Sleepy Hollow Revisited

"There is a little valley, or rather a lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquility." 

--Washington Irving, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

We first learned about the Sleepy Hollow covered bridge from William Magnum's wonderful book of original paintings, "Carolina Preserves." On page 105 is the artist's depiction of a red, barn-like structure spanning an icy mountain stream, new snow gently clinging to the boughs of fir trees that stand in the foreground—a scene so perfectly pastoral it could make a Currier & Ives greeting card blush with envy.

(Google it now, in my opinion, because you won't be able to break away after reading the next paragraph.)

Ms. Wonder and I first searched for the bridge years ago and wrote about our adventure in The Raleigh News & Observer. Finding it the first time was no simple task, involving what I diplomatically described as "spirited navigation discussions" and what Ms. Wonder less diplomatically called "your stubborn refusal to ask for directions."

By the time we arrived, the heavy cloud cover had ceased its idle threats and decided to let loose with the determination of a weather goddess that had been saving up all morning just for this very moment. The narrow bridge lay in deep shadow cast by several big-toothed aspens standing at the far edge of a sandy-floored meadow.

Wynd Horse entered the one-lane bridge slowly, and the loose floorboards shifted against their joists as her tires pressed down on them. The sound they made was like horses' hooves on packed earth—pumble-lunk-lunk, pumble-lunk-lunk—a rhythm that would have made excellent percussion for a Bob Dylan folk song in the pre-electric guitar era.

Entering the bridge, I was reminded that, in an earlier age, posted signs would caution travelers to "Cross This Bridge At A Walk," and the warning often specified a fine for crossing at a faster pace. Severe damage to the bridge and to draft animals could result from weak boards—a concern that modern drivers, accustomed to interstate highways engineered to withstand Trump's tank divisions, might find quaintly alarming.

We exited the bridge onto a small lap of land, grassy and inviting, and hemmed in by steep hills that rise far above it like the walls of a natural amphitheater. Who knew that Mother Nature had such a profound appreciation for intimate acoustics?

We parked at a wide bend in the road, sheltered from the rain by the thick forest canopy that performed admirably as nature's umbrella. Thickets of rhododendron growing on the creek banks muffled the noise of traffic from the nearby highway. The steep hill behind us blocked out all other noise, creating what acoustical engineers would probably call "optimal ambient isolation." I call it the world's most comfortable outdoor cathedral.

Only the twittering of juncos could be heard above the constant gurgle of the stream and the heavy static of rain—a soundtrack that no streaming service could ever quite replicate. I love knowing that nature can surpass the best attempts of digital technology. The quiet was so mesmerizing we spoke very little for the first several minutes, both of us apparently under the spell of a silence so complete it seemed almost ceremonial.

Suddenly, I was transported to another Sleepy Hollow, one that sheltered me for the first eighteen years of my life—a place that existed not on any map William Magnum might paint, but in the carefully preserved geography of memory.

In the heart of one of those spacious coves that indent the northern shores of Lake Chickamauga, at a broad stretch of the Tennessee River, lies a small rural community, known to some as Yaphank, but properly called Shady Grove. The confusion over names was, I suspect, entirely intentional—a way for the locals to keep outsiders guessing and tourists from finding the good fishing spots.

The name supposedly came from a much earlier time when the good people of the area would take their lunch in the cooling shade and then linger until the last minute before returning to their gardens and livestock. Whether this is true or not, I can't say; though knowing my ancestors, it's entirely possible they named their community for their favorite pastime: the strategic avoidance of afternoon labor.

This little village, perhaps no more than half a mile long, is nestled among high hills and ridges, making it one of the quietest places in the world. A small brook glides through it, creating a soft murmur, just enough to lull me to sleep in the front porch swing on the lazy summer afternoons of my youth.

The only sounds breaking the uniform tranquility were the sweet song of a mockingbird, who seemed to know every tune from the Billboard Top 100, and the sharp rap of an acorn dropped by a blue jay onto the tin roof of my father's workshop. That Jay had a remarkable sense of comedic timing.

Mr. Irving concluded his opening description of Sleepy Hollow with these words: "If ever I should wish for a retreat, I know of none more promising than this little valley." His words aptly describe this Sleepy Hollow in the North Carolina mountains, and that Shady Grove in the Tennessee foothills.

