How do we choose to travel?
What is reliable in the rain?
What is our ultimate destination,
for this time, this journey, or
this day?
We move at the speed of life.
Depending on traffic, others
may chose to follow your path,
but not your direction.
© 2021 j.g. lewis
A little cold, little wet,
a little tired and yet
I am here. Still,
full of wonder.
The morning chill leaves
little to the imagination
and much less
to hope for.
Expected, perhaps, as it
always is, this time, this
season is only what
we ask of it.
11/21/2024 j.g.l.
The answers are far less certain
than even last week, to all those
perennial questions or solutions
you might seek.
What do you believe, or
what do you believe in?
Come Monday, you have fewer
questions than you had last week.
For a while there are less doubts
in what you believe.
Whom do you believe in,
and who believes in you?
11/18/2024 j.g.l.
Consider each moment
leading up to now.
Cause and effect
affects where you are,
whom you have been, and all
you are now.
Any possibility sustains every reality.
To doubt is to question;
to ask is to reply.
11/22/2024 j.g.l.
As of late, for reasons as varied as they are non-existent, I have not been writing in the manner of which I have come to expect of myself. I am neither as prolific nor as detailed as, I feel, I usually am.
My poetry, while still insightful, does not command the length or breadth I feel I am capable of. Revisions to a manuscript I have toiled away on for some time have become painful (perhaps a sign that the work is closer to completion than I care to acknowledge), and my mind wanders to another project that requires the same diligence.
My daily writing is less than it once was (I feel guilty about that), and even the scant sentences I jot down in my journal seem to only document my time here on earth. Nothing extravagant, nothing more than a slight glimpse of where I am. Nothing that memorable, sadly.
I’ve been feeling for months that I am ready to embark on another kind of writing but have yet to determine exactly what that might be. I am full or ideas, characters, dialogue and circumstance, but it doesn’t quite feel like it has the backbone it needs to pull me in a certain direction. I even, a few weeks back, bought a fresh new notebook to keep these thoughts separate from all the others. The notes I have included in this book are random, undeveloped, at times personal, and (as of yet) make little sense. I reread these notes, almost daily, and I am inspired enough to clarify or expand on certain streams of thought, but it needs a more definite direction.
Perhaps I do as well?
11/17/2024 j.g.l.
I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
The Japanese technique of kintsugi involves filling cracks and chips in broken porcelain or pottery with gold, leaving the obvious in a more useable state.
In the process of reparation, the once-broken object is transformed and becomes, again, useful.
The philosophy of the art itself is so applicable to the art of everyday living.
We are all broken, in places, the scuffs and cracks in our being becoming obvious more times than others. Some cracks are deep — running straight through to our foundation — while others are more superficial: lines on our face or breaks in the skin that need to be tended to.
Aren’t we all, on any dimension, in need of repair?
It is how we fill our cracks that make us whole.
The pursuit of a passion or personally fulfilling activity, time spent with loved ones, sole (or soul) meditation, the search or study of literature or prayer, are purposeful methods of filling the gaps.
These moments are golden.
We can become whole again by filling the spaces in our lives, however deep. In doing so, we become stronger.
As Leonard Cohen famously wrote: “There is a crack in everything, that is how the light gets in.”
Cracks have a purpose (kitsugi highlights this) but we need to be aware of the breaks in our patterns; in our time; in our lives.
The cracks remind us what needs to be tended to.
We incorporate our wounds into our presence.
It is the whole of our object, flaws and all, that provide the individuality of our personal beauty.
© 2023 j.g. lewis
Does it feel this way for everyone?
This darkness, this temptation, to look away,
to step away, from a silent fire.
I have been burned.
I am vulnerable.
I am afraid of speaking out.
I hold these heavy thoughts back from others (don’t they have their own concerns).
What do I keep away from myself?
Does it matter?
Couldn’t I simply amuse myself
with lighter thoughts, or gentle distractions – wouldn’t golf become
a more useful game – where the object, intent, and goal is so simple?
Who am I to think my purpose or intention is more important, or
I am simply missing the point?
I am hurting.
Am I ignoring the hurt?
My eyelids are heavy;
is it from seeing too much, or is it from trying
to keep them shut?
© 2018 j.g. lewis
Monday night I went out with my camera to capture the Moon in all of its glory, but returned home without the shot I was hoping for.
I have been disappointed before.
Sometimes it’s the clouds, location, forgetfulness, obligations elsewhere, or even man-made obstructions, but the other night I was left with the feeling I had been denied what should come naturally.
We can’t always appreciate a night under a Full Moon, but when you know it is there you should still permit yourself time for reflection (if not meditation).
Our awareness shifts when we are allowed some clarity. Emotionally, the intensity of everything becomes abundantly clear and we persist in seeking the stability we desire.
The answers are not always there when the inspiration is obscured.
Even so, evermore, we continue to consider the totality of its affect as we keep looking up.
© 2023 j.g. lewis
Our identity is as much who we are, as who we want to be.
Who we are; it’s complicated (I know I am) and every once in a while we need to remind ourselves of what makes us unique, interesting, desirable, and worthy.
I am so many things; defined as much by what I do as what happens to be.
I am, above all else, a father. The aspects of that role alone change, and will continue to change, as time passes. The importance is not lost on me, nor is it expected.
I am a brother. I am an orphan of sorts. I am a friend. I am a lover. I am an individual, but I am part of something quite magnificent.
I am not alone.
I don’t subscribe to a particular religion, but I do have faith. I won’t simply cop out and say I am spiritual; I was raised Christian and I do not know enough about the alternatives, so, right now, it is what I know.
I am open to change.
I am Canadian. I was born here; it is what I have always known.
I am curious. I am kind. I am present.
I am aware.
I am a poet and I am a writer. I choose to differentiate because the roles are not interchangeable, and I will flip back and forth depending on the mood or the muse. Words do not limit me.
I am who I am, more than what I am.
I am a historian in as much as I’ve learned the lessons of the past will, often, temper decisions I make about the future. I am here, and I will not go back there.
I am flawed, at times fucked up, yet I see my shortcomings as opportunities to heal, to change, and to be more understanding of those who, like me, can easily be led astray (curiosity does have consequences).
I am a sinner, and not purposely so. Perhaps “survivor” would be more apt. I have done what I needed to do.
I am grateful, and I am ashamed.
I am myself.
I am a man, but more so; I am human.
I am a possibility.
I am many things. More importantly, I could be more.
© 2019 j.g. lewis
Assign a weight to each issue you face, every problem you encounter and objectionable instance you endure in your day-to-day existence.
What is the unit of measurement you will choose for the negative vibes, uncaring attitudes, or ignorant comments you experience from others?
Size and substance are not immeasurable.
Mass and significance vary by classification, but practicality dictates the terms you use to identify volume: a mouthful of vitriol, handful of hatred, several ounces of misfortune, a gram or two of naïveté, dash of criticism, dollop of guilt, or pound of misdirected anger.
How many bags will you fill with harsh emotions, unsettled grievances, and undeserved opinions?
It is our nature to compartmentalize.
Where does it fit?
What is the weight on your shoulders?
Realize, before you step further into the day, that this is not yours to carry.
© 2023 j.g. lewis
I’m like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
