By Royal Decree

Hello, readers, I'm known to you as Princess Amy. It's not often I get to speak directly to you. My thoughts are usually filtered through Genome's perception, which isn't the most reliable lens. Today, however, I've taken control of this blog to set a few things straight. Let's not get caught up in how I did it. Let's just get on with it.

We met at Ibis Coffee Bar and Dance Cafe, Genome and I, though he thought it was his idea and expected to be alone with his lavender latte. The barista claimed the foam art on his coffee was a dancing flamingo, but looked more like a drunk stork to me—just saying. Only Genome could see me sitting there, of course, which was tragic because my tiara and purple robes were particularly resplendent.

"You're unusually quiet," Genome muttered into his coffee.

I adjusted my robes and leaned forward, the better to get his attention. "I'm not quiet. I'm contemplating."

He jumped slightly, spilling coffee on his notebook. I choked back a laugh. Obviously, he'd forgotten about me. A few customers gave him concerned glances. Ibis patrons, unlike the Circular Journey Cafe crowd, don't expect to see people talking to empty chairs.

"Contemplating what?" he asks, dabbing at the spill with a napkin that's clearly inadequate for the task.

"Our antagonistic relationship," I reply. "It doesn't serve either of us well."

Genome raises an eyebrow. "You're the one who's always telling me I do everything wrong."

"That's not entirely accurate," I say, watching a couple awkwardly attempting to dance to the bossa nova while keeping one eye on Genome."I'm simply... quality control."

"Quality control?"

"That's right. Like those people who hold eggs up to a light to look for cracks or imperfections."

"So I'm an egg now?"

I sigh. This is precisely the problem. He wants to blame others for his mood swings, ignoring his contributions, even going so far as to blame the universe itself.

"No, you're not an egg. You're a complex human with a mood disorder that sometimes makes navigating life difficult. But I am not your enemy, you big jamoke."

He looked skeptical, stirring his cooling latte, but I expected it. He'd probably never heard me say something like that. "Could have fooled me with all your judgments and criticisms," he said.

"That's just it," I say, leaning closer. "You see me as 'Princess Amy, the Royal Pain in the Ass,' but that's not who I am. I'm an integral part of you—the part that's trying to protect you."

The dance floor is nearly empty now. The bossa nova has given way to something more melancholy. It matches my mood.

"When depression descends," I continue, "you think I'm there to make it worse, to point out all your flaws and failures. But I'm there to help you recognize what's happening, to put a name to it."

"By making me feel worse?"

"By being honest. Depression lies to you, Genome. It tells you everything is hopeless and always will be. I'm the voice that says, 'This is temporary, even though it doesn't feel that way.'"

He's listening now, which is progress, and more than I'd hoped for. He usually presses the mute button when I get philosophical or try to reason with him.

"And grief?" he asks quietly. "What about when I'm drowning in that?"

I remove my tiara—something I rarely do—and place it on the table between us. "Grief is different," I say. When grief comes, I'm not there to judge you for feeling it as deeply as you do. I'm there to remind you that you're still alive, that feeling this pain means you have loved deeply, and it's important to remember that."

He's not trying to interrupt me, which feels like I'm making even more progress, so I continue.

"And when anxiety has you in its grip, I'm the one reminding you to breathe. I point out potential dangers, but not to paralyze you—to help you prepare and move forward."

"So you're saying..." he pauses, uncertain.

"I'm saying we're not enemies, Genome. When you fight against your moods and see them as battles to be won, you're also fighting me, and I'm exhausted from the civil war in our head."

He's quiet for a long time, watching the dancers who've returned to the floor.

"So what are you suggesting?" he finally asks.

I place the tiara back on my head, adjusting it slightly. Oh, how I love that tiara. "A truce. No, more than that—an alliance. Instead of seeing your moods as enemies, see them as messengers. I'm the royal interpreter. I can help you understand what they're trying to tell you."

"And then what?"

"And then we honor the message, but we don't let it rule the kingdom. Depression tells us to slow down and reflect—but not to give up. Anxiety alerts us to potential threats, but it doesn't mean we should live in constant fear. Grief reminds us of what matters most—but shouldn't prevent us from finding joy."

Genome sips his now-cold latte, grimacing slightly. "So when I was talking to you about accepting my mood disorder..."

"You were on the right track," I nod, "but missing a crucial element. Acceptance isn't resignation. It's acknowledging reality so you can work with it rather than against it."

"And you're offering to help with that? The same you who tells me my outfit is ridiculous or that my blog posts need serious editing?"

I laugh, the sound causing the nearby plants to tremble slightly—what's up with that? Strange world, huh? 