Day's Unveiling

The predawn hour lulls you into thinking the world is still asleep, wrapped in a blanket of quiet. But if you listen closely, you hear the rustle of leaves, the faint chirp of a bird who didn’t get the memo about sleeping in. It’s nature’s way of a good stretch and a big yawn, getting ready to throw back the covers and greet the day.

The Unveiling of Morning

On this particular morning, the air had that crisp, new feel, like a freshly minted hundred-dollar bill. There was a faint scent of possibility wafting on the breeze coming uptown from the Atlantic.

The ancient oaks lining Third Street, usually so stoic, seemed to shiver with excitement, their branches reaching greedily for the sliver of light just peeking over the horizon. In my mind, I could hear them say, "Kvncvpketv [Gun-jup-ghee-duh" in the language of my ancestors, meaning "Don't get too cocky."

I parked in front of the Circular Journey Cafe, and when I stepped out of Wind Horse, a solitary bird let out a tentative trill. Then another joined in, and another, until the whole neighborhood seemed to hum with a quiet, growing chorus. It 
wasn't the full-blown orchestral performance of mid-morning, but more like tuning up before the main event.

A Daybreak Melody

It reminded me of those early Manilow tracks, the ones where the piano gently introduces the melody before the full brass section kicks in. "Daybreak," I thought, "it's always the gentle beginning, the quiet promise of what's to come."

And sometimes, what's to come is just another day of trying to convince the sewer harpies to leave Princess Amy alone so we can get some work done on the media empire we're quietly building to bring some sanity back to the world.

Haven't you heard about that project yet? Oh, I thought I'd mentioned it. Hmm, maybe there's a good reason I haven't brought it up. I'll give it more thought. There's no rush; I was interested in getting your opinion, but we can talk about it later.

Until then, I'll leave you with a bit of public service: Keep smiling and be assured that good things are coming. Until next time, be happy, be healthy. As simple as they are, even those words seem filled with grand possibilities on a morning like this.

Not Just Ships

We were back at our regular table at the Circular Journey Café—window seat with a view of the street that offered just the right amount of distraction for deep creative thinking and a guy like me with an attention deficit personality to keep occupied.

Ms. Wonder sipped her espresso and adjusted her scarf in that casual, effortless way that seems to be her birthright. I can't quite figure out how she manages it, but I have a feeling it's in her DNA—perhaps something her ancestors learned while in service to Catherine the Great.

“I’ve been looking for a new venue for the Ships of the Cape Fear series,” she said, eyes lighting up with that now-familiar spark of visionary momentum.

I nodded slowly, trying to look like someone who knows things about cargo ships. I'd try pretending to know something about abstract expressionism, but it's never worked before, so I gave it a miss.

“Ah, yes," I nodded. "The floating rectangles of industry.”

She ignored me sweetly. “Not just ships--they're abstract compositions. I’m fascinated by their structure—the precision, the engineering, the sheer audacity of them.”

I glanced out the window where a pit bull had stopped to stare at me through the window, as if to ask if I was going to pretend I could connect "audacity" to cargo ships.

"Audacity?" I asked. "That’s the word you’re going with?”

I asked the question after realizing that if a pit bull knew I was clueless, it could easily be proven against me in court, so why pretend? Would you have done the same?

She smiled. “Absolutely. These vessels are not just ocean-going machines. They’re like... mechanical poetry.”

“Of course,” I said, flipping my notebook to a blank page, in case inspiration struck me for a new blog post. “Mechanical poetry," I said to hide the fact that what I'd actually written was 'Help me!' 

She sipped her latte and then, with a wistful look in her eyes, she said, “My grandfather was a structural engineer. He designed government buildings in Santa Fe. They were admired for their efficient design and functional utility, but they are also beautiful in their symmetry and purpose. That’s where it started for me. I appreciated how form serves function.”

I nodded, possibly too eagerly. “So, cargo ships are designed specifically to efficiently carry cargo across a great expanse of ocean, and yet, even though their design has nothing to do with beauty, it somehow creates an awesome, inspiring structure."

