The Contemplative Sparrow

I stepped onto the lanai to greet the morning and saw, to my delight, a sparrow perched atop the bird feeder. The serenity I felt in that moment brought to mind something a Buddhist friend once said about meditation: "We're just sitting on the floor, staring blankly into space, doing nothing." 

That sparrow remained motionless for the longest time. As you know, birds at feeders usually start by perching near protective cover and observing what's happening. Once they've determined it's safe, they'll fly over and take their place at the seed trough. Occasionally, a bolder bird may chase others away, while a timid one might take flight if startled.

What you don't often see is a little bird sitting around on top of the feeder, staring blankly into space, doing nothing.

She seemed to be quietly enjoying the moment: the peaceful view, the quiet, and likely the comfort of being so near a source of food with no competition. Eventually, she dropped down to the table and began eating again.

My thoughts turned to other birds--specifically, where were they, I wondered. Scanning the back yard, I saw only one other bird. A Cardinal perched on the fence railing. He seemed just as intrigued by the sparrow's behavior as I was.

A sudden movement farther down the fence caught my attention—it was a blue-tailed skink gripping the side of a fence plank. I wondered if he, too, was watching the sparrow. But soon I realized he wasn't alone; another skink was clinging to the opposite side of the same plank.

Was a territorial showdown about to erupt? That seemed unlikely since a third skink was perched on the adjacent plank at the same latitude. Rather than a rumble, it looked more like a 'meeting after the meeting' of Skinks Anonymous.

Now, some of you are probably thinking, Genome, you're witnessing natural behavior and imagining it's something more. It's only a bird hanging out at the feeder. What could be more natural? And the skinks? They're basking in the sunshine. It's what reptiles do!

You’re right, of course. I tend to view reality through the lens of my imagination. I’ve always believed that even true stories are more interesting and more memorable when elves and faeries are sprinkled in. I think we can all agree that a touch of fantasy can always improve the truth.

My Buddhist buddy knew it all along; the most profound moments come from 'just sitting around, staring blankly into space, doing nothing.' Doesn't matter if it's a sparrow on a feeder, a skink warming on the fence, or a person quietly watching it unfold through the window. The magic isn't in what we do; it's in what we see. And if what we see happens to include a few elves and faeries, it makes the meditation more enchanting.

What Was Lost Is Found

We're in late summer, here on the Carolina coast, and the days are much like those of Camelot; sunshine warms a brilliant blue sky, and a cooling breeze wafts in from the sea. It's still summer in the sunlight, but it's autumn in the shade.

I woke early this morning and found a persistent thought from last evening patiently waiting for me to wake. Minutes later, a freshly brewed cup of Jah's Mercy in hand, I sat at my keyboard to share that thought with you.

From time to time, I find old drafts from yesteryear that were never published. Overlooked probably. According to Google Analytics, I've been writing these missives since June 30, 2010. Given how many drafts I write for every published post, it's easy to see how a post can be lost.

I found one yesterday that has special meaning for me, and I'm surprised that it was never released. I decided it was a problem that needed remediation. This one was intended for publication on Mother's Day, 2013. With all that said, let's go:

Sunshine pierced the clouds that enveloped the Renaissance district. It streamed down Woodcroft, turned right at Barbee Lane, and spilled into the window where Uma, Empress of Chatsford, performed her morning ablutions. In the room above, light crept softly through the window. falling across the bed where Ms. Wonder lay sleeping as I worked on my latest reminiscences.

I was recording a dream in which I played the role of a mid-19th-century French spy, imprisoned in a tower, and contemplating what would be my last sunrise, all because some humorless Englishman, who couldn't take a joke, had ordered my execution. 

Just as the sun was rising--in my dreams, not outside my own window--someone burst into the bedroom like an avenging Fury, slamming the door into the wall with a bang that brought me out of that dream tower with a heart-stopping start.

