Cliques and...

source

Unfortunately, we all know what a clique is. Sure, there are wholesome exceptions—a book club for example—but typical cliques are comprised of people who think tribalism is a personality, people who don't choose their friends carefully or, in short, sheeple—a frustrating collective driven by one or two ringleaders, secretly aching to maintain their fragile egos and dubious influence, buoyed by herd mentality and their gang, all ill-equipped or actively-resistant to thinking critically about their norms, their conduct, their code. One might call them oppressors, bullies, or the cream of the crap. 

Does my description bring anything to mind?  

Cliques are exhausting. I remember because I've been in them. I think this sort of temporary insanity is commonplace. I've learned my lessons and I'm wary. Decades later, joining ANY group for me is like a passport application: periodically necessary, but references must be involved, and I may never travel there anyway. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

But whether it's Junior High or 2026, there's no escaping some cliques: here we are again. 

I'm thinking about those groups I can't seem to ignore or escape, namely the Alberta Separatists (rolls eyes here) who aim to impose their policies on us other 7.5/10 proud-to-be-Canadian Albertans who have indeed been undervalued by our federal government, but c'mon people there's NO WAY our province would be better off independent from Canada—not to mention solvent—nor would we be independent for long—insert Orange Shitpile Biff Tannen 51st state blustering nonsense here—a reference to another relentlessly inescapable ringleader and his clique of idiots currently in charge of (effing) the (entire) world. Sigh. 

What to do though? Defying cliques is exceedingly onerous; they disregard reasoning. I'd be delusional to think this blog post would impact much of anything but nevertheless, I do hope to arm you with a new-to-me clever (and satisfying) language counterpoint to the clique: the claque. What if clique members had a word to ponder their roles as mimicking sycophants, clapping and clapping ad nauseam at their ringleaders' bullshit? 

Dear friends, I know it's only a word, but as I've suggested before, precise word-choice impacts worldview, so please use/drop/insert/release this word (like a balloon) as you see fit (sly as a fox). 

Drag path

Whether archaic or zeitgeist-y, unfamiliar words or phrases fascinate me. Currently, I'm captivated by the phrase drag path. Apparently, it's also a social media hashtag...so for those who imbibe in that sketchy pastime, perhaps you were already familiar? 

Although I don't know much about this phrase's history, I encountered it thanks to the (fantastic) band Twenty One Pilots who recently released a song bearing this name. Perhaps they coined it? 

If you know anything about me, you know I'm an (overly)enthusiastic learner so experiencing this song, this phrase felt...how to describe...? 

You know when a much-missed friend covers your eyes from behind...like a makeshift blindfold, then suddenly removes them to reveal themselves? Like that...like a sight for sore eyes, but for my ears instead, ha. I didn't know I was missing this phrase (and this song) because I didn't know it existed! It turned me round. And now I see drag path evidence everywhere. Thanks (once again) to music and language, I'm empowered to identify something that once needed many more (failed) words to describe the profound but typically nebulous after-effects of an emotional experience.  

To explain: a drag path is literally the path made during a task, struggle, or conflict—it's a sign, an impression, an earthly scar—somewhat forensic in nature. Metaphorically though? Imagine a grief drag path, or those created by addiction or depression or trauma. And like a drag path through the snow (eventually melted) there's intangible and psychic evidence everywhere. Think about the personal story a series of hidden tattoos might tell. Think about a heart surgery scar. Think about the pandemic's ongoing effects: a drag path of health issues, education gaps, politics, histrionics and loss. Think about the devastating drag paths of this violence and these (endless) wars.

Hardwired to be introspective, I think I've long sensed this idea but I'm grateful to now name it, to recognize it, to help others acknowledge theirs. Sometimes my own drag paths linger like ghostly trails. Heck, much of this blog might be a drag path. 

We've all endured something—or we're currently enduring something. This phrase enables us a lens through which to investigate life's inevitable emotional scarring. Who/what dragged us? Did we drag our own feet? At what moment did we stand on our own two feet again? Others may never know our hidden struggles, but whether the evidence is subtle or not, they leave a wake. What might we learn from the wake? 

The song features a character's intentionally-left evidence, "I dug my heels into the gravel as evidence for you to unravel," touting some type of rescue. One could insert their favourite saviour accordingly, but the song leaves it ambiguous, resisting a single interpretation. Regardless, what I'm more interested in about drag paths is this: they signify BOTH weakness and strength, surrender and resistance, friction and perseverance. In this sense, some are necessary. And sometimes we rescue ourselves. 

Dear friends, contemplate, even examine your drag paths, but remember those struggles also represent survival. Whether it's to signal rescue or pure tenacity, continue digging in your heels.  

Things that deserve the stink-eye (in a good way):

kiwi fruit. Yum.

Bonus: when peeled one might say they're giving Dr. Seuss vibes. Despite this fair assessment, I will eat them in a box, I will eat them with a fox, I will eat them here or there, I will eat them everywhere... because they're delicious. Not-so-bonus: unpeeled...well you already know what they resemble. 

