Need this today?

Sometimes random revitalizes. 

 Happy Hogmanay. 

A couple of years ago, this postcard arrived in my post office mailbox, anonymously. Postcards like these were created by local students and distributed randomly to help launch a men's mental-health campaign, still ongoing. It's still tacked to my office wall. I like it there. 

At that time, I was experiencing some physical and mental health problems that I didn't want to be public about...didn't want to trouble anyone with...and although my situation was not dire, this postcard found me just when I needed it, just when I felt most alone. I re-read it every single day. I also sought support. Many men don't. 

Last Hogmanay, my new years mantra was an attempt to shake my fist at the oncoming cultural shitstorm (and it was), but this year...? The forecast continues to be shitstorm, but fingers crossed for less fist-shaking and more hand-extending. Dear friends, if you need help, don't wait for a postcard. Consider this random internet guy the messenger you (perhaps) needed today.  

Fave Books 2025

I fell in love with reading again this year. It's not like we had broken up, but... perhaps horticulture would call it a reblooming. My relationship with books this year quickened, seeking to make sense of the senselessness and find the humanity amongst the intrusive and pervasive cultural smog surrounding us, because let's be honest, it's choking out there sometimes.  

Dear authors, thank you for the absolute toil you make look so easy: like few other things, it helps clear some of that smog. In no particular order, my top five reads follow. 

If you've read this
title (an imagined
early life of William and
Agnes Shakespeare)
you might be
surprised by my
perspective: this book
is a touching romance.
There's wooing, and
 deep maternal love,
and there's a remoteness
from real-life, to spin
a magic cocoon for a
happy family. But then,
tragedy: one all
parents dread most. 
Yet in making art out of
pain...perhaps all's
 well that ends well?
 Their plight reminded 
me of Prospero's final
lines in Shakespeare's
Tempest. He asks
the audience for
applause. Although
many conflicts remain
unresolved, the story 
(that suspension of
disbelief, that romance
afforded by the arts) 
can transform our
pain into something
bearable, even
meaningful, albeit
temporarily: 
"release me from
these bands
with the help of
your good hands." 

It seems to me that
beneath this short
book's surface
is Ireland itself:
its history, its
trauma, its children,
and its future.
Essentially a
novella, Keegan's book
is in no way small.
That ironic title
highlights how
trauma is minimized,
even institutionalized,
in service to 
old and tired
ideologies until 
one good man,
(seemingly small),
decides that delivering
coal and righteous
sanctimony is less
important than
his daughters' futures.  

Historical fiction
(early 1800s?)
set in what is now
Newfoundland.
A sister and brother,
just children at first,
endure the feral
environment while
trying to survive.
Explorers and early
capitalists come and
go seeking fortunes,
all hapless eventually
yet history teaches us
this is how North
America was settled. 
An Adam and
Eve tale, there's
paradise here and an
inevitable fall, plus a
cruel ocean
waiting to swallow
everything. And yet
we immigrants &
colonizers are the 
descendants of
these tough and
tortured mortals. 

With each incredulous
chapter, my inner voice
continued to ask, 
what IS the long walk?
Is it a coming-of-age
horror story? Yes.
Is it an war allegory?
Yes. Is it modern-day
reality-TV obsessed
USA? Yes. Is it 
about male friendship
and the way
it knots itself
embracing then rejecting
vulnerability? Yes. 
Despite my conclusions,
does it remain
ambiguous? Yes.
Although I've read
many of his titles,
I think this one 
impressed me like no
other King novel,
(and its his first!)
Also this:
read with caution. 
Although published in
1979 (!) the casual
nature of its cruelty
and insanity
 feels very 2025. 

I already wrote about
the film version, yet
I loved the book first.
A lonely good man,
a logger in early
Northwest USA,
grapples with his 
mistakes, his losses,
his empty life. 
Do our mistakes
haunt us? Often.
Do they doom us?
Sometimes. Is there
some cosmic price
to pay? I doubt it.
Or must we simply
enjoy kissing the ones
we love among the 
daisies while we can?
Yes, yes, yes. 

Let's be honest

I know this is a little late...but we enjoyed a rare Christmas with our kids and ALL our grandkids. Three of the five (!) little ones slept over with us; we were VERY BUSY in the best possible way. You would definitely laugh at the chaotic family pics sure to be hilariously re-enacted in the future. Anyway, on Christmas Eve, these are the treats they decided to leave for Santa and the reindeer. M wrote, "SANTA FOR YOU." 😀

Healthy choices... or hmm... were those little toots keeping the cookies and chocolates for themselves? Either way, adorbs.

P.S. I have a few scheduled posts before year-end, but I'm starting a new job in January for a few weeks and I AM BUSY (good busy). Nevertheless, I will check in periodically to determine if you've left ME some treats posts, because let's be honest, those feel like surprise treats too. 

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

It won't stop snowing here. To paint a picture for you.... 

Imagine you're sitting at your dining room table ready for supper. The table is set, nothing is amiss on the table's surface...the food is piping hot...but you'd be sitting in snow. Reach into your pocket... snow. Drop your fork... gone. Forgot the ketchup...you'd be wading back into the kitchen, the snow way over your Sorels (nod to fellow Canadians). Don't even attempt to open the fridge's bottom drawer. 

We are approaching a meter. 😕

It's equal parts alarming and hilarious. Winter travel is doubly concerning. Our community is doing a great job with snow removal but they can't contend...it's relentless. It's also my youth relived, but with climate change, well...we haven't had this much moisture consistently for about a decade...maybe two? Hence I apologize for complaining, but...there's a deer attempting to shelter under my deck. Enough.

