your life as it is? You're going to give up your desires, forget about your dreams, and be content with what you have?"

"Well, it doesn't sound very appealing the way you put it," I said. "But remember, Poosie, I still have cherished memories of a life well-lived – a reminder of what I once had."

"Will the memories of your rock star days in the ‘80s be enough for you?" she asked.

"Those were such happy times," I said. "It seems like only yesterday. I can get those feelings back, like finding a long-lost friend, and it will seem like yesterday again."

"You think so, do you? Those happy times will come back all on their own if you only let them?"

"I'm tired of struggling, Poopsie. I did the math, and I'll never finish that book. I'll never be known for my shaman's dreams. I'm going to surrender to the fate of old age, and when I stop fighting everything, I'll find the serenity you mentioned earlier."

"So you're prepared to dine on mud pies and dandelion roots? Your motto, 'Eat no pine needles!' can fly out the window."

 

"Wait a minute," I said.

"That's right," she said. “Give up the struggle and live happy, joyous, and free."

My knees buckled and I sank into a heap on the floor. I felt a strange lightness--a lightness that felt hollow. It didn't come from a release of the burden of care; it was born of having nothing left to lose. I didn't like it.

“It’s never too late, you know.”

“Too late for what?” I asked.

“It’s never too late for right now—for this very moment and this very life. It's never too late.” 

“Do you have any suggestions?”

"I do," she said. "Join me tomorrow for a boat tour of the Cape Fear River. Surrounded by the incredible beauty of the natural world, singing the words to those melodies that sound so good to you, the years will melt away and it will be yesterday once more. I promise you will feel refreshed and re-energized."

"Will I be reborn? Will I become a new man?"

"That's not the way it works. There is no new man. There is only the same man who is singing his songs every day. One day at a time."

"I don't know how you do it, Poopsie. Something about that brain of yours is wondrous. You should donate it to science when you're done with it."

"Every sha-la-la-la, every wo-o-wo-o still shines," she sang. "Every song that I sing is so fine. All the best memories come back clearly to me and, just like before, it's yesterday once more."

No Regrets

“I've lived a full life," I told Ms. Wonder as we shared a quiet breakfast coffee. "And I tried to live each day in a way to avoid regret."

I didn't plan to say it; it just came out. Ever notice how often we say things we didn't plan to say? Perhaps not. It may be a Genome thing. So many things I do are influenced by the Genome DNA.

Wonder took a break from her Brunswick Community College program long enough to sip her latte. "What did you say about regrets?" she asked.

"A day without regret is a perfect day," I said.

"I suppose so," she said. "I don't think I have any big regrets--do you?" she asked.

"Regrets?" I said. "I have a few. But then again, few worth mentioning. As a young man, I hoped to travel cross-country to San Francisco. That city was a mecca for young people in those long-ago days."

"Why San Francisco?" she asked.

"It was a troubled time in our country, but the allure of that one city promised a new and better world." I paused a moment, reminiscing about the comfort those promises once brought me.

"I haven't heard about that trip," she said.

"I didn't go," I said. "It's hard to say why. When I share that dream with others, I often say I didn't want to travel alone. It's a perfectly understandable reason but I'm not sure it's the real one."

I continued to think about regret and the few that haunt me. Most of them are not truly troubling, but they do nag at me. Perhaps it's the thought that some of my dreams are no longer possible--another kind of loss that comes with age.

One of my biggest dreams is to make the all-American road trip. This journey involves driving from the East Coast to the West Coast and back again, taking a different route for each leg of the trip.

I was ready and willing to do it for most of my adult life and yet, believe it or not, I kept waiting for the 'right time'. In the end, I waited for a lifetime. I don't think I could make that trip now.

"Sounds like too much time in a car," said Irv. I probably should have mentioned that after breakfast, I drove into Wilmanwood and met Island Irv at Caffe' Luna.

"I love exploring the country by road. You can learn about how people enjoy their coffee and what they do in their spare time—little details like that. Everyone has an interesting life, and America is full of fascinating places."

