I took my time on Sunday, riding my bike to a particular place.

I didn’t have to be there at a particular time, but I first felt I was rushing after taking much of the morning meandering through the first draft of a manuscript I’ve been working on, and then had set aside.

At the beginning of last week – in an effort to meet a self-imposed deadline that would allow me to finalize another nearly-completed project – I found myself rushing through the story. It was only a first draft, and in a few weeks I knew I’d soon become consumed in the process, the plot, and the fictional lives I had created years before.

This time was supposed to be an initial quick read-through to familiarize myself with the work after it had sat long enough to become excitingly unfamiliar. Sunday I took my time. In fact, I decided that morning I would allow myself one more day with the work. A self-imposed deadline can selfishly be extended.

I wanted more time.

I changed up my pace partway through the bike ride on Sunday. I saw the hand-painted lettering on the bike path that served as a warning, or a reminder. Slow.

I had been rushing. It was the final day of summer, the weather was absolutely gorgeous, and I had been speeding through it. I don’t often, intentionally, ride my bike slowly. Cycling has always been one of those things I thought required speed. I’ve been like that since I was a kid, always pedaling hard, then, as a teenager when I would race or train.

I always believed a bike’s gears were meant for speed. The more gears you have, the greater the speed, or potential for speed.

Sunday I geared down and casually cruised the bike path across town. I’ve always enjoyed the feeling of speed on a bicycle. Sunday, I wasn’t even thinking of it. While still mindful of where I was going, I began looking around; enjoying the sights, and paying attention to buildings and features I normally would ride by.

I was trying not to rush. I do that too much. I rush. I think we, as a society, all do. We try too hard, to do too much, too quickly.

We even multi-task to try and do more than is required, or expected. We program ourselves, and our kids, to be at certain places, at certain times, on certain days. In the process we all try to squeeze in a little enjoyment or relaxation. Then we find out what we are squeezing in is neither enjoyable nor relaxing.

I haven’t been to yoga in a while. At one point in my life, and it wasn’t that long ago, yoga became that point in the day (many, many days in a row) where I could slow right down, breathe, and find stillness.

Yoga allowed me silence, or time to silence the mind. It taught me to slow down. It became the 90 minutes of the day where I could, essentially, check out of everything that was happening on the outside, and allow me to get inside myself. Yoga was a needed break, daily, more than regularly.

I made a point of slowing down. Then life began to speed up.

I moved to a new city five years back, a busier city where the pace is hectic, and there is more time required with a commute, and getting from there to here, and just keeping up with the busyness.

In fits and starts, I tried to incorporate yoga back into my new lifestyle in a new city. It became harder to fit in a class, or find a class (or get to class), with the distance, and all that traffic and all that rushing. And all those excuses.

At a time when I really could have used the slowness of a yoga class, I became caught up in the rush. No go equals no slow.

A few summers back I made a conscious effort to spend more time on my bike. My cycling is not with the regularity of yoga, nor is it as beneficial to the mind or muscle, but it does allow a genuine connection the road we are all on.

I’d like to get off the fast lane.

The weather is expected to remain unseasonably warm for the next while. It is my intention to ride the bike until common sense tells me it is too cold, or too icy.
I intend to ride a little longer, a little further, and a little slower.

© 2019 j.g. lewis

What are we: seven, eight days into a federal election in Canada? I’ve lost count.

Already I’m sick and tired of the dubious and deceitful nature of party politics and the inglorious leaders marching their sheep into battle.

You see, in Canada at least, elections are no longer about the candidate, but the cause. Voters have only one vote, and the person elected is only now recognized as a digit in the grand total that will put one person (one party) into power.

There were, perhaps, days — and it may well have been long before I could vote — when you could count on the local candidate to support and defend the constituency they were elected to represent. In those days, perhaps, honest people did honest work. Honestly.

Now, I realize this may sound like an old man ranting about how things were in the old days, but I suppose I’ve accepted that I am older now, and I’ve grown tired of the same old song.

Federal elections and — to a (marginally) lesser extent — provincial elections, have become routine. It’s the same old thing, over and over again; from the structured spin a party delivers in over-hyped platforms, to the manner in which the media will cover a campaign race.