Even the trees are alarmed. Examine the photo: I'm 73% sure that's some sort of tree spirit and I'm 100% sure he's exhausted. 

Dear friends, there are apparently about 90 days until Spring (insert Canadian-style guffaw here), so in the meantime, what to do, but just go with the flow snow. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Five!

Number 5 is here! Another M! And another cousin for M, L, and the last M!

His (now) big sister is sitting on my lap helping me, er, type this... kjnjjjjjjjjhjjjjjhjj ...thanks, I. 😌😆😘

Remember that line from Winnie the Pooh? "I was walking along looking for somebody and then suddenly I wasn't anymore." 

Wow. Dear friends, may we all find our somebodies. 

You can't see it until...

I'm painting again. 😊

Artist and author Lynda Barry said it so well: "There's the drawing you are trying to make and the drawing that's actually being made—and you can't see it until you forget what you were trying to do."

Dear friends, Lynda Barry is talking about life, too. 

Forget it and keep going. 

Without Answers

I've been reading a lot about art lately. One notion about artmaking stood out among many assertions: there's a human tendency to "close early on an idea." 

Yes. 

Whether a forklift operator or physician, that inclination to tick boxes, to iron it out, to get to the bottom, to solve and be satisfied, to close on an idea, and move on—we humans resist protraction, don't we? Waiting rankles. It can be uncomfortable. We don't like to not know. It feels like...losing. My words are not intended to criticize this type of thinking; I haven't read the book yet, but there's obvious value in both thinking fast and thinking slow. 

But art...it invites us to to think    s   l    o    w    to decelerate, to ease off...to pull ideas around us, closer, like a blanket, a weighted blanket. 

Have you seen the film Train Dreams? There's a scene—perhaps 90 seconds (?)—where one character's quick decision, his reluctant yet undeniable involvement, haunts him forever. He engages with an idea without thought, an idea with an alarming outcome, one he surely did not expect nor want, and this idea, this moment, the burden of it... he spends his life doomed by it.

Train Dreams does something so well: it emphasizes scale and image over discourse. With little dialogue, the film's director paints a stunningly beautiful portrait of a man and a life hinged on regret and loss and grief and the terrible and grand mystery of it all; he invites us to sit, sit without answers, sit and contemplate the whys.  

Perhaps I loved it so because my Dad was a logger? Perhaps I loved it because I revisited my past, even the difficult past with rash decisions and regrets? Perhaps it was the time and place, the nostalgia? Yet how am I nostalgic for days before even my grandfather's birth (1913)? Perhaps because I long for a slower past, where change didn't constantly hit us all like middle school spitballs? Yes yes yes...but perhaps mostly these themes, these ideas, the invitation to contemplate. 

Film, as an art form, invites us to inhabit a space, to walk in those shoes, to join the protagonist's journey (somehow making our own a little less lonely), and to reflect on the story it constructs on the screen but more so, within us—all stories are interior stories, aren't they? That's art. It gets inside us. And what does it do there? It challenges us, it stirs us, it pushes, but it repairs us too, it restores us, it soothes and settles us, if we allow it, if we unclose ourselves to the ideas. 

Things one should never outgrow:

LEGO. 

In my view, the 2020s need more LEGO. 

Recently, I spent an afternoon with my two-year-old grandson being his LEGOfer. As a fellow creative—and his (big-kid) assistant—I encouraged all his creations. However, some of my prototypes were approved, while others were dismantled without explanation. 😂

What are you waiting for? Also, dear friends, consider rewatching the LEGO Movie. Like LEGO itself, it's designed for multiple interactions. For example, I bet you missed this favourite line. 😄

Let's be honest:

slipping...falling...taking a tumble...unless you're a toddler (even then, I suppose) it can be quite serious. Sometimes there are big consequences. Statistically, it's foreboding. 

The photo tells the story, doesn't it? One might say, gravity called and I took the call on my knees. I've answered this call before—I remember my elbow took weeks to heal, but this time? Only my dignity took the plunge. 

Again, not to negate the seriousness of falling, but there's a very human moment after a fall, isn't there? That embarrassment? It's humility. And it certainly seemed to me like I had instantly developed warp-speed in uprighting myself and then scanning the neighbourhood to see who may have witnessed this grounding moment. A vehicle drove by, I nodded sheepishly. Nevertheless, thankful to be without pain, I had to laugh at my awkward self and the photo evidence: it's clear I was swept off my feet, but sigh, without the romance. I've devised a name for this moment: humortification. 😆

Dear friends, be safe out there and may your "down-to-earth" moments be low-impact. 

Let's be honest:

metaphors are everywhere. 

Sometimes nature has a way of illustrating the lesson you did not know you needed. 

Dear friends, no matter how this deer's journey might resonate with you—whether on a continuum between inviting change or overcoming an idée fixe or choosing retreat—they're all going somewhere. Keep going. 

How else do we find our way? 

The Forecast

The Northern Lights, we swear.

On Tuesday night, My friend Kate (who lives on the other side of Alberta) and I excitedly texted each other our best Northern Lights pics. The sky did not disappoint: those greens, those pinks, and those reds?! 

Whoa. 

Forecasters said the next evening they would be even more impressive! Could it be possible? 

Uh yes...last night...insert record-scratch here...they certainly were...something else, lol. 😀

Dear friends, I hope you have screwball friends with whom you can share some Abnorthern Lights (and whatever else brings the haha we all deserve in these 2020s). 