He didn't say anything. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled as if to say, It takes all kinds.

"The love for travel across the country is a significant part of the American spirit. Consider the covered wagons that journeyed from east to west in the 19th century. Today, there are numerous books, songs, and movies that celebrate road trips, with many more using the journey as a backdrop for their stories."

"Like Thelma and Louise," he said.

"Exactly," I said, "and Little Miss Sunshine and .It Happened One Night, and Blues Brothers."

“Blues Brothers  isn’t really about a road trip,” he said.

"Trust me," I said.

"I'm not so sure," he said.

"Let it go," I said. "it's like Die Hard is a Christmas movie and it’s not a Christmas movie. Blues Brothers is like Die Hard.” 

"What?" he said.

"Too-may-toe, too-mah-toe," I said.

He said nothing but he gave me a look that I've never seen before. I'll need to consult my book on non-verbal communication for the interpretation.

"Think of all the books," I said. "Books like On the Road by Jack Kerouac, and Travels With Charley, by John Steinbeck, and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert Pirsig."

"Are you sure Pirsig is the right name?" he asked. "Doesn't sound right." We eventually got it sorted out but only with the help of a second coffee.

If you regularly follow my thoughts on The Circular Journey, you're familiar with my strong urge to travel. But, as I get older, I question my ability to meet the physical demands. Will my vehicle be able to keep up? I ask myself.

When I refer to 'vehicle,' I mean both my body and Wynd Horse--I think of that car as more than a means of transportation. I question whether I want to make a long trip in any other vehicle.

Having said all that, I'm no closer to knowing how to deal with this particular regret. Fortunately, Ms. Wonder will fulfill her obligation to make the world a better place at the end of the year and we’ve planned an extended road trip together.

Our intention is to cruise up the Eastern Seaboard all the way to Quebec City. The plan has become my dream trip, one intended to mitigate the regret over not driving to San Francisco. You see, regret is something that feels like a loss to me and I've had my fill of losing.

Oh, well, not everyone should be expected to enjoy sitting in a car for hours on end. And you may be one of them. If you must make a long drive this year, I hope you will have a surprisingly good time. On the other hand, if you're a veteran roadster, then I wish you an unexpected happy surprise outing.

If Life doesn't have a road trip in store for you this year, I wish you a year of living with no regrets. A year without regret is a year in which every day is a perfect day.

Genome In The Wintertime

Are you a fan of P. G. Wodehouse? Most people are it seems. I'm certainly fond of his work. Inspiring is the word I'd use to describe it. 

Wodehouse lived through some of the more challenging times of the 20th Century. World War I, social unrest in Europe, World War II, and worldwide financial struggles. It was a troubling time. It could be described as living in Nosferatu's cellar.

How could one cope with all that chaos? How can someone maintain their sanity when it seems everyone around them is losing theirs? Wodehouse found his escape in his stories.

Wodehouse wrote light comedy to brighten things up and to create a happy place in a dark world. His stories have helped me to remain sane--relatively--as sane as I can be. 

I haven't lived through times as difficult as Wodehouse, but I've lived through the most difficult times of my life. I've learned from the Wodehouse style and I try to follow his example. By writing The Circular Journey, I create my own happy place in a darkening world.

In my writing, I depict Wilmawood as a near perfect garden, not actually perfect but naturally beautiful and sastifying to the spirit. The people who live there are not perfect--they're fully human, and like all humans, have their flaws. They make mistakes and succumb to temptation, but they haven't tasted the apples of the Garden of Eden.

My writing thrives during days of bright sunshine, blue skies, and birdsong. So it's no wonder that I am most creative during the sunnier, warmer seasons--springtime and summer. Longer days filled with sunshine are essential to my sense of eternal youth and happiness. Unfortunately, we're up to our chins in winter now. 

