Don't Even Think About It

I woke this morning with that feeling you get sometimes that if the feet don't touch the floor in about 3 seconds, Gabriel will blow his ram's horn and judgement day will set in with uncharacteristic heat! Not that Gabriel was anywhere to be seen or heard. It was Sagi that attracted attention this morning.

Sagi, as you already know, is the caramel-colored tabby who has a way of running back and forth down the hallway at 4:45 AM every morning. He races to the sound of his own music, something that sounds a little like, "Rrrbbbttthh." I have reason to believe that he means to sound like Yellow #46 getting off the starting line in the Grand Prix World Championship.

I heard him coming down the hallway from the laundry room, then he rounded the corner outside the guest bedroom and into Ms Wonder's office where he caroomed off the wall with a Plubberly-whump! Sorry but it's the best approximation I have.

At the sound of his wall-crashing turn-around, I bounded out of bed with a silent Eureka! And I'll tell you why. I'd just had an epiphany, much like the one Archimedes had with the exception that he bounded out of a bath and I out of a bed, and of course he'd discovered the principle of displacement and I hadn't. I'd discovered the key to becoming a successful writer.

Out in the hallway, I became entangled in caramel-colored tabby as he was making his way back down the stretch. "Alright, Rossi!" I called out to him. He's a big fan of Valentino Rossi, having watched all the YouTube videos of his races. "I'm up already! Rilassare, rilassare."

As I approached the boudoir of the resident woman of wonder, I could hear the Whitewater River cascading over 400 feet down the mountainside near Cashiers. My first thought on hearing the sound of that highest fall in the Carolina upcountry is that it's out of earshot here in the Renaissance District of Durham. The sound I heard must be the sound of Ms Wonder's bath. And so it proved to be.

"Poopsie," I said, falling into the familiar at what may have been too early an hour. "I've made a remarkable discovery!"

"You didn't come to bed last night," she said and I thought it a bit cold considering the warmth of my opening remark. "You must have been out 'till all hours with the remains of the writer's conference."

"I was not out 'till all hours," I said. "I got home before 2:00 AM and I was with some old friends of the North Carolina Writers Network. We had a quiet conversation in an all-night coffee house in Raleigh."

"Good," she said. "Now you won't have to bore me talking about it."

"You won't think it boring when I tell you of the realization that came to me while listening to their drivel," I said. "You know how wannabe writers are always asking successful writers what it takes to become a successful writer?"

"I've always wondered what young writers do," she said. Can you believe she said that? She can be irritating sometimes, but still, the upside overwhelms the down.

"Yes, that's what they do," I said. "And it's the sensible thing for them to do. They ask, How does one become a successful writer? And this is the answer they get--from every successful writer: To become a successful writer, one must write."

"Oh, I've heard a variation of that," she said. "I once heard Terri Gross ask that question of a writer she interviewed on Fresh Air. The author said, if I remember correctly,  To become a writer, all you have to do is put pen to paper."

"Excuse me," I said because this had gotten right past me.

"You know, pen to paper," she said, "it's something people used to do before the mid-1980's." At this moment, she rose from the bath like Venus rising from the sea. I assisted with the towel and the guiding hand. "You must get tired of young writers asking that question," she said. "I mean it's such an obvious rule--writing to become a writer."

I didn't answer immediately because a cold hand had taken hold of the heart. Once again I'd approached this woman of mystery and wonder with an exciting subject, one that I was heavily invested in, and what did she do? 

I tell you what she did. Diversion, obfuscation and subterfuge! That's what she did. Pen to paper my sainted aunt! Emerging from the bath without warning! I knew I must act quickly and I delivered the best option I could come up with on short notice.

"Well, if you think that the key to becoming a successful writer is self-evident, as Thomas Jefferson so eloquently put it, then consider this: If it's as easy as all that, then why are we still asked the question?"

I was hoping the reference to the founding father would win some points with her and her momentary silence was taken as a good sign. Would it improve the reviews and give me a boost up in the ratings. A small boost is what we strive for, we mere mortals, when yoked unevenly with those who breathe the rarified air of Mt. Olympus--beings like this Ms Wonder.

"And besides, young writers don't ask me that question," I continued. "Young writers don't want to write for magazines, they want to write  best-selling books."

"But that's not practical is it? Not everyone can write a book. Besides, isn't writing magazine articles a good way to work toward writing a book?"

