Daybreak

There’s something about daybreak that feels like the universe’s way of apologizing for the night before. That’s how I described it to Island Irv this morning as we sat outside The Circular Journey Café, sipping our coffee and watching a jogger arguing with a Canada goose about sidewalk right of way.

“The goose is going to win,” Irv said, nodding toward the honking bird, which had assumed a power stance and refused to yield the path.

“The jogger might as well take the long way around,” I agreed. “It’s better to respect the wildlife hierarchy. They carry a grudge for a long time.”

We both leaned back, letting the morning light fall across our faces like a kindly grandmother’s shawl. This was daybreak as it should be—golden, a little smug, and just humid enough to remind you of your laundry situation.

That’s when Lilly appeared, wearing sunglasses that suggested she either hadn’t slept or had just come from a press conference.

“Good morning,” she said, drawing the phrase out like it owed her money. “Why are you two sitting here like you just solved world peace?”

“Because of daybreak,” I said.

“Because of the goose standoff,” added Irv.

She directed a long, suspicious look at our coffee mugs, but then said, “Are those egg sandwiches I smell?”

“Indeed,” said Irv. “I ordered the Signature Sunrise Delight. Genome here went for the Cheddar Nest.”

Lilly narrowed her eyes. “Brave choices. Have you met the new barista? Her name's Serenity.”

“I liked her,” Irv said. “She called me ‘chief’ and asked if I wanted my sandwich to feel cozy or adventurous.”

“She looked like someone who might have taken a weekend ayahuasca workshop,” I said. “The kind where they talk to raccoons about forgiveness.”

Just then, Serenity herself emerged from the café with a steaming mug and a single pastry balanced on a plate. She had the aura of someone who spoke fluent tarot and possibly knew what our credit scores were.

“I brought you a chai,” she said, ceremoniously handing the cup to Lilly with the solemnity of a moon priestess. “And a lemon scone with rebellious energy.”

Lilly stared at it. “Is it safe?”

“It has the consciousness-expanding power of a shot of turmeric," Serenity explained.

I gave Irv a look that I had practiced to the point of perfection--you surely know the one I mean--and he raised an eyebrow in an effective, if somewhat amateurish, manner.

“Well, alright then,” Lilly announced and eagerly set in on the scone.

“Signal if you need anything else,” Serenity said. "You do know how to signal, don't you, Lilly. "Just open your texting app, put your finger on whatever you want, and push." She turned and floated back inside.

“I miss the old barista,” Irv muttered. “He couldn’t steam milk to save his life, but he never insisted on knowing my birth sign before handing me a bagel.”

We lapsed into silence again, watching the goose chase a squirrel, abandoning the pursuit halfway through in what appeared to be a mutual agreement.

“I think this is what Barry Manilow meant,” I said eventually. “About the moment when the night is through. You know—that feeling you sometimes get that things are actually okay, despite everything you dreamed about in the third REM cycle.”

Lilly nodded. “Barry Manilow also said to 'get up and look around,' so how about handing me a napkin?” Then, while dabbing delicately at lemon filling that had escaped the scone, she said, "You two are ridiculous.” I'm sure her comment was driven by pastry on her blouse.

“But it’s daybreak ridiculous,” Irv said. “The best kind.”

We all fell quiet again, watching the light move slowly up the street as the sun climbed higher in the sky. A gentle breeze stirred the trees on the riverbank and carried bird gossip to our ears. The coffee warmed us. The scone, as it turned out, wasn’t cursed. I've heard it described as 'all's right with the world.'

Suddenly, as if by magic, Vintage Vinyl, the record shop next door, turned up the outdoor speakers to play an old vinyl recording of Daybreak itself.

As Mr. Mannilow crooned, Lilly excused herself to enter the cafe, where she took up her duties as emergency backup barista. Irv seemed lost in Let's Remember, and the goose and squirrel seemed to mellow out. 

I said, 'goose and squirrel,' even though you may have thought I said, 'moose and squirrel,' completely understandable.

“Let’s stay here forever,” I said, "like Sugar Mountain." Irv nodded in agreement because at daybreak, anything feels possible—even miracles.

Captain's Log: Mission to Mohs

"This is the day!" Princess Amy's voice crackled across my mental intercom from the imaginary command console on the bridge of GMS Coastal Voyager. "The day a future documentary will record as 'The Beginning of the End for Mindfleet.'"  

Sunrise Alert

"I don't want to hear it, Amy!" I pulled back the curtains for morning salutations. "It's not a big deal. It's a simple procedure that will be over before you know it." 

