Scurry

wah

Her utterance is abrupt.

What’s up

There’s a critter

And he looks like he’s dead

I cruise over to the sink, unsure what I’m about to see. I peer over the edge and see my little buddy

My buddy, because I’ve seen him in these parts, many many times. He does the hard work of pest control.

A rusty, faded green, four adept and sinewy limbs, suction cupping their way up and down our walls and the other night, on the ceiling.

He waves at me, sometimes. I mean, not actually waving. But I do think he’s greeting me.

Usually, though, he mostly just sits in wait. Waiting for me to turn off the lights, provide space, get out of his way.

Flies of the drain and fruit variety make their home on our first floor. Not enough to be a nuisance, yet enough to provide a thriving and mostly balanced diet for our gecko bud.

It’s not only bugs that keep him fed.

The temptation of honey nut O’s is too much, and where there’s a will, there’s a way.

I recall the random morning a few months back when I mindlessly reached for the cereal box and tilted it towards my bowl.

Out comes the usual cascade of o’s,

but on this day there’s a surfer, riding the wave

cowabunga dude

he follows the oatstream waterfall, leaping to the edge of the blue ceramic bowl (catches his hind leg briefly) and skitters away, a bolt of green. Freezes on the vertical surface of the island.

If I don’t move, you can’t see me

Toddler vibes.

Quite the presumption.

And while I appreciate his gumption,

I’m quite aware that this box of cereal is no longer fit for consumption.

In the weeks since, we’ve been more diligent about proper containers for food storage.

No follow-up incidents.

But this morning, as I run a bit of water into the sink to cajole my buddy to take a hike,

he doesn’t move.

Oh crap

He might be dead

I peer more closely, and as the water slips in, he briefly moves his leg.

Is he just stuck in there?

I grab a paper towel and gently cover him to lift him out. He wiggles and waggles, I giggle and gaggle, and attempt to secure him without severing him

wander to the open door and place him on the entry tiles just adjacent to the street

you gonna be okay buddy?

I steel myself, ready to watch and wait. Expecting him to sit, sun himself, properly convalesce

when, instead

he looks back at me, winks,

shakes his moneymaker

and scurries into the mist.

Voices Carry

I have been invited 

I tend to say yes, too often.  Envision myself in a job interview, asked the standard question,

what are your biggest weaknesses

For me, among a few things, it’s this underlying urge to be involved. Sticking my nose In it all.

I tend to say yes, and partly because of that,

people tend to keep asking.

So my journey this year has been to adopt the philosophy: if it’s not a hell yes, then it’s a no.

And I think this is a hell yes.

I’m in a room full of Vietnamese colleagues, preparing for our Tet dance routine.

I am comfortable here, but also acutely aware of my position. An outsider invited to the party, out of kindness and generosity. A chance to lean into local customs. Not the first time I’ve done this, and because I say yes, the team keeps asking me to join.

This year, a traditional routine from the northern region based on many many years of dance, song, and pageantry.

As an old-ish guy, my dance moves are limited, but thankfully this routine is right up my alley.

Step step step kick step step step kick.  

Nothing that requires too much talent.

I am grateful for this 

Perhaps the days of making a fool of myself on stage are coming to an end.  And that’s OK.

The room buzzes, mostly with laughter.  The colleagues I find myself performing with are from a range of positions and levels. But performance and dance are common denominators, evening things out.

At the moment, everyone in this room is simply a performer. And that helps me to feel like I belong.

I watch closely, choosing one or two guides, whose feet mirror mine as they match the beat

Step step step kick step step step kick. 

We weave through the routine, five, six times, each time a step better.

I pull off my now sweaty hoodie. 

This is not a workout, but we are definitely moving and pacing, in sync.

And with each progressive turn, the jokes fly, the smiles grow, laughter cascades off the walls

and it is the best hour of my day.