"Did you say, not everyone can write a book? Who hasn't written a book? I've met a few individuals who aren't in print but even they admit that they would write a book if they could be paid for it."

I was beginning to feel more secure now. I felt that I was on a roll and building momentum, and I wasn't going to stop now.

"The way to become a successful writer, and this is the discovery I told you about, is to forget about writing," I said. "Put writing completely out of mind. If the thought pops into your head, let it fade away, as recommended on the covers of those mindfulness magazines. If you would keep it, let it go."

"But how will that make you a writer?"

"Here's an example for you," I said. "If you become an recognized actor on television or get a co-staring role in a movie, you are assured of writing a New York Times best selling book, complete with photos."

"That's not so easy," she said.

"OK, I'll give you that. But consider this idea. If one goes into politics and becomes mayor of a major city, and there are no qualifications for this that I'm aware of, then a block-buster book follows with movie rights sold."

That's not so easy either," she said.

"OK," I said. "I've saved the best for last. All one needs to do is become a YouTube celebrity. It's easy, it's free, and anyone can do it. People do it all the time and the next thing you know, they have a book publishing deal."

"Let me guess," she said. "You've decided to become a successful writer by starting an Internet TV channel? Genome TV."

"Eureka!" I said. "I hadn't thought of that but it's a great idea. Thank you, Wonder. I'll begin today. I know the perfect theme for it too!"

"I'll just bet you do," she said and I admit that I was quite happy with myself for winning her approval.

Bluebirds and Ragamuffins

I blue-berried the breakfast granola with something of a flourish and I came as close as ever to saying Tra la la. And if I did say it, what of it? I do sometimes when I'm in a particularly good mood. The look given me by Beignet from atop a chair, not too near the garden window, seemed to indicate that I said it aloud.

Seeing that ginger and white ragamuffin--it's Beignet that I refer to--as he busied himself with the annual Audubon winter-bird count, I was reminded of why that particular chair is placed some few paces from the windowpane. Do you remember?

The chair used to sit right smack dab in the window space, the better to see the birds, as any cat will attest. But one bright morning a rare visitor lit on the bird feeder and began to flit about, as birds do. The newcomer was one of those Eastern Bluebirds you hear so much about. Bright, colorful and quite active they are. Well, this one captured the fancy of Beignet and it was with him the work of an instant to get a visual lock on the target and to spring--zero to sixty--from the floor where he lay in the sun, to the top of the chair and beyond.

When I say beyond, I mean that he didn't stop at the chair but continued into the window. This window may have been made of tempered glass but it was not Beignet-tempered. He smashed it. He was surprised by the hard stop but not as surprised as I. Good grief, about summed up my response.

He was OK of course. He's made of indestructible stuff, that cat. But I've detoured from my message for the day haven't I? The real reason for this post is to express my gratitude for bluebirds, and ginger cats, of course, always ginger cats. I was in good mood this morning because, after a lengthy vacation in southern climes, the bluebird was back doing business as usual at the old stand.

I was up and about with the snails and the larks this morning, blue-berrying anything that didn't move and honey-smearing anything that would fit in the toaster. Why? Well that bluebird for one thing and also because life gets shorter every day and I have many things to not get done. When the pain level drops below 3, it's easy to see that the right attitude and the right action will lead on to fortune, if happiness and fortune are the same things.

Such clarity is not always possible in the midst of a RA episode. My rheumatoid arthritis is episodic, coming and going as it were, and when it's working its magic of transforming my spine into a Picasso line-drawing the level of pain erodes the cheerful attitude. Life comes hard and fast, as I'm sure I don't need to tell you, and when physical discomfort is involved, the Genome becomes manic; even angry.

I don't scowl, as the act is prohibited by the Sovereign I serve, but when the limit is reached and the bluebird packs the overnight bag and calls the local Uber driver, look out! The face gets red, the breathing becomes short and shallow, the eyes bubble and steam escapes from the seams. If you hear a loud report, it's too late to look for cover.

Fierce living is the solution of course. Everyone knows that. Living fiercely prepares us for whatever life may bung our way. We keep a balanced perspective, being fully conscious that we don't know as much as we think. We pay close attention to what's actually happening and not what we think is happening. Lastly, we maintain the fierce resolve to live Life on life's terms--whatever that may be.