"Simple procedure?" Princess Amy's voice rose with the authority of a Starfleet commander facing the Kobayashi Maru. “Ambassador, let me inform you of the most recent systems reports from my senior staff." 

"I don't want to hear it. I'm greeting the morning and expressing gratitude for the gift of another day," and without hesitation, I began, "Thank you for this day, its beauty and its light..." 

Minutes later, I was cranking the self-starter in Coastal Voyager, backing out of the driveway, and heading toward the dermatology clinic for Mohs surgery, an outpatient procedure to remove a small carcinoma from the tip of my nose. 

Ship's Officers' Reports

Amy began to record the mission log as we pulled into traffic. "Captain's log, Stardate 2025.240: We're departing Mindfleet headquarters for what Command has classified as a 'routine systems maintenance' procedure. However, preliminary investigations suggest otherwise." 

"Shut up, Amy," I muttered, focusing on my driving, while Communications Officer Lt. Joy tuned SiriusXM to 80's-on-Eight where Bobby McFerrin sang Don't Worry, Be Happy. My sentiment exactly, I thought.

But Captain Amy, true to her commanding nature, continued with military precision. "Science Officer Reason's research indicates that these 'simple procedures,' as the Ambassador calls them, are often performed repeatedly until laboratory analyses achieve negative results.”

Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Downer, chimed in. “Statistical probability suggests that the more tissue layers removed, the more reconstruction is required to restore the nasal apparatus to full functionality and aesthetic standards, if the original proboscis can be said to have aesthetic standards." 

I imagined Mr. Reason looking up from his post at the Science station, with characteristic Vulcan-like calm, when he said, “Captain, my analysis of medical literature shows Mohs surgery has a 97-99% success rate for primary basal cell carcinomas. The procedure is considered the gold standard for this type of cellular abnormality." 

“Excellent work, Number One. What's your engineering assessment, Chief Anxiety?" 

From the engine room came the worried voice of Anxiety, his Scottish accent thick with concern. “Lt. Reason is correct, Captain, but what if we're in that 1-3% failure rate? What if the wee beastie on the Ambassador’s nose has deeper roots than the medical tricorders detected? It could threaten the success of the mission. I'm showing fluctuations in the confidence generators, and the worry-dampening systems are working overtime!"

I was at the wheel, navigating toward Magnolia Greens while the conversation took place. Hoping to change the topic of conversation, I announced in my most diplomatic voice, "I’ll let the GPS decide which route to take." 

Amy's reply came back quickly and crisply. "Negative, Ambassador. Anxiety has calculated the optimal route to be Brunswick Drive, due to superior probability distribution for avoiding traffic anomalies." 

Lt. Joy, monitoring crew morale from her position at the communications console, chimed in with characteristic optimism. "Now, now, everyone. I've reviewed the medical databases, and Mohs surgery is actually quite elegant—like precision engineering for biological systems. It's really quite remarkable!" 

But Chief Anxiety wasn't convinced, and he addressed Dr. Downer, hoping to get support for his concerns. “Dr. Downer, are we overlooking the possibility of post-operative complications? Infection rates? Scarring possibilities? Permanent nerve damage? What if—" 

“Chief!" Princess Amy interrupted the Chief Engineer, exercising her command authority, "Attend to your station. We need those engines running smoothly. Especially now that the Ambassador has made an unauthorized course change." 

The Mission Execution

The dermatologist's office appeared ahead, the clinic gleaming in the morning light like a Federation starbase. As we entered, I took the point position as crew ambassador, interfacing with the medical staff while Captain Amy maintained tactical oversight. 

"Any concerns about the procedure?" The surgeon made small talk while using his medical tricorder to map out the area for the incision. 

I can’t say that I’d completely ignored the concerns voiced by Engineer Anxiety on the ride over. But I put my trust in Lt. Joy’s optimistic outlook and attempted a little joke to lighten the mood.

"The only concern I have is that the pants I'm wearing are too short. Don’t you agree? High-waters is what I call them." 

The surgeon smiled. "Those are actually quite stylish today. We seldom entertain such fashion-forward patients as you." 

I mused on his choice of words, wondering if 'entertain' was the correct word for an appointment with a surgeon. 

Meanwhile, the surgical assistant prepared her instruments with the precision of a Starfleet engineer, while making time to joke that she would need all her "arts and crafts skills" to properly bandage my nose after the procedure. Maybe entertain was the right word after all. 

Eventually, we got started on the business end of the appointment, and the procedure was completed in short order. The surgical assistant, true to her word, applied gauze and tape with artistic precision, commenting that, "With all these sutures, your nose looks like something to make Frankenstein proud."

New Mission Parameters

As we departed the medical facility, Amy called the senior staff together for debriefing. 