Notice

I’m on my way back from lunch and wander by the ‘newish’ bathrooms when the sign grabs my attention 

It might be the cleverly designed graphic down below, keen outline of a mop, bucket, some cloths adorning

Or it could be just the way the sign itself is worded

Notice 

it says 

Cleaning Supplies 

Affixed neatly, 2/3 of the way up the door, its black-and-white lines contrast with the orange, brightly colored door.

Behind the door, I predict, is a wide array of handy tools, set up for Tet cleaning. Perhaps hung on the wall, maybe laid out to dry.

At this time of year, there’s a lot of prep, high value attached to neatness, tidiness, cleanliness.

All, on these godly days, next to kitchen godliness.

So, I do.

take notice

of the sign, and its location.

But am left wondering 

What is important to notice? 

How often do we stop

And see

Truly, see.

So, I stop myself. And with mischievous grin, gently push the door open. It turns with a creak

And I find 

An empty, albeit meticulously clean, space.

Opinions

If there is one thing true about this group,

they are writers.

And, being writers, like me,

they have opinions.

I’ve just shared a couple of slices with them. One from me and another (after prodding of 8-year-olds) from a friend who’s also slicing this month.

That’s soooo good!

You should write about us!

Yeah! And see what the comments say!

They’re a lovely group of young humans. They push me on the daily, I nudge them. We bob, duck, and weave together, opening our days in song, celebrating one another with heartfelt and genuine kudos. Things are not always smooth, we have moments of struggle, but we persevere, stick together, and grow.

They launch into applause whenever a non-regular walks through the door.

They respond to my daily call:

time to make the room spic and spannnnnn

SPOTLESS!

Whenever I say ‘guess what?’

They respond in kind, with

chicken butt!

A family.

Spats, hiccups, nosebleeds, and all. But at their heart, curious, compassionate, creative young humans who bring joy to my days, just by virtue of being

themselves.

They care for one another, genuinely concerned, empathy and kindness a consistent and intentional choice.

So.

Today, I indulge. Typing onscreen as they take turns, co-creating our shared slice of life.

What do you want to share about our school?

School helps us succeed

We walk towards success

It’s fun because, I have no idea what to say – Y took my idea so I’m brainwashed

We scream every day at recess

There’s so much chaos on the playground

Um…

her head dips into her lap. She’s unsure what to say. She giggles. But her bright smile and brighter eyes say so much.

Now I remember, S drives me crazy!

T continues, drawing Sticks of Fate and calling the names of her peers one at a time, some are unhappy when their lot is drawn.

Noooooo! I don’t want to say anything

I don’t know what to say

She pauses, a broad smile on her face, and scratches her head. Rocking back and forth, she composes her ideas.

Amazing classes.

Amazing glasses?

Amazing CLASSES!

Next name is called.

We have fun everywhere!

School is wild as students yell at recess

Like the zooooooo

When recess comes we have a lot of injuries on the football pitch

We are in school for 7 hours and 30 minutes

I grin at this basic statement of fact, doing my best to avoid judgment as the ideas fly.

I don’t have any ideas. But I smile while I say it.

Me? Why?

Cause T picked you. It was the sticks.

After School Activities are the best

shrug

The lunch is good

Six seven is currently heavy in the rotation (I write).

(classroom erupts into a cascade of 6-7s)

Whoops, that was my fault. Yes, it’s still a thing in younger grades, despite the older students being over it weeks ago. I’ve been over it for months, but still, I chuckle.

When we do sticks, everyone screams

I don’t want to go!

Math is….tiring

The library is awesome

Recess allows me to play with my friends

H drives ME crazy

Everything drives me crazy

Giggles everywhere

I’m not sure if I’ll publish this one. Not sure it fits the slicing vibe.

You HAVE to! We want to see what people say!

I promise nothing, tell them we’ll see. But I thank them for their service, for joining me in a writing moment.

And, now, can’t wait to see what they say when they see the comments.