Today, then, I would not lead a gigong session at Straw Valley; nor would I meet the Insiders for coffee at the Den of the Secret Nine. Instead, I would deliver the cat Beignet to the Morrisville Cat Hospital, a Cat Friendly practice, highly recommended by Happy Cats Health & Wellness, where he would have his yearly checkup, and get his nails clipped and head patted.

And so life is good and I am happy. Happy to be a part of this wide, wild, wind-swept world and happy to have Beignet in my life. No doubt he will elevate the mood even more by serenading me all the way to the Cat Hospital with his favorite song, Bird on a Wire, as sung by Rita Coolidge.

I will finish this post, with your permission, by wishing you a wonderful, bright and beautiful day! Life is grand! Fierce Qigong!

Feel the World Shake?

I looked out my bedroom window at the two cats waiting for breakfast in the meager shelter on my deck below. I wished I could bring them inside but I'm told by reliable sources that bringing feral cats into the house never really ends well. I suppose it might be different if they were kittens but they aren't of course. They're first cousins to Eddy, that miniature panther that gave us the idea for Happy Cats Health & Wellness, and he's almost 7 now.

It wasn't cats that filled my thoughts this morning but fine art. I'd recently had a close encounter with the stuff and was still reeling from it. Napoleon must have felt the same way when his aide reported that Nelson had just sailed into Cairo Harbor and set fire to the French fleet. 

Ms Wonder is an artist, of course. You don't need reminding of that. You've been here through the thick and thin of art-gallery galas and whatnot, so you're well aware of her photographic talent. I thought she might be able to enlighten me on the reason for a certain motif--one that, so far, had eluded me.

"Poopsie," I said, getting right down to it, which, as you well know, is the Genome way. "Why the reclining nude?"

She stopped splashing and sloshing, an activity she seems to enjoy when submerged in the bath. Her face took on a familiar questioning look, which told me that I'd gotten her attention. So good so far.

"Did you say, nude?" she asked.

"Nude is what I said. Reclining. It's a common motif in the art world. The first one, I'm told, was done in 1510 by a Venetian painter named Giorgione, although I read yesterday that some scratchings, found on cave walls in Spain, are actually 40,000 year old reclining nudes. So you see, it's a popular subject for artists. I don't suppose you've ever photographed any? Reclining nudes, I mean."

She frowned at that and shook the noodle as though warding off a swarm of pixies.

"What about reclining nudes?" she said.

"Exactly!" I said, "just what I want to know! What about them? We seem to be deeply connected to the unclothed female form lying on a bed."

"And when you say, 'we', you mean men, of course."

"You wouldn't have these shallow views if you were familiar with Fernando Botero's work."

"Who?"

"An painter who spoke out, if I can use that term, against the deplorable human rights conditions in his native Columbia. He was able to paint the most troubling scenes that somehow didn't turn us away but invited us to look and consider."

"And these troubling scenes included reclining nudes?"

"No, no!" I said. "No, the nudes were something different. One of them sneaked up on me yesterday at Dulce Cafe. The owner, Carlos, is a native of Columbia and admirer of Botero, and has a print hanging in the cafe. It's a painting called 'The Letter' and there seems to be mystery surrounding the work. Art historians and scholars wonder who the subject was and what the letter was about."

"And the mystery subject is a reclining nude woman?" she asked.

"How many paintings of a reclining nude man have you seen?" I asked. Not one of my better comebacks so I wasn't surprised when she ignored the question. 

"It seems you've researched the subject well," she said. "What are you thinking?"

"Never mind what I'm thinking, Poopsie. What are these art historians and scholars thinking? That's the question I ask myself."

"I'll bet you have a theory," she said, and let me just stop here to say how happy I was to know that she was allowing me to drive the conversation for a change.

"First of all," I said, "these historians and art scholars are too deep in the status quo. They see a woman in a painting and fall too quickly into the Mona Lisa Syndrome."

"Mona Lisa Syndrome," she repeated.

"That's right," I said, "the MLS is that comfortable niche where they wax eloquent about mystery and whatnot. It allows them to write all sorts of bilge."

I paused to give this opinion more thought because I thought it quite insightful. For her part, nothing more was said and I was allowed to continue.