It is a system where reporters follow around the chosen ones, waiting for crumbs to be dropped at structured points along the campaign trail. Access to the leaders, or the candidates, is regimented or, at times, non-existent. Every aspect of the branded campaign is designed to be strategically introduced during heavily choreographed presentations rather than addressing true societal concerns in a timely matter.

It’s all about controlling the narrative.

Political parties will respond only to their own polls. Politicians will only provide prepared answers. Politicians will only repeat the same answers. Reporters are given no time for follow through. It appears as if some reporters have no interest in follow-up.

It is a flawed system that counts on the electorate not caring or not bothering. It assumes disinterest and dismisses the intellect of the voter.

It is action and reaction until voting day, and then inaction through the years to follow. It is a flawed mechanism built on errors and ignorance.

There is a pattern to the errors, but even worse, an acceptance of the pattern; even an outright reliance on a perception of the continued stupidity of the electorate. Why else would a politician say things that cannot be backed up, or make statements that can never be validated? Never, at any point, will they acknowledge past mistakes.

And there are so many mistakes. Time is not an unproven principle.

We hear the same things, and we listen to them again, time after time; particularly at election time. Politicians lie, they cheat, and, sadly, are accountable only to their party. Politicians give politics a bad name.

We seem to accept that. We end up with the governments we deserve. Don’t accept what is offered, because it is rarely provided.

If we want something different, we cannot allow things to be done the same way they have been done. We, the electorate, deserve change. Don’t just ask for it; demand it.

Do not trust, or reward, the incompetence we have come to accept.

© 2019 j.g. lewis

What you have has nothing to do
with what you have been given.
It’s not fate,
it’s not kismet, and it’s not obvious.
It is what we choose to allow.
Many times, how we live is simply a choice.
Other times you have to ask.
We all have so much to do. Obligations.
Survival: doing what needs to be done.
What is expected is not often clear, or
not always possible.
Sometimes, if you have too many options,
you make the wrong choices.
Try to choose carefully, decide what
will fit into the current situation.
Accept the reality.
Choosing is difficult,
and often contentious. You need to know
where you are, more than where to start.
Admit your mistakes
early in the process. Honesty is always easier.

© 2019 j.g. lewis

A handwritten letter says what nothing else can,

A handwritten letter offers something deeper than what we’ve become accustomed to in this era of instant communication.

Yes, we tap out quick missives in reply to today’s email and text messages. We respond, with a sentence or series of words, to a social media post, but it is always more reaction than interaction.

The width and breadth of a traditional handwritten letter goes deeper and wider. A few lines, a couple of pages, perhaps a bit of history or update on a current reality; each letter of every word contains something you just don’t get from an email.

Correspondence — communication in handwritten form — is to be appreciated and respected for exactly what it is; a truthful rendering on a person’s thoughts, feelings, or theories. There is a certain intimacy involved in the inherent honesty of a letter.

You write differently, perhaps more truthfully, when you commit words to a page by pen or pencil. You forgo the convenience of a keyboard and bypass the spellcheck and cut-and-paste familiarity of this virtual realm we live in.

You tell the story of an adventure, or future plans, in greater detail when you write by hand. Between the salutation and the sign-off, the words on the page take on a life of their own. There is a change in the tense, the texture, and the tone of how, and what, we write.

Outside of the eraser on a pencil (the original word processor) which allows you to catch the occasional error or slightly modify a sentence, words land on the page as you think and as you go.

You read differently, more observantly, when you look over the pages of a handwritten letter. The brain, overly-accustomed to the increased amount of text we consume in a single day, has to process the information in what has become an unfamiliar manner.

The eyes register the information more keenly — with less physical strain on the eyeball than what is required to read off an illuminated screen — and follow each curve and line of every letter, at times struggling with the varied uniformity of each person’s interpretation of the alphabet. It can be a challenge to read someone else’s handwriting, but there is an appreciation that another human being took the time to mindfully communicate.

A handwritten letter takes time. Thoughts captured on paper one day could