Charged Up?

Warning: reading the following will be similar to watching Homer Simpson's father yell at clouds. 

Don't sweat the small stuff, right? Good advice, wisdom I aspire to. But I'll sweat like an inflamed hotdog on rollers if the situation involves 9@#%&*! rechargeable batteries. 

It all began innocently, fueled by good intentions: care for the environment by investing in reusable batteries. I could never have predicted what ensued LITERALLY OVER MORE THAN A DECADE NOW AND ONGOING UGH.

Step 1: Buy double A and triple A batteries & rechargers.

Step 2: Tickety-boo.

Step 3: Cut to many months later: access batteries as needed, but wait, where are said batteries? Begin a decade-long career as a part-time unpaid private investigator only to discover various family members have (repeatedly) stolen said batteries and removed them from the premises. Insert Dad sigh here.

Step 4: Buy more rechargeable batteries. Not cheap are they? Discover some rechargeable battery brands do not function with other charger brands. Draft a sternly worded email in my brain, a complaint for which there is essentially no recipient. Insert low growling here. Test and retest said batteries among chargers repeatedly aiming to actually charge some of my now 17 "rechargeable" batteries aka become a part-time unpaid "Customer Support Specialist/Technical Support Analyst." 

Step 5: After much problem-solving and testing and retesting, all said batteries are FINALLY CHARGING. Note to future self that some batteries must be clipped into the correct recharger quite delicately to avoid angry-red-flashing indicator light that said battery is not connected properly and therefore not recharging. Because of the time gaps between switching batteries, each reset requires 24-48 hours to successfully finagle this process, but thanks to (waning) neuroplasticity, my brain eventually forged a reliable system, a system I used repeatedly over the years, a system NO ONE ELSE CARES ABOUT OR RESPECTS AND IT'S SO CONVOLUTED I CAN'T EVEN EXPLAIN IT.

Step 6: Various family members continue to steal said batteries. Grievous family text chain dynamics ensue to no avail: Dad, who has time to figure out where the batteries might be now? EXACTLY. Begin to ponder the very 21st century notion that essentially, I need an assistant to manage my reusable batteries! 

Step 7: Finally, our kids move away with most of said rechargeable batteries, so I buy what I vow will be MY VERY LAST BATTERIES and promptly hide them in places I hope they will go unnoticed. 

Step 8: Tickety-boo....

Step 9: Years pass, but I flinch every time someone gets close to those 9@#%&*! batteries. However, my system holds until one day my life-partner needs batteries for spontaneously-purchased grandkid toys, forgetting the aforementioned drama and unwittingly interferes with the rechargeable batteries system NOT REALIZING THEY ARE EXTREMELY TEMPERMENTAL. After I return home to discover ABSOLUTE RECHARGABLE BATTERY CHAOS, said partner (understandably) observes my meltdown with facial expressions similar to Dorothy's from The Golden Girls. 

Step 10: Hangs head in shame and googles rechargeable batteries support groups then begins a TWO-WEEK RESET COME ON TO NO AVAIL: IT'S AS THOUGH THESE BATTERIES FORGOT THEIR SOLE FUNCTION AND, LIKE THEIR SCIENTIFICALLY-INFERIOR COUSINS, NEED TO BE REPLACED.... 

Insert sheepish epiphany moment here as this describes the exact moment I realized that these mostly old-ass rechargeable batteries have no doubt expired...BUT WHICH ONES?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

UGH.

Things one should never outgrow:

Although she's under two, my granddaughter I is already obsessed with reading. She will take me by my finger to her room and while I seat myself cross-legged on the floor and lean against her bed, she will choose a book from her "library" then turn away from me so she can reverse-seat herself into the gap between my knees, a sign that the reading must commence, the book positioned in front of her, my arms surrounding her. 

Her print awareness is impressive; she knows how to orientate the book and understands when to turn the pages; she answers all my listening comprehension questions, pointing to the ladybug, the car, the pencil, the blankie. Every read and re-read positively impacts her vocabulary. A toddler, she is actively (and with agency) constructing her own brain. Yes, she has a mind of her own. Typically, she is rapt but before I can finish some stories, she closes the book and then chooses an alternative. The process begins again. I will forever chuckle at the way she reverse-seats herself.

But is she reading? Not really. Not yet. Reading to children should begin at birth. All my grandkids have been raised with this advice, so they all love books, yet it's typically I whom I discover "reading" a book somewhere. Although she cannot yet decode the words, she invests the time to be a reader anyway.  

Dear friends, in case you need a reminder today, don't worry about what you can't yet do: just begin. The future depends on what we do today. 

Sometimes

Sometimes I suspect that people rarely ever think about photosynthesis or how every leaf is truly astonishing. Sometimes I find this bewildering. 

Sometimes I wonder if it's odd that I changed Siri's voice to an Irishman to help me cope with the psychic weight of these 2020s. 

Sometimes I wish psychology was a core subject, like language, math and science and sometimes I think this might solve all the world's problems.  

Sometimes, unless it's about mobility or herding small kids, I am so deeply confused by people who park aggressively. Sometimes I park like a lollygagging idiot. 

Sometimes I wonder if the person I'm having a conversation with is also struggling to hear and hence we're both pretending to hear what the other is saying and nodding periodically and hoping for the best. Sometimes I wonder what I haven't heard. 

Sometimes I have to give my default people-pleasing self a stern talking-to. 