"There is no mystery," I said. "It should be clear to the meanest intellect, that the woman represents the nation of Columbia, reclining in spartan surroundings, and saddened because her lover--meaning her people--don't enjoy the comfort of her arms and her bed. Love is absent. Only loneliness and the estrangement of the spirit, which is represented by the letter."

There was a quiet moment during which I waited again for her to reply but there was none. She had a look on her map that cause me to think she'd taken my remarks in a big way. There was something definitely going on behind those eyes.

"What are you thinking?" I said.

"Just wondering," she said, "if there's something I could do with my photography to speak out in support of the people in the Ukraine and their current struggles. The way Botero speaks out about the struggles in his Columbia."

"There are many people struggling in the world," I said. "And we live in the land of opportunity--even though many in this country struggle too. It does seem that we could be doing more to help others."

"The good I would do, I do not," she said with, what's the word? Pensive? A pensive tone.

"Very well put," I said, "One of your own is it?" 

"Saint Paul," she whispered, which got right over my head but I realized that she was deep in meditative thought and not to be disturbed.

"I'll go feed the cats," I said, "they're waiting in the rain." As I walked  downstairs, I had the feeling that the world had just changed. And I'm sure Napoleon must have felt the same at one time or another in his career.

The Morrigan OR the Morgan Sisters?

Morning came pouring into the grounds of Chatsford Hall from across the coastal plain and I knew that if the day was going to be anything like the one before, the sun would soon be popping up and throwing his weight around. I prefer to sleep in, of course, who wouldn't, but that option was taken off the table long ago.

With five cats in the house and a sainted mom living in the east end of this county seat of the Genomes,  it will come as no surprise that I rise with the larks and snails. If you've been paying attention to this personal review, then you know all about the larks, snails and whatnot. If you're a stranger to these parts, then you should direct your questions or objections to the poet Browning. 

As I say, morning arrived and I slipped from beneath the duvet and moved toward the sound of rushing water. Billowing mists enveloped me as I moved onto the tiles of the salle de bains making it impossible to see anything within, other than an occasional bit of leafy jungle.

"Ms Wonder," I called, and immediately felt what must have been a half-dozen cats brush my legs on their way out the door. No answer from Wonder though. I moved cautiously forward, brushing the foliage aside, and tried as best I could to follow the roar of the falls, for I knew that Wonder would be found there, submerged in waters of the plunge basin, deep in morning meditation.

"Wonder," I called again. A little louder this time and I heard the unmistakable sound of a body rising from the depths, like Venus emerging from the sea, and a musical voice replied,

"What?"

Musical may be a little too kind. A little bit musical perhaps. But it was an answer and that's all I needed to correct course and in no more than half an hour, I was pool-side.

"Thank goodness," I said breathing a deep sigh of relief, "I've found you."

"Is there a problem?" she asked.

Needless to say, for I'm sure you too noticed the lack of concern in her voice, I was astounded. I mean, here I was risking limb, if not life, traversing this lost world of the master bath to find her, and what do I get? The cool, distant motif, that's what I get, and I don't mind telling you, I didn't like it.

"Well?" she said after a few seconds of silence on my part.

"Is there a problem," I said. "Is there a problem! I'll tell you what the problem is."

"Do," she said.

"I am," I said. 

"You?", she said, "You're the problem?"

I ignored the jab and got to the point.

"The problem is that the sewer-harpy sisters are back and they're stronger than ever! That is the problem. And I could use some help, Wonder."

"Oh," she said, "Princess Amy again."

"No, not Princess Amy," I said. "This is far beyond Amy's range. This is an attack of the most sinister forces. This is Celtic!"

It may be helpful to pause here again to provide a dime-store explanation of that Princess Amy crack. My personal amygdala, that little almond-shaped cluster of cells in the middle of the brain, is somewhat lacking in sangfroid. Is that the word I'm looking for? If it means self-control or maintaining one's cool when under stress, then that's the word. 

It sometimes seems that I have a spoiled little brat living in my head, or a spoiled little princess, or the red queen from the other side of Alice's looking glass. I refer to her as Princess Amygdala or usually, Princess Amy.

After describing the forces of evil that confronted me, Ms Wonder responded with one of her false starts. It's a habit she has that is completely unlike her usual self, but there it is and one must accept it move through it to avoid a total wipe out.

"Oh, right," she said, "the sewer sisters. What is it you call them? The Morgan sisters."