Although mid-winter days offer barely nine hours of sunshine, we can take some comfort in the fact that Earth is moving around the sun at 67,000 miles per hour. At that pace, the spring equinox will be here before we realize it, bringing longer days. By late June, we can enjoy up to fifteen hours of daylight.

The calendar reminds that we're not there yet. To truly appreciate the winter season, one must pay close attention. It's important to learn the language of birdsong and attend a squirrel circus when the show is in town. I attend to these requirements as often as possible.

Every ray of sunshine holds the promise of infinite possibilities. Winter winds cleanse the mind and spirit just as spring rain showers cleanse the air. That's my story, and I will stoutly deny any other interpretation.

My philosophy, which I'm sure you're anxious to hear, is that we arrive at life’s ultimate destination too soon and the few days we're given are chock full of absurdities and chaos. Might as well embrace all that nonsense and find ways to enjoy the journey. 

I apologize to those of you who came here looking for lifestyle updates rather than philosophical reflections. It's a weakness that I sometimes surrender to--not often--but more often than I succumb to poetry. I appreciate your indulgence during this brief interruption in the narative. I felt it had to be done. Let's get back on track, shall we? 

The long nights of winter are upon us and those nights don't lend themselves to revelry--not at my age. I prefer to stroll through Brunswick Forest on sunny days when the wind is calm and quiet. Not exactly a disco party but it works for me.

There's a touch of magic in the blue skies reflecting off the lagoons and the gentle ocean breeze sweeps away dark thoughts, if I only allow it.

A great stress reliever for me is to take some time to re-energize to dance with the mockingbirds and express gratitude to the trees for simply being there. I do it almost every morning.

Oh, I mustn't forget the ducks in the lagoon. There's always something calming about a duck. No matter what problems may be afflicting the world around us, ducks remain aloof from them and simply go on being ducks.

Eureka! I think to myself when standing on the promontory overlooking the lagoon. It's an expression that's probably out of place, but I like it. I'm not sure why I like it so much. Maybe it's because the word captures a sense of euphoria, or maybe it's the thought of Archimedes running through the streets naked upon discovering the principle of displacement.

Whatever the reason, I feel the urge to shout it when I stand beneath those blue skies, the sun shining on my face and the ducks reflected in the still waters of the lagoon--Eureka! Of course, I keep my clothes on--I haven't tasted the apples of the Garden.

And who do I have to thank for this feeling of euphoria? Mr. P.G. Wodehouse that's who. By creating his happy place in his books, he also created a happy spot for me. He taught me how to cultivate my own peaceful and happy little garden. It's a place that I can feel safe and content, no matter what's happening around me. 

In my own way, with my humble skills, I strive to bring a smile to the faces of my public here on The Circular Journey. My wish for you, my cherished public, is a winter filled with bright and cheerful days free from the limitations of yesterday. 

Shoot For The Moon

"Shoot for the moon. If you miss, you'll land among the stars."

~~ Norman Vincent Peale

On New Year's Day, I explained to Ms. Wonder my fascination with quantum theory and why I chose to be a science writer. 

I use the word 'explained' loosely because as she listened to me, she was also completing her year-end performance review--a challenging task even for a wonder-worker.

"Emergent properties are not seen in individual community members," I said. "They arise when those individuals interact in cooperative, supportive ways."

"The jargon is too technical," she said. "Bring it down a notch or two."

"The technical name for emergent behaviors is 'surprises.'” I said.

"That's good," she said. "Call them surprises. I like that."

"A group of starlings flying in synchronized formation is an example of a surprise," I said.

"I'll say," she said. "I wonder how they do that."

"It's simple, really," I said. "Each bird in the flock merely mimics the behavior of its nearest neighbors. A small act that leads to wondrous behavior."

She didn't respond. Instead, she seemed to ponder something in her review. The silence became awkward and I decided to say something--anything.

"I wonder what a group of starlings is called," I said speaking more to myself than to her.

"A group of starlings flying in formation is called a murmuration," she said.

"A murmuration? Really? Why not simply call it a murmur? A murmur of starlings sounds much nicer. After all, we don't call a group of crows as murderation."

