Chicken, out.

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Why did the chicken cross the road? Good question, because I hit it with my car on my way to work.

The whole thing took seconds but I recall everything in slow motion. I saw that prairie chicken emerge from the grass at the side of the road. Like all those Roadrunner cartoons I watched on repeat as a kid, its back legs spun like wheels, its neck extended as forward as possible, so fixated, so intent on reaching its destination, like any moment it might catapult like a missile.

Despite some part of me cheering it on, I knew what was imminent because that chicken was simply too far from that elusive other-side-of-the-road. Why the rush chicken? Why did you need to cross the road at that precise time? Were you being chased by Wile E. Coyote? Was an anvil about to drop from somewhere? What’s on the other side? An important meeting? A manicure? The pub? A KFC protest? Who knows, because even though that prairie chicken reached the center line (narrowly avoiding an oncoming truck)...boom: feathers. Chicken, out.

Sorry chicken.

Later at work, I pulled it out of my grill and threw it in a dumpster. Now that’s a bummer of a Friday.

I must say there are things we can all learn from that chicken. We all recognize the meaning behind “running around like a chicken with your head cut off,” and yet, based on this incident, I can tell you that even with his head attached that chicken looked super frazzled. Peeps, getting from point A to point B shouldn’t be so stressful. Just what is SO IMPORTANT on the other side of the road?

Not much. Most of what we worry about never happens. But stress (the result of an overloaded nervous system repeating "imminent threat imminent threat") compels us to believe the best time to cross the road and get to the other side (whatever that may mean to each of us) is yesterday. Some would argue against this vehemently, but let’s be honest: we all have the same amount of time every day. Until suddenly, we don’t. So if you get my meaning, slow down chickens. Slow down.

Things one (and all) should outgrow:

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war.

Why the fuss Canadians?

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When asked why he chose equal numbers of men and women to form his cabinet, PM Justin Trudeau said, “Because it’s 2015.”

Boom. Pretty much the equivalent of dropping the mic.

Not all Canadians appreciate this. But I can’t fathom why. If it’s because of sexism, whether willful or through pure ignorance, that’s total bunk. Anyone who has a mother should be ashamed of themselves for that sort of patriarchal nonsense. Personally, I think this decision is a moot point. It doesn’t matter where anyone is on the political spectrum, there is no point debating this. Any debate speaks to bias and sexism because any Canadian citizen age 18 or over, male or female, of a particular race or religion, immigrant or indigenous, ALL PERSONS, have the right to run for elected office. Ever hear of the “Famous Five”? Or the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms? Since 1960. (Go ahead and google it; the history of this is dreadful.) So 55 years later, why is this even a thing?

For those who contend that he chose gender over qualifications or experience like some political publicity stunt, I doubt that, because puh-lease, do people really think there aren't 15 women capable of these leadership roles? Even if some lack experience, it doesn’t mean he chose the wrong people. For eons we’ve had qualified/unqualified, experienced/inexperienced, predominantly male politicians who’ve misrepresented their constituents and our country in numerous and appalling ways. See the Senate for several recent examples. And no, of course, not all are corrupted by power, but definitely a few too many. Anyone, regardless of gender can be nominated, be elected, and be really shitty at their jobs. We Canadians have that right too.

Justin Trudeau could also have answered that question this way: “Because it’s my choice.” It was and it is because Canadians elected him. That’s democracy and despite its misgivings, when I look around the world, I don’t see government better than democracy. So considering it’s November, let’s pause for a moment of silence and reflect on why we have a democracy. And let’s remember how fortunate we are to live where we live. 

Things one should never outgrow:

Jessica Hagy's The Art of War Visualized

turning stones.

Murse?

Is that a murse?!

My new man purse is getting a lot of attention. And by a lot of attention I mean like three, maybe four people have mentioned it (aka called me on it) so this is probably irrelevant and I’m just embarrassing myself again but that’s never stopped me before so anyway...one SO-CALLED friend even went so far as to completely throw me under the macho bus when he (and his mocking smile) shared this uncalled-for tidbit: “Let’s get real. It’s not a murse, it’s a purse.”

Whoa. Haters gonna hate. Oddly, I've been using a murse for over a decade and until now, in the reaction department, crickets. Sure, people have mentioned it in the past occasionally, whether to tease me or to determine if I have food in there. It’s been during those rare instances when I actually remember that it may be somewhat out of the ordinary. Only then do I wonder, is there something wrong with using a murse?  

Unless it’s donuts or a cake, I don’t notice what other people carry around, male or female. Honestly, I never really thought about this much. My murse seems practical to me. I need to carry my laptop somehow. My books. Pens. A laser pointer. You know, geek swag. All those things combined won’t fit in my pockets so what else am I supposed to do?