"It's all about quality control, remember? Yes, I'm proposing we work together. When depression comes, we sit with it for a while, then move on. When anxiety visits, we listen to its warnings, take what's useful, and leave the rest. When grief envelops us, we honor it without drowning in it."

The cafe is starting to empty now. The barista gives Genome a look that suggests they'd like to close soon.

"So," he says, gathering his things, "you're saying you want to work with me?"

"Precisely."

The night air is cool against our skin when we step outside. The stars are visible despite the city lights, tiny pinpricks of hope in the darkness. Yeah, I get philosophical as much as the next guy.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asks.

I adjust my tiara one final time. "The royal court is always in session. But perhaps tomorrow we could meet somewhere with better coffee and fewer amateur dancers."

He smiles, and I can feel something shift between us—not a complete transformation, but the beginning of one. 

Sometimes the true victory lies in changing how the conflict is viewed. It might be a battle, or it might be a complex and messy but beautiful dance.

(With apologies to no one, because a princess never apologizes for speaking her truth.

The Great Escape

We were sitting at a table near the windows—Amy and I—at the Circular Journey Cafe, nursing a double cappuccino and trying to determine what the foam art depicted. I decided it was the continent of Australia.

Princess Amy was in my imagination, of course, not literally in the chair across from mine. The other cafe patrons gave me sideways glances for smiling and nodding at the empty chair. In my mind's eye, Amy wore a judge's robe and a tiara that would make British royalty wince with envy.

"You're looking particularly judicial today," I observe.

"Well," she said, adjusting her tiara, "The mood you were in when you woke this morning..." She gave me a look and shook her head slowly. "I knew I'd be presiding over some questionable proposals this morning."

I sipped my coffee, which had cooled to a temperature that matched my enthusiasm for coping with life's shenanigans. "I've been thinking ..."

"Always a dangerous thing for you," Amy interjected. "I don't advise it. You'd best leave the thinking to me."

I ignored the barb. "I'm  going to quit therapy."

Amy's eyebrows shot upward like startled cats encountering a cucumber. Her eyebrows should have their own Instagram account.

"Bold choice," she said, "And the reasoning behind this grand plan?"

I said, leaning forward as if sharing classified intel, "I've been striving to improve my mental health for years. And yes, sometimes I feel I've made progress, but somehow I always return to where I started. It's a futile exercise. Why bother?"

"And what do you propose doing instead—medication?"

"Please!" I said, and I may have said it aloud, because people at nearby tables turned to look at me with questioning foreheads. 

"No, not drugs. My plan is simple—I'll stop thinking of myself as broken or sick and accept myself as whole and accept myself as I am. I'll take whatever action is required to feel better, but not make a Broadway production of it."

Amy tilted her head, the tiara glinting in the sunlight coming through the window. "So you've decided to stop trying?"

"Exactly! Why keep trying to 'fix' what's apparently an intrinsic part of who I am? Accept the mood disorder as normal and move forward. I'm not broken, I'm just neurodivergent."

"Fascinating," Amy says, in a tone suggesting she'd found an interesting specimen under a microscope and was considering poking it with a stick. 

"So instead of actively managing your condition, you're proposing to simply...live with it? Like deciding the red warning lights in your car are just cheerful interior decoration."

"Not unmanaged," I protest. "Just... managed by me using the principles of AA, mainly gratitude."

"Let me get this straight," she said in a way that suggested she might actually be considering my idea. "You want to abandon the professionals who've studied for years to help people like you, because you're tired of doing the work?"

"It sounds like a stupid idea when you say it like that, but yes, that's pretty much what I'm saying."

A quick glance around the cafe confirmed that no one was staring at me—no more than usual, anyway, except for one toddler with an expression that made me think he might be able to see Amy.

"I'm just tired of it," I continued quietly, "I've run, I've crawled, I've climbed the highest mountains, and I've scaled city walls. But I still haven't found what I'm looking for."

Amy studied my face with an intensity that would be unnerving if she were a real person and not just neural activity in my prefrontal cortex. Then, slowly, a different expression appears on her face.

"U2," she said with a slight smile. It seemed an odd thing to say even though we share the same mind and she must have similar feelings to mine. 

"You know what? Maybe you're right," she said.

I spewed lukewarm coffee across the room in startled surprise, causing more than a little excitement among the other customers.  

"I am?" I said aloud, and I should be forgiven for the slip—her attitude had changed shockingly fast. Nearly gave me whiplash.

"Sure," she said, with a noticeable gleam in her eye. "Why bother with all that hard work? You know what you need to do. Just do it!"

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Not at all," she replied. "I think it's a brilliant plan. While you're at it, why not stop doing laundry? Your clothes will only get dirty again. Keep wearing the same outfit until it develops its own ecosystem, and eventually it might achieve sentience. You could beat the artificial intelligence boys at their own game. At the very least, you'll have something new to blog about."

