Encouragement

Highway Touring?

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What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? For me, it’s traveling down major highways or mountain highways on a motorbike. I am a logical person, and logically speaking, a motorbike is a tiny vehicle in comparison to a normal vehicle. Passenger vehicles have fancy features, like seatbelts and airbags and shatter-proof glass and metal surrounding their passengers. On a bike, there is zero protection. One can easily cross over into the great unknown due to weather, wildlife, or drivers on cocaine. Yup, I’m terrified right now imagining all the ways to meet death or disfigurement coming off a street bike.

I think about all the wildlife hazards for those on a motorbike. Animals are wild. Traffic laws do not apply to creatures of the forest. Wild creatures have the ability to cross the road at any moment, making it akin to a game of risk and uncertainty. You might make the trip without an incident, but you might not. Is there a moose, or an elk, or a deer in your path? Heck, it might even be a porcupine. Smaller animals are formidable obstacles if you hit one with a two-wheeled freedom seeker.

Next, I consider the very real danger of bad weather. Wet or icy roads pose significant risks for bikers. I imagine myself clinging to my husband like a monkey to a junkie’s back; we are miles from anywhere. Suddenly, marble-sized hail begins to rain, creating a slippery surface. We go into an uncontrollable skid toward the guardrail protecting us from a 600-foot drop. Then lightning flashes and thunder roars, and ocean-sized fish fall from the sky (honestly, there have been cases of fish raining down from the sky). A five-pound carp slams me in the head, and I topple sideways as we crash through the guardrail down into the scenic view of the Grand Canyon. The following day, we are the Sunday morning splat in the Las Vegas Review. This scenario does not align with my personal definition of adventure.

Thirdly, highways are busy roadways with an overabundance of giant semi trucks that generate intense air movement. Wind is the biker’s enemy. Now, combine a windstorm with a coked-up newbie semi-driver. Yikes, what a horror show that might be. We get sucked into the draft of the big truck, and splat, we are a smear on the side of the road.

So, in case you’re wondering, it is my hubby’s dream to tour on a motorbike, and since I kind of like him, I will consider going touring. And in case you are wondering, no, I would not feel any braver if I piloted my own bike. I’m kind of clumsy and accident-prone. I tend to drive where I look—and I like looking at trees. I love my car. Cars are way more forgiving; if you need to correct your steering abruptly, you can. Bikes? Not so much.

Once upon a time, as a teenager, I had a dirt bike, and then I made scars on my body. Funnily enough, my husband had a proper highway-legal bike when he was a teenager. He loved it, but then he had an accident. To be fair, my husband is much older now, and he is a competent driver—although he does enjoy speed and passing people on the highway. Still, I am comfortable while he drives. Airbags are a wonderful invention.

In conclusion, what would it take for me to be a passenger on my husband’s dream bike? Final answer: psilocybin mushrooms, the Devil’s lettuce, and/or my gramps old companion, Valium.

Daily writing prompt
What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?
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Dangerous Squirrels

/ debbyproulx / 5 Comments

I wish our dog, Buffy, understood the dangers of squirrels. She is a little Shorkie with a big dog complex; it doesn’t matter how big the dog is; she imagines herself bigger. I suppose it’s my fault. I named her after Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It was inevitable that she would possess an unmatched level of bravery. She chases anything she thinks doesn’t belong in our yard: other dogs, ravens, politicians, but mostly squirrels.

Once, when a giant black dog wandered halfway down our long driveway, Buffy didn’t even pause before she transformed into a bullet with teeth on furry little legs. There was no doubt in her mind she was going to rip this trespasser’s throat out.

I remained unconvinced. I yelled in my harshest voice, “Buffy, come here—get back here right now!”

She glanced at me, her hair flying away from her eyes, as if to say, “Don’t worry, Mom, I got this.” She ran even faster toward the hulking canine.

I raced towards both dogs, hoping to stop an impending battle. I yelled again. It was no use; she had completely tuned me out. I sprinted to prevent the slaughter.

Then I stopped. The big dog suddenly dropped his head and turned around, jogging back down the driveway without even uttering a growl. Buffy halted, gave one final bark, and then trotted towards me, her tail high in the air like a flag of conquest. “See. You didn’t need to wake up all the neighbors with your screaming. Sheesh.”Personally, I believe it may have been my screeching that deterred the big dog from eating my little dog, but Buffy would never believe that. She doesn’t listen to me.

