Now well into May, April remains a hangover with the dread of inaction and poor choices resonating into this month. This New Moon is required; a new phase is drastically needed on my piece of the planet.

A New Moon allows us to step forward to another phase, a new day launching into another week of a month that really hasn’t started yet. April’s chill remains, as does old intentions now tainted, even rancid, with feelings of disappointment and non-accomplishment.

I didn’t increase my daily steps last month. Yes, I well surpassed the requisite 10,719 daily steps on average, but my mileage has not increased much from January on.

I did not complete the two books I started reading in April with strong intentions of finishing each well before the 30-day self-imposed deadline.

I did not write daily in my journal, nor did I make the planned progress on editing my manuscript. Even my poetry was nowhere near as prolific as it ought to be, especially during poetry month, so it was a disappointment to me.

I also didn’t make any progress on my oil painting. I bought a huge canvass a little over a month ago, just before we went into another COVID-19 lockdown. I had big plans of using my extra time to re-familiarize myself with the medium. The canvas remains pure and white, still wrapped in its protective plastic like a barrier between creativity and me.

In short, I did not meet my expectations. In fact, I feel I have even fallen short of my intentions. Why didn’t I do what I needed to do, or at least planned on doing?

It’s all too easy to blame it on this virus, or the weather; or the Moon.

Was the time not right, or was it simply me unwilling or unworthy of the self-care I feel I need? I tried, in some small measure, to push forward, but remained stuck in the month instead of moving with it. April is supposed to be about change (as is March and February before that).

It may happen soon. I still have goals, yes, but it seems more difficult with my April intentions still on the list. Perhaps I need the New Moon and the promise of the light ahead to see what I actually accomplished.

I should be proud of the fact, year over year, I actually doubled the number of steps I took in April 2020. It was then, just as COVID-19 was settling around us, that I decided each day should begin with a wander around the city I now call home. The simple goal of 10,000 steps a day quickly fell by the wayside.

Shouldn’t I be pleased that one year later I am still up early and stepping forward?

I should remember how much I enjoyed discovering where I now live and how I became more familiar with streets and sights. I should remember that having the art gallery as a destination, when it was open, kept me moving on some days.

I should remind myself that each of the books I am still reading continues to provoke new ideas and thoughts on a constant theme. I should remind myself that surely there is more inspiration in the pages ahead, and there are more books to read beyond that. I should remind myself that not being able to visit a library or bookstore has allowed me to take a closer look at the books I already have on my shelf.

I should question my priorities. Is it the number of books you read that counts, or is it the enjoyment and information you receive from each book? What counts? What matters?

I need to remind myself that last month I read more poetry than I usually do, and should not be displeased with the poetry I wrote during April’s poetry month. I felt I had to push myself a little harder, but still wrote every damn day. As a poet, I should remember that I don’t need to give myself permission to write from my current perspective.

In hindsight, my poetry – last month or otherwise – is a reflection of where I am.
Can you get any more honest than that? Honesty is the best poetry.

So, I should not be disappointed, but rather accept what came out of me. I should remind myself that expectations and goals are two separate and distinct things.

And I need to remind myself that the Moon exposes herself to us a little more each day, just as I do in my journal. We all go through phases.

For many of us, Mothers exist
only in memory.
We had our time, but never enough.
Unconditional love, never
realized or respected.
Even then, as we grew older,
even, then, as did they too,
we remained
a child in their eyes,
in their heart,
in their thoughts.
They wanted only the best for us,
and gave all they had.
So much to learn,
patience and understanding
taught by example.
Wisdom in hindsight.
The words, the voice, the comfort
comes in small doses
when you need it most.

Maybe a certain day with flowers
and cards to celebrate
is not enough. How could it be?
Isn’t it every day, not just
the once-in-a-while,
when the love shows through?
Let peace be, ceremoniously.
Cherish the moments,
so much to yearn.
They only wanted the best for us
and would sacrifice
their comfort for ours.
For many of us
only scattered memories,
with moments for some
still to come.
Either way
there is always time
to whisper
I love you Mom.

© 2017 j.g. lewis

© 2017 j.g. lewis

I took time yesterday, during my morning walk, to stop in the park and sketch the tulips.
With this latent spring, I’ve been waiting for weeks — perhaps all winter — for some colour after these devastatingly long months.

One of my lifetime joys (and we should all keep a list) is seeing tulips in the spring.
It’s not simply a sign that I have survived anther winter; tulips are my favorite flower.
Tulips remind me of my Mom. She loved springtime.