More silence as she continued to stare at the review with a crinkled brow. Crinkled is the technical term I believe.

"Would Hulu produce a television series called 'Murderation in the Building'?" I said. "I think not. Silly idea."

She hit the enter key on her keyboard and then turned to look at me, her expression more relaxed but tinged with a little concern around the edges. It's a familiar look--one she wears when she thinks I'm flying with a bent whangee.

“Now I see why you associate squirrels in the backyard with emergent behavior," she said. "Surprises! Not long ago, we had half a dozen, and their silly antics inspired you to blog about them.” 

“What you call 'silly antics',” I said, “is what we science writers call disordered behavior.”

“Yes, but what do murmurs of starlings," she said, “have to do with squirrel behavior?”

“The squirrels demonstrate that organized systems move toward entropy and increasingly disorganized behavior. You see, they moved into our backyard due to abundant resources and limited competition.”

“Uhmm-unh,” she said, “but it lacked any real luster. Made me think of those notes at the beginning of a melody before the start of the first bar. What are those notes called? The name escapes me now, but you know what I mean.”

“Those favorable factors allowed them the freedom to reproduce at physical capacity and the number of squirrels grew exponentially."

“So what you're saying is,” she said. “our squirrel neighbors are enjoying an orgy of fruit and nuts, as well as staying out until the wee hours—sex, drugs, and rock&roll, about sums it up, I think.”

Many possible responses came to mind, and I paused to reflect on a few of the juiciest. Eventually, I decided to stick to the subject of quantum theory, thinking prudence to be the better part of something I heard once in Mr. Kier's advanced English class back in Edgewood.

“Chaos theory,” I said, "you probably remember me mentioning, tells us that small changes in a system’s initial conditions can trigger drastic changes over time—It’s called the butterfly effect.”

“Yes, I know about the butterfly effect," she said, "but what I’d like to know is why the hurricane shows up in Texas. What’s Texas got to do with it anyway?”

“Never mind Texas,” I said, "It's irrelevant. Molecular chaos tells us that confined molecules in a state of partial disorder must inevitably move toward complete disorder as the molecules collide.”

“Alright,” she said, taking a deep breath. "I give up. Let's get this over with. Continue, please."

There was a hint of resignation in her voice, and although I don't enjoy being a nuisance, I do crave her full attention. After all, she's gifted with superior cognitive ability and when she let's go, she becomes a force to be reckoned with.

“So you see,” I said, “it all boils down to this...”

“That-a-boy,” she said, “Spill it all. I'm holding my breath.”

I admit that the part about holding her breath got right by me, but I was bucked to the point of effervescence so I pressed on.

“A few squirrel families arrived in our yard and enjoyed abundant food and freedom from predators. Sitting atop the fence, day after day, leisurely enjoying a feast of fruit and nuts—they were soon noticed by other squirrels.”

“Crows too,” she said. “The crows sat in the tall dead tree and announced the feast to all of Waterford. It was like free Dunkin’ coffee and doughnuts.”

Once again, that Dunkin' motif was like a spitball coming across the plate in my first at-bat in the majors. I stepped away from the batter's box and let it go by.

The 'components' of the squirrel population," I said, "began to bump into each other. The more excited they became, the more disorder in the population until reaching total chaos.”

Her eyes had grown bigger as I moved closer to the punchline and by the time I stopped talking, she was out of her chair.

“The result was inevitable,” she said with no little enthusiasm. “Quantum determinism is realized, and where we once had seven quiet little tree monkeys playing in our backyard, we now have twenty interacting in total chaos.”

“In other words,” I said, “Surprises have emerged!”

"Genome," she said. "I think you're onto something good with this science writer idea. I have only one suggestion for improvement."

"What's that?" I said.

"Why not become a Science Writer instead of settling for being a science writer? You know," she said, "shoot for the moon."