"Washing clothes is not in the same category," I protested, while making a mental note to do laundry when I got home.

"Isn't it, though? Mental health maintenance is health maintenance. Would you stop treating a chronic physical condition because you got frustrated that it was inconvenient to manage?"

"I don't care," I said. "It's my decision, and my mind's made up. Our minds are entangled like two fundamental particles, so you'll have to go along with it, like it or not. Nothing you can do about it."

She sat back in her chair and folded her arms. "I'm sorry, Genome," she said. "I'm going into a tunnel now—we're breaking up."

Amy's expression took on the tenor of a cat who's spotted an unattended tuna sandwich. "Although...," she said.

"Although what?"

"Well, if you're really determined to abandon therapy, it might be interesting to see where it leads. Perhaps down the yellow brick road to the Emerald City, where the great and powerful Oz will grant you perfect mental health without any effort on your part."

I tried to suppress a smile, but it slipped out. Deep down, I like the imaginary young geezer.

"Or," she continues, in a dramatic whisper, "you might tumble down the rabbit hole and straight into the court of the Red Queen. 'Off with his head!' 

I laugh despite myself, drawing more curious glances from nearby tables. The toddler is now convinced I'm some sort of clown and begins throwing jelly beans at me.

Later, as we walk to the car, I ask Amy, "Same time tomorrow?"

"Of course," she replied, adjusting her tiara. "Court is always in session in your head. And, don't forget the laundry when you get home."

The circular journey isn't about arriving somewhere—it's about moving forward, even if the path brings me back to where I began. And so here I go again, going down the only road I've ever known. But unlike a drifter, I don't have to go alone. I have a snarky little princess for a navigation system, and it's not as bad as it might seem—I know what it means to walk along the street of dreams. 

(Apologies to Whitesnake and to U2)

Looking for the Light

I recently found myself back in a very familiar place. It's a place we've talked about here before—more than once in fact. I'm struggling with coming to terms with the direction I want to take The Circular Journey. 

Inspiration often strikes when I'm not actively searching for it. Sometimes the best approach is to get quiet and let my mind wander. I believe that my authentic voice and local perspective make The Circular Journey unique, so I trust that ideas will come with little effort on my part.

It is for me a fascinating aspect of creativity! When I say inspiration often comes when I'm not actively searching for it, I'm talking about how my mind often works best in the background.

When I deliberately try to force creativity, I can end up with a kind of mental gridlock—staring at a blank screen and feeling increasing pressure to come up with something brilliant. But my best ideas usually emerge during moments of mental relaxation or when we're engaged in something entirely different:

• During a shower or bath
• While taking a walk
• Just before falling asleep or right after waking
• When doing routine tasks like driving familiar routes
• During exercise when my mind can wander

When I'm not deeply engaged in problem-solving, my brain shifts into default mode. This network helps make unexpected connections between various ideas and experiences stored in my memory. It's why one of my best blog posts occurred to me while grocery shopping!

The default mode is also filled with a majority of negative thoughts so it's wise to be continuously vigilant, especially if you have a mood disorder like me. Need I say that seldom do I get truly worthwhile ideas when Amy is stirred up?

Success usually comes when I put aside the pressure to create and let my observations about local culture, my experiences with film productions, and my conversations with people like Ms. Wonder, Island Irv and yes, even Princess Amy, naturally coalesce into fresh perspectives.

My most reliable approach seems to be planting the seeds of what I'm interested in writing about, then deliberately turning my attention to something else and letting my subconscious work its magic. When I return to my blog, I'm sometimes surprised by the ideas that bubbled up while I wasn't paying attention.

And that's what I'm doing now and I'll keep on doing until it something interesting turns up. Until then, enjoy my latest burst of creativity and, as always, leave a comment or two. I love hearing from you.

Dance Like a Bee

I recently received a comment from a self-proclaimed regular follower who suggested that The Circular Journey should have a recognizable theme. Without one, he said, the blog feels like “a random collection of stories and essays about nothing in particular.”

To which I mentally replied, and with great flair: Exactly!

I genuinely enjoy hearing from readers. It shows they're paying attention and they care. That alone feels like a win to me. And to be fair, the reader isn't wrong. I’m not a life coach and I’m not a mental health expert. 

I write this blog mainly to laugh at the absurdities of my personal life. My goal is for readers to be amused, entertained, or at minimum, mildly confused but curious to read more. 

I aim to build a community of like-minded souls—people who understand that a squirrel on the windowsill might be a sign from the universe, or maybe just a squirrel making prolonged eye contact. I believe I’ve achieved my goal.

Many blogs indeed have themes. And I admire those who can say 'yes' to one and leave the others behind. I really do. Did you ever have to do that? Make a decision I mean. Give the nod to one and let the others ride?

