They say that no good deed goes unpunished…. I’m not sure I agree but some of the experiences I’ve lived through in the past three years would certainly seem to suggest this. But I was raised to believe that it’s important to help others if you can. In fact, my grandfather used to say that if you COULD help someone, you essentially have a responsibility to do so. For the majority of my life, that lesson has rattled around in my head every time I see someone struggling to carry something heavy, someone who needs help in a more ambulatory sense.
Last Thursday, I was at a retail location in the city and was walking to my car when I saw a small, silver Honda Civic sitting halfway out of a parking space and appeared to be spinning in place. Two guys appeared to be pushing at the front of the car and I thought to myself, Okay, they got this. I’ll just get myself home… Then I heard one of the guys say, “You’re hung up bad, dude. We can’t get you out.” And both guys walked away. What? you push once, car doesn’t move so you walk away from this guy who’s by himself? That dog won’t hunt, monseigneur!
I walked over to find a skinny, young guy trying to shovel himself out with a small shovel and appeared despondent. I offered to push while he gave the car small bursts of acceleration. I instructed him to cut his wheels a particular direction, but there was a significant language barrier and he basically just floored the accelerator and waited while I struggled against the vehicle. Now, I’m not an Olympian by any standard but I’m also not the smallest guy around. And a Honda Civic is a pretty small and light vehicle. That’s why it was hung up; it didn’t have enough weight to touch ground through the snow.
I heaved, pushing and lifting with my legs and giving it all my strength. My back popped and cracked and groaned in protest but the car started moving. trying to make the driver understand to allow the vehicle to rock back and forth to help get it out of its rut, but that wasn’t happening. He had me take the wheel, citing that I’d likely know how better to drive. not sure where THAT came from, but I gave it a try. When that didn’t work, I went back to trying to push.
The big problem is that he was blocking an entire travel lane for the parking lot and people were sliding around, trying to avoid his rear bumper and nearly colliding with other, oncoming vehicles. I felt I couldn’t just leave this guy to deal with all this alone. I also recognized that if it were my wife stuck in this situation, I’d want someone coming to help her if I wasn’t there.
Two other people finally came and helped me push and the driver’s vehicle finally got out. But the damage was done. My back flared and I could already feel a tightness beginning that I knew I would be paying for later. When i got home and explained to my wife what had happened , she quickly gave me some anti-inflammatory caplets. But the pain persisted and worsened as the evening progressed. The worst came when I bent over to hug my toddler and the pain flared like a bright light behind my eyes, to the point where tears started rolling down.
My wife asked if I needed a hospital visit. Not in today’s climate, thank you very much! Besides, I didn’t have four to six hours to wait in a triage room for the staff to send me home with ibuprofen. My back wasn’t broken, I likely just pulled something. It feels alright at the moment but I’ve certainly been taking it easy, the past few days. Winter has just started and this isn’t the time to be out of commission, considering that snow won’t remove itself.
Do I regret helping that person? Would I have reconsidered, had I known I would injure myself? In retrospect, it’s easy to say no but I likely would have altered how I would have given that help in order to prevent injury. But this taught me two things: I’m no longer young as springtime and my body has no compunctions against letting me know. It also shows that strength isn’t everything. Even if one is strong enough to do a thing, it won’t necessarily mean you SHOULD do a thing. But helping another human being is important, and definitely felt good despite the pain. Worth it. Food for thought…☯️
For those who may not be aware, the month of November is known as “Movember,” where men from all over channel their inner 80’s porn star and piss off their respective partners by growing out their moustaches to help raise funds for prostate and testicular cancer, as well as suicide prevention and general men’s health. I’ve participated every year for more years than i can recall, but this year I decided to go in a different direction and established a team among my staff. We’ve all participated and made donations, setting a modest goal of $500 for the month.
My team and I have already managed to raise $290 in donations, but there’s only ten days left to the month! I’ve posted to Facebook and Snapchat as well, and it’s my hope that some of my followers can help by pitching in $5 or $10 dollars to help us cross the finish line. As a general rule, I never use my blog as a platform to solicit for things. But I could really use your help. Times are tough for everyone but every little bit helps. If you can find it within yourself to spare a couple of dollars, you can find my team’s Movember page by visiting the Movember Home Page, clicking on “Donate,” select “give to a person or team and search for me by name (Shawn Cook).
