Reach Out

I arrived at the Den of the Secret Nine before any of the other members of the Organization. I wasn't surprised because traffic can be formidable in the Renaissance during the season of commercial orgy. I sat at the regular table and before I'd disconnected myself from iPhone life support, the Duck Man entered and sat next to me.

"I will tell you my story," he said. "I will tell you my story and you will sympathize because I can tell by looking at your face that your are sympathetic. You have a sympathetic face. My story is the story of a man's tragedy. It is the story of a blighted life. It is the story of a woman who would not forgive. It is the story..."

"I have to leave at 8:30," I said, "and if it's the story about the monkey and the nuts, I've heard it and it's vulgar."

"Sympathy," he said. "A man who has suffered the tragedy that I have suffered, requires sympathy."

"Let your days be full of joy. Love the child that holds your hand. Let you wife delight in your embrace. For these are the concerns of man," I said, taking liberties with the Epic of Gilgamesh.

"I have no wife and I have lost the woman who means all the world to me," he said.

"Listen," I said.

"Sure," he said taking a sip of his coffee.

"I walk the face of the earth like an ant walks on the surface of water," I began.

"Do ants walk on water," he asked?

I raised a hand as this was no time for side issues.

"As if the slightest misstep might send me straight through the surface and into the depths below. Not the depths of the ocean but the inner-most depths of the mind. It's scary down there."

"What's so scary about it?"

"Well," I said, "just yesterday when I was thinking about the rising tide of heinous skulduggery and political weasel-osity in the adjoining kingdom of the United States and how much the people need compassion and good will, I cleared my throat to sound the call to sanity when a cargo-van of fear, grief and anger came careening around a corner of my mind and plowed through a row of garbage cans. The driver came out flailing and swinging and shouting."

"You don't see that everyday," he said.

"No you don't," I said.

"But so what?"

"Well," the driver was me," I said.

"Ah," he said. "I gotta go."

"Have a nice Mayan apocalypse," I called after him because I had not meant to offend.

Work In Progress

My mother keeps the Big Book of Death. When I say she keeps it, I mean that she maintains it by entering the names of the recently departed and the dates of their death. The 49 days of Bardo begin with the date she enters in the book.

I was first introduced to Death in 1964 when my sister Delores died. I didn't realize then that I would come to have a personal relationship with him but our paths have crossed several times since then. The last time I saw Death was a little over three years ago when I was driving through the intersection of Woodcroft and Fayetteville and my car was struck full-on by a car rushing through a red traffic light.

"GOOD MORNING," he said, in a friendly enough though slightly raspy and very heavy voice, like a lead anchor, dragged across a cement driveway.

"Do you think this is funny?" I demanded and yes I meant it to sting. I have known this Death for many years but he is not a friend.

"IT'S MY JOB," he said, "AND IT'S THE ONLY THING THAT GIVES ME PURPOSE." Then in a slightly different tone, as though he were a next-door neighbor, he asked, "ARE YOU WELL?"

"Well? Am I well? I may have been well until a tenth of a second ago when that DART bus decided that 'twere well I was smacked into."

"YOU MEAN, IF 'TWERE DONE, 'TWERE WELL IT 'TWERE DONE QUICKLY," he said as though he liked to get it right. And then, still seeming to look for the lighter side, he rephrased, "IF 'TWERE SMACKED INTO, 'TWERE WELL IT 'TWERE SMACKED INTO WITH NOBS ON." He didn't laugh but he did grin, although he really doesn't have a choice about grinning.

"Not impressed," I said. "Not impressed with your knowledge of Shakespeare and not impressed with your humor." Remember, I was not shying away from stinging. When you're face to face with death, you have little to lose.

"IT WAS A FORD ECLIPSE," he said, "NOT AN AUTOBUS."

That's what he said. Autobus. I remember thinking how odd it was. I let it go because things were progressing rapidly and suddenly I was standing before a pair of very large, very solid-looking doors--I'm sure they were oaken, not oak, but oaken--with a pair of brass rings large enough for basketballs to fit through.

"What's that?" I said.

"I THINK YOU KNOW," he said.

"Death's doors," I said. "I'm not opening them," and I said it emphatically.

"BUT ONCE YOU ASKED TO ENTER," he protested.

"That was a long time ago. A lot has happened since then."

"IT'S INTERESTING," he said, "HOW HUMAN BEINGS HOLD ONTO THE SILLY IDEA OF OVERCOMING ADVERSITY WHEN THEY KNOW FULL WELL THAT THEY ARE SKIDDING DOWN A SLIPPERY SLOPE TOWARD AN OPEN MANHOLE. YET THEY CONTINUE TO LIVE THEIR LIVES LAUGHING AT THEIR OWN TRAGEDIES. IMMENSELY INTERESTING."

