A Double Short Morning

It will be old news to you, of course, but for the newcomers, it may help to know that I begin some days in a lighter mood than others. It's never a mystery as to why it happens that way, and this morning was no different. 

In mid-July, the countryside is still in full bloom. While summer is usually my season for outdoor adventures, this year I find myself staying indoors, enjoying the air-conditioning. Even the geese at Lake Brunswick seek refuge in the shade of the tall grass with their goslings, emerging only at dawn and dusk to parade along the water's edge.

It may be steamy here on the Carolina coast, but it's still a beautiful morning. Days that begin like one make one feel close to heaven, and, if you've been following this blog for more than a day, you're aware that it's exactly that kind of feeling that opens us up to the Fate sisters' practical jokes. 

As I neared the front door of Native Grounds, I was feeling full of the energizing bunny. My step was peppy, and I moved with lithesome grace, or something approximating lithesome grace. 

On mornings like this, I greet everyone I see with a boisterous Good Morning! I wave to the baristas in the kitchen, and I shake hands with the other customers. On occasion, I've even been known to slap backs and elbow ribs.

In short, I'm a nuisance to everyone I encounter and, naturally, this behavior has lost me a great many friends. But still, if you observe my face, you will notice that my eyes wear a smile even if my lips don't. In a nutshell, I'm encouraging, uplifting, and cheerful to a point just short of being manic.

This morning, like many before it, found me on a mission to fetch a cup of Jah's Mercy for Ms. Wonder. It's a mission that never fails to remind me of an episode of the TV show, Frasier; the one that begins with Niles ordering a latte in Cafe Nervosa. 

I decided to share this bit of humor with the young barista who greeted me when I entered the cafe and who was waiting to take my order.

"Good morning," she said, "what can I get you?"

"Have you ever watched Frasier on TV?" I asked because I realize that the 20th century is ancient history to a large and growing segment of the public.

"What's the name of it?" she said.

"Ah," I said, realizing that I needed another lead-in.

"It's an old television show," I said, "and there's a scene in a coffee shop when Nile's complicated coffee order gets garbled because he  has to have it just so."

"Who's Miles?" she asked.

"Niles," I said.

"Yeah, who is he?" she said.

I'd made a blunder with the introduction, I realized, but who among us is always perfectly eloquent, right? Still, one should always strive to at least get the ball over the net, as my French tutor is fond of saying. I tried to recover.

"You see, Niles asked for a double short, no-foam, low-fat latte, but when the order was verbally passed on to the person who would actually make the drink, it was described as a double short, no-fat, low-foam latte."

Her face took on a sort of pained expression. The eyebrows were wedged together, and the nose was scrunched. I didn't feel good about it at all. Obviously, I'd lobbed the ball straight into the net again.

"You see, the no-foam, low-fat part of the order had become no-fat, low-foam," I said, hoping to clear up the confusion.

"She glanced at the barista behind the muffin display with an expression that seemed to say, 'Please help me.'

"Oh, well," I said, "never mind. It's an on-location situation." But my retraction didn't seem to help her feel any better about it. I'm certain she was thinking how comforting it would be to have a vial of pepper spray in her pocket.

I decided to try a different tack completely. "I've always wondered about that order," I said, "just what is a double short latte anyway?"

She shook her head, "I don't know," she said, her concern growing deeper. "What can I get for you?"

Now, I encourage my qigong students to embrace the spirit of that old adage that a person should always know their limits and acknowledge when it's time to cut their losses and run for it. 

"Oh, I'll just have a double cappuccino to go," I said.

The double capp was just what the doctor prescribed and was an excellent morning pick-me-up for the drive back home.

When I finished it, I drove back to the cafe to get another for Ms. Wonder because, due to the double-short imbroglio, I'd forgotten hers. When I arrived home for the second time that morning, Ms. Wonder asked how my double-short visits to the cafe had gone. 

"Well," I said, "I discovered that explaining a twenty-year-old sitcom joke to someone who's never heard of the show is a lot like ordering a double short, no-foam, low-fat latte—no matter how carefully you think you're communicating, something important always gets lost in translation." 

She only smiled, took her coffee in one hand, and patted my head with the other. "That's a good boy," she said.