How can you say no to this majestic ‘stache?
I’m a firm believer in asking when you need help. If you can’t donate, no worries. No harm, no foul. Just scroll on by and tomorrow will be a new post with actual content. My word on it. But if you can/do donate, thank you. My grandfather had prostate cancer and several members of my family have had SOME form of cancer. We all know someone who does. Peace. ☯️
It’s been a long, winding road for my basement… It started over a year ago, when our foundation shifted and allowed a bunch of ground water to seep into the open area of our living space. It damaged a bunch of personal property and basically rendered the basement unliveable, which really sucked since I had my workout area AND my home office in our basement. This would have come in handy for the months where my current organization allowed for work-from-home conditions. Your can see the original basement and some of the progress in a previous post entitled Home Is Where The Cost Is. But I digress…
This short video shows the finished (basically) product of our basement renovations. Not only do I have a second, functional bathroom once again but the completed renovations will also allow me to once again have a home office from which I can occasionally work. I’m quite impressed with the work that’s been done and I have to give a shoutout to Grasshopper Construction for all their hard work and skill. ☯
As with all things in life, our motivation can change to reflect our current situation in life. When someone studies the martial arts for decades, their reason to continue doing it can be significantly different from the reason behind why they started. this can apply to a number of things in one’s life, not least of which is blogging. I bring this up because I realized this morning that yesterday happens to be my 1000th post since starting this blog. I could have posted about it yesterday, but since it was Remembrance Day, I felt the attention should go to that. But once again I find myself asking, how did I get here…
I created this blog for a number of reasons. These reasons included the public’s ignorance of my chosen topics, which are Buddhism, Diabetes and the martial arts, with a healthy sprinkling of health & fitness thrown in. I mean the term “ignorance” by its purest definition, that many people simply don’t know a great deal about these topics and a blog provides me with the opportunity to share the information I’ve accumulated over my relatively short (but still feels long) life. It’s not meant as an offence or to slight anyone.
Over a period of time of almost three years, I’ve made connections and touched base with like-minded people through the blogging world, and I’ve learned a great deal as well. My presence here has enabled me to not only increase and maintain my writing and research skills but has allowed me the opportunity to become a follower to many very talented writers who share information in much the same way that I do. It’s been an added benefit of my continued efforts to post material on a daily basis, despite the increasing daily grind of life.
Hitting 1000 posts
I’ve noticed that one of the beautiful things about blogging, other than having a forum to express oneself and share information, is that there are a number of important milestones that the author can enjoy. These include number of followers, number of posts, length of time writing and more. It makes it easy to always find something to motivate one to write. My blogging journey has inspired me to better things and has even encouraged me to start gathering some thoughts of writing a book. Light help the world if someone actually decides to publish something I write.
Either way, it’s been an amazing journey and it’s far from over. My hope is that someday my children will be able to read these posts and gain some insight into their old man from way back when. Thanks to all those who have been reading and following, including my YouTube channel (also called “The Blogging Buddhist”). Y’all keep reading ‘em. I’ll keep writing ‘em. here’s to the next 1,000 posts. ☯️
Remembrance Day always holds a bit of a special place in my heart. It’s a day dedicated to the memory of armed forces members who have died in the line of duty. It’s always been special to me, even during my childhood, by virtue of my grandfather being a veteran of World War II. Given that this is the first year that I am a veteran myself, the day takes a bit of a deeper meaning. I could into detail about the origins of this day, including how it was established by King George V after World War I in 1919. But instead, I really much rather focus on my grandfather…
My grandfather Lionel Poirier, in uniform
My grandfather was old school. He worked all the trades, including carpentry and blacksmithing. He worked for the local paper mill, back home in Dalhousie, New Brunswick. He ironically met my grandmother when he was arranged to marry her sister. Obviously, things didn’t go as planned. They got married shortly before my grandfather shipped out to Europe during World War II. When he returned home, he and my grandmother grew a large family that included seven children, one of which is my mother.