I leapt from the desk, pressing my hand to my chest as though it might prevent a heart explosion. Beignet, who had caused all the commotion, was in the middle of the room, giving me a look as though to say, "What?" 

I've long since abandoned any attempt ot understand what motivates a cat to do what it does, so my only thought was that the Fates were making themselves felt on a day better suited for the Graces; after all, it was Mother's Day. 

My next thought was of Ms. Wonder, who should have been leaping around the room, insisting that I do something. I glanced toward the side of the bed with all the controls and was surprised to see her still sleeping furiously. Looking at her peaceful, sweet face, I recalled someone once saying that a certain number of hours of sleep, I forget how many, makes a person something that I don't actually recall right now. But at that moment, it was all good.

I moved quietly about the room, which was full to overflowing with Beignets. I thought it best to check on Eddy Peebody, who might possibly have been startled by the commotion, on account of suffering recently from a bladder infection. 

At bedtime, he was disgruntled about being confined to his room and, whatever benefits sleep is supposed to bring, his eight hours had done nothing to gruntle him. I surmised that breakfast would help. I promptly set out food for all members of our little fur tribe. After all, it's important that no cat ever feels slighted, not for an instant.

With the chores completed, I found a few moments for myself and realized that, like Eddy, I was anything but gruntled. I felt low-spirited to the core. Still, fierce living has taught me that life's greatest joys lie in the little things, and we sometimes let disappointments overshadow our blessings. So, I mentally listed the things I could count on the positive side of the ledger.

First, I named the members of our Chatsford Tribe: Beignet, Uma Maya, Abbie, Sagi, and Eddy Peebody. I didn't forget all the members of the extended tribe living outside: Lucy, Smudge, Jack, and many others. 

Of course, Ms. Wonder tops the list. She is, after all, the sunshine of my life and that of the fur tribe. On the other end of the spectrum, but still essential to a good life, are the people of the meetings--meetings at Native Grounds caffeine den, where there's always an excellent chance of finding the Enforcer and Island Irv, and at all the other meetings of friends you haven't yet met.

I've saved the best for last because she's above and apart from lists: My mom, Va, who is settled comfortably in the downstairs bedroom, soon to awaken and restore order, keeping the Fates in line and restoring calm and stability when chaos shows its face. 

As I finished my mental inventory of blessings, I could hear the familiar sounds of Mom stirring downstairs - the gentle creaking of floorboards, the whisper of slippers against hardwood. Soon she would emerge, bringing her particular brand of loving order to our chaotic little kingdom. 

Beignet had long since retreated to his sanctuary, no doubt plotting his next dramatic entrance. Ms. Wonder continued her peaceful slumber, and Eddy Peebody now seemed overjoyed at the promise of a new day of freedom. 

And there, in that moment between the darkness of early morning doubts and the bright promise of Mother's Day unfolding, I understood once again that home is in the heart. It's a constellation of beings who fill your days with purpose, even when they wake you with door-slamming theatrics or bladder infections. Especially then.

Wonder's Art Caper

Just when I thought I'd seen the full spectrum of Ms. Wonder's theatrical approach to art promotion—from puzzle-piece proposals to Magic 8-Ball mysteries—she's outdone herself again. And this time, she's recruited me as her undercover operative.

The news arrived with her characteristic dramatic flair: Ms. Wonder has been selected for a one-person photography exhibit at the Maritime College of the State University of New York. This is genuinely thrilling news—a prestigious venue for her "Ships of the Cape Fear" series, those mesmerizing images where she transforms massive cargo vessels into floating geometric poetry. 

I should be simply celebrating this achievement, but instead, I can’t help but wonder what elaborate scheme she’s planning to accompany it.

The Maritime Big-Wigs Conspiracy

"The marine big-wigs always support each other," she explained over her morning espresso, gliding to our table near the window with an effortless grace that I suspect is encoded in her DNA, "because most of the public just aren't interested in the shipping industry."