Buffy’s favourite pastime is squirrel chasing. She is an exuberant predator, and the squirrels enjoy goading her. The only trouble is, I wish she could understand how dangerous squirrels can be. Like my mom used to say, it’s all fun and games until somebody loses a nose. To deter Buffy from pursuing squirrels, I decided to read her articles of squirrel attacks from various newspapers; I told her in the spring of 2022, in Carleton Place, Ontario, a black squirrel began attacking people, biting, clawing, and chasing. It even knocked over an elderly woman as she defended herself from its attack. Then I read her another story about a small Welsh village, where a little nutjob squirrel attacked eighteen people in a span of two days. This furry little villain kept the local doctor busy with gory scratches and bites for most of those days. Buffy’s confidence hasn’t weakened. Maybe if I show her this video of squirrel attacks, she will understand? https://youtu.be/cKCvbdNHTXQ?si=C87wzp9wHC-q0_vq

It didn’t work. Instead, she added the extra step of sharpening her teeth before her squirrel-chasing activities. Damn the Yorkie part of a Shorkie that doesn’t listen. Any advice?

Daily writing prompt
If you could make your pet understand one thing, what would it be?
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Clear My Space

/ debbyproulx / 3 Comments

Someone must be spying on me to come up with the timely writing prompt, ‘Where can you reduce clutter in your life?’ Every time I open a closet, or cupboard, or drawer, I feel ashamed at the mishmash of stuff. Soooo much stuff. I admire organized people. At times I strive to be one and organize a few drawers and cupboards myself, but after a time, oddball stuff gets tossed back into these tidy places. Mostly because guests are coming, and I must have spotless counters and floors. The struggle with clutter is real. The items I struggle to evict overwhelm me with logical and emotional reasoning: “What if you need this in two days?” or “You can’t get rid of this; your daughter made it for you in grade one; it would be like getting rid of a piece of her.” or “You need to keep this; it was your mom’s moms and her moms before that.”

I recently heard decluttering is a form of releasing. My spirit animal is an octopus.

Please don’t worry for me, though: I’m not extreme enough to play the main character in the show Hoarders. My rooms do not have rabbit trails through mountains of teetering stuff or decomposing animals in my cupboards or the boxes. I’m a clean hoarder. I simply tuck oddments away into every hidden hole I find, where no one will see my clutter unless they snoop.

Okay, maybe it doesn’t matter if I am a rabbit trail hoarder or a drawer and closet hoarder. It is still clutter. So much of my clutter is sentimental. I have boxes and boxes of photo albums, and loose pictures, and teacups, and ornaments, and doilies, and so many of my dead family’s things. Some days I feel like the only thing I didn’t keep is their skeletons. I carry the weight of this clutter in my mind and body. It’s paralysing.

What to do? What to do?

Quite conveniently, we are moving in May. I have no choice but to clear my space. Would any of you happy hoarders like some more stuff? Boy oh boy, do I have a deal for you.

Daily writing prompt
Where can you reduce clutter in your life?
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Digital Options

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In a matter of twenty years, our world has become a digital distraction with a dizzying number of online options. Certain platforms are intentionally designed to be addictive. Although my digital communication style is primarily texting and emailing, in the past, I had completely fell in love with Pinterest and Facebook. I found myself utterly captivated, constantly glancing at pins and tags whenever I had some free time. Eventually, I had to divorce myself from the unhealthy relationship. It took some determination, but I finally broke free of the soul-sucking desire to scroll.

Quite some time has passed; I actually thought myself free of digital influence, but then recently I realized I am completely smitten with YouTube. I am endlessly playing footsies with the bottom comment sections of podcasts and cheating on my actual real life. On YouTube, both intellectuals and idiots flourish on this podcast platform. I blushingly confess I listen to both. This is primarily due to my inability to resist listening to both.

Do you want to know how I became a podcast junkie? It all began with a workout program, and now, two years later, here I am, hiding from my dog in my closet, listening to Mr. Beast. I am weak. And worse yet, I am volatile. When my emotions are stirred and I decide to post in the comment section, a wrestling match between my inner angel and inner demon begins. How shall I respond? Should I spout brimstone and curses or benevolence and understanding? Ultimately, the halo prevails. Likely because of my parents’ ample indoctrination; kindness is paramount. Plus, this idea was also reinforced with a wooden spoon across my butt.

Sigh, enough of this.

Dear YouTube, we need to break up. I need to get a life.

But can I even get a life offline? I need some distance from the wifi. Are any of the remote tribes of South America accepting immigrants from Canada? How about the Amish? Do they have an open immigration policy?

Ahh, don’t worry; I kicked the tech habit once; I can do it again. I’m looking forward to less online time. My dog says, “Ditto.”