Sometimes when I press unsubscribe I picture the bot(?) in charge of fulfilling my request, smirking. Sometimes I wonder if I actually forgot to unsubscribe. Sometimes I can't recall from what I unsubscribed. 

Sometimes I wonder if my DIY shortcuts are actually genius—like carpet tape works just as well as glue to install vinyl in a closet, right?—and then I remember that time my Dad renovated and left the old chimney hole in the living room floor and just strategically placed a tv tray over it. (Sometimes I wonder if environment is also genetics.)

Sometimes I wonder in my grandson L is actually an adult comedian trapped in a toddler's body and he's pissed off because he knows it too. 

Sometimes I suspect I might be the only human who walks laps around the dining room table while I read. 

Sometimes I'm 20% in the room with you, but 80% also elsewhere. 

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

A pumpkin-spider-crab, aka "Gourd." 🤣

This year Halloween felt free and I was a bit inspired by the cheery nonsense so I thought, let's give those trick or treaters pumpkin to talk about. 🎶

I'd rate my creation 8 tenths adorable and...maybe 2 tenths nightmare? One kid called it cute, another assessed it as...eww. 🤣

Free Halloween

Halloween is for kids, right? With this in mind, I thought you might appreciate this sidewalk art, produced by a kid in my neighbourhood. I adore kids art, don't you? 

I watched a clip recently whereby the person interviewed (I can't recall whom) said this about Halloween, "[paraphrased] compared to all the other holidays, it's the best day: there's no finding-the-perfect-gift, no cooking a giant meal, no extra pressure. It's freeing, it's just self-expression."

Before this, I hadn't thought about Halloween in contrast to other holidays. Sure, I've always appreciated its costumes, its candy, its movies, but the predominant purpose is someone else's enjoyment, specifically kids. That's the entire point. Right? 

Hmm...maybe not? 

Why do I feel this way? [Insert big pause here.] For me, Halloween has always felt a bit too extroverted, too turbulent, too chaotic, too... (insert English-major trigger-warning here) Dionysus and not enough Apollo. Right? 

Dear friends, I could bore you with the reasons for my childhood hang-ups here, but I will close with this: there are some things I need to unlearn about Halloween. What's that saying? "Remember that the opposite of depression is not joy—it's expression [author unknown]." Happy Halloween to all the kids today, but to YOU I say: feel free to also do your thang.

Lapels

Sometimes I'll read something and it grips me by the lapels and stares at me, demands my attention, and when I attend, it grips my shoulders and turns me another direction so that I'm looking at the world anew. 

That, dear friends, is the power of reading and why I love it.  

Sometimes what I've read is profound, and other times, not...BUT even when it's not a revelation, it can be a novel distraction prompting my (pea)brain to say, go there and poke around. Hence the rest of this (crafted before this introduction) is (mostly) stream of consciousness. Let's go:

 

I saw the following comment on another writer's blog post, one in which she had added a selfie: "you have kind eyes" (I agree) and the invitation to reply, aka start a conversation. It made me think. And think. And think. The comment is not so unusual, but in this instance? It hit different. It registered. 

My reply:

1. Is there a better compliment? Not today—at least I can't think of one—what a fine compliment!
2. Do I have kind eyes? Hmm, I don't recall anyone ever using that adjective to describe my eyes.  
3. What have people said about my eyes? When I was in Junior High the girl who sat in front of me on the bus said, "your eyes are steel gray-blue." My heart thudded.
4. Don't most people have kind eyes? Yes, kinda. In various interactions such as when the baker hands me the cake I ordered (typically transactional)...those are kind eyes, but bona fide kind eyes? There's something else there, something subtle, something beckoning, something calm yet charged. What is it?  
5. What other words describe eyes I've encountered? Playful. Mischievous. Winsome. Sparkly. Attractive. Squishy. Sharp. Dismissive. Guarded. Pleading. Cold. Drunk. (Just first thoughts...all creatives should avoid judging the brainstorming process, so I am trying not to overthink these word-choices.)
6. Whose eyes do I deem kind? My grandmother had kind eyes. But it wasn't just her eyes...it was her voice too, her proximity.
7. Do most people actually (searching for the right word here...searching...) ratify compliments, or do they (like me) dismiss them? I wonder. 
8. They seem to have big egos, so do narcissists actually need compliments? First thought: Trump. Insert barf emoji here. 
9.  Are kind eyes impossible to fake, like could someone wholly unkind have kind eyes? Yes, I think it's possible...looking at you Netflix, and your ongoing (problematic but compelling) obsession with tweaking serial killer narratives with redemptional arcs to sustain us all while we navigate this age of (legit) horror, if that makes any sense at all? Anybody?
10. What's the best compliment I've ever received? *scanning... deflecting... scanning... dismissing... second-guessing... scanning....*

Dear friends, feel free to respond to any of these questions. I'm curious about how your answers may grab my lapels. 

Moved

I haven't attended an arena concert since 1991 (Sting), so the Sarah McLachlan concert this past weekend at Edmonton's Rogers Place was...overwhelming, good overwhelming. She performed with the band Tiny Habits; combined they just might be the sad song music therapy epicenter, lol. For a guy who read this book as a beacon to the shadows, let's be honest...all the feels, all at once. 

Things have changed since 1991. Mostly me. This time, sober, conscious, I brought a well functioning (mostly) frontal lobe. But my brain still wanted to play games. The venue? The crowd? Yikes. Massive. This introvert's initial reaction? Fear. And the Dad in me kept waiting for the event safety spiel, lol. But soon I forgot because somehow, Sarah made it feel cozy. 

