There’s something deliciously ironic about lighting up a fat joint while the calendar reads “Indigenous Peoples’ Day.” You’re sitting on your couch, or maybe sprawled on a park bench, thinking about the history books, the colonizers, the unsung resilience of Native communities… and then—whoosh—the smoke curls up in lazy spirals, and suddenly all that heavy stuff floats off for a second.
I rolled a jay this morning while sipping cold brew, thinking, “This is going to be a reflective doobie.” And it was. But not in the way you’d expect. There was a kind of electric appreciation—life is messy, history is messy, and being alive in this moment, inhaling some good smoke, is pure joy.
I thought about the land, the people who’ve always known how to live on it, how to honor it, how to survive it. And I realized: smoking weed on a day like today isn’t about escaping history—it’s about paying attention differently. Seeing the world through slightly dilated pupils, noticing the trees, the sidewalks, the way a rain drop explodes when it hits a brick walls. Listening to the stories you never learned in school, but imagining them anyway.
And yeah, there’s humor in it too… Somehow the rolling papers disappeared while I was holding them. The dog barked at the ashtray when my coffee cup bumped it. Somewhere in all that, I laughed harder than I have in a week. Weed has a way of unwrapping the heavy packages, making room for both reverence and ridiculousness to coexist.
So here’s my Dabbin-Dad takeaway: smoke, reflect, maybe cry a little, laugh a lot, and remember whose land we’re standing on. Indigenous Peoples’ Day is heavy. Weed makes it lighter—without forgetting the weight.
Light one, think a little, feel a lot. And always keep it weird,