This revelation came with that familiar spark of visionary momentum I've learned to both love and fear. When Ms. Wonder starts talking about industry conspiracies and mutual support networks, it usually means I'm about to become an unwitting participant in some elaborate performance art piece disguised as marketing.

"The curators from the other maritime museums will attend the opening," she continued, and I detected a subtle shift in her tone, a shift that always signals the arrival of The Plan. "This could be the perfect opportunity to expand my reach."

I should have seen it coming. This is the same woman who once sent press releases printed on jigsaw puzzles to magazine editors. She reasoned that at first, they’d think they’d received a message from a psycho, but when they saw her name on the envelope, they’d realize she was actually very creative. Clearly, she had no intention of approaching this networking opportunity conventionally.

Enter the Contact Card Caper

"I want to have special postcards printed," she announced, "featuring my photography, of course, but missing my contact information."

I didn't ask because I suspected I was about to learn I'd been cast in whatever production was taking shape in her mind.

"When curators admire the cards," she said with the satisfied smile of someone who'd just solved world hunger through creative graphic design, "they will mention the missing details. That's when you'll handwrite my email, phone number, and website on the back. It makes them feel special—not just another bloke getting a mass-produced business card."

And there it was. I was no longer simply Ms. Wonder's devoted partner; I had been promoted to covert contact-information operative, equipped with a pen and a mission to make maritime museum curators feel uniquely valued through the strategic withholding and subsequent personal inscription of basic business details.

"Let me see if I understand this correctly," I said, employing the tone I reserve for moments when reality seems to be operating under different rules than I remember. "You want me to circulate among distinguished museum professionals at your opening, carrying postcards that appear to be defective, waiting for them to point out the obvious omission so I can dramatically produce a pen and transform their disappointment into gratitude?"

"Exactly!" she said, clearly delighted that I'd grasped the full theatrical scope of her vision.

The Undercover Assignment

And so, here I am, preparing for my debut as an art world operative. My mission—should I choose to accept it (and we all know I will)—is to spot curators in the crowd, engage them in conversations about Ms. Wonder’s work, present them with postcards, and finally perform the subtle magic of making them feel chosen, all through the simple act of handwriting digits and web addresses.

I’ve been rehearsing my “Oh, how silly of me, let me just write that in for you” routine, trying to strike the perfect balance between casual oversight and intentional exclusivity. It’s surprisingly difficult to make a calculated omission appear both accidental and meaningful.

Ms. Wonder, meanwhile, is preparing for her presentation with the confidence of someone whose Rube Goldberg approach to life has once again produced unexpected results. From those early days of mailing puzzle pieces to editors across the southeast to landing a solo show at one of the most prestigious maritime institutions in the country, her audacity masquerading as a business plan has actually worked.

The Bigger Picture

What strikes me most about this whole elaborate scheme is how perfectly it captures Ms. Wonder's approach to her art and her life. She sees poetry in industrial cargo ships, transforms massive steel vessels into abstract compositions, and now she's turning basic networking into performance art.

 There's something beautifully consistent about a photographer who finds profound beauty in the functional design of shipping containers, and also finds creative opportunity in the deliberate omission of contact information.

And if I'm being honest, there's something rather touching about being recruited as her accomplice. After all these years of watching her transform the ordinary into the extraordinary—whether it's finding the soul of ocean-going freighters or turning a routine gallery opening into an elaborate theatrical production—I've learned that being part of Ms. Wonder's schemes is never boring.

So this spring, when you hear about a photography exhibit at the Maritime College of the State University of New York featuring stunning abstract images of cargo vessels, know that somewhere in the crowd there's a slightly bewildered partner wielding a pen, ready to make maritime museum curators feel special through the ancient art of handwritten contact information.

It's not exactly how I imagined I'd be supporting the arts, but then again, nothing about life with Ms. Wonder has ever been exactly as I imagined it would be. And that, I've discovered, is what gives life its sparkle.