Daily writing prompt
In what ways do you communicate online?
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Ash In the Wind

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What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life? For me, it all depends on the context: are we discussing living for thousands of years like a vampire, or are we discussing downloading a consciousness into an artificial new body, or are we contemplating a normal human life stretched to its limits? It makes a difference; they are all very distinctive states of being.

Firstly, I envision the life of a vampire, living for hundreds or perhaps thousands of years in the darkest corners of the world. Being a vampire, I could travel like the wind, my fear of monsters gone. I’d become popular; cultivating more companions would be as simple as dispensing several affectionate nibbles. Generous victims would provide more than adequate blood and pocket money, and my mood swings would evaporate under the emotionless state of vampire etiquette. Eventually, though, due to the carnage I leave behind, vampire hunters would pursue me. I envision myself chased into hiding, whereupon the heroic hunters ferret out my lair and expose me to full sun. I evaporate; ash in the wind. Not a damn good deed done in my name. No, the vampire life is not for me.

So, the second option of a very long life might be to transfer my consciousness into a lab-grown body or robotic host. Death would become extinct. Granted, it might be exciting for the first few hundred years to do everything I ever wanted to do because I had no time restrictions, but on the other hand, wouldn’t it all become mundane after a few hundred years? Much of our drive and dedication comes from knowing we have a limited amount of time on this glorious planet. And what about people’s ability to have children? Do you think once the planet is infested with billions of artificial immortals that children would even be allowed? Unlikely. Suddenly, this is not my idea of a utopia, this sounds more like a perversion of humanity.

Lastly, I consider the length of a natural human life. As children, it seems long; as adults, it seems short. Our lives are limited by time. We often set a rapid pace, trying to fit in as many things as we can into our day. The older we are, the more precious and valuable our moments become. Many elderly find themselves unwell in heart, body, or mind, yet others find themselves getting along just fine. Aging is an individual process. My husband’s grandma turned one hundred years old last February, and she went skydiving to celebrate. She is doing it again this year. My aunt, who is elderly, swims most mornings, plays bridge twice a week, reads a couple of books a week, sews lap quilts for a charity, has the best sense of humor, and can still weed a garlic patch with the best of them. So, what are my thoughts on the concept of living a very long life? It depends on the individual’s desire. Who am I to say anything else.

Daily writing prompt
What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?
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Dirty Laundry

/ debbyproulx / 5 Comments

In this brand new year, I am asked, what could I do differently? Well, almost everything if I was so inclined. I could walk on my hands instead of my feet, or I could put my clothes on backward, or I could travel around with the circus and be a bearded woman. But I suppose the true intention behind asking that question is for people to go deep into the muddy pit of self-discovery.

For me, the pit of self-discovery is nothing new. In the past, I spent a great deal of time churning up my dirty laundry to remove my regrets, in hopes of becoming something pristine and squeaky clean. It was countless years of spinning round and round. Until, finally, I realized my stains were set. Resigned, I picked out all my inappropriate belly button lint, threw it away, and set myself out in the sunlight to dry. In the naked light of day, the blotches and splatters, and the threadbare fabric, and fraying edges were on full display. Yet, instead of feeling ashamed of the wearing of the years I felt a sense of peaceful knowing. Regrets are as pointless as planting a tree underwater; nothing thrives in the environment of regret.

So, what could I do differently? I discard the word, could. Instead, I simply do. I do kindness. I do love. I do learn from my mistakes. I honor my blotches and splatters, threadbare fabric, and tears, and I do better.

Daily writing prompt
What could you do differently?
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Getting Noticed

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Let’s just call performing and public speaking exactly what it is: being seen. As a child I did not enjoy being seen. I avoided it at all costs. Sadly, once I reached a certain age, my invisibility cloak didn’t fully cover me anymore—and let me tell you, when people noticed legs running without a body attached, there was an uproar. I clearly failed that day. My desire to melt into the background continued in elementary school. Much to my appreciation, when it came to our yearly Christmas concert, all of our Christmas songs were performed as a group where I could sing as loud as I wanted and not be noticed. Even better, all my acting roles were silent, such as portraying a sleeping sheep, a cow chewing cud, or a nanny changing baby Jesus’s diaper beside the manger. All was perfect in my not being seen world, and then I grew up.