I grew up listening to my grandfather’s stories about the war. He was never shy to provide explicit detail despite my age, claiming that shielding me from the realities of what freedom cost was foolish and that I deserved to know what it took to keep the world free from tyranny. I sat quietly and listened to his stories while he worked the wood he used to build furniture, which he sold. His wooden swings and lawn chairs can still be seen here and there in the North Shore area of New Brunswick. I have no words for the love and admiration I have for that man.
In some ways, a lot of ways, my grandfather was the inspiration for the direction my life has taken. Wanting to help and protect others became an ambition for me, thanks to the stories and the bravery instilled in me by his example. That’s why this day is important. More than just an excuse to wear a poppy or attend a public ceremony, we get to enjoy many of the freedoms we have today, thanks to brave individuals like my grandfather.
Sadly, my grandfather passed away in 2013. But his example and influence lives on in me, as I’m sure it does with the others in our family. To my Canadian readers, takes time to observe this day. Stay away from Christmas decorations and other social focus and remember those who left their families and loved ones behind to go keep the world safe. War is never a good thing. But if and when it happens, we can all sleep a little easier knowing that men like my grandfather fought to end it. ☯️
I was pretty much a stranger to alcohol until much later in life than any of my peers. I had my first beer at the age of 23, when I travelled to Japan. Prior to that, I had never consumed alcohol as some of my family members had faced alcoholism and had medical complications as a result. Being as that I was finally controlling my blood sugars and making some headway into proper health by my early 20’s, the last thing I wanted to do was introduce alcohol into the mix.
Once I had travelled to Japan and Okinawa, where the refusal of something offered is frequently seen as an insult, I allowed myself to enjoy some drinks and came to find that there was nothing to it. In fact, I even got reasonably tipsy on a couple of occasions and never really noticed the negative effect it was having on my blood sugars. Even when I brought up the fact I shouldn’t be drinking beer to the Okinawans due to my Diabetes (which is called toonoogio in Japanese, FYI) they offered me sake instead, claiming it was better for someone with my condition. Alrighty, then…
When I returned to Canada, I slid off the rails a bit. I may have written about this before but to be honest, who remembers? So confident had I become in my newfound enjoyment of beer and alcohol, I started enjoying it liberaly, much to the dismay of anyone in my immediate surroundings. Things came too a head one night at a party where I decided to fight some guy who was hitting on the little sister of the girl I was involved with. The evening pretty much ended there and it was a bit of a wake-up call for me.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t still enjoy the occasional drink when out playing pool or something. But that first incident showed me the potential danger I could be to others and how vulnerable I was leaving myself. Things didn’t TRULY reach a head until some time later, when I was at party in the woods at a small cabin my friends had nicknamed “the camp.” This was a small , homemade log cabin built by one of our friends and his brothers and was the usual site for any social get-togethers. it’s main feature was that it had power and a wood stove, and a small fridge for storing beer and drinks.
I mean, what could go wrong? Cramming a dozen teenagers/20-year olds into a small wooden structure in the woods and let them drink copious amounts of alcohol, right? As one might reasonably expect, there were fights, arguments, uninvited groping and people drinking far more than they should then wandering off into the woods to alleviate themselves of their liquid burden. It was late fall and although there was no snow, there was a frost on the ground and it was cold. The path to access the cabin required a ten-minute walk at sober speeds and led to the house of the guy who had built the cabin.
That’s when it happened…. One of our friends, I’ll call him “Luke,” was sitting on one of the old truck benches we used as a couch and was staring off into space. When I say staring off into space, I don’t mean the kind of idle staring that you get from being bored or thinking deep thoughts about something…. I mean his head was lolled to one side and his gaze was empty and without conscious substance. A couple of us approached him and asked if he was okay. No response. I pinched the loose skin at the side of his neck in an effort to elicit a pain response. Again, no response. Then his gag reflex kicked in and he trickled vomit out of his mouth like a baby spitting up.