I have a list of musicians I've longed to experience live: Sarah was third. She's a one-of-a-kind Canadian treasure of a human and her concert did not disappoint. Imagine being a child with hearing loss and becoming a global award-winning performer who used her mastery of sound and voice and language to change the world. (See the Lilith Fair documentary.) 

I had hoped she would perform her cover of Joni Mitchell's song River (Mitchell is the #1 artist on my list). Yet with every hit, old and new—her voice like a weighted blanket—I soon forgot and then she sang a favourite: Ice Cream. 

Years ago I sang this song to my kids at bedtime. If you know it...your love is better than ice cream...better than chocolate...better than anything else that I've tried...that might seem fitting but this song—deceptively simple and upbeat—is also dark, and most importantly, honest...but everyone here knows how to fight...how to cry...it's a long way down to the place where we started from.... That's why I love the song: it juxtaposes exuberant delight with that abrupt anguish inevitable in all our relationships, the mirth and the melancholy. She did not sing her crushing song from Toy Story 2 either, but she did sing a song she wrote about her relationship struggles with her daughter, entitled Gravity. Oh wow. 

While waiting to vacate that massive arena, a stranger asked me what I thought of the concert. Sheepishly, I told her I cried a few times. She nodded and smiled, "you were moved." I'm still moving. 

Dear friends, what's moved you lately? 

Things one should never outgrow:

Thank you M, L, i, and little m. 

 the still life—however you define it. 

Thanks to a delightful week of playing with and tidying up after my grand-turkeys, I have discovered toys arranged in both haphazard and intentional (?) ways. 

What's happening here? Is this still life some sort of a minikin movie set? Or perhaps a precarious attempt made by tiny labourers to repair a massive dinosaur statue? Or is it a time-traveling Lego robot attempting to tap a dinosaur on the shoulder? Maybe warn him about that huge asteroid? Hmm....

Whatever the artist's intention, the still life invites closer inspection and contemplation. Children have a way of reminding us how joyful it is to pay attention to the world, to notice, to wonder, to imagine, to discover, to be curious. They can also make us long for the still life—a little peace and quiet, ha. And then (at least for me) to wish for them to return and liven things up because a (still) life is nothing if not fleeting. We only have so much time to compose our stories. 

As the inimitable Oliver Jeffers said, "The universe is not made of atoms; it is made of stories." Dear friends, what (stories) are you noticing? 

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

Yes, I have 4 snow shovels. Don't ask. 
If you live in the North,
are you prepped for Winter?

 the forecast.

Our current high today in northwestern Canada is 4 degrees Celsius. With the wind? -5! Tomorrow's high? 2/35! 😢

Hence, the snow-shovels are out of the storage shed again. Sigh. 

Dear friends, this is not flake news. 

Things one should never outgrow:

Thanks for the reminder, L. 

politeness, charm, civility. 

Potty-training is challenging, but my grandson is teaching me a few things I suspect we should all review periodically.  

After his first BM in the toilet, and before he received several Smarties, my grandson (altogether sincerely) had this to say about that first flushing, "Bye-bye poop. Have a good day." 😄

 

Prescription

One of my favourite actors, Robin Williams famously portrayed Dr. Oliver Sacks in the film Awakenings. It seems to me there's a lasting alchemy in this convergence of two humans who greatly impacted the world.

A doctor, a professor, a writer, Dr. Sacks described himself as "agonizingly shy" but he developed a strong bond with Williams who much admired Sacks' gentle genius approach to neurology, informed by science but rooted in human connection. Williams loved that Sacks saw people, not patients and it's clear Williams infused this character trait in his film performance. 

Dr. Sacks wrote about his own struggle as a patient in his book, A Leg to Stand On. After a serious hiking injury, Sacks felt "legless" and disconnected from his body. Unable to walk for months, Sacks ruminated on his lost identity. Many years later, no doubt Williams ruminated in a similar manner as he secretly battled a form of dementia and its inevitable impacts to his quality of life and his legacy. Sadly, we all know what happened next. 

I miss these men in the world. 

Dr. Sacks' legacy is in his writings. He describes methods whereby a patient might cease to feel "the presence of illness and the absence of the world, and come to feel the absence of illness and the full presence of the world.” But how? The film Awakenings explores this, but Dr. Sacks promoted a more everyday method to achieve the full presence of the world: he prescribed garden visits. 

Is there a better place to at least temporarily forget what bothers? Dear friends, just wondering: have you been outside today? 

Quilted

In Canada, September 30 is National Truth & Reconciliation Day, also known as Orange Shirt Day. Most schools and government offices are closed. 

In my community, to recognize and partake in ongoing reconciliation between Indigenous peoples and settlers, local school children designed quilt squares which were knitted together and displayed in solidarity.

If you're unfamiliar with this growing Canadian tradition, watch this CBC Kids video featuring the founder of Orange Shirt Day, elder and author Phyllis Webstad. Confronting racism, her story and growing activism has changed our country for the better. 

Lessons in Time Travel & More

During my morning hike yesterday, I suddenly remembered another September walk along a bluff of trees in my childhood school playground... shuffling along with Marci and my other Grade 1 classmates, led by my first teacher. 

We collected leaves. She instructed us to gather different colours, shapes, and sizes, to listen as our rubber boots crunched over them. Next, we sat in a circle along the trees with our treasures in our laps, and oh-so-beautiful Mrs. Pochipinski smiled, then invited us to smell our autumn leaves.