Ms. Wonder paused. “How did you do that?" she said with wide, admiring eyes. Her look gave me a jolt of feel-good in a way that old me I could coast through the rest of the conversation. I don't mind telling you, I was on top of the world.

"They're like colossal timepieces, in a way," she said. "Each gear, lever, and bolt work together at a level of harmony and scale that's beautiful. It’s abstract art born of industry.”

I took a thoughtful bite of my croissant, reminding myself that the less I said, the better. “I see,” I said, which was mostly untrue, but seemed safe. I looked back out the window at the pit bull and raised an eyebrow and waggling my head in a self-satisfied way. The dog looked at the human following on the leash behind him and then walked on.

“They’re not just ships,” Wonder continued. “They’re monuments to human ingenuity.”

“Hmmm,” I said strategically.

She laughed. “I know it may sound strange to you. But when the afternoon light is glancing off a curved hull, and the steel is marred by the action of wind and waves," her eyes took on that faraway look again, as if she were out on the river, the water calm and the sunlight reflecting from the water to light up the superstructure of a container ship.

"And I get the angle just right for the photo," she continued, "It's an emotionally moving moment. Almost tender.”

I squinted at my coffee. “It doesn't sound strange. I think Michael Jackson said it best: That's why you've got to be there.”

She blinked. “Who are you? And what have you done with the real Genome?”

“Okay," I said, gesturing vaguely while she laughed. “But tell me something, If someone thinks a cargo ship is a big metal box floating on the river, how do you help them see what you see?”

“My photography introduces abstract elements like contour, shadow, and color before the mind has a chance to categorize what they're seeing. Once someone realizes they're seeing something familiar in an unfamiliar way, their perception shifts.”

I blinked twice. “Like when I saw Beignet, that magnificent ragamuffin, on top of the fridge and mistook him for a loaf of sourdough?”

“Exactly,” she said, without missing a beat. “It’s all about perception. It's something cats understand naturally.”

I leaned back, pretending to reflect on her words, but I was really thinking about Beignet. “You know,” I finally said, “I think I get it now. Ships are like... huge kinetic sculptures.”

She looked amused. “Close enough.”

We sat quietly for a few moments, letting the idea settle—or we may have been thinking about once and future cats. 

“Well,” I said, finishing my cappuccino, “I think this calls for a new exhibit. Big, bold prints. Maybe include a soundscape—distant foghorns, I think, don't you?"

Ms. Wonder’s eyes twinkled. "Obviously,” she said. “I’ll start contacting museum and gallery curators.”

"Great!" I said. "I think we’re on to something."

"I think I'm on to something," she said with a grin, "I think you're on something."

Raspberry Beret of Happiness

The key to happiness is found in fantasy. I'm not saying it's the only key to happiness. I'm sure there are others. I just haven't found them.

Life is chaotic and messy, and it never unfolds the way we expect. Fantasy, on the other hand, can be anything we want it to be. Fantasy is predictable, and that makes it immensely satisfying.

The kind of fantasy I'm talking about is the kind you create for yourself. It's a fact of human psychology that we all tell ourselves stories about our lives. The stories we tell become the lives we live. That idea is the reality behind the notion that we create our future. 

You see, we don't always clearly see the situations we're involved in. We make mistakes in that regard and see circumstances in ways different than any other sane person would. But it doesn't matter in the long run because whatever we choose to believe becomes our reality.

Intentional, meaningful fantasy can make the world a happier place by simply changing our view. That's why I write The Circular Journey. I create a fantasy that explains and overcomes the nonsense in my life. I accept the fantasy because it makes more sense to me and seems more real than so-called physical reality.

If you aren't quite convinced of the truth of my argument, consider the following:

For decades, I've loved the song, Raspberry Beret by Prince. I could never be unhappy hearing it. The curious thing is that I didn't know the lyrics, only a few words and short phrases. I decided to learn the lyrics so I could sing along.

What a surprise! I didn't like the lyrics; they disagreed with my moral compass. I stopped listening to the song. I felt like a man chasing rainbows with wild abandon until the rainbow turned around and bit me on the leg. My spirit was broken, as broken as the Ten Commandments.