"The primary mission has been accomplished successfully; however, new operational parameters are now in effect. For the next fourteen standard days, Ambassador Genome is restricted from solar exposure and outdoor activities." 

Lt. Joy added, in her usual cheerful manner, "Think of all the books and podcasts you'll enjoy, Ambassador. You can finally get started writing your theory of foundational consciousness for Science Magazine!" 

I could sense Princess Amy's satisfaction with the mission and with her crew. "The Ambassador's nose may currently resemble a Frankenstein creation," she said, "but our mission was successful. We faced our fears, trusted in medical expertise, and emerged victorious."

Captain's Log Supplemental

Amy would later record in the Captain’s Log Supplemental-- final entry for Mission Mohs: "The mission proceeded with remarkable efficiency. Only one tissue layer required removal, and the procedure duration was significantly shorter than anticipated.

Everything considered, the mission was a resounding success, and it was accomplished without violating our Prime Directive--non-interference with established protocols."

“Aye, maybe so,” Anxiety admitted grudgingly, "but the anesthetic made his nose feel like a big rubber ball. That can't be normal, and what if it turns out to be permanent?" 

Author's Supplemental

Two weeks later, the stitches would be removed to reveal a nose that looked perfectly normal—no Frankenstein resemblance whatsoever. The crew learned once again, that it's often best to trust the experts, follow the treatment plan, and let science do its job. However, it's a good idea to have Anxiety continue running preventive diagnostics on all systems, just in case.

Adjust Your Altitude

Daybreak settled over Wilmawood like a comforting spell. In the lively downtown corridor, its light fell pleasingly on both the just and the unjust—a biblical equity that only morning sunshine can truly deliver. 

A spring shower had swept through overnight, rinsing away the yellow fog of pine pollen that had held the city hostage for weeks. I inhaled deeply, savoring the sensation of breathing without a symphony of sneezes. The morning promised possibilities as endless as the blue Carolina sky above.

Wilmawood's topography rises gradually as one ventures from the riverbank promenade into the sanctuary of the arts quarter on Castle Street. The geography itself elevates the spirit along with the terrain.

From the sidewalk outside Circular Journey Café, one enjoys a panoramic vista: charming storefronts and eateries line the street that falls away to the river's edge. The majestic span of Memorial Bridge rises above downtown, and beyond the river, verdant cypress sentinels stand guard around our slumbering naval guardian, the battleship North Carolina.

As I entered the café's aromatic interior with Island Irv following on my heels, I felt the stirrings of Princess Amy, my little imaginary life coach and social critic. Her critical gaze swept across the room with the practiced precision of a lighthouse beam.

Standing behind the counter was the newest barista, Lilly, the Castle Street oracle, chronologically young but with the wisdom that female humans mysteriously acquire around middle school, while men stumble toward similar insights only after decades of accumulated blunders and enough gray hairs to weave a wisdom rug.

"You're tardy," Lilly said, laughing.

"Time is relative," I replied, taking up a position at the order here station. "According to my internal clock and the quantum mechanics of café arrivals, we're precisely on time."

Lilly's eyes performed an Olympic-worthy roll. "It's not even nine o'clock and you're spouting physics already?"

"He's been insufferably chipper since sunrise," Irv explained, signaling for coffee. "Bouncing around the street and making declarations about the magnificence of the day. I checked for a fever, but he seems medically sound."

"I have a revelation for you," I proclaimed, leaning forward conspiratorially. "After extensive research and spiritual contemplation, I've reached an incontrovertible conclusion: Wilmawood—our humble Wilmington—exists as an unacknowledged paradise on Earth."

"Is that your hypo-manic assessment?" Lilly inquired, her eyebrow arched with skepticism perfected through years of questioning adult logic.

"Indisputably! Consider the evidence," I insisted, counting on my fingers. "We have a magnificent river system, pristine oceanfront, a thriving creative community, and enough film production to earn our Hollywood-adjacent nickname--Hollywood East."

"And traffic congestion on College Road that rivals Los Angeles," Princess Amy interrupted from somewhere deep in my limbic system, her voice dripping with cynicism. "Without the celebrity sightings or the inconvenience of dealing with ten million people."

"Plus humidity levels in August that could qualify as a gentle rain shower in other states," Lilly added as she frothed my oatmilk cappuccino. For a second, I wondered if she'd somehow intuited Amy's remark.

The Islander added, "He's excited about the new retail outlet coming to Waterford. The Waterford village is quickly becoming an up-town suburb. Is that a thing?"

"More footnotes in paradise's ledger," I said. "No other place along the Carolina coastline offers such a perfect synthesis of natural beauty and cultural vibrancy as our little sylvan community."