This morning's episodic memory experience has me wondering. What prompted this memory? Why was it so sudden and so vivid? Science teaches that our senses are linked to the brain's limbic system and those neural pathways are responsible for memory, thus our senses can trigger time-travel, especially smell as it connects more directly to the limbic system. 

Yet, while walking this morning, I don't recall any particular smell. Perhaps today's falling leaves unconsciously evoked that same smell from Grade 1? Or was it the same time in the morning, the sunlight and colours just so? Or a combination of all? 

I'd like to think there's only one answer to my questions: Mrs. Pochipinski. 

It's clear to me my grade 1 teacher designed an engaging lesson about the human nervous system, one that employed ALL our senses. Revisiting it felt like happiness. But, did Mrs. Pochipinski—hired and entrusted to lovingly exercise and build our brains—intend for this to happen? A first-year teacher, did she intentionally aim to not only engage us in the novelty of Fall's beauty, but also fast-track our new sensory knowledge into long-term memory? And wouldn't it be fantastic if she knew that someday, somewhere, she'd also be responsible for a little morning hike time-travel moment? Yes, yes, and I'd like to think also yes. For my low-key obsession with trees, and for my straight up obsession with description, thank you, Mrs. Pochipinksi. 

Dear friends, teachers make magic. Please support the important work they do. 

Things one should outgrow:

source

 groaking.

 Is this word new to you too? 

To groak (verb) means to stare longingly at a person who is eating in hopes of being invited to join in/them. 

Hmm. Someone starving? Of course. A child? Certainly. A pet? Perhaps...

But what if it's fries?! I have lots of thoughts: 

1. *gives the stink-eye*
2. Back off there, bud.
3. Get your own fries.
4. No.
5. Why didn't you order fries?
6. Look, I'll order more.
7. Just a few.
8. Okay that's enough.
9. *silent seething*
10. Groak off! 

UFBs

discovered in a child's
playground toy 
(insert horrified face here)

My son and I have spent decades marveling at bugs, especially those that attempted to ambush us, scare us, kill us. Yes, that's hyperbole; we reside in Canada, not Australia. But still. 

One of my son's first most complex utterances was, "Look dad, BIG HONKIN' SPIDER!" 😂 'Twas. 

These days we just text photos to each other: evil Spruce/June bugs, big-ass (honkin') spiders, and UFBs aka Unidentified Flying Bastards. 

This reminds me. No shade to the majority of the population, but I am astounded at how many of you folks belong to various group texts. I cannot endure text chains. Occasionally I experience momentary fomo, but (to me) most group texts feel more sad trombone than thrilling announcement. They're like urgent emails on Friday afternoons. Or like ringing someone's doorbell—not to socialize with them—but more like to stand in their yard. Ugh.

My son has similar feelings. But, and I bet he'd agree, I'd join a group text whereby participants simply share a photo of the bugs that attempted to slay them. Relatable, or um, no? 

Dear friends, do you enjoy group texts? Or UFBs? Also...if this post (ironically) feels a bit group-textish, I apologize and, as always, no comment is expected nor required. 

Caturday, kinda.

Thanks, M. 

I don't own a cat, but my 4-year-old granddaughter does, so if you're into Caturday (or need some light-heartedness), here are her adorable cat drawings. 

How do you like meow? 😀

Wait, wot?

Wait, wot? 

I swear this main-character-energy mushroom wasn't here yesterday?! I've read that some mushrooms can double their size in 24 hours, but this mushroom? She got quantum leap skills.  

Aren't mushrooms bizarre? They're fascinating. Wikipedia informs me this is a "coprinus comatus" aka the appropriately named "lawyer's wig, or shaggy mane fungus." 

Like all cunning villains, this character wears a wig, proving she's involved in some nefarious subterfuge, popping up into the garden, a stealthy baddie up to no good. It's like she's superbly styled by the genius artists from the series, Wednesday. 

If you're thinking, pea-brain put a leash on your revving imagination, here's the most astonishing fact I learned about her: "this mushroom is unusual because it will turn black and dissolve itself in a matter of hours after being picked or depositing spores." 

Wait, wot? If you look closely, she's already dissolving! No doubt she is currently popping up (right behind you) in your garden (insert Thing's soundtrack here). 🤣

Things that deserve the stink eye:

I know I'm a little late sharing my perspective on this embarrassing book-banning debacle, but I am so enamored by this Handmaid's Tale themed clap-back (above) from Canadian icon, Margaret Atwood (writer, historian, scholar, 85 year-old bad-ass) that I couldn't resist sharing it with readers here.

If you're unfamiliar with the context, here's my take: instead of collaborating with duly elected and trained Alberta school boards, school administrators and librarians (who have provincial jurisdiction over choosing appropriate school-aged reading materials), our provincial government leader, Premier Danielle Smith, yet again capitulated to the pearl-clutching anti-library lobbyists/zealots currently sweeping across North America intent on removing books they deem "woke." 

Using new guidelines from the Premier's Education Minister, one school district's list of 200 banned books was published just before school reconvened and the understandable backlash was swift and far-reaching so now this government has an international public relations disaster to contend with, lol. Titles banned included classics by Maya Angelou, Judy Blume, and Canada's favourite, feisty, freedom-loving Great-Aunt, Margaret Atwood. 

At first the government admonished the school district labeling their list an act of "vicious compliance" claiming it never was a book ban. Uh, nope to that fake news. The school district was simply following the new guidelines...cut to now...the government is amending the order and "leaving the classics on the shelves." 