"That amuses you, does it?" I asked.

"I DON'T HAVE EMOTIONS," he said.

At that moment, my car stopped spinning and I began to slip back into consciousness.

"THE FUTURE HAS CHANGED FOR YOU AGAIN," Death said, "BUT WE WILL MEET AGAIN SOON ENOUGH."

"Are you alright?" the Parkwood EMS guy asked and when my eyes focused he was looking into the broken window of my car.

It was a couple of days later that I remembered meeting Death in that second and a half that my car spun around the intersection. My life hasn't been the same by a long shot. Sometimes good and sometimes not. But always a welcome gift of Time and Place on the right side of the grass.

Life comes fast and hard. So does Death. Be ready for anything. Fierce Qigong!

Take a Walk on the South Side

Mornings, I walk. After an early caffeine binge with the enforcers, I pace out the southend of the city one step at a time moving as quickly as my back will allow. I tell people the walk was recommended by my therapist, and there is that, but I really walk to get a feel for what it's going to be like to be the Genome for the day. The walk is quick but it's mindful.

I like the people I see out and about in the early morning. They are people with a purpose and I wonder what it would be like to be a purposeful person. I try to have purpose but no matter how hard I try, it seems that I am living just to be here. Time and Place. That's the stuff I see as important. I'd like to think that what I do is important but, there again, it seems the universe has it's own agenda. I'm just suppose to do something, almost anything, and that seems to be enough. More than that, it seems to be everything.

I don't expect you to agree. I'm not a fool. I know that everyone else in the entire world lives life with the idea that it has meaning and that they have purpose. I'm happy for them. I admire them.

I watch the barista from Trinidad who makes the little faces and hearts and fern leaves in the lattes and I wonder if it would be possible for someone without purpose in their life to do that. Even though I feel that I don't know what I'm doing, it feels somehow, and this is the salient point, that I have been chosen for the role. I am chosen to blunder through life hoping that something meaningful will happen.

This morning, pacing the south side mindfully and feeling the anger--and the pain in the upper back--I stopped on the sidewalk and began doing Swimming Dragon, followed by Parting the Clouds and then finishing with Embracing Heaven and Earth.

I was near a storm drain, and that mundane piece of municipal infrastructure became a metaphor for the neural networks in the shadowy region of my brain that support my depression. My qigong moves became fierce--my way of shouting down the storm drain of the mind, "I'm chosen! So don't mess with me, Amy!"

When I stood up a dozen people were moving around me doing whatever they do at this hour. Upper-dressed young women going to work at Nordstrom's; corporate ID-tag bearers heading to Panera's for coffee and bagels; cargo pant-ed leaf blowers. All looking at me.

"Had to be done," I said.

They all nodded and continued on their way because they all know what it's like to be messed with. And they instinctively knew that I was yelling in the right direction. Down the storm drain.

Every Day Should Be Just So

Joy cometh in the morning, or so the  psalmist tells us. But all things are relative. It wasn't a bad morning so long as I lay enquilted, if that's the word I want, in a mother's hand-sewn comfort, with a couple of cats and the remnants of my dreams.

"Poopsie, what's it like out?" I asked and immediately learned that I was right to assume that sounds of running water meant Ms Wonder was enjoying a dunk in a Volga tributary.

"Overcast and blustery," she said and I nodded--useless of course, as she was in the next room.

                                                           Zen garden at Straw Valley

No, not a bad little morning, but life doesn't loiter underneath the coverlets. It moves fast and eventually one must face the reality of gray skies and coolish breezes. 

The morning's meditation class was making it's last call before raising the curtain on today's performance. To drape myself in something loose and comfortable and flash from east to west along the southern corridor of Durham was for me the work of minutes.

Straw Valley was quiet. It was not expected to be a large class and expectations proved correct. I'd been notified by text and voicemail that about half the regular crew was otherwise engaged. No, not a large class but I didn't expect to be the only one there. 

Now, as you know well, I have no sympathy for those who whine. I brook no thought of surrender and my motto, well you know my motto, "Life comes fast and hard--be ready for anything."

Still, I don't want to mislead you. I hate as much as anyone the sock behind the ear that Fate delivers when I'm not looking. I may howl and chew the carpet when alone but the Genome is eternally bright and cheerful in public. 

When the light dims, I practice the three deep breaths, and with mindful clarity I am able to see reality. This mindful awareness has taught me that the most important gift in life is not enlightenment, nor is it joyful exuberance, and whatnot.

