C Paul Stride

Dad, husband, theatre, musician, aviation enthusiast, cyclist, actor. 🇨🇦

[C Paul Stride @StridePaul]

@GrayMarker99 1975-77 grades 4-5 👀. I’ve been back but it’s been many years. Got to see the place again.

[C Paul Stride @StridePaul]

@MikeJMele I feel this. Thank you

[MJM @MikeJMele]

Having the “life” knocked out of you as a result of depression is absolutely excruciating and something no one should ever have to endure.

[C Paul Stride @StridePaul]

@HunterBiden @AntiTrumpCanada Come on up Hunter. The waters fine!!

[C Paul Stride @StridePaul]

@niyetsel .

[Rogue WH Snr Advisor @roguesnradvisor]

Listen if you don’t think the Epstein story is the biggest and most important story in US history then you need to collect your thoughts & dive in. We are talking about a collective ratfucking of not just us but the world - for decades. Everything we thought we knew - upside down

[james hong @jhong]

1) The day I first got a modem.

2) The day I first saw a web browser.

3) The day I first saw Chatgpt.

4) Today.

[C Paul Stride @StridePaul]

@mynlcorner @The_RareBird So true Kristi. Meds have only helped to a degree in 20 years…now it’s worse, much worse. A recommended treatment cost 5-8K. I’m in solidarity with you. 🙏🏻

[C Paul Stride @StridePaul]

@mikep_lbi Beautiful and profound…🙏🏻

[Mike Parsons @mikep_lbi]

It is a strange and quiet thing, to lose a father.

The world, once so solid and predictable in its orbit around his presence, feels suddenly unmoored. For a month now, I have been navigating this new, unfamiliar geography of absence. The landmarks of daily life are different. The silence where his voice should be is a profound and aching space.

And into that silence, my mind returns, again and again, to a single, perfect image: a flash of crimson against the grey-rock and green-willow backdrop of Little Bay Islands. It is my father, his hand outstretched, and perched upon it, eating with a quiet trust, is a male pine grosbeak, its feathers a tapestry of rose-red and grey, like snow-tipped hills at sunset.

This was his ritual, his anchor after the long winter away. His return to the island was not complete until he had filled the feeder that hung in Mom’s willow tree. It was a sacrament of seed and expectation. He would wait, not with impatience, but with a deep and settled certainty that they would come. And they always did. It was as if the birds themselves had a calendar, marking the day he arrived, and they would come to welcome him home.

But they did more than just come to the feeder. They came to him. They would alight on his rough, working hands, those hands that could mend a net or steer his boat, The Final Dream, through a choppy cove. They would find a perch on his shoulder as he puttered around the yard. They were a splash of brilliant colour against his worn plaid jacket, a quiet companion as he went about his simple tasks. Sometimes, they would even follow the sound of his footsteps down to the wharf, landing on the gunwale of his boat, as if to say they were ready for an adventure, too.

What was it about him that inspired such fearlessness? It was more than just the offering of food. It was a connection, a quiet understanding that passed between man and wild thing. It was a gentleness in his spirit that the birds recognized. In a world so often loud and harsh, he offered a haven of stillness and trust. In that simple act, a hand held steady, a presence offered without demand, there was a complete and perfect communication.

I think now of what truly makes a life. We chase so many things: success, possessions, milestones. We complicate our days with worry and ambition. But my father, in those moments with the grosbeaks, had found something purer. His happiness was not a complex equation. It was found in the weight of a bird on his hand, in the tilt of its head, in the soft whirr of its wings. It was the profound joy of being present, and being trusted.

The name of his boat now seems weighted with a new, deeper meaning. The Final Dream. I see him now, not on a journey across water, but on a journey of the spirit. It was a journey guided by a profound appreciation for the simple, beautiful things. His dream was not for grandeur; it was for connection. It was for the quiet magic of a wild creature choosing, for a moment, to share its world with him.

The grief of losing him is real. It is the price of love, and I would pay it a thousand times over for the memories I hold. But grief is not the only thing that remains. What also remains is that image, burned into my heart: the red bird, the steady hand, the look of quiet joy on my father’s face.

That memory is not a thing of the past. It is a timeless truth he left for me. It is an instruction on how to live. In the midst of my sadness, he is teaching me still. He is reminding me to look for the grosbeaks in my own life, those simple, profound moments of beauty and connection that are so easy to overlook in the rush of living. To be still. To be patient. To offer a hand, not to take, but to give, and to be open to the miraculous trust that may alight upon it.

The birds will return to Little Bay Islands in the spring. The willow tree will shake out its green hair, and the feeder will likely hang empty for a time. But I know, in my heart, that the grosbeaks will still come. They will call from the spruce tops, their songs the same as they ever were. And in that familiar melody, I will hear my father. I will see him, not as a memory fading, but as a man who understood the secret currency of life. He knew that the smallest moments, the simplest gestures of kindness and attention, are the ones that echo into eternity.

His hand is empty now. But mine? Mine is held out, learning to be steady. Learning to cherish what he cherished. And in that, I feel his presence, not as a loss, but as a lasting, loving gift.

[C Paul Stride @StridePaul]

@mikep_lbi That is an amazing tribute. It was moving thinking of my own parents. Thank you!

[C Paul Stride @StridePaul]

@MaOnTheAir I understand this pain…..

[derek guy @dieworkwear]

Feel very sad about Mikayla Raines. She dedicated her life to helping animals and deserved much better in return.

[Chef José Andrés 🕊️🥘🍳 @chefjoseandres]

Hard to believe today is the 5th #BourdainDay a holiday @ericripert & I made for our friend Tony’s birthday, who would have been 67 today. Tony was a poet..he understood the moment & transformed the moment into a phrase that we’ll forever remember. I’m blessed to have known him❤️

[C Paul Stride @StridePaul]

@LakotaMan1 What an honour it would be.

[C Paul Stride @StridePaul]

@KatyKatt77 The more I learn, the less I understand….

[C Paul Stride @StridePaul]

@KatyKatt77 Very cathartic. Thanks!

[C Paul Stride @StridePaul]

@Jiminhno @AskaPol_UAPs @DoD_AARO

[C Paul Stride @StridePaul]

@TrueFactsStated You’ve been doing amazing and difficult work Claude. This Canadian appreciates it, especially now. Paris is wonderful….these are the moments that make life great. Breathe and enjoy. 👊🏻