This was the final sign to what I feared; Luke had alcohol poisoning. When someone isn’t conscious enough for the vomit to actually fly out and it just comes out at a slow trickle, you know it’s bad! I didn’t know what he had drank or even how much. I only knew that his life was in danger and I was one of only two people among the group who were sober. I was completely sober for two reasons. The first is because I drove to the location and if watching multiple after-school specials during my childhood has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t drink and drive. The second is that I’m extremely paranoid and worry about being in the forest while intoxicated, as you never know what might happen. Who’s laughing now, everyone who’s ever told me to lighten up?
I enlisted the help of my sober counterpart and a couple of the others who weren’t falling all over themselves. Luke was a bit of a hefty fellow, to say the least, and I would never have been able to get him down the walking path and into my vehicle without some help. It took about half an hour to get him through what would have been a 10-minute walk. Time was ticking and I knew that if I didn’t get him to a hospital soon, he could potentially die. We got him loaded into my vehicle, which was a 1983 Toyota Tercel hatchback. There was only room for four people, so I took the sober guy and one other.
It was the fastest I had ever driven in my life, prior to becoming a police officer. I was white-knuckling the steering wheel and since we were on the Quebec side needing to cross over back into New Brunswick, I kept praying I wouldn’t encounter any law enforcement as Luke’s life could literally depend on NOT being delayed. I crossed the bridge to New Brunswick and gunned it to Campbellton, which was where the hospital was located. I made it there in just over half the time it would have taken, under normal circumstances.
When we arrived at the hospital, I took responsibility for Luke by digging out his wallet and finding ID and a health card and contacted his father to attend the hospital. He was wheeled into the main area of the hospital where I couldn’t follow. When his father arrived, I explained what had happened and how we came to be here. He was brought back behind the door I couldn’t access to be with him. At the time, I remembered thinking how rude it was that he didn’t thank me for saving his son’s life. In retrospect, I realize he likely had bigger concerns on his mind…
With nothing left to do and no one who needed me, I left the hospital. I dropped off my passengers and headed home. I didn’t sleep that night as my mind was occupied, wondering what had become of Luke. Had he survived? Was he okay? Was he conscious? I considered calling the hospital to ask then reconsidered since I was not a member of the family and it was likely that no information would be shared with me.
It took a couple of days for my stomach to unclench and it really only happened when I had gotten word at work that Luke would be absent for a few days to recover. We worked at the same place, in case vI hadn’t mentioned that. This meant that he had survived. It wasn’t until a week later that he caught with me at a local magazine store. I remember that I was reading an article on Wing Chun in an issue of Black Belt Magazine when he walked up. He shook my hand and thanked me for saving his life. I rather think the hospital staff saved his life, but I guess it’s a matter of perspective. He asked me how he could ever thank me and all I could think to say was, “Don’t ever put yourself or anyone else in that position ever again and we’re square.”
I moved on to different things and different people after that. The event seriously altered my perspective on the people I surrounded myself with, and the activities that I allowed to happen around me. I became the puritan who opposed the consumption of alcohol and the use of drugs in my presence. This made me an outcast in the groups I had previously associated with. But I didn’t care. I had been scared straight and didn’t want to ever expose myself to that kind of a situation again. Even today, I usually won’t enjoy a drink outside of my home. And when I do, I have my one drink and be on my way. The world is too dangerous a place to allow anything more.
I think about Luke once in a while and wonder what ever became of him. Did he change his habits? Turn his life around? The focus of this post isn’t about my intervening in the situation. It’s about how quickly one’s vices can get out of hand, often with deadly consequences. Most people will be inclined to defend their choices. But it isn’t until you’re in the mud that you realize you’re sinking. And by that point, it can be too late. Moderation is key. I often enjoy a glass of wine of a vodka soda in the comfort of my home. I do so for the relaxing effect, the flavour experience and because I feel safe at home. But i have the distinct pleasure of knowing that I‘ll never find myself in that kind of a situation unless it’s to once again come to someone’s aid. And neither should you. Food for thought…☯️
So, my October 13 celebration/grieving was a bust… My wife warned me that this would happen. Another testament to how one should always listen to one’s spouse. Typically, I would have a home office in which I could write, stream some shows and be alone with my thoughts. This usually allows me to reflect and think back on my past experiences and what has brought me here. This year, since our basement isn’t completed, I had nowhere to go besides our living room. And that seemed to fall short for what I’ve usually done in the past.