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Anyhoo, I mention them because science says the exterior fuzz is just as nutritious as what's inside. 

Therefore, dear friends, as Dr. Seuss might put it, do you nosh them with the skin or does that make your stomach spin? 

To learn more about kiwi fruit please visit this entertaining YouTuber who shares the fruit's history (and takes a jab at a certain world leader, lol.) 

A quick reminder:

we all know some words are better left unsaid. Conversely, this adage suggests that some words are best said.

Precise language impacts worldview. Words influence action. So, dear friends, what if you and I—at some point today—released this word like a balloon into this sorry world? 

It certainly couldn't hurt, could it? 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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? 

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 (shut-eye edition)

 (noun): slept + skeptic = those who doubt they'll sleep through the entire night, or whose history has shown proper uninterrupted shut-eye to be elusive aka more four winks than forty winks. Sigh.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Things one should never outgrow?

L😍

My grandson is almost two. His vocabulary? Incredible. He can sing the A-B-C song AND Bridge Over Troubled Waters, lol. 

I am not kidding. 

And then there's his enunciation. Impressive, but still developing. Here's what happened:

We were together on the back deck at his parent's home, just us, blowing bubbles and singing songs and reading books. In other words, doing what this toddler and this Grandpops enjoy doing together. 

Suddenly, he yelled, "MURDER!PSYCHO!" 

Startled, I asked, "What?!"

He repeated himself and pointed into the backyard, "MURDER!PSYCHO!" 

As I contemplated what might possibly be going through his mind, his 4-year old sister joined us on the deck from the backyard. Barely noticing her, I made eye-contact with my grandson; bewildered (yet also impressed), I asked him slowly, "L, are you saying murder psycho?"

Unconcerned and a bit slower, he repeated himself for me, "MURDER! PSYCHO!" Then his sister quickly translated, "motor cycle, Pops." 

Let me explain: his backyard is completely fenced in and set back safely from a fairly busy roadway, but louder vehicles occasionally disrupt the peace, especially his favourite vehicles. 

Days later, I am still laughing and I can't wait to enjoy a lifetime of hearing/mishearing his excited thoughts. 

Also this: when did we outgrow randomly yelling the names of things we love? I say my grandson can teach us all how to love life: ICE CREAM! GOLDEN HOUR! BOOKS! GRANDKIDS! DEMOCRACY! 🤣🤔

Playlist

Is your playlist doing its job?

Playlists are personal. I'm hesitant to even write about mine. People get judgy about song choices. Sigh. I could attempt to explain mine: um, maybe eclectic? Catchy? Genre-bending? Silly? Vapid? Rebellious? Deep? Sad? Yes, all of those. Imagine everything from Joni Mitchell to the Muppets, from Dance to Dolly Parton. Insert shrug emoji here.

My main criteria? An emotional reaction (typically mirth or melancholy).  Bonus criteria? Goosebumps. 

We all know goosebumps: the body releases adrenalin, muscles involuntarily contract and force body hair to stand upright, indentations patterned across the skin. Science says this occurs due to cold, or a reaction to stimuli (fear, attraction, sadness, joy...). Whatever the reason, think about it: our bodies are trying to help us survive. And that's what a playlist can do: enliven us when we're struggling. It's a mental health buoy. 

Science (Daniel J. Levitin) says we humans enjoy a special relationship with music. Unlike other stimuli, it triggers multiple effects in both hemispheres all across our brains including language, emotion, memory, even physiological responses like that overwhelming desire to move “to the beat.” It releases the feel good hormones and affects blood pressure, body temperature, even metabolism. But for what purpose? 

Despite my amateur scientist status, I know the answer; obviously, it's preparing us for that inevitable crucial music-related battle we must all face at some point in our lives: the dance off. Amirite?

I jest, kinda. Music is similar to humour. Music changes channels. Introduce a song to whiny toddlers and suddenly they get their happy on. It's more than humour though. Think about how that song at the funeral pushed open the rusty gate in your heart. 

Alerted by adrenalin, music jolts us from simply existing, shocks us more fully into life, both the joys and the pains. Music speaks truth better than we can: it invokes our deeper feelings, the ones we may not even realize. One amazing song can help us problem-solve, feel less alone; it can provide some new or renewed perspective, it can open a vulnerable conversation, it can heal. Music pushes our buttons and, goosebumped, even our skin can’t hide the transformation.   

What song does the job for you? 

Let's be honest:

A good friend's husband died earlier this month, an absolute blindside.
Still thinking about these wise words: painful, hopeful, honest.
Also thinking about others I'm missing. No doubt, you too?
For whatever might be ailing you today, I hope these words find you. 

Would I steer you wrong?

I suspect I'm not the only highland steer who
feels that reading the daily news requires horns.

Nope. 😜

Happy Robbie Burns Day, dear friends. This charming artwork hangs in my son's bathroom and it makes me smile every time. 

