April is Poetry Month

I adore this strange poem. It disturbs, yet... uplifts too?  

One of my earliest memories is standing (rapt and terrified) next to a cow in bloat. Maybe four or five years old, I longed to run but I couldn't move. A medical emergency, bloat occurs when a cow overeats, the ingested feed ferments and excessive gas expands internally; it must be released or the cow will die quickly. But the men in that field that day (including my father) just paced and grimaced and stared. They seemed to be trying to decide something. I didn't know it at the time, but a veterinarian was on his way. What I recall most clearly was the cow's suffering—its frantic and unrelenting bawling—and although childhood me couldn't fully grasp the procedure and its intensity, finally, finally, finally someone arrived and I witnessed a puncturing and heard the gas release like a balloon deflating. The bawling ceased. The cow stood up.

I apologize for these images which are especially potent for animal-lovers, also for the poem which may be upsetting. But I share these words and this story, because no doubt this experience helped me learn compassion and empathy, key factors in shaping my neurobiology, my emotional intelligence...but something more too, something dark I continue to confront.... 

This formative event thrust me into a degree of discomfort I'd never experienced before and one I never wanted to experience again. Already an anxious and stressed child, this incident reinforced avoidance.  Childhood me longed to ESCAPE and quite frankly, it became my default. I'm not proud of it, but I only have enough capacity to remain in the north field with those closest to me. I soooo admire people, those nurses, and doctors, and counsellors, the firefighters, the death doulas...but I am not a rescuer.  

This is why I appreciate this poem—despite featuring a seemingly imminent death—Gilpin focuses on an alternative perspective, a less sober and severe inevitability—albeit temporary. The poem features no rescuer, just a cow and her calf in a cloudless field, alive. In this poem, I am not the farm boys seeking notoriety, nor the cow or her calf, but instead I relate to the poet.    

Dear friends, I can't save you, and I'm sorry for that, but I will always want you to notice the stars. 

Let's be honest

(uncharted territory feels very 2026)

My GPS either needs an update or it's a Robert Frost fan, because it seems to me it chose the road, um less graveled?

Sorry. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Crews

as seen on the outside of an adorable
kids' appliance-cardboard-box fort

I'm still so uplifted by the crew from Artemis II. 

Fresh from space, they spoke so eloquently and warmly about each other and their team experience, their lifework, an incredible legacy.  

Moved, Astronaut Christina Hammock Koch praised her team, describing the four of them surviving and working and relying on each other as "inescapably, beautifully, dutifully linked." She continued, saying this about observing "tiny Earth...a lifeboat [suspended in] the blackness...I know one new thing...Planet Earth: You. Are. A. Crew." 

Inspiring. I heard her, and I needed to hear it. Dear friends, we are a crew, but let's be honest, back here on Earth, our planet is not so tiny. And unlike those astronauts hurtling through space for ten days on a mission, we don't have to be inescapably joined to recognize our value to each other. To me, her key word was dutiful. 

Think of children making forts from their cardboard boxes and couch cushions. Remember those fun spaces? They felt novel and energizing, like drawing a magic circle around your squad, your peeps, your crew. But then it happens...someone is excluded, or the older siblings would arrive... (mean? jealous? suspicious? power-hungry? insecure? intolerant? controlling? bored?) and for whatever stupid reason, the fort is destroyed.

We humans are messy, complicated, fearful, puzzling—essentially children at times—and there's no possible way we can all belong at once to one crew. Yet most of us know we have a fundamental duty to each other and when we live in service to our own and others' well-being, there can be more peace among our crews, among us all. 

Fed up?

Fuel your body & feed your mind.

I've been thinking about breakfast for supper: it's refreshing, uncommon, even a tad disruptive. 

I'm interested in disruption, in being unruly. Aren't you? 

If you're thinking that my example isn't exactly rebellious, you're correct. It's a meagre example, but the sentiment is what's important. 

I've been reading some terrific books, two classics. 

1. In Letter to my Father, Kafka denounces his father's callousness and cruelty and yet never shares the letter with him. However, for over 100 years now, we the public can read it and perhaps feel a bit emboldened, a bit inspired to challenge authority, even an authority that has provided much but is stuck by mental rigidity, discord, and selfishness. 

2. I also read Camus' The Stranger, and it's clear now why this book is a philosophy must-read. The protagonist is so damn frustrating; his entrenched mindset leads to his downfall, but that is Camus' greatest maneuver: we readers must ask ourselves why we think so differently and then wonder perhaps are we just as entrenched in a status quo? 

I bet Kafka and Camus liked breakfast for dinner.

Dear friends, haven't we had enough of the current (and appalling) status quo? The chaos? The corruption? The unchecked oligarchies? The nauseating greed? The shame flung at the Pope for not endorsing war? WTAF? Is it finally FINALLY time to eat this chaos for breakfast? 