Operation Contact Card is scheduled for deployment this spring. Wish us luck—we're going to need it.

Make Life Sparkle

You probably haven't heard the story I told at my birthday party about how I dove from atop the Armstrong Bridge railings as a rite of passage on my thirteenth birthday. The whole thing seems wondrous to me, even after all these years.  

In Shady Grove, we had a tradition of specific rites necessary for acceptance into the upper echelons of society. Thinking about it now, after all these years, it reminds me of the "labors" performed by Hercules. "The Bridge, "as it was known, played an important role in our culture. It was one of two architectural wonders in our small corner of Tennessee, the other being the Sequoyah nuclear plant. Diving from the bridge was the rite of passage for every newly minted 13-year-old. 

You may not think of me as the type who enjoys platform diving. You probably picture me as someone more inclined to lounge on the couch, watching Olympic diving competitions on television. You're right, of course; I absolutely am. My spirit animal is a house cat basking in a sunbeam, dreamily ignoring life’s annoying demands. And yet, life has a way of occasionally sneaking up behind you and giving you a shove.

In this instance, my daredevil best friend’s birthday was coming up soon, and she’d always been one of those girls who wanted to outdo the boys. She was determined to jump with me, and although I preferred to find an excuse to skip the whole affair, I couldn’t sit on the railing and watch her jump alone. Who else would hold her hair back when she inevitably puked mid-jump? 

So there I was, standing on the top rail of the bridge, peering down at the water far below. My heart was racing, I was bathed in a cold sweat, and I was 87% certain I was about to make a colossal mistake.

I’d love to say I faced my fears with grace and poise, but that would be a lie. The truth is, I forced myself to go through with it, kicking and screaming on the inside, and making a mental note to edit her out of my will. Still, seeing her giddy face, her uncontainable excitement as I climbed the rail, made me realize that despite all my better instincts, I would jump.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and leaped. You may have had a similar experience, but if not, let me assure you, it was…unreal. It was like hitting the reset button on all my senses. Gravity and adrenaline worked together to make me feel more alive than I ever had before or since. For a brief, glorious moment, I forgot all my worries, and I even managed to keep my breakfast down, which I consider a significant win.

Now, platform diving isn’t for everyone. In fact, for most people, it’s a firm 'no thanks.' But the real takeaway here isn’t about hurling yourself from bridges; it’s about those moments in life when you must take a leap of faith and surrender to the whims of the universe. 

Whether it’s diving, bungee jumping, asking for a raise, or confessing your feelings to someone you love, there’s a thrill that comes with stepping out of your comfort zone. Believe me when I say, life’s too short to sit back and wonder, 'What if?

Let’s be honest: If you decide to plunge into the pool of limitless possibilities, you might uncover a hidden passion, land your dream job, or sweep your true love off their feet. Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll find yourself perched high atop a bridge railing, wondering how you got talked into it, while your best friend joyfully screams beside you. Regardless of the outcome, you’ll have a story to tell. And stories, my friends, are what make this whole wondrous, ridiculous ride sparkle.

Day of Reckoning

This post is a re-release of one that was so popular, it deserved to be given another 15 minutes of fame. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

A Day of Reckoning

 Across the bridge and into the heart of Ocean Isle I charged, my kung fu fighting cane on the passenger seat beside me, my jaw set like a bayonet, my face, had there been anyone around to see it, was a study in fearsome intensity. 

Today would be a day of reckoning.

My trusty steed, Wynd Horse, a 2011 Hyundai Tucson, flew valiantly into the offshore breeze as I drove across the Intracoastal Waterway. Mighty Quinn, my small plushie travel companion, rested on the dashboard and led the charge. A business card featuring Beignet the cat’s face balanced on the GPS display, serving as our standard bearer, urging us onward. 

Half a mile, half a mile, half a mile onward, as the poem goes, into the Valley of Juice Bars, Beachwear, and Outlandish Hair Highlights, I rode. 