"Capital idea!" I shouted, and I'm sure my feeling was similar to that of Archimedes when he ran through the streets yelling, "Yureka!"

And so, dear readers, I wish you a very Happy New Year! I hope you continue to follow The Circular Journey through the year. Who knows you might discover your own inner Science Writer.

Yuletide Spirit!

I wonder if you’ve had the same experience on those early-winter days when the sky is a bright blue with cotton-wool clouds, and the air is brisk and chilling. It’s a light, bright kind of thrill that makes me want to be out among the doings.

On this particular morning, what I wanted most was some stimulating conversation, a cinnamon scone, and a steaming mug of arabica grown on the east-facing hills of Peru but brewed right here in Port City. 

Unfortunately, I’m still dealing with inner ear problems—the kind that apparently fall under the label of vertigo. That’s the word people often use when I mention my lack of balance.

It's as though the word explains everything, but I'm blowed if I get the meaning. I've always thought vertigo had something to do with a fear of heights.

Due to my intermittent woolly-headedness, Ms. Wonder volunteered to drive me to Castle Street to meet Island Irv for coffee. Isn't she sweet? She didn't want me to miss my standing appointment to sip Jah's Mercy while comparing notes on the cultural and business elite in the old metropolis.

"What time should we leave to be there on time?" she asked.

"I think about 8:30," I said.

"I'll lay out something suitable for you to wear on Sunday in the city," she said. Did I mention that I'm a tad woozy-headed and a little wobbly? 

At exactly 8:23, I was shirted, trousered, booted, and gazing in the mirror to adjust the hat. A slight tilt over the left eye, which makes all the difference.

"Poopsie," I said, giving the word a little extra oomph to get it up the staircase and into her office. "I'm dressed and prepared to slip down the waterspout at your command."

Seconds later, she appeared at the top of the stairs looking like the goddess Diana come to view Endymion. She gave me a concerned look. She seemed to think I looked like a man who had passed through the lions’ den, but with a very different outcome from Daniel’s.

"Do you expect me to be seen in public with you in those boots?" she said.

I looked at my feet. I found them shod in what seemed to me to be perfectly respectable manly footwear. 

"Well, I thought I would," I said. "Too much, do you think?"

"It depends on what you're going for," she said. "I once saw Mr. Gotrocks wearing boots like that while tripping the light fantastic on the dance floor in a Myrtle Beach music hall." 

Leave it to the Wonder to know the preferred styles for appearing in any social situation. There are no others like her. The angels broke the mold and whatnot.

"Tell me, Poopsie, were you always like this, or did it come on suddenly?"

"Did what come on suddenly?"

"That magnificent brain of yours. Were you a gifted child?"

“My stepmother thought I was intelligent. She often told me I was too smart to behave this way or that. Or did she say too pretty? I forget.”

“Hmmm,” I said, giving her remark the thought it deserved. “We can’t really judge by that, though. My mother thought I was a smart kid, too.”

"Ever been hit over the head with a chair?" she asked.

"Once," I said, "but it happened so long ago that the scar is barely noticeable. Can you see it?" I asked, pointing at my nose.

She placed a hand on her hip--akimbo, I think it's called. She said nothing but raised one eyebrow so high I worried it might get stuck.

"Thank you for driving me, Poopsie," I said because her body language indicated that, in the circumstances, discretion could possibly be the better part of valor. "I realize it's a bit of a bother for you, and I'm truly grateful."

The eyebrow relaxed. "Don't mention it," she said. "The boots are fine, just straighten the cuffs of your pants to break evenly over the tops. The way you're wearing them now gives a Willy Nelson vibe."

I did what she asked. "How's that?"

"Perfect," she said. "Now you look like the man I married." She smiled and took my arm in hers to help steady me. "I like the hat," she said.

Hearing her words, I had the sensation of being struck by lightning. I felt an infusion of holiday spirit that filled me to the bursting point. I suspect Travis must feel the same when Taylor smiles at him. 

Now I'm sure to have the merriest of Christmases. I wish you one too.