For supper tonight I made my version of Scotch Broth, a hearty pearl barley soup with turnips, onions, and carrots. For Christmas, I gifted myself The Scottish Cookbook (by Coinneach MacLeod, the Hebridean Baker) so I'm hoping to expand my Scottish cooking beyond soup, shortbread, and scones. One more thing: although I'm not much of a drinker, I do have a favourite Scotch, Dalwhinnie. It's warm and sweet like caramel, but a bit spicy with a hint of smoke too. 

Whether you celebrate or not, Lang may yer lum reek. Slàinte mhath!

Abc?

I love the way text structures are evolving and new genres are emerging in the book world. 

Thanks to NGS, I read Alphabetical Diaries by Sheila Heti (c) 2024, a great example of this evolution. 

In alphabetical order, each chapter features highlights from the author's journal curated into a narrative both disassembled and threaded in curious ways. With all due respect, it's a bit ADHD yet (surprisingly) each sentence, like jigsaw puzzle pieces, eventually connects elsewhere, establishing character, plot, and themes I think many women would relate to. It's also a narrative about being a writer and that's the aspect I most connected with. 

Inspired, I searched my 2024 iPhone journal and chose these entries from A to Zed. 

Is it too random, or can you infer connections?

Almost 9 and everyone's still sleeping except us. Babies have surgery. Cried through the last chapter. Dreamed I was in a drawing class with Lynn who died in 2020. Edmonton Oilers kicking ass. Funeral today and I will always regret not being there. Grandkids arrive tomorrow! Happy New Day. I have the Lego bride and groom ready! Jesus, where is my passport? Keep imagining Sisyphus happy. Love my daughter's haircut; hate her boss. Maybe don't listen to your unreliable inner narrator? Not impressed with the Connections puzzle today. Our tongues are not normal, son. Pita Pizzas, yum. Quiet, soft, floating snow. Ready for this day with you. She told me she's afraid of the 'Backson' from Winnie the Pooh. Trying to draw different types of owls and texting grandturkey pics with my childhood friend: priceless. Unscrupulous people gonna unscrup-you/us. Very uncomfortable watching these election results. World is so fucked up, but I bet if someone started playing, "you are my sunshine" on a subway, everyone would sing along. X-ray results good! You must not forget that time a random baby waved at you in the grocery store. Zone of Interest (and its compelling use of sound) gripped me and begged me not to deaden myself to the world. 

Things that deserve the stink-eye

 

via GIPHY (the sign for idiot)

Oh, today's news. The incoming US Liar-in-Chief continues to muse about annexing Canada...hence the sign above. (Insert eye roll here.)

Historians may know that Americans tried this once before: the War of 1812. And yes, some argue this war was just a leveraging technique against Britain. Considering US history, that's understandable. But the outcome? Pretty much nothing, although the Canadians (technically referred to as British loyalists at that time), burned The White House in retaliation for US troops burning a portion of York (present-day Toronto). Oh, and there was an unintended outcome: it galvanized those British Loyalists and helped forge a Canadian identity. (Insert maple leaf here.)

Is today's news another leveraging technique? Probably...but this time more for his amusement, I guess? Something else he obviously doesn't understand or care about: since the 1800s, US & Canadian citizens have shared a border with no major conflicts, whatsoever. We've been friends for centuries, supporting each other in world conflicts. Remember 911? To me, that's more important than today's anti-democratic pissing-contest nonsense, likely to be continued for the next four years ad nauseum. Sigh. Dear US friends, hang in there. 

Also, GARDYLOO.

New Year? New Mantra?

source

As the Scots say, Happy Hogmanay, aka Happy New Year!

If you've been reading my blog for a while, you may know most of my ancestors belong to the Canadian arm of the Scottish diaspora, and thanks to my immigrant great-grandparents, I love all things Scottish, especially the accent and in particular, the slang. As we all peek (with trepidation) around the corner into 2025, I am reminded of one of my favourite Scottish words (and the historical custom it inspired): GARDYLOO!

Apparently once a law in Edinburgh, this Scots term was used as "a warning cry before throwing a bucket of dirty water from a window into the street." Pre-plumbing, y'all can imagine what was in that bucket:💩. 

Of course there is much I'm anticipating in 2025 (birthdays, projects, travel, reunions, etc), but we all know "shit's going down" next year and if humour is your coping method, may I suggest you cry in the shower if necessary, BUT ALSO ENJOY RANDOMLY YELLING GARDYLOO AS NEEDED (and remember you are not alone.) 

Happy "Gardyloo" year, dear friends. 

Take Hold

I's hands

Ten-month old toddler hands rarely cease. 

Curious, her hands examine all things in her path from the stuffed bunny's button tail to the start "button" on the dump truck. Chewing a toy then dropping it and crawling to the next, climbing up the coffee table and inching her hands to one coaster, then the next, and the next. 

She absorbs this life hands first, then into her mouth, her eyes darting from one pursuit to the next, her ears perked by toys that beep or spin, then kitchen noises, then my voices. I wonder, what does she smell? Perhaps smell develops slowly, thankfully unadvanced until post-diaper life? 

I use ASL to encourage her with my own hands: yes and yes and yes. 

Oh to be a new human again, and take hold of the world.