Please know that this is not who we Albertans are. Like all democratic citizens, we value freedom of expression. Of course, school materials should be age appropriate; however, lobbyists don't get to decide for us. 

Imagine in 2025 thinking books are corrupting children. If children have phones connected to WIFI, well (insert face palm emoji here) we all know what they may encounter...so, I'd much rather they read (almost) any book they want. Even if, as Margaret Atwood joked in her first reaction to the list, "it might set your hair on fire" kids, lol. 

One more cherry-on-top to this well-deserved political drubbing: there's been a spike in sales of these banned books, lol. I've read lots of these titles, but I too will be shopping in the new "vicious compliance section" and continue reading while my hair burns. 

Maps

Well done, M. 

My 4-year-old granddaughter already loves to write. 

When I was a preschool kid, I drew. I loved to draw maps: houses and roads and streets and rivers and ponds and trees all from a bird's eye view. I believe my grandparents had an atlas which introduced this concept. So I drew my maps and told stories about the people who lived there. I'd say that's early writing too, or as it's sometimes called in the education field, "dwriting." One might call it simple imaginative play too, but it's also a solid form of therapy. 

When I did begin writing with letters, you might think I wrote the stories conjured from my maps. Nope. I wrote lists. When our family traveled, I would list the name of every town and city and roadside attraction we encountered as well as the odometer reading at each location. (Call me early google maps, ha.) When my parents discussed those trips with company later, they would use my list to recall details. I finally had an audience. This thrilled me. Always the odd kid out, I suddenly had an identity in my family. 

Eventually, my lists became more complex and—thanks to TV and Stephen King's books—typically morbid. There was no audience for this phase. I would write a list of character’s names then cut them in strips to prepare for a random draw to discover which one would be disfigured in a terrible accident or who would lose his mind (or hand) and be sent to an institution for the criminally insane or join a circus. I recall being completely rapt by these lists and stories. Time dissolved. I once wrote an entire lifetime of a set of characters in a point form list. 

You might think I really enjoyed all the writing assigned in school. I did enjoy it; I didn’t take it seriously though. They didn’t want lists. And I wasn’t a particularly skilled writer either. My teachers constantly pointed out that I would often leave the “y” off the word “they.” Here’s a sample sentence: “The enjoyed the trip the took to the Rocky Mountains.” Not so smooth, eh? 

Eventually, I studied writing in both my undergrad and graduate degrees. I love teaching writing strategies to kids, and yes, they typically involve drawing, and other easy-access approaches. I want to assist them in unlocking and sorting their thoughts, ideas, and feelings. I now know that writing is just one option in the positive psychology toolbox. 

Most of my writing now is (once again) therapeutic. For an overthinker like me, it's seeking solace, and like those maps, helps make my journey more meaningful than melancholy. 

Dear blogger friends, when did you begin writing? Why? For what purpose? 

Just the Right Amount

A sister to M & L, 
and a cousin to I. 

Especially after false labour way back in the first week of August, it's been quite a holding-pattern of a month waiting for our newest (third) granddaughter: 9 lbs and 9 days late! I'm so impressed by my daughter's resolve.  

But she's finally here: another M, her name a nod to my Grandmother and her middle name for my daughter's grandmother. Imagine being so fortunate to be named after two grandmas...that seems to me like just the right amount of grammatude, and I can't wait.   

Parched?

Flowers? Collectively adored. 

At his film's release, director Michael Angelo Covino, said this about his latest project (Splitsville) and the theatre-going experience: "it is so important that we [have spaces to] laugh together." 

That resonated. 

When was the last time you laughed together with a group of strangers? 

Thanks to our phones, it seems to me that modern collective experiences are typically fragmented, often encountered alone. Plus, they seem predominantly negative, rife with distractions, misinformation, political upheaval, and disasters, thus the modern desire to withdraw, isolate, and protect ourselves...alone.

A Gen X kid I definitely grew up alone, but I also recall sharing most of life's emotional experiences collectively, both positive and negative. We all watched the same weekly TV shows and imitated them. We all knew the Vulcan salute and said, "Nanoo, nanoo." I grew up loving The $6 Million Dollar Man so fervently that most of the playground stunts my classmates and I did, were in slow motion. Even outside my grade, these behaviours were common to my entire school community, and I suspect some of you reading this can relate? That's a key difference between then and now: community. 

A couple of weeks ago, I asked my adult son if we could watch Happy Gilmore 2 together. He grew up on Adam Sandler movies and, back then, we watched many comedies together. The film, as expected, was delightfully stupid, a genre we can both get behind. But the point of that experience? Nostalgic bonding.  

It seems to me that the modern world is sorely parched for bonding opportunities, especially among strangers. This made me wonder: what do we all collectively adore? Flowers? Kittens? Will Farrell? Silent Book Clubs? Hockey-playoffs?...?

And how might we bring back bonding? 

Things one should never outgrow:

Itchy for kitschy?

 

 

recess.

I've heard it said that travel is like recess for adults. You don't have to go far to enjoy recess, do you? 

Are you enjoying a recess (staycation) this year? 

A Field

Cindy Revell

On impulse, I bought a little painting. The artist is someone I grew up with. We lived across a field from each other. This field. Or so it seems to me. As soon as I saw the painting, I remembered biking along my childhood road looking across the yellow (canola) to her house.

There can be much ado about a field. As poet James Hearst says in Truth, "How the devil do I know if there are rocks in your field? Plow it and find out."