"Not the Morgan sisters!" I yelled. "The Morgan sisters were Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt and Thelma, Viscountess Furness. They were Swiss-born socialites of the previous century. Or, come to think of it, you may refer to Melanie and Michele, the singing violinists. But, no! The Morgan sisters are not germane. They are a diversion and need not concern us here."

I paused because I'd temporarily lost my place in the dialogue. I looked at her. She looked at me. We looked at each other and it was beginning to feel like a big day of quiet observation.

"The Morrigan," I said. "The three sisters in one goddess. That's who I'm dealing with--Badb, Macha, and Nemain. 

"All right," she said, "Let me sit up to hear you properly." And she did so. "Now, tell me exactly what's happened. I'll be it involves delivery vans crashing into garbage cans and fireworks exploding in the sewer."

"I immediately felt better. She's sometimes slow to get involved, but once she does, the odds return to favor the Genome. This Ms Wonder, I'm sure you remember, eats a lot of fish and that oils the machinery of her powerful intellect. No one can compare to her once the wheels and cogs begin spinning. I told her the full story.

"I see," she said, "after listening attentively to the salient details. "Yes, I see the dilemma." Lupe is coming here this morning expecting you to deliver her to Pittsboro. You don't want to go within 10 miles of the Cove for fear you will become entangled in one of Gwyn's schemes. Yet, you don't want to disappoint Lupe, who is one of the Cove's finest."

I waited quietly to see what would come next.

"I think I have the solution," she said.

"I knew you would, Wonder. It's just like the man said, you move in mysterious ways your wonders to perform. Don't hold back. What do you propose?"

"In order to do the right thing for Lupe and yet protect yourself from any snares that Gwyn may lay for you, it would be advisable to text Gwyn that you are unavoidably occupied and that a good and trusted friend will deliver Lupe to the Blue Dot Cafe in Pittsboro. That way Lupe gets home and you avoid meeting with Gwyn."

I gave her a look and I meant it to sting and to sting smartly. Find a friend in the next 15 minutes who could drive an 11 year-old Lupe to Pittsboro from Durham! That's a stinker of an idea, if I've ever heard one, and I told her so.

"Oh, you don't actually need to find someone else," she said. "Simply go in disguise."

I pondered this idea. Disguise? Would it work? It seemed dubious at best but before I'd completed pondering, Ms Wonder spoke again and all things became clear.

"If you remember, we spoke only yesterday of your shaving off that beard and moustache."

That's all she had to say. It was as though I walked on clouds. Of course, everyone in Pittsboro had become used to my horsehair sofa persona. If I walked into the Blue Dot clean shaven, not a soul would recognize me. It was a perfect plan.

It was a perfect plan and I had no time to spare. Lupe would be here in 10 minutes and we would need to move quickly if we wished to avoid begin stuck in traffic with all the professors and students of the University of North Carolina. It was with me the work of an instant to race to the shaving kit and set about the whiskers.

A Beautiful World

Some days the sky is filled with dark clouds and the sun is vacationing somewhere far south. I'm not talking about the outer sky--the sky that arches far above my head. I'm talking about the inner sky--the one inside my head. I'm sure you agree that it's the inner sky that matters most.

Some days, the cause of my cloudy skies is simply cloudy thinking. For example, I often think that I can be happy if I only I manage my life just so. It doesn't work. My life cannot be managed. It may be different for you of course, but for me, life happens fast and sometimes it happens hard. Trying to manage it only leads to frustration or worse, but no matter where it leads, it never, ever turns out well.

The inner sun can be encouraged to come back out again on those cloudy interior days. The technique that works for me is consciously living life on the terms dictated by life rather than trying to live life on my terms. This means mindfully paying attention to what is really happening--not what I want to think is happening--and then acting on it.

After accepting the reality of the situation, I must then find my role in causing it--and I have a role in causing 99% of all things that happen in my life. Accepting and recognizing the part I've played will give me the opportunity to stop it and to step above it.

The process of making the sun shine again always includes gratitude. I may struggle with that but I can always start by remembering that there is always more right than wrong, more good than bad, in any given moment.

This process always works when I honestly work it. It may not bring joy everlasting but it will part the clouds and allow the sun to shine through. And that's enough. Some days it's enough just to make a shadow. Life is good and, as Louis Armstrong said, it's a beautiful world.