My mom passed away when I was in my mid-thirties. We were close. She was my mom. She baked me cookies and took care of my angelic little rug rats, giving me some time to shave my Sasquatch-style lower legs. After her sudden death, I felt compelled to challenge myself, break free from the wallflower life I had always led, and truly embrace life. I shaved my head to raise money for a boy with cancer, I took up tae kwon do, and I enrolled in singing lessons because the act of singing brought me closer to my mom. Lucky for the brave new me, singing lessons also meant participating in recitals, which included both group acts and solo performances. My singing instructor had talent coming out of her ying-yang (don’t judge me; I don’t know exactly what ying-yang means, but I heard my mom say it a couple of times, and it sounded edgy). Long, story short, I sang loudly in the group performances, and I did not die during my solo song. I didn’t even hyperventilate. However, I may have brought along a baby Jesus and a diaper bag and changed him while I sang. Amen

Daily writing prompt
Have you ever performed on stage or given a speech?
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Good At

/ debbyproulx / 2 Comments
Photo by Susanne Jutzeler, suju-foto on Pexels.com

The writing prompt for the day is to share five things I am good at. Let us begin.

I’m proficient at waffling. There are so many things I excel at I don’t know which ones to choose. The agony is real. Just in case you missed it (because counting might become a thing,) the first thing I am good at is waffling. Or was it sitting on the fence? No, it definitely wasn’t sitting on the fence, as I am currently on the ground.

On most days I find myself handy at dropping things, but then, I’m also adept at picking them up. Now, does that count as two shares? Is there a monitor on this daily prompt exercise, or a telescreen? Have we arrived in the hellish landscape of 1984 yet, or have we averted that disaster? Never mind, I’m rambling; I shall continue.

Throughout most of my life, I am confident to say, I was proficient at both riding horses and falling off. Hmmm, here I go again… Does that count as another two shares? Really, I need to know: Is this being graded? Someone should have laid out the rules a little clearer. Have I failed? This is not a good start to my morning.

Good at eating—at least that’s what my parents said.

And now, I’ve lost count of my shares, so I’ll do another for good measure, I excel as an inaccurate counter. Do not leave your beans in my care; there will be faulty bean counting. (And maybe snacking)

And now, have an amazing day. My list has come to an end, as has my agony. Feel free to respond with your well-thought-out lists too.

Daily writing prompt
Share five things you’re good at.
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Cabbage Rolls and Shortbread Again?

/ debbyproulx / 2 Comments

Let’s face it, during the holiday season we all either wear our fat pants or wear a stretchy waistband; nobody wants to take Uncle Patric’s eye out with a button popping off at eighty miles an hour. In our family, the holiday season required plenty of food and social drinks. We traditionally included cabbage rolls and perishke with dill cream sauce for the big meal; these dishes represented the Ukrainian side of our heritage. We also had shortbreads and fruitcakes for dessert to represent our Scottish and English heritage. My mom, wearing her little apron with her large bottle of wine at her side, had been in charge for years. However, things change, and for many years now I have been the head hash slinger. I prepare all the finicky treats with as much swearing and cursing and moaning and groaning as possible. Recently, I have realized that this is merely an indication more gin and tonic is needed and represents all the alcoholics who fell out of our family tree at Christmas time, or rather into it. Cheers.

Daily writing prompt
Do you or your family make any special dishes for the holidays?
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To The Writers

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writing text, random text, text, paper, notebook, pen. by turtlepod is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

Pursing the craft of writing requires determination and a certain understanding that failure is a step to success. So, when I think of all the writers who struggle, I laugh. It is not a cackle of cold-hearted humour but a laugh of harmonious hysterics. And we must laugh, because it’s far less painful than banging one’s head against a wall. A day without laughter is a day with bandages on our heads.

And so, I commend all writers on their continued dedication to writing. Storytelling isn’t a craft for cowards; it is for people with golden scissors in the pocket of their pants. A tool to cut well-loved sentences, paragraphs, and chapters. In fact, well-written stories are the result of a bloody and thorough scissor slaughter. My novel, for instance, is beginning to feel like Frankenstein— a cobbled together horror of life.

In the end, dear fellow writers, the only way to finish is to keep on writing. Which oddly doesn’t always mean going forward; often times, in a banging your head against a wall situation, you need to go back to the beginning. Ugh. However, don’t give up. Whether it be forward or back, movement is the key to success. 

Be the flowing words; be the vibrational hum; be the silence and the song. 
Warble on and tell your stories of deep longing in a world of shallow breaths. 
Go outside and walk upon the earth; take notice of the trees and the sky. 
Pause to listen to the screams of silent masses, and then come into yourself and gather up your gifts and share. 
Stories are you; they are me; they are everyone we see. 
Endless tales of wonder and laughter and banging our heads against the walls.