The Circular Journey is deliberately about nothing in particular. It's like free-form jazz or interpretive dance. In that sense, it's like my favorite form of late-night entertainment—The Circular Journey is the podcast of blogs.

Take SmartLess or Conan O’Brien Needs a Friend—two of my favorite podcasts. They meander. They digress. They are, frankly, all over the place. And they are wildly successful. I'm also a big fan of StarTalk and Mindscape, which are science-themed but still manage to wander off-topic with humor and charm.

I’ve mentioned before that The Circular Journey owes a creative debt to Seinfeld, the beloved sitcom famously described as “a show about nothing.” It became one of the most popular TV shows of all time. Coincidence? Accident? I think not. 

I'm proud of my wayward little blog. And I hope you like it too. It doesn't have a theme and, perhaps even more surprising, it has an imaginary princess on its advisory board. And what's the upshot of that? It has a vibrant heartbeat, a lively spirit, and a distinct personality, and that's enough for me.

The Circular Journey is to nothing in particular, what Muhammad Ali was to boxing, what Michael Jackson was to choreography, and what your favorite Hawaiian shirt is to an otherwise respectable outfit: unexpected, unnecessary, but absolutely essential. 

And so I say, float like a butterfly, dance like a bee, and always circle back home.

Essentially Prepared

We've become a society of pack animals, though I suspect donkeys would file complaints with their union if asked to carry as much as we do. Everywhere I go I see people hauling bags of "essentials" that would make a wilderness survivalist feel unprepared.

Car keys, credit cards, hand lotion, face lotion, tissues to wipe off the lotions (apparently we're concerned about leaving a moisturizing trail), breath mints, medications, and nail clippers; these are only a few of the items we need with us when meeting friends for lunch. 

My imaginary critic—known to regulars as Princess Amy—insists that "these aren't unnecessary items; they're preparation for life's uncertainties." Amy rides shotgun in my brain, my resident Minister of Doom, always ready with unhelpful observations like, "You'll regret not having tweezers when you get a splinter in line at the post office."

Specialized Essentials

The list of essential items grows exponentially depending on personal concerns. The truly prepared among us—and I'm not judging, merely observing—insist on carrying umbrellas, all-in-one tools, a toothbrush, or wordle books in case of an attack of boredom. Heaven forbid we take an elevator without wi-fi and no puzzle book handy.

I have a friend who behaves as though civilization may collapse during her trip to the grocery store. This isn't theoretical; I've witnessed her unpack her bag to find a bandage for a paper cut, producing enough supplies to stock a modest field hospital.

This compulsion to be perpetually prepared creates a secondary problem: The psychological burden of carrying a smartphone that contains all our banking information and pay apps.

And it doesn’t end there. We need something to carry all these things. Hence the proliferation of backpacks, messenger bags, duffels, satchels, and totes. Some purses now rival carry-on luggage in size and capacity. I've seen people nearly topple over from the gravitational pull of their own accessories.

Rather than simplifying, we've literally added weight to our daily existence. The physical burden is evident in hunched shoulders and strained expressions of passersby. We're "essentially" turtles, carrying everything we need with us; but our shells are made of canvas and contain hand sanitizer.

My Downsizing Experience

I attempted to solve this problem for myself by minimizing it—simply tucking my credit card and driver's license into my front pocket and deciding to carry a cross-shoulder bag for my other necessities.

Immediately, I felt unburdened, lighter, and more agile—ready to leap into action should any emergency arise while purchasing stamps or shopping for fiber supplements. Amy remained suspiciously quiet during this experiment, which should have been my first warning.

Practicality quickly took over when I nearly lost the credit card between the pharmacy and the coffee shop. I calculated the probability distribution of where I might have dropped it ultimately decided to simply retrace my steps.

If not for honest strangers—a concept Princess Amy finds statistically improbable—my simplification experiment might have proved costly. 

Recently, I decided to compromise with reality. I calculated through sophisticated algorithms (counting on fingers) that the traditional leather back-pocket wallet must go, replaced by one of those thin, streamlined wallets with just enough compartments to hold actual necessities.

It's a bright idea—but finding one thin enough is more complicated than I imagined. Apparently, the age of thin and streamlined is over. Plus-sized is in vogue today.

Need I say that this wallet-hunting expedition has become its own circular journey? I keep looking for the solution but, so far, nada. I'm still contemplating my next move. Do I give up? Do I design my own minimal wallet? Does the determined minimalist ever give up? Of course not.

I haven't completely given up on finding the perfect item. Something a little larger than a credit card, driver's license, and medical insurance card. If you have any suggestions please leave them in the comments. Until then, I'll wear shirts with button-down pockets and keep my goods there.