The Heart of The Matter

I told Island Irv, who'd followed me into Cafe Luna, with something important to discuss, or so he said.

 "I can't think straight before I've had about four shots of espresso and a blunt, loving critique from a good friend I trust to set me straight."

As I turned back to the patient barista, I remembered a crucial clarification for Irv. "When I say 'set me straight,' I mean my posture. Ms. Wonder says I tend to stoop in the tender light of dawn. Of course, anyone would stoop after wrestling Jacob's angel all night."

"What the hell are you driveling about?" Irv asked.

"Nice try," I replied, "but you'll have to do better than that to get my sparkplugs firing, and that's not happening without a coffee infusion."

I turned back to the barista, giving her a friendly, business-like gaze. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth, but no words came out.

"Sixteen-ounce hot latte?" she suggested with a knowing grin.

"Right," I said, "with..." My mind drew a blank.

"Oat milk," she finished.

"Oat milk," I repeated.

"With an extra shot?" she prompted.

I nodded. She handed me a steaming cup of Jah's mercy, saying, "I got it ready for you when I saw you park." It hit the spot--her words, not the coffee-- instantly making the morning brighter and friendlier.

When I faced Irv again, he was shaking his head, giving me the look a father gives a son who chases butterflies instead of catching a pop fly in his first Little League game.

His obvious disapproval made me feel like Lot's friends must have felt when he chastised them for partying in the local dens of iniquity. "That's better," I admitted, "though my usual 'roughing up' comes from a friend who uses more quotable phrases."

Before either of us could say more, Ms. Wonder materialized in the café, looking as fresh as a dewy violet. She flowed like a morning mist drifting above a river. It's a mystery how she manages it in mid-July's heat and humidity.

"How do you put up with him?" Irv asked her. "Isn't there anything you can do?"

"I appreciate your concern," she replied, "but this is a necessary part of his creativity."

"Creativity! What has he ever created?"

"Café society is essential for gathering genuine experiences that he carefully transforms, with the aid of his imagination, into blog posts that delight his reading public."

She turned and floated out the door with her coffee in hand. The barista knows her favorite drink, too. It's nice not having to wait; it's like going to the front of the line without being rude.

I can't say how Irv reacted to her words, as I was left in a sort of shock. I felt like Aladdin must have felt when he wiped the sand off the lamp and the genie popped out.

After a minute or two of considering her words and recognizing the truth that there are logical reasons for my behavior, I got back on my feet, so to speak, and decided to re-energize my life. I had a new attitude. Life was good, and the future looked bright!

When I returned home, I found Wonder reviewing her latest batch of photos from her river outing. I was still amazed at her ability to see clearly through the fog. And I'm not just talking about the fog on the river. I often have foggy mental machinery.

"Back already?" she asked, her eyes still glued to the screen. "You wouldn't believe the shots I got today, even with that thick fog rolling in."

I just shook my head, still a little dumbfounded. "It's incredible, Wonder. Most people would have just seen a blurry mess, but you always manage to find the clarity."

"It's all in finding the proper settings of aperture, shutter speed, and depth of focus."

"I'm not talking about photography, I'm talking about your ability to assess my behavior, but I suppose it's true of both," I said. "You really do work in mysterious ways, your wonders to perform. What do you do to stay like that? Is it all the wild-caught salmon you eat? Brain food, right?"

"Nope," she said. "I'm just being myself, living in the moment."

"So it's just a natural gift then? Nothing I can do if I wasn't born that way?"

"Exactly," she replied, perfectly summing it up in that way she has of getting to the heart of the matter.

The Not So Great Library Caper

Welcome back to The Circular Journey! I’m glad you’re here. One of the joys of blogging is connecting with others about the common frustrations we all face in our rapidly changing world. A frequent source of confusion for many is library technology, which can be both frustrating and amusing—unless you’re the one struggling at the self-service kiosk!

I pulled into the library parking lot and found plenty of spaces, which felt like a good omen. Surely the universe was aligning to deliver me a large print copy of 'Lights On' by Annaka Harris. My fading vision has developed quite specific preferences lately, and standard print has become about as useful as a whisper in a windstorm.