Once supper was served, I was able to coax my son Nathan with the promise of holding on to his device if he completed a couple of homework tasks on it first. He agreed I got him squared away in his room with water and snack. Check. The youngest, however… Our evenings are typically on the quieter side since Alexander is usually pretty calm when his older brother Nathan isn’t in the picture. But for some reason, either because there was a full moon I was aware of or some stars aligned against me, or perhaps we can simply go with my usual belief that life doesn’t care about one’s plan, he was a roiling Tasmanian Devil of energy and was destroying everything in sight.
By the time we managed to get him to actually go to bed, I was physically and emotionally exhausted (not from him) and just wanted to go to bed. Which I did. Like an old man. Then I slept for over 11 hours, leaving behind the last instance of celebrating the day I completed basic training and took to the field. I’d like to say it was a restful sleep, but I woke up the next morning feeling as though I had been struck by a freight train. This is a testament to the fact that one can potentially sleep TOO long.
I did get one silver lining on Wednesday, which came in the form of an old troop mate reaching out to me: Randy Tabada. Y’all may remember Tabada, if you read the post I wrote back in February of 2020. If you didn’t, you can read it here. Tabada was a member of my troop during basic training. Our bunks were across the aisle from one another and he was one of the few select people from our troop that I actually spent time with, outside of the training environment. When he came back to Regina in February of 2020 to take some courses at the academy, I had the opportunity to share a meal and fond memories with him.
It was wonderful to get his phone call and reconnect with him. We discussed a number of outstanding issues that we’ve both been facing and we agreed how it was a little sad that out of a troop of 32, neither of us really had contact with anyone besides each other. I recall making an effort to reach out to everybody prior to our 10-year anniversary with the intention of organizing a reunion. I sent out a feeler email to see who would be amenable to getting together. The negative response was almost unanimous, which was a little sad.
At the end of the day, I didn’t get to observe my special day the way I would have chosen. Such is life. Although my intention is to rediscover myself and find out who I am outside of my previous career, I knew there wouldn’t be some climactic revelation or fireworks involved. But given that I’m now a veteran, it would have been nice to reminisce in my own way, one last time. Especially since my intention is to prohibit Fireball (or most other forms of alcohol) from ever entering this house again. I’m a veteran. It feels weird to say. It’s a title I usually always associated with my grandfather, but one that I’ll carry with pride. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to step out into the world and discover who I am. Or rather, who I may become…☯️
In 2009, I closed up shop on life as I knew it. I closed my karate dojo, quit my job and left my friends and family to pursue a life-long dream and come out to Saskatchewan to start a new career. Basic training was tough, but despite several different types of adversity I made it through with flying colours and started the journey I thought would last the rest of my life. Today is the anniversary of the start of that journey. For years, I’ve observed a tradition on this day that involves toasting to my brothers and sisters.
This toast would take the form of one shot of Fireball for every year of service I had accumulated. The first few years were reasonably okay and it was a nice way of recognizing my comrades and celebrating without being able to be with them. After all, we were posted all over the country, so doing anything specific is difficult. But right around the fifth year of celebrating this day as a personal holiday, it started to get a little bit tough. I don’t think I need to explain that having five shots of Fireball whiskey in a row makes for a bit of a rough night.
Despite that fact, every year I’ve stubbornly held out. All the way to ten years, where over the course of a few hours, I would celebrate by taking ten shots. Is anybody else’s liver hurting yet? Needless to say, the following year I needed to find a different means of celebrating. But this year, things are different. In April, I started a new job. For the first time in my life, I have a permanent home. My children were born here in Saskatchewan. My wife is from Saskatchewan. The memories and experiences I’ve gathered during a decade and a half of being out here far outweigh any of the difficulties I’ve faced in recent years.
So I’ve decided that this year is the last time. Time to move forward with life. Memories and experience are simply that and how can one be expected to move forward if one is constantly reminded of what was lost, right? It’s been difficult to ignore that the rough seas I’ve been navigating over the past three years were out of my control, caused by someone else and even without any measurable benefit to the party in question. Some people just like to watch the world burn. But if I don’t let go of my hate and start moving forward, all it will do is contributed to my own suffering, which if you haven’t been paying attention, the elimination of suffering is kind of my jam.