The barista delivered our beverages, and we chose a table outside, near the window but not too near the door. Our conversation meandered like the Cape Fear itself, flowing from upcoming film productions to Irv's philosophical musings on social media psychology. 

Wilmawood's morning symphony continued—artists setting up sidewalk displays, tour guides gesturing to clusters of visitors, and shopkeepers sweeping storefronts in preparation for the day's commerce.

From our elevated perch in Castle Street's artistic heart, the world below appeared manageable and comprehensible. Heights offer perspective, and perspective breeds contentment, something understood and appreciated by Abbie Hoffman, our tuxedoed cat, who spent hours surveying his domain from high atop kitchen cabinets. 

The morning light shifted as our drinks emptied, and conversations reached their natural conclusions. The day's obligations began tugging at our collective consciousness, yet I lingered in the moment, suspended in the warm embrace of friendship, elevated by both geography and companionship.

Paradise, I realized, isn't merely a physical location but a way of living in the moment. With the right attitude, those moments collect, like seashells after high tide. That explains why, despite my familiar wanderlust and my forecasts of future road trips, I find myself returning to the same streets, the familiar faces, and this elevated view of the river that feels increasingly like home.

As we gathered our belongings and prepared to say goodbye, I remembered Abbie once more. He taught me so very much in his time with us. I learned from him that elevations aren't measured in feet above sea level, but in moments of clarity and connection.

The Anti-Anxiety Plan

I'd awakened just seconds earlier, wondering how I would spend the day, only to be approached by the little glob of gray cells I call Princess Amy, emerging from deep within my mid-brain.

“Okay,” she said, “what’s your plan? And don’t bother repeating all that nonsense you’ve been mulling over; I’m already familiar with it. I know everything that goes through what you jokingly call your consciousness. It’s the things hidden in the depths of that koi pond of your subconscious that elude me.”

"Things? What things?" I asked with genuine concern because, as I said to Amy, "No one told me about any so-called things."

"Never mind! Don't get your knickers in a wad over it. Just tell me how you think you can ease your anxiety. And I've heard about your plan to live in a fantasy world, so forget that."

“I’m not living in a fantasy world,” I said. “I’m writing my own story. Someone—someone with real credentials, though I can’t recall who—once said that the stories we tell ourselves become the lives we lead. Not fantasy lives, but lives we truly want to live. So I write about my actual daily life, shaping the stories in ways I can embrace. In this way, I’m the author of my own life.”

"And, how do you cope when things go wrong?"

"Things don't go wrong, silly girl; I get to distribute happy endings all around."

She considered my words for a meditative moment. "But events in the real world don't always go as planned, do they? What then?"

"I simply treat it like a plot twist and fit it into the story. By the way, let's find another way to refer to the anxiety-filled world. It's not the REAL world--it's just as exaggerated as the stories I write."

"Well, put," she said. "You seem to be making something resembling progress. You may be salvageable, after all. But how confident are you in your progress? Do you feel satisfied with where you are, what you've achieved? Can you be content with where you are now, without feeling driven to constantly make more progress?" 

Amy," I said, "with more confidence than I usually feel when negotiating with her, "I’m not in jail, not in a mental hospital, and I'm still on this side of the grass. I’d say I’m in a good place."

"I'd say you're in paradise," and her words were followed by eye-raisings from the both of us.

"Last time we spoke, you said something about my ticket to freedom from emotional tyranny is to reconnect with Joy and Optimism, and someone else...let me think, who was it?"

"Reason," she reminded me. "All in good time. First, we need to make sure you're not getting distracted by all the righteous indignation you've accumulated in your solar plexus chakra."

"I don't know about chakras, but I know this conversation we're having feels different from any I can remember having with you before."

"Chakras are only a figure of speech. And this conversation is different. I've always maintained that everything I do is done for you, you big jamoke, but the difference this time is that you're actually paying attention."

"By the way, this Reason you mentioned; anything like Mr. Spock?"

"Funny you should ask," Amy said. "She's very much like Spock; more than you can imagine."

I laughed, and for the first time in memory, I felt that Amy and I were partners in my mental health.

Getting Better All The Time

I sat down at my laptop this morning, coffee in hand, ready to begin documenting my latest project. I'm calling this one, The Great Self-Improvement Project: Getting better one day at a time. I'd done my research, highlighted my notes, and was feeling particularly braced about the whole endeavor.

Yes, I am aware that Bertie Wooser maintains that just when a bucko is feeling top-notch about the day, Fate is around the next corner, strategically placing banana skins near the storm drain. But we Genomes do not easily lose our mettle.

