Good morning. This is Your Morning Briefing, March 3, 2012.
Suzanne and I were sitting around talking last night when she said, “I noticed you didn’t write much yesterday, if anything at all.”
“Well,” my friend I said, “for some reason I was having trouble putting my mind in a restful place where it could do any thinking about things that I thought I needed to be thinking about. It seemed to be like it was in overdrive, and it was headed in any direction but the one I wanted it to go. It was like my brainiatrics were all infusilated with eight legged frizzles that were running every which way. Trying to get them under control was like trying to herd cats, if you know what that means. It can’t be done. The other thing was I was having problems finding the words I wanted to use for what I was thinking about.”
“I thought as much,” Suzanne said, “and where do you think that comes from?”
“I’m not sure, but it is a feeling that comes around every now and then. It’s like there’s somewhere I’m supposed to be going, but I’m not sure it isn’t somewhere I’ve already been. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Oh Bobby,” Suzanne said, “you are trying to hard sometimes to get where you want to go, and you have to understand that where you want to go is not as important as the trip itself. There was a wise man from India, who was a contemporary of my father Homer, you may have heard of. They called him Buddha. He said one time, “It is better to travel well than to arrive.” Are you familiar with those words?”
I had to admit I wasn’t, but I asked her, “Isn’t it important that you have someone to travel with?”
“My dear boy,” she said, ‘it is, and you have had that in your life, and you will again.”
“What about you?” I asked her. “Aren’t you on this journey with me right now?”
She just smiled and said, “I am, and I think we are travelling well.”
It was then I smiled, and told her, “I couldn’t agree more.”
Before we called it a night that I told her I had the perfect method for remembering her grandma’s name, one that was even better for me than the one I had fashioned the night before. The pronunciation of her name, Mnemonsyne, reminded me of a tune from the Muppet Show which seemed to fit perfectly for me. “Mahna Mahna.” It was one of those delightful tunes on that show that stuck in my brain like some kind of fantasy glue.
She laughed, for she too had heard the song, and shared the same feeling about the Muppets as I do. She said, “I think grandma would approve of your little joke.”
Take care, be well and keep in touch.