Layover 

It’s become a sense of normalcy 

The air travel thing

From my perch, I try not to take it for granted 

Five hour layover today, we pass these moments in Taipei.

I initiate the hijinx by doing my goofy walk behind the small cart housing our carry-on bags. I’m not sure if this is one that will balance my weight, so I stand on the back and scoot, testing for balance.

Yeh, that works

The airport is long, wide, and clean. Shops everywhere, people stagnant, people on the move.

There is so much to see

And hear. Full of announcements. Generally Chinese but dotted Japanese, Korean, English here and there.

Three chimes, ascending, indicates that there’s news on gate changes, final boarding, announcements, and passengers who need to hustle

Elephant is well familiar with these halls, echoes, routines. And the airport itself is rich with options to whittle the hours.

We pause at the bookstore, scan the selection for a good English option, and browse the many magazines in different languages.

Since it’s Taipei, noodle soup is, of course, on the menu.

A washroom, roughly every 85m. I’m not sure if this by design is economical, or pencils out, but it’s decadent. Immaculate toilets, heated seats Japanese style, bidet, dryer, and all.

I’ve grown used to the luxury when I do my business.

It’s the little things.

But, of all this airport’s trappings, it’s the cart that gets the most enjoyment.

We try a couple times to scoot along, gripping the ebony handrail of the moving sidewalk. It powers us. And the cart goes astray, wiggling left and right. But that only fuels his enjoyment.

He pushes the cart off the rail and does a gentle spin coming right towards me.

360 baby woooooooo

I crack up

I’m gonna go one more time

He loops back to the start of the moving sidewalk, scootering his way along.

It’s not a crowded airport, there’s plenty of space, and we’re bothering no one.

Just a fun way to pass the time.

Well, maybe not no one

It’s his third time looping back, gaining speed, and spinning off when he almost-but-not-quite bumps a group of three huddled up and planning their next move.

They are unfazed, barely noticing the looping, cascading cart-turned-scooter

but we, suddenly, are no longer unnoticed.

Excuse me

We hear

Excuse me

You need to stop

That is not a toy

And me, being the responsible father, chastise elephant for being irresponsible.

You need to stop, R, come on.

But the chastising is tempered with a gentle test of his hair and a quiet chuckle.

And once we get around the corner, out of sight from this diligent employee, we share a giggle and fist bump.

We are cracking up.

And we know and can appreciate that she’s just doing her job

But as far as her assertion that the cart is not a toy,

we beg to differ.

Natural Selection

I don’t hear the voices, yet.

The men are surrounded.

Deep in the city

deep in the forest,

the forest, which is deep in the city.

The sidewalk has been transformed over the past week. Once a spacious thoroughfare, all city, it has instead become a small forest. Peach blossom trees, rooted in their ornate planters, waiting to be taken home in advance of Tet.

At first glance, the trees appear to be uniform, little to distinguish them.

But it’s in the body language of these two men that I realize each planter, and more importantly, each tree, is unique.

The men scrutinize.

Pausing, chatting quietly, listening, gazing,

intent.

They listen, for the voices

of the ones who came before.

This is the future of their family on the line. Choosing the right tree to take home, the one that will ensure prosperity, growth, and happiness for the coming year.

It is a decision not taken lightly.

And so, as I watch these men, amongst these trees, I am aware of the weight of it all.

I don’t know exactly how they will make their decision, what will tip the scale, and which tree ends up on their doorstep.

I do know that they are carrying their family on their shoulders, the voices of ancestors in their ears.

To my untrained eye, these trees all look the same.

But these men, in their lack of haste and bounty of patience, provoke me to slow down,

look more closely

and listen to the voices that remain.

When a Non-Wink is a Wink

I’m an otter

Lying on my slick back, letting gravity do its work. Sliding here, slipping there, the other members of my pack doing the same.

Do otters travels in packs?