Some of you traditionalists may be thinking, why wouldn’t you carry a backpack instead? A briefcase? Something, anything else? Sure. Those could work. But I prefer a murse. Hands free, it works for me. But here’s the thing: I don’t CALL it my murse. I guess I call it my bag, maybe even shoulder bag (like once, maybe). Why would I bother calling it anything?! It has no personality and it’s not a parakeet.

But now I realize my mistake. Because then this happened during an unprompted mini-debate about my murse: someone rebranded it as a satchel. A satchel? As in Indiana Jones (Harrison Ford) had a satchel. So HA haters… MAYBE I HAVE A SWISS ARMY-KNIFE IN THERE! Or a small rattlesnake! OR A LIGHT-SABER (wrong movie, but close enough). OR SOME JAMES BOND GADGET (again the wrong movie, but still.) Or more likely jujubes that I will NEVER SHARE AGAIN. Take that murse-haters. 

Things one should never outgrow:

home-made chicken soup.

Most would agree that it's a near-perfect comfort food. Unless you're a chicken. And if you are a chicken, well, it's an abomination. Nevertheless, yum.

Just so you know, the answer is no.

Can I recall what "vent rig" refers to in this cryptic note-to-self I just discovered? Anyone else know?

Sheesh.

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Worms & dirt donuts? Whoa. Clever.

So why not...French Toast Donuts? Lemon Poppy-seed Donuts? Pop-Tart Donuts? Ice-cream Sundae Donuts? Irish-Cream Donuts? Rice-Krispie Square Donuts?

If you ask me, those are quite deep frideas.

Sorry.

"Treat everyone as if they are carrying a box of donuts." ~Josh Hara

Let's talk turkeys, shall we?

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Even though I’m terrified of turkeys, I once read a storybook about a turkey living on a farm. It’s almost Thanksgiving and so naturally, the turkey is a tad worried. While being chased by an axe-wielding farmer, the turkey disguises himself as various other farm animals to avoid the axe. For example, he rolls around in the mud pretending to be a pig. The farmer sees through this and every other one of his ruses but just before the axe can fall, turkey’s farm friends yell, “Run turkey RUN!” Spoiler alert: the turkey manages to dodge the farmer and the family has grilled cheese sandwiches for Thanksgiving.

Three things about this little Thanksgiving yarn:

1. Grilled cheese sandwiches are pretty great.
2. Turkeys are idiots.
3. All turkeys must die.

Okay that last point might be a tad harsh but it’s borne from my hatred for turkeys (at least those not basted with butter, stuffed with bread, and about to be served on a platter with potatoes and carrots). Anyway, here’s something else I think we can all learn from this story:

1. Thanksgiving is not a turkey. In other words, not every year goes as planned. Be together anyway. Be thankful anyway. Celebrate having enough instead of having more.
2. If your friends have helped you out, tell them. Go back and tell them. You may never get another chance.
3. Sometimes the turkey can’t be killed. (Stay with me here.) In other words, chasing those elusive whatevers in our lives may be counterproductive, even futile. Is it really what you want? Maybe it’s time to re-evaluate goals. There’s a time to persist and there’s a time to reinvent. And if I’m wrong about this one, if you choose to persist, then go ahead and blow that turkey’s head off.

(If you're a Canuck like me, a happy Thanksgiving to you this weekend!)

Outside

We all tend to forget that the outside is speaking to us. Its language may be deceptively quiet but those whispers linger.

Most people love trees. I do. Sure, they provide the essential oxygen, offer the shade, provide the resources. It’s all vital to survival. But it’s more than that too. People want neighbourhoods with big established trees. We try to save them. Kids love them. They teach us about change. They are reliable. They are resilient. They are potential. They mark our history. The only piece of my childhood home that I still claim is the tree I planted there when I was ten. When we want to remember someone, we plant a tree. (If I were gone tomorrow, I would hope someone plants a tree for me.)

But there’s something else too.

The poet Rilke wrote, “These trees are magnificent, but even more magnificent is the sublime and moving space between them, as though with their growth it too increased.” That’s the feeling I’m thinking about...that feeling of being surrounded by trees...that space among them, it’s alive.

Japanese culture has a word for this: “shinrin-yoku,” which means “forest bathing.” I’m a firm believer that one fantastic word can impact our thinking like, well, like when a tree falls and then everything looks suddenly different. This is one of those words. Picture yourself inside those places in the forest where the trees seem to lean in as if gazing downward as we pass. We all know that feeling. The air cools, the light changes, the scents swell, and there’s a calm. But why is it so calming? Science says the trees bathe us in chemicals they emit to ward off insects and slow the growth of bacteria. Science says when humans are exposed to these chemicals they lower blood pressure, relieve stress, and boost cancer-fighting white blood cell production. Think about that. Literally, trees heal.

Therefore friends...go outside. Forest bathe. Mend yourself if you can. Find some peace. And then be peaceful with others.