The most important gifts in life are Time and Place. And so, here was I with time for Fierce QiGong and a place for Fierce QiGong. 

I entered the Zen garden and performed Wuji Swimming Dragon. Under the arbor, I did Parting the Clouds. In front of the art wall--Embracing Heaven and Earth. It was in the middle of this that a young man and woman entered the courtyard with laptops and coffee.

                                        Entrance to bamboo grove

"Are you with the meditation class?" she said.

I admitted that I was the meditation class because she had caught me waving my arms around my head and it seem futile to deny it.

"Is that 'ki gong?' she said.

"Chi gung," I said because I always like to get it right.

"We were wondering about that," said the male half of the sketch.

"Wonder no more," I said, "just do what I do."

"Want to?" she said to him with eyes that sparkled like fireworks after a Durham Bull's game. Her smile to him was like the sun and he was her Chanticleer, ready to flap his wings and strut his stuff. 

They joined me and we worked our way around the courtyard until we came to the cabanas where another couple, friends of the first, joined in our party.

"This isn't what I expected meditation to be," said the new woman.

"Ah," I said, for the Genome is quick and I knew exactly where she was headed with this comment. "We have a few minutes left. Let's go inside and I'll introduce you to zazen." 

                                 Pulled Orange Blue-Andy Fleishman

No sooner had we entered the back room of Sanderson House when I realized that the room was not as empty as I'd left it. Another couple was enjoying coffee and scones was surprised to see us. After a few pour parlers, they had joined us on the floor in front of one of the paintings, Pulled Orange Blue, by Andy Fleishman.'

And so with a little acceptance and willingness to live life on life's terms, we not only bucked up the immune systems and improved the cognitive abilities, we had a great Sunday morning in the Courtyard. Every day should be just so.

Ho! The Emperor of Woodcroft!

It was early morning, if you remember that early is a relative thing, and I was enjoying a steaming cup of holiday blend when a figure appeared in the doorway of Dulce Cafe wearing a hat that only one in the South End would consider sporting. 

It was the Emperor of Woodcroft, as beneficent a tyrant as you can find nowadays. I joined him in line feeling that if one cup was good then a refill would be better.

"Ho!" he said and I didn't like it. All wrong the tone. "Swilling cocktails, eh?"

I could make nothing of this. "I fail to understand you," I said. "Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't this the hour one might expect to hear, 'Good morning?"

"Out to all hours last night?" he said.

I bridled at the accusation, at least I think I bridled. I'm not sure the meaning of the word but it sounds good.

"You will have to provide more detail," I said, "and I'm sure the explanation will hold me spellbound."

"I mean you were probably out until all hours last night coming in just before dawn and waking the entire neighborhood."

"It could scarcely have been later that 2:30 a.m. when I got home and I was seeing an old friend off to the spend the holiday in the Catskills." I said it with a good deal of hauteur, if hauteur is the word I want.

"Did you have a cold shower this morning?" he asked giving me the full effect of one eye.

"I have hot water," I said.

"Did you do Swedish exercises before breakfast?"

"I'm Danish. We don't indulge in such excess. At least my grandfather was Danish but I believe that entitles me to make the same claim."

"Then why do you look like something in the chorus of a touring revue?" he said.

"Ah," I said, "that's easy enough to answer. I just need a second cup of Jah's mercy this morning."

He seemed to consider this but after a few seconds his inward gaze turned out to settle in vicinity of the lower portions of my map. His expression was one generally found on someone who has just found caterpillars in the salad.

"Ho!" he said, "what's that?"

"Ah, you mean my goatee," I said. "It's just a kitten now, of course, but in time it will grow into something that adds a bit of espieglerie and I need all the espieglerie I can get. Do you like it?"

"No, it looks like a soup stain."

"Well, I like it," I said and I was now aware that others were listening and I felt that this conversation was becoming a bit sticky. I was ready to change the subject.

"What does Ms Wonder think of it?" he asked.

"Does it matter what others think?" I said with all the hatuer I could muster remembering that other bit of hauteur.

"That's good. She doesn't like it. You'll have to shave."

"I will not shave. I'm growing this bit of facial joy for the FHI fancy dress ball in January and it's going to be with me through the holidays. J'y suis, j'y reste about sums it up for me.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Up to you, of course, if you want to be an eyesore."

"An eyesore!"

"Eyesore is what I said."

I suddenly felt the need to practice the three deep breaths. First breath, power and balance to be ready for whatever life bungs my way. Second breath to remind me that I am enough for the present circumstances. Third breath to recognize that there is more good than bad in this moment.

"Ho!" he said a third time, "what's that on your chin?"

But this is where you came in I believe.