What I hadn't anticipated was that it wouldn't be my fading vision causing concern, but my relationship with what the library now cheerfully calls "digital enhancement."

The first sign of trouble appeared where the familiar search terminals used to live. In their place stood a row of sleek kiosks that looked like they'd been designed by someone who thought the future should resemble an Atari console running an updated version of 'Space Invaders'.

The help desk was vacant. The only visible staff member was a young man restocking book shelves with the kind of efficiency that suggested he was either very dedicated or trying to avoid eye contact with confused patrons.

"Excuse me," I said. "Could you help me navigate the new system?"

He looked up with the expression of someone who'd fielded this question several times today. "Joyce is probably on an early lunch. I'm just a volunteer, so I can't help with accounts, but I might be able to answer a question."

"I noticed the workstations have been replaced,” I said, gesturing toward the intimidating machines. "I haven't encountered them in their natural habitat before. Could you show me how to use them?"

"It's actually really easy," he said like someone who grew up speaking fluent touchscreen. "All library functions are self-serve now. You can borrow, return, renew—basically all library services."

"Except speak to a human being," I said. He didn't respond but instead returned to his cheerfully efficient re-shelving.

"Do I still use my library card to log in?"

"Oh no, library cards are obsolete. We use QR codes for account management and initial access, but don’t worry—it's very efficient and reliable!"

Those are exactly the words that strike fear into the heart of anyone over forty.

"I only wanted to search for a book in large print," I explained, hoping to convey that my needs were refreshingly analog.

"You can download our smartphone app if that's easier!" he offered as though solving a lack of fluency in technology could be solved with more technology.

Sensing that my volunteer friend had reached the limits of his helpful capacity, I decided to brave the kiosk frontier alone.

A trio of teenagers had colonized the machines nearby, navigating the interface with the casual mastery of digital natives. I positioned myself at the adjacent kiosk, as if I could absorb some of their confidence through osmosis. Don't laugh; stranger things happen in my world every day.

The screen burst to life with the aggressive cheerfulness of a morning TV host, and a robotic voice chirped instructions about QR codes and membership numbers. I fumbled for my phone's camera, accidentally triggering the flashlight, which I then waved around the room like a drunken lighthouse beacon as I tried to turn it off.

After successfully scanning my code—a minor victory I celebrated internally—the machine prompted me to scan an item barcode. This seemed premature, considering I was still in the theoretical stages of finding a book. I pressed what I hoped was a back button, and the machine responded with "Please wait while your request is processed.”

The teenager next to me had been watching me with growing sympathy. "I just want to search for a book," I confessed.

"Oh!" He reached over with the casual confidence of someone helping a grandparent with social media and pressed a button.

A familiar interface appeared—finally, something that resembled the libraries of my youth! I typed in 'Lights On' by Annaka Harris and hit enter, feeling a momentary surge of technological triumph.

The machine informed me the book was available for digital checkout. No mention of physical copies. No options to filter by format. Just a cheerful invitation to dive headfirst into the electronic reading experience.

Rather than admit defeat to my teenage consultant, I decided to follow the path of least resistance. I tapped "Reserve."

What happened next can only be described as a “user friendly.” Apparently, by reserving an e-book, I had enrolled in the library's newsletter, joined their summer reading challenge, and reserved a study room for next Tuesday. I had signed up for total library lifestyle commitment.

"It's ironic," I mused aloud, "that to access humanity's oldest information storage technology, you have to master its newest."

The teenager looked genuinely puzzled. "What does ironic mean?"

I paused, considering my options, and finally decided to say, "Never mind. Just thinking out loud."

"I don't think printed books are technology though," he offered helpfully.

"Of course not," I agreed, recognizing a lost cause when I saw one. "Silly idea. Thanks for your help. Have a nice day."

As I walked toward the exit, wondering how I'd use the study room next Tuesday—I reflected on the morning's adventure. It hadn't delivered a large print book, but it had provided some entertaining tidbits for a blog post.

The future had arrived at my local library, dressed in touchscreen interfaces and QR codes, speaking the language of efficiency and innovation. 

Next week, I think I'll try the bookstore. At least there, when I can't find what I'm looking for, I can blame the alphabetical system instead of my relationship with technology.