We move, in time, in unison

but our movements are not always expected, and there are larger species about.

SUVs, garbage trucks, and the occasional bus interrupt our fun.

In a hurry tonight, dipping and darting.

Signal lights, once a suggestion, have changed in the past year. They are more tightly controlled, and therefore more tightly adhered to. Where once motorbikes would skirt yellows (and often reds), now they stop and wait.

When a directive goes out, it is heavily enforced. There is an implementation lag, but considerably quicker than in a less conformist country

In Vietnam, the whole moves as one.

They are better citizens than I.

Because, today (and I promise only today), this otter is in a hurry.

I need to get home, an online meeting starting in less than 9 minutes. My slip and slide so rudely interrupted by a signal (as happens from time to time) which persuades me to wait.

My fellow otters slow down, urging without urging me to do the same. We’re all in this together, after all.

Ah, what’s the harm of sneaking through this one time

I accelerate through the turn and the red light, but throw on my signal, an offering to the traffic gods.

I catch up to those who went before, noticing beside me a babe, fast asleep astride a motorbike laden with four. At the handlebars, the older daughter, papa at the wheel, our beautiful snoozing cherub, and mama in the rear. I’m swept into her snoozing, knocked out, oblivious to flow and chaos around her.

My paternal instincts jolt

I remember

dozing child

on my chest.

I am transported, through time and space.

My boys,

out cold

my chest, the safest space for them in the universe

my heart, leaping, looming, loving larger with each breath.

Those are forever moments.

Stamped, remnant.

When I snap back to real time, to see my new friend.

Resplendent in beige and a dapper cap. His police baton gentle but firm, guiding me aside, for a chat and a fine.

And, inevitably, a delay.

I don’t have time for this

I slow my pace, acutely aware of the reality

Uh oh

He’s got me

Without strategery (I lack that facility in the moment), I fix him with a befuddled stare. One that says, on its surface

Have I made a mistake, Officer?

But, underlying this look, is the question we each ask ourselves.

Do I really want to deal with this

Do I even have time for this

Navigating the complexities of cross-cultural communication, on a Sunday evening?

In this economy?

As I slow my pace to within earshot, he answers both of our questions at once, with a nod and (I’d like to imagine) a wink.

Di, di.

Go, go.

I nod in his direction, a grateful smile on my face, and ease back into traffic and up to speed,

letting gravity do its work.

Taps

Tap a person’s thumb with gratitude who inspired you 

Tap a person’s thumb with gratitude who you want to get to know better 

Tap a person’s thumb with gratitude who made you laugh 

I’m lying facedown on the carpet in the large conference room.

There are some 65 bodies arranged in a tight circle. Most with their heads down, eyes closed, and thumbs up. The room is silent, apart from a solo Grade 12 caller, instructing with what comes next.

It’s a massive game of Heads Up Seven Up, but the role of the seven (or more) who are ‘up’ has a bit more at stake.

A closing act of a two-day conference on peace and justice. The room, mostly high schoolers from schools in town, along with a couple groups from abroad.

A recurrent theme of the weekend has been the notion of critical hope. A much-needed counterbalance to ‘hokey hope’, whose dismissive tone signals everything is ‘just going be all right’, blindly optimistic.

Critical hope, on the other hand, exists through understanding and unpacking systems of oppression, how they interfere with justice, and what tools might be employed to dismantle.

It is real, substantial,

empowered.

Tap a person’s thumb with gratitude who is brave 

Tap a person’s thumb with gratitude who made you feel safe 

With my thumb first extended, forehead nestling into my forearm, and stomach to the floor, first worries invade my brain and consume me

what if nobody taps my thumb

Imposter syndrome is real.

After a few minutes, however, I am literally, then metaphorically touched, moved by the number of people who recognize, who help me to feel seen.

Did I really do that?

Yeah, I guess maybe I did.

So, safety.

First.

And now that I have this feeling, my thoughts shift to others.