I opened a new file and began creating my manifesto. 'Self-improvement,' I typed, 'is the act of making oneself a better person in every facet of life, by improving and enhancing one's knowledge and character by one's own effort.'

'Oh, please,' came Amy's voice from somewhere behind my left ear. "Did you just write something about 'every facet of life'? Baby, I AM every facet of your life. Good luck improving me."

I was determined to keep my composure and ignored her with fierce determination, if that's even possible. My fingers flew across the keyboard as I wrote, 'Meditation is one of the most powerful tools for developing honest self-awareness, and my years of Zen meditation have taught me that self-improvement must begin with self-awareness.'

"Zen meditation?" Amy snorted. "You mean sitting on the floor, staring into space, doing nothing while I'm in here planning my next reality TV pilot? That's not self-awareness, that's self-denial. I'm the one who's actually aware of what's going on in here."

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Something about her tone stirred my curiosity, but past experience warned me to ignore her, and I pressed on. 'Self-improvement almost always starts with self-awareness and developing the ability to transform attitudes, thinking, and habits.'

"Transform what now?" Amy interrupted. "Listen, genius, I'm in charge of your attitudes, and my thinking is that this is just another of your big plans that will fizzle out in a day or so. And you know I'm right; you just don't want to admit it."

"What is wrong with you this morning?" I asked. "You're far worse than usual. Are you upset that we're not going to Ocean Isle today?"

"I'm merely living in the moment," she said. "Doing my best to keep you in line, and since you asked, there's nothing wrong with me, which is why I don't need a self-improvement program."

I took a deep breath and began typing again. 'If we are to become better at anything, we must develop the ability to be rigorously honest in assessing our attitudes.'

Amy's voice returned, but suspiciously sweet for a change. "Oh, you want rigorous honesty? Here's the honest truth for you, baby: You're sitting here typing up self-improvement plans while I'm literally the part of your brain that sabotages everything. I'm the fox guarding the henhouse."

I grimaced at the thought but forged on: 'Forget about striving to reach goals...' I wrote, but my mind suddenly went blank. There seemed to be an idea or a realization trying to surface from the depths of my mind.

"You're not paying attention, Genome. I'm the one who can help you, and without my help, you're powerless. Watching you ignore me and write your master plan is more entertaining than binge-watching the Naked at Work television series!"

I moved on to the final section of my plan: 'I've found smart, science-backed self-improvement guides on the Internet, but information on the web can be confusing, contradictory, and just plain wrong.'

"Finally!" Amy exclaimed. "Something we agree on! The internet is full of contradictory garbage. Just like this plan you're typing up. You're literally using your brain to make plans that your brain is going to sabotage."

'You must be able to 'rightly divide the word,'' I continued typing, 'but you can't do it alone. You will need help from an impartial guide—not a friend; not a family member; but a truly impartial person who is willing to work with you.'

"Impartial guide?" Amy's voice turned calculating. "You know what you need? You need a good manager. Someone with vision who understands the entertainment value of your inevitable failure. Someone like... oh, I don't know... ME. I could be your self-improvement consultant. For a small fee, of course."

I stared at the screen, realizing that somehow, in trying to document my path to betterment, I'd just given Princess Amy her next business venture.

"I get too much help from you already," I said. "And your help is no help at all."

“Oh, but I’m not talking about my own personal services. I have connections with the people you really need to hear from if you’re serious about becoming a better person. In fact, you’re already connected with them, but you usually ignore their advice and respond to anxiety instead.”

Despite her sarcasm, she managed to hold my attention. I asked, “Amy, what exactly are you talking about—if you’re talking about anything at all?”

"Have you forgotten all the program teachings you learned when you were sobering up? You were supposed to get to know yourself. You already have all the answers you need inside you. Your problem is that you're caught in the anxiety spiral."

"Anxiety spiral?" 

"That's right," she said. "You were taught from an early age, just like everyone else, to activate a spiraling, self-perpetuating cycle of anxiety. The anxiety keeps spinning and accelerating without any awareness on your part because it all seems normal.

"Your ticket out of that spiral is to reconnect with some personalities from your past. With my guidance, you can engage with Reason, Joy, and Optimism, my colleagues here in your limbic system, which I like to call my command console, by the way.

Once we do that, you'll be able to make some real progress on self-improvement."

"Amy, I know better than to listen to you, and yet, something in what you say makes sense. Do I dare trust you?

"Oh, baby," Amy purred, "you have no idea how much fun this is going to be for me. But don't worry—I'll be here every step of the way, making sure it's never boring for you. Trust me, I'm an influencer."

"This," I muttered to myself, "is going to be a longer journey than I thought."