Extraordinary in the Ordinary

There are moments in childhood that seem insignificant at the time—a casual conversation, a shared secret, an afternoon spent in imagination—yet they become the foundation stones upon which an entire worldview is constructed. I had two such moments at the age of five, both involving otherworldly visions that would shape the peculiar architecture of my mind for decades to come.

The Art of Seeing What Isn't There

The first lesson in alternate reality came courtesy of my great-aunt Nanny, a woman who practiced the ancient art of believing in things that sensible people dismissed as nonsense. She lived in that enchanted corner of Tennessee that I've come to call Sleepy Hollow, where the very air seemed thick with possibility and the shadows held secrets that daylight couldn't fully uncover.

"Come here, child," she said as we sat on her porch steps during one of those drowsy summer evenings when time moved like honey. "Let me teach you to see the faeries."

You might think this was simply the fanciful whim of an elderly woman indulging a child’s imagination. But, Aunt Nanny gave fairy-spotting the same meticulous attention to detail that members of the Audubon Society applied to bird-watching. She had techniques, you see—protocols and an entire curriculum dedicated to the observation of the supernatural.

"You must look with the corners of your eyes," she instructed, demonstrating by gazing sideways into the gathering dusk. "Never look directly at them, or they'll vanish quicker than your father's good humor when the tax man comes calling."

She taught me to identify the telltale signs: the shimmer of light quite distinct from the bright flash of fireflies, the movement that occurred just beyond the edge of vision, the sudden stillness that fell over the garden when the little folk were about. Within an hour, I began to see faeries everywhere—flitting among the honeysuckle, hiding behind the morning glory vines, dancing to music only they could hear.

A Harbor in Another World

The second pivotal moment came later that same year, though whether it was a dream, a vision, or something else entirely, I'll never know. I saw myself surrounded by playmates on a veranda overlooking a busy harbor. The architecture was neither familiar nor foreign—it existed in that strange territory of the almost-remembered, like a word on the tip of your tongue that refuses to materialize.

Below us, a sailing ship entered the harbor with the graceful precision of a well-rehearsed ballet. The painted sails lowered, and rows of oars appeared to guide the vessel to the loading docks. I watched with the intense focus of a child witnessing genuine magic, which, in retrospect, I suppose I was.

The vision was so vivid, so richly detailed, that it felt less like imagination and more like memory. I could smell the salt air, feel the warm breeze on my face, hear the gentle lapping of waves against the harbor walls. Most remarkably, I felt at home there, not as a visitor to some fantastical realm, but as someone who belonged.

It would be years before I would connect this experience to a past life in Atlantis, but even then, I knew I had glimpsed something significant. Something that would call to me again and again throughout my life, like a melody from a half-remembered dream.

The Architecture of Wonder

These two experiences taught me that reality was far more flexible than most people imagined, that the boundaries between the possible and impossible were more like suggestions than actual barriers.

In the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, we regarded visions and music in the air as normal. The area was steeped in local legends and twilight superstitions. I learned to navigate the everyday world of chores and schoolwork, along with tales of headless horsemen and memories of people and places that could not be.

This dual citizenship in the ordinary and extraordinary became essential when, decades later, my limbic system generated its own characters. Princess Amy, an almond-eyed critic running my mind like a questionable theatrical director, feels as real to me as Aunt Nanny's faeries once did.

The Inheritance

What I inherited from those childhood moments was more than an active imagination; it shaped a worldview that embraces the impossible. Embracing the extraordinary has helped me navigate what others may see as a disordered mind with grace. 

Even my relationship with Ms. Wonder, that paragon of stability who guides me through life's practical challenges, feels touched by the same magic that first revealed itself on that Tennessee porch. She appears in my life with the same mysterious timing that faeries once showed—exactly when needed, bearing exactly the wisdom required.

The Circular Journey

The dreamy quality of Sleepy Hollow has stayed with me, whether I'm at Circular Journey Cafe discussing coffee foam art with Princess Amy or playing ukulele under a magnolia while practicing qigong, I always carry that childhood sense of wonder.