Life's Absurdities

I'd come to the dunes of Ocean Isle, at the edge of the Atlantic, where the veil separating this world and the next is thinnest because in recent weeks, the Universe had messed with me at unprecedented levels of heinous anxiety and emotional weasel-osity.

There’s no justification for the emotional excesses I regularly experience. Mood disorders don't make sense. My limbic system is simply out of whack and acts out in ridiculous ways at the most inconvenient times. It was time for me to kick some Universal ass.

It wasn’t the first time I’d resorted to insurrection, and I’ll continue to do it whenever I've had more than I can bear. I was at the breaking point; I was mad as hell and wasn’t going to take it anymore.

Please don't start questioning me. I'm aware that my AA sponsors wouldn't condone my behavior, and my Buddhist teachers would advise me to return to the middle way.

Despite the objections of my AA sponsor and Buddhist teachers, I can’t remain idle while emotional storms rage around me without a compelling reason to justify them. Sometimes a man must stand up and make his voice heard.

Best Laid Plans

As we crossed the Intracoastal Waterway, my eyes scanned the area near the pier for parking spaces. There were none. I hoped to find an available spot near Drift Coffee Cafe, but that was a bust, too. 

It was the final week before the new school term, and a month of late summer thunderstorms had just ended. It seemed the entire population of three states had descended on the beach this weekend. 

I stopped at Sharky’s Restaurant and parked near a construction site. It was only a quarter-mile walk to board one of those 10-passenger golf carts that tour the island. The cart would get me to the fishing pier, and the dunes were only half a mile onward from there.

The golf cart rushed recklessly into the thick of Ocean Isle at about 5 miles an hour. It wasn’t exactly conducive to the attack I had in mind. The slow ride was draining my anger and increasing my frustration. I tried to envision the cart as a Viking longboat lined with war shields and warriors hanging off the sides, waving long swords while a booming drum drove us into a battle frenzy.

I stood, gripping the back of the seat in front of me, waving my walking cane in concert with the imagined Vikings waving their broadswords. This helped to fan the simmering coals of my fierce intent. I attracted alarmed looks from my fellow passengers and a few gawkers riding rented bikes along the walkways. Why didn’t I think of that?

 The cart paused at the kids’ play area to let a mother and her two children get off before continuing to the pier. The driver mentioned that Netflix was filming a family-oriented movie in the area, and some shops were closed to accommodate filming. However, I cared nothing for ice cream or taffy. I was on a mission and had no time for frivolity.

The Subtle Tricks of Fate

But the ice cream shop at the fishing pier was open, and since I was there anyway, I bought a double-scoop of vanilla bean to soothe my simmering anger. The ocean breeze quickly melted the ice cream, leaving my hands a sticky mess as I walked to the memorial dunes. I rinsed my hands in the sea and realized my day had not gone as planned.

Somehow, something had changed. My anger had dissipated. I came here to kick ass, but now... I would have been satisfied to give someone a piece of my mind, and yet there was a rub there too, namely, who would hear my rant, and who would care?

I arrived armed for cosmic confrontation, fury intact, and kung fu cane at the ready, but the beach had other plans. She worked her subtle magic, forcing me to deal with a lack of parking space, and then taunted me with vanilla bean ice cream and ocean breezes, causing me to feel like my own worst enemy. By the time I arrived at the dunes, my anger had evaporated, and I was left standing on the shore, asking myself, 'What's the point of it all? Why bother?'

Don’t try to convince me there’s a lesson in all this. Don’t leave comments telling me it's a lovely meditation on how our internal storms can be calmed by the most ordinary moments, or how the very act of seeking confrontation can lead us instead to unexpected peace. I'm not in the mood.

Tomorrow will be a brighter day. I will be happier tomorrow; I always am. Tomorrow's magic is the strongest magic of all. Tomorrow gives Love its power. And fortunately, tomorrow is just a day away.