I think the world has had enough; recent backlash feels different. I know feelings aren't facts. I know. I know. How dare I be optimistic in this economy? But isn't optimism itself rebellious? We are made to feel small and powerless in this doom culture but we can still read and write and tell and resist and persist and vote and boycott and protest and multiply and amplify those voices likewise fed up. 

Things that deserve the pink-eye:

Big sniff energy?

whatever this is. 

Gross. 

😒😷👎

Yes indeed, practically every time I acquire a head cold with a runny nose, if I blow my nose too hard AIR ALSO COMES OUT OF MY EYE! 

Yes, you read that correctly.

I did not have rebellious tear-ducts on my aging bingo, but here we are. This condition is apparently more common in older folks, babies, and those who've broken their noses, all conditions that currently describe me—the baby part is apt since I have a cold and I'm a man—and yes I did add this for preemptive reasons in the comments. ;)

The only bonus: no pink eye. YET. 

Dear friends, aging is no a (decidedly) laughing matter. 

Let's be honest:

I took your suggestions
and bought some instant coffee. 

most cupcakes are more like HALF a cupcake. It's a terribly injurious misnomer. 

Mine? More like mugcake. 

And now it's time to chugcake. 😜

Dear friends, a joke to boost your Friday in this sorry world...

What do you call an island populated entirely by cupcakes? 

Desserted.😊

Lifework

I'm so inspired by the Artemis II astronauts. (Click here to read about another likewise inspired Gen X'er.) 

The mission is a milestone achievement for us Canadians as it marks the first time a Canadian (Jeremy Hansen) is part of a lunar mission. If you're following it, you also know it's the first time a woman (Christina Hammock Koch) has orbited the moon. And it's a Canadian-U.S. collaboration. Sigh, I remember those days fondly. 

I first heard about the mission over a week ago while watching a news clip during which a cynical news commentator cited the mission as yet another distraction by the US administration to deflect from ongoing scandal after scandal. At the time I felt just as cynical. I still do. How can I not? As I mull over this war and its warmonger leader easily rage-bated by a criminal regime he and his claquers thought he could bulldoze down over the weekend to do what...build a statue of himself and a ballroom? Insert 63 swear words and the barf emoji here. 

It's exhausting.

But, dear friends, look to some real leaders: the men and woman aboard this ship the size of a ten-person tent. Their aim is to test the aircraft's systems for future missions and exploration, and that in itself is historic, but in the clip below, there's a truly human operative unfolding: I'd call it lifework. Using this opportunity, the astronauts seem to surprise a fellow crew member with a touching dedication, one that speaks to authentic legacy: not greed, not fame, not to escape consequences, but what we selflessly do in the name of honour and friendship. 

Show & Kvell

To those who celebrate, a happy Easter. I'm taking a moment today to show and kvell. 

Along with hand-sewn fabric eggs concealing treats and toys, my son's partner made these stuffed bunnies for all the children in our family. Those kids were stoked! And me? If you know me, you know I adore makers and aim to encourage all things creative. But what I did not know was the word kvell, a verb that expresses feeling great pride and happiness. 

Dear friends, it seems to me this sorry world needs more kvelling, more uplifting hearts, more sursum corda. So today, whether you were hiding or hunting chocolate eggs, or just giving and receiving in all the ways you do any day, keep kvelling and carry on.  

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

Rob. ber. y. 😡

I never thought I'd have to quit turkey cold turkey! 😮 

You Know When...

You know when you've already mixed a few ingredients and then remember your Grandma's chocolate cupcake recipe requires a cup of coffee and you don’t drink coffee and the only way you've ever made coffee is with those one-step Keurig cup-thingies but after an extensive (man-eyes) search you realize you're out of those handy microplastics-laden pods so you make eye contact with your coffee machine which looks as though it's time-traveled from the future and also it's looking back at you all hostile (insert The Good and the Bad and the Ugly whistle here—stay with me, I'm going somewhere with this) and let's be honest, we all think we're smart until we have to use someone else's coffee-maker (or microwave) and to complicate things further, your coffee-loving spouse is out of the country and your recipe absolutely requires coffee because there's no substitute for the delicious alchemy of chocolate enhance by brewed coffee (again, thanks Grandma) and the indifferent internet says just go ahead and make cowboy coffee as if at some point in your past you've freelanced as a misfit horse-riding posse member hell-bent on revenge who just drinks off the top of the coffee cup and spits out the dregs and so whatever focus you're wasting time with your incessant pea-brain (borderline pathological self-amusing) inner brainstorming nonsense so stop being a dork and so you finally focus and get to fixin' some joe and grind some pantry coffee beans and then you discover coffee filters so you rustle up your own more refined version (not really) of cowboy coffee by scotch-taping the filter into your favourite mug and you wonder if cowboys had scotch tape and the indifferent internet says scotch tape was invented in 1930 well dogies suddenly there it is: your version of cowboy coffee and holy shit it kinda worked and as the cowboys say, what in the tarnation? And that, dear friends/ cowboys/ cowgirls/ cowfolk, is how you brew it.