In the end, the greatest gift Aunt Nanny gave me was the understanding that seeing is itself a creative act. The world is a collaborative canvas where consciousness and reality dance together. And in that dance, magic is inevitable, as long as we remember how to look with the corners of our eyes.

Many Worlds Theory

Quantum Physics Solved My Summer Driving Woes

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This post may not be what you’ve come to expect, but don't worry, and put down that remote control. Have I ever let you down? Of course not! Once you've read it, we'll share a laugh, and you'll thank me for it.

The Great Traffic Transformation

The Carolina coast is a subtropical paradise, but we do suffer from a unique type of stress caused by the summer vacation season. Tourists flock in droves to our beaches, surfing spots, seafood restaurants, and art festivals. You know the routine—you've probably been here yourself, adding to our delightful chaos.

With the tourists comes the inevitable traffic on Ocean Highway—a bumper-to-bumper nightmare that would make a city planner weep. Picture hordes of vacationers rushing from the downtown riverwalk and its seafood restaurants to get to the beaches for surfing and Island Ices. It's like watching salmon swim upstream, except the salmon are in minivans and nobody's going to spawn. On second thought, I’ve heard stories that might challenge that assertion.

This year, the traffic buildup started unusually early, in March. By the time June rolled around, I'd given up trips to the beach because the traffic on Ocean Highway was terrific! And not in a good way. When I say "terrific," I'm thinking of the song "Home for the Holidays" by Andy Williams. Many have sung that song, but none can compare to Andy's holiday magic.

The M. Night Shyamalan Plot Twist

Yesterday morning, I read a news story about a record decline in summer tourism along the Carolina coast from Myrtle Beach to Surf City. The article reported that coastal roads are experiencing lighter-than-expected traffic during what should have been the busiest weekend of the season.

Wait, what? How is it possible that news media are reporting lighter-than-expected traffic, while I'm experiencing heavier-than-expected? My first instinct was to cry "fake news!" But then something extraordinary happened.

Around lunchtime, I left home to visit Dr. Coast on the island. I left early to give myself plenty of time to negotiate the heavy traffic. Are you sitting down? You should sit.

I haven't seen traffic so light since last fall. I couldn't believe it. Not only was it not "terrific," it wasn't even worth mentioning. The highway was practically empty—it was like driving through a post-apocalyptic movie, except instead of zombies, there were just a few confused seagulls wondering where all the French fries went.

The Many Worlds Theory

Now, if you've made it this far, I want to thank you, and I haven't forgotten my promise to make this post worth your time. Get ready for the punchline—and a brief, painless journey into quantum physics. No equations, I promise.

There is a theory in quantum physics known as the "many worlds" or "multiverse" theory. It attempts to explain the collapse of the wave function. I understand! Tranquilo, tranquilo, mi amigo. Take a deep breath.

What it means is that all possibilities exist simultaneously. It's like this: Will you get that job you want or not? According to the "many worlds" theory, both events occur, just in different dimensions. You get the job and are happy, but another "you" in another world didn't get the job and is disappointed. Somewhere out there, there's a version of you celebrating, and another version eating ice cream and updating your resume.

Here's where it gets interesting for our traffic mystery. There's only one sensible answer to how traffic can be both lighter and heavier at the same time: it's both, just in different worlds. See? Simple.

I know! I didn't want to believe it either, but there's no other explanation—the wave function collapsed when I read the article about the drop in tourist numbers. Perhaps reading the article caused the collapse! One moment I was stuck in Traffic World A, and in the same moment I was breezing through Traffic World B, windows down, and the Climax Blues Band singing their hit song, 'Finally Got It Right.'

Living in the Best Timeline

It is possible, my dear and deserving followers, that some members of our community are now reading a different Circular Journey post. In another dimension, I'm blogging about my successful career as a famous travel journalist. I must remember to keep that in mind as I compose future blog posts.

No matter what's happening in all those other worlds, I'm happy you're in this world with me, and not in another. I'd miss you. Besides, this timeline appears to be the one where the traffic finally cooperated—and honestly, that's a pretty good world to be stuck in.

So the next time you're caught in 'terrific' traffic that suddenly becomes perfectly clear, don't question it. Just smile and remember: somewhere in the multiverse, another version of you is still sitting in that traffic jam, wondering when you'll get home.