What if someone doesn’t get tapped at all?

That would feel so lonely

Tap a person’s thumb with gratitude who pushed you to think differently 

After a few cycles and different tappers, I realize that I haven’t had a turn to be the person with eyes open, circulating the room, looking for folks to recognize

But then, I get one.

If you haven’t had a chance to be one of the tappers, please open your eyes, stand up, and follow the prompts

Tap a person’s thumb with gratitude who introduced you to a new concept

I shake my head and blink my eyes awake. There are a lot of us left, we make eye contact and smile at each other as we silently weave the circle, tapping here and there, seeing those who, for the moment, do not see us.

Tap a person’s thumb with gratitude who made you smile

And any doubts about whether everyone will feel seen, included, or loved, disappear.

Tap a person’s thumb with gratitude who made you feel hopeful about the future

As I wander here and there, circumventing, I hold up. Step back. Marvel at the young humans in this room, seeing one another, sharing joy, and spreading love

I feel a sense of hope that, in these challenging times, escapes me more often than it should.

Then,

I remember

The world is not the news, and the news is not the world.

And there are way, way more of us, than them.

Papa 0 Bratling 3

Mama

Papa 

I’m ready

His voice carries down the stairs. Still high-pitched, not yet cracking, for now

Puberty is coming.

I’ve spent the last couple nights strategizing

Where is he going to be 

He’s been keeping me sharp, toughening me up, honing my senses, pushing me to the next level of detection.  

And he’s been winning these battles

of stealth, of misdirection, of deception.

I’m not sure where this started, actually. Maybe a few months back?

He’s got a couple larger pillows and stuffed friends in bed still. Not quite letting go of those childhood buds. They make great lumps, that almost look like him.

I think one evening I mistook the lumps and crawled into bed to snuggle. He walked in and was surprised to see me, already there.

The glint in his eye was telling. And a new game had begun.

These days, his work is to find a separate hiding spot after creating a perfectly elephant sized lump in the bed. Sometimes its behind the curtain, others, inside an impossibly small wardrobe. He mixes it up, and he always wins.

Tonight though, after a bit of research and detectiving, I’m onto his way.

I tiptoe my way up the darkened stairwell, slowly. Maintain the element of surprise.

I poke my head into the living room, expecting to see him hiding behind the door, waiting for me to pass so he can ambush. 

Nothing

I sneak into the extra bedroom, which was up until this year his brother’s. I think about turning on the light

nah, that’s cheating

Instead, I ease my head around the corner. There’s just enough illumination in the room for me to see the lump underneath the blanket.

And I can practically see his thinking

no WAY he thinks of looking in here

Chuckling to myself, I pause at the foot of the bed. 

The jig is very much up.

And so is the blanket.

With all the flare and stage presence of a practiced magician, I yank the sheets off the bed

Ha HAAAAAA!

NOOOOOOOOOOO

He is flustered and amused, all at once.

I can’t believe you found me!

I dance into the hallway and head up the stairs with a

WOOOOOOOOO

PAPA WINS

He slowly crawls out of his brother’s bed and grumbles his way up behind me, lamenting how I could have possibly foiled his nefarious scheme.

But chuckling as he does so.

He crawls into own bed, adjusts the intricately crafted pillow dummy, and snickers to himself.

We both know this was a good one.

Respect, all round, on a hard-fought but well-earned win for the Old Guy.

I snuggle in beside him

and he melts into my chest

I can smell his hair 

hear his heart 

as mine beats, in time with his 

I love you, buddy

I love you too, papa

And, as he settles in, I can hear the wheels turning

while he crafts tomorrow’s plan.

  • Another 31 days of writing in the books, 2025 edition. Thanks everyone for swinging by to read, so appreciate your presence and responses. This has once again been a gift to my future self. Not sure if I’ll write again next year but I couldn’t have gotten to this point without your encouragement and support, grateful for you all. – DR