So here’s to my brothers and sisters. I hope you all stay safe out there and continue to fight the good fight. My fight is not over, it’ll simply be in a different arena. Time to find out who I am outside the uniform and pursue new dreams. Time to find some peace. ☯️
Just a quick note to wish a Happy Thanksgiving to all my Canadian readers. Although one should reflect on it often, I hope everyone has something to be thankful for this year, despite the current state of the world. Be safe, be healthy and take the time to be with those you love. ☯️
I’m not one to jump on the bandwagon for anything (unless it’s required by law) as I typically find most fads and “popular” shit are usually overrated. That being said, some things tend to slip through the cracks on occasion and my wife and I sat through all the episodes of Netflix’s Squid Games in the last week. I’m going to provide my thoughts on the series and be warned, there will be significant spoilers herein. Read at your own risk…
I have to say, it contained a number of ups and downs and ultimately didn’t disappoint. To provide a bit of background, the show involves hundreds of people who are in financial strife and facing harsh collectors on their debts, participating as contestants in a contest of children’s games where the losers are killed. The show is based in South Korea but isn’t subtitled. There are only 9 episodes but Netflix shows it as “Season 1,” leading me to believe there may be more episodes in the future.
The series follows the movements of Gi-Hun, a down-on-his-luck Korean man who is heavily in debt and at risk of losing contact with his only child when his ex-wife is threatening to move to the United States with her new husband. Right around the point where Gi-Hun believes there may be no way out, he’s approached by a man on the subway who offers to play a child’s game in exchange for money. When they’ve finished playing, the stranger offers him a business card with a phone number to participate in more games for more money. The show is a bit slow-paced at the start, but once Gi-Hun calls the number and accepts, the real show begins.
Gi-Hun is rendered unconscious and wakes up to find himself in a room with several hundred other people. Masked individuals, armed with weapons come in and explain the rules of a child’s game they must participate in. The first game they play is “red light, green light.” When the people who are still moving after “red light” is called are killed, the horrific reality of the contestants’ situation becomes clear. Over the episodes that follow, the herd is significantly thinned as defeated opponents or losers are shot and killed, with a secretive side business of sending the bodies down to a sun basement to harvest the organs for the black market.
Alliances and partnerships are made, and quasi-friendships are developed. Not least of these include a previous friendship between Gi-Hun and his childhood friend, as well as a connection with an elderly man who appears to be slowly losing his coherence due to a tumour in his head. Emotions run high and heart strings are tugged as the final contestants are all killed, one after another, including the elderly man. The best friend kills himself when the games come down to him and Gi-Hun, crowning Gi-Hun the winner.
Gi-Hun leaves the games, now a wealthy man but burdened with the guilt of all the deaths that were forced upon his soul. this causes Gi-Hun to reject his fortune, which prompts the mastermind behind the games to reach out. It was a bit of a stunner to discover that the old man who had been killed by losing to Gi-Hun turned out to be the one behind the Squid Games. He plays one last cursory game with Gi-Hun, after which he dies in his bed, having succumbed to the tumour in his brain, apparently one of the few actual truths behind the man.
The season ends with Gi-Hun wearing a nice suit and walking through a subway terminal on his way to the airport to see his daughter in the US. He’s stopped short by seeing the same man from the first episode, playing the same game for money and providing a card to a random stranger. Gi-Hun confronts the stranger and takes the card and calls the number, on my to be addressed as “Player 456,” which was his number in the games. He’s told to get on the plane and go, fo this own good. It ends with Gi-Hun turning around and walking back into the airport terminal, which leads me to believe there’ll be another season.
All in all, it was what i would easily describe as a train wreck. Weird and gory, but difficult to peel your eyes away. Once we started watching, we made it through all nine episodes within a week. What’s more is that they’re roughly 1-hour episodes, so they can be a bit long to sit through. But the content keeps you engaged and it has plots and subplots, which makes it more than just a random show about contestants being killed for losing a game. I highly recommend it. ☯️
The Blogging Buddhist 