With the cooler temperatures of late, despite a decent offering of rain, the tulips have not been abundant in the park this year. Yes, there have been a few brave souls who have managed to push through the dirt, but it’s not the same as it has been in this particular park. I’ve been checking daily, on my walks, waiting for a chance to spend some time with my camera.

The longer I waited, the more disappointed I became. While even the leaves are greening on the magnificent trees, that thick crowd of tulips has yet to appear.

Yesterday, I decided I had waited long enough. I questioned myself. Why was I waiting for something specific to appear (perhaps to match an image in my mind) when I could simply capture what was there?

I was letting expectation get in the way of my intentions.

Walking through the park, I settled on a bench with my morning coffee (easily the best kind of coffee) and found a couple of red tulips emerging from the greenery; too few to call them a cluster, but just enough to inspire some creativity.

My camera wasn’t with me, so I chose instead to make use of the small sketchbook in my packsack, and I’m never without a pencil. I sat and sketched.

I overlooked the boastful daffodils — which have managed for a while to show off their brilliant yellow (though less than usual) — but I did not ignore their persistence, punctuality and commitment to schedule. Daffodils, in a few shades, appear with consistency, as they always have, and then give way to stronger, hardier flowers. Quietly, they go about their work.

Not like tulips.

Tulips put on a dramatic show, in any stage, as they evolve from straight stems with tight bulbs of slight colour. They offer style and texture as they begin to blossom, elegantly twisting and turning in their own characteristic ways, first reaching up, then stretching out with wild abandon, following the sunlight or lack thereof.

As tulips open up, they share the colour of their inner secrets, offer a smile over a period of about a week before bowing and slowly shedding their petals.

Tulips, through their entire life-cycle, put forth uncommon beauty and dignity. They give their lives to offer us brightness, a sense of hope and possibility. They perish, leaving us waiting for the next year. Next spring.

Tulips leave us something to remember.

I took 10 or 20 minutes yesterday (I actually lost track of time) following the muse of the moment. Without my camera I could not record the perfection of the flowers, but instead captured the essence of what they reveal (to me anyway).

I produced a series of small sketches, a continuation of a practice I adopted last August that I call ‘mindful, non-judgmental art’. Usually I set myself up with some watercolour paints and create a series of small masterpieces of one subject or another. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Yesterday I had no paints and brushes, as I had no camera, but I still managed to create. You do what you do with what you have. I wasn’t worried about the results, or the process, but simply the feeling of the flow.

Sometimes you have to stop and sketch the flowers. I recommend it to anyone. Take a little time out of your day to capture the life that is there.

Yes, especially these days, it seems more difficult as the workplace and home-life have folded into one. Finding that spare half-hour for a mid-day walk, let alone 10 minutes to randomly sketch, is difficult. You’ve got back-to-back ZOOM meetings through the afternoon, and have been struggling to complete that multi-page terms of reference document for, what, a week? Nine days?

What’s another 20 minutes?

Take that time. For. Your. Self. Grab a notebook and pencil and head to a nearby park. Sit on the steps in your own backyard. Sketch out the flowers that are there, or the trees, or that brick wall you pass by or stare at every day. Sketch. Something.

Take the time to mindfully create.

It will do you good.

It might even help clear your mind enough to complete that ugly terms of reference document. You’ll breathe easier knowing you took a little time to specifically do what you wanted to do. Mindfully.

© 2021 j.g. lewis

A determined will to communicate or
gather thoughts of which to be reminded,
a pencil knows the way (or what to do)
with incessant demands made of you:
– appointments to be scheduled in
– excuses justified, however thin
– grocery lists (don’t forget the milk)
– rough sketch of the shed to be rebuilt
– Scrabble, golf (or musical) scores
– an admission to one you once adored
– notice of resignation to that nasty boss
– a note of condolence for a heartfelt loss
– overdue letter to a faraway friend
– this list itself will never end
Should you lack purpose, a humble pencil
provides gentle wisdom, abstract or direct
knowledge in all matters such.
Careful printing of complex instructions
or dashing off jumbled plans, a pencil
knows which direction to flow. Trust
in your hand; allow innermost thoughts
to follow its shady path.
Handwritten words forsaking time;
if ever you cannot find your pencil
I’ll gladly share one of mine.

© 2021 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

April 29th is Poem in Your Pocket Day, a day
to celebrate poetry by selecting a poem, carrying
it in your pocket, and sharing it with friends and
strangers.
Share a poem wherever the day takes you.
Even in these continued days of physical distance,
loss of connection and self-isolation, you can still
share poetry and a smile.
Sharing is caring.

© 2021 j.g. lewis