Then one day, during my routine physical therapy, the song began playing on Spotify. I was so focused on the therapy, that I began singing and feeling joyful before I realized what I was listening to.

From that day forward, I was able to enjoy the song again by simply choosing to ignore the lyrics.

Eureka! The principle of displacement! 

Not the displacement that Archimedes was so fond of, but Eureka just the same. Displacing one value with another made me as happy as damn it! I don't know what that means either, I just like saying it.

What's it all about? Well, I've heard it said, and I believe it, that if you don't like the way your day is going, you can change it. You can start your day over as many times as you like.

Happiness doesn't just happen to us. We must choose to be happy and demand nothing less. Then we must keep on choosing it every day.

Whenever life isn't going your way, simply put on your raspberry beret, get on your metaphorical Vespa, and set out on the open road to blue skies and better days. Works for me.

Hamlet All Over Again

Only minutes before the whole thing began, I was seated at a table near the window of my bedroom office, wearing a mood designed to spread goodness and light, had there been anyone around to receive it. Rather like a lighthouse beaming its cheerful rays into an empty sea.

Morning had recently stolen upon me as I sat writing a letter addressed to me in the future. I was unaware of the passing of time since waking at 5:00 am. It was the same morning the mystery voice had said, "Hello, I'm Claudia from Sweden." You surely remember my telling you about that in a previous post.

Something about that voice and the image that accompanied it had kept me from getting back to sleep, and there I was, unaware that dawn had swept the stars from the sky and that the sun had poured a rather generous cupful of sunshine onto Wonder Hall. The birds were likely singing their morning repertoire, though I hadn't noticed them either.

I may have continued to sit at that desk watching the movies playing out in my mind had Ms. Wonder not glided into the office like Catherine the Great leading her troops into the palace to get Peter's attention.

I was happy to see her, of course--couldn't have been more pleased. I told her so.

"Poopsie," I said, "So good to see you."

"Have you been up all night?" she asked with a hint of concern in her voice, the sort of concern one might show for a child who has been caught coloring on the wallpaper.

"Don't be silly," I said, "Only since 5:00."

"Have you been working on the book?"

"Not the book," I said. "I wrote a letter addressed to my future self."

"Hmmm," she said in the way she might if she'd found me building a scale model of the Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks.

"You know how it is," I said, "when you have an important decision to make and you think you've made it, but instead of acting on it immediately, you must wait until it's time to commit."

"I follow you so far." Her eyebrow arched a little higher than my comfort level.

"When it comes time to act, you question the soundness of the reasoning that led to that specific decision." I said, hoping the explanation might bring the eyebrow back to Earth.

"Sure, I see what you're getting at," she said. "Prior to the time to act, you felt no pressure, and the cingulate cortex was in charge, making reasonable, logical decisions."

"Maybe," I said. "Could be." My grasp of brain parts is much less comprehensive than my collection of vintage rock concert t-shirts.

"Then, when the time to act arrives," she continued, "the limbic system generates anxiety and indecision results. It's like the poor cat in the adage."

"Cat in the what?" I asked, feeling like I'd missed my stop on her train of thought.

"Hamlet compared his hesitation to act as being like the poor cat in the adage, who let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.'"

"Well, I don't know about the cat, but I know about indecision. Someone put it well when he said, The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I understand that perfectly."

"Jesus Christ," she said.

"Ms. Wonder, please!" I said. "Language! You may dump your garbage into the Winter Canal and pollute the Neva River, but don't dump garbage into my ears."

"I have a suggestion that may bring satisfaction," she said.

"I was hoping you would," I said, and I thought it was admirably diplomatic.

"Write a letter to yourself explaining the decision you've made and why. Then, when you get cold feet, refer to the letter and you will know the decision you made is sound."

"Write a letter to my future self?"

"Precisely," she said.

"I did that just now," I said, holding up the pages before me with the pride of a fisherman displaying his world-record catch.

"Then I don't understand," she said. "What's the problem?"

"Problem solved," I said, beaming.

"I'm happy I could help," she said, with a smile that suggested she was accustomed to these circular journeys.

"Thank you, Poopsie."

"Not at all," she said, gliding out of the room with the same imperial grace that brought her in, leaving me to wonder if I'd only in that instant woken up.