It seems to me that when you leave a place—especially that first place—you carry it with you: the sky, the soil, its rocks (plowed and unplowed), the light, the heavy, the love, and the pain. 

It seems to me that art carries all this too, that interiority, acting as a kind of proxy for the told and untold stories, and ultimately a means to plow a field in one's heart. 

Ready.

I was texting with a friend—she parents slightly younger adults than I do—and she shared that her youngest son's first year of university was rough AND THEN he was diagnosed with ADHD. But that information changed everything: the meds greatly improved his life. She's celebrating his improved health with simultaneous relief but also that parenting classic: regret. She wondered, what if I had helped him sooner? Yup, another parenting classic: wished-for clairvoyance. 

Like all honest parents, she needed some encouragement, so I reminded her that we parent in draft-mode. In this life-long research project called raising adults, we sometimes (oftentimes) don't know what to do. Beta-mode means that parenting is perpetually under development and yet the important, timely decisions must often be launched without adequate testing. Toss into the chaos all the ever-changing variables (age, gender, personality, knowledge, skills, experiences, finances, support or lack there of...) and it's a wonder it ever works. As a therapist once explained to me, "AT THAT TIME few resources were available." True. So, I also reminded my friend that parenting is fucking hard and heartbreaking and fantastic and worth it and like the weather (sometimes) it's all these things in the span of 24 hours. 

She thanked me for being wise, LOL. Nope. I just know this is true. She does too. 

But. 

She will continue to worry. 

And so will I.

Parenting will TEST you like nothing else, and you will fail repeatedly. Experience taught me that to be a good parent, you need to understand your own shit first: fears, anxieties, trauma, prejudices, flawed thinking, magical thinking, blind spots.... (I did not.) And you need strategies. (I had few.) Nevertheless, you will need to believe your influence has worth even when all the evidence says it means shit. And by the time you have all this knowledge and all these skills, they've already moved out. 

So fellow regretful parents out there, chins up, okay? Because here's the more important thing: despite our own entangled feelings, our young adults still need us sometimes, and we better be ready. 

Rewards?

Just as tasty as these scones. 

My chocolate scones? Let's just say they were here one minute, the next, scone!

Understanding this joke depends on whether you rhyme scone with Gone Girl or Game of Thrones. Either way, delish, also compelling entertainment. (Isn't it the worst when someone explains a joke? Sorry.)

Do you ever make something SO TASTY, you are tempted to immediately snarf it all down your gullet? If so, relatable. Humble brag newsflash however: I did not eat them all, nor did I even taste one before I shared them. Yes indeed, I'm a hero. Or maybe it's just progress? Or is it something else? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I mention this because my latest scones have me pondering short and long term rewards/goals. 

Let's be honest: I HEART SHORT TERM REWARDS, but I know the marshmallow test has proved that those who can resist quick temptation (1 out of 3) have better long-term psychological, health, even professional outcomes. Or that's what we've been told...hmm...maybe this experiment is just another conspiracy orchestrated by Obama and Hillary Clinton? *rolls eyes*

I jest; my aim is not to undermine this experiment's key role in extending our collective understanding about deferred gratification and success, but let's be honest: if I had been one of the original marshmallow test children, I WOULD HAVE FAILED IMMEDIATELY (maybe even made s'mores). 

Why you ask? Because at any moment my much older brothers could have burst into that two-way-mirrored room, threatened violence, and SNATCHED my marshmallows, then slowly and dramatically eaten them in my face (without consequences) like every other day of my childhood. Again, I jest (kinda), but culturally, what if you were a deprived, neglected, or anxious child? I suspect a few others can relate? (I'm talking to you kids whose youth was more Stranger Things than Bluey.) 

Hmm, now I'm imagining the adult versions of those long-ago (1972) well-adjusted gratification deferer-ers aka kids with matching socks. I bet they all work for Big Pharma Long Term Reward Ltd., or some other nefarious corporation filled with superiority-complex, pearl-clutchers...er, never mind: given the current state of politics, I retract this statement unequivocally. Please PLEASE please OUT with the glut of ME FIRST ME NOW ME FOREVER leaders addled by unrelenting vainglory. 

Sigh, I digress. Here's my point: perhaps some instant gratification is less pathology, and more (just enough) self-care. With that and happiness in mind, here are some short term rewards I'm currently indulging:

• reading.
• journaling and blogging.
• YouTube travel vlogs & comedians.
• eating healthy, trying new recipes, & sharing treats with others.
• wearing my flat cap on walks.
• hanging out with those mini-masters of self-gratification, kids & toddlers.
• adding a new song to my playlist every day. 
• sawing.🤣
• remembering.
• paying attention.

Wordfuse (golf-edition)

“Did that go in? I wasn’t watching...."
Happy Gilmore & also me

fairway + wayward = fairwayward (adj) If you golf, the definition is obvious. Sigh. 

Once weekly yearly I golf, and yet I'm still shite. It's shocking because I'm a sporty guy. By sporty I mean I'm a good sport, but I can't do any actual sports. 

Sports I've tried: skiing and cornhole. 

Sports I like: skiing, walking, floating, lifting rocks to examine what's underneath. Sure, only one of these is deemed an official sport but let's be honest, that sounds symptomatic of a poor imagination. Isn't picking saskatoons a kind of sport? Snowmobiling? Reading? Painting? Lawn-mowing? Surviving Winter? Not to brag, but I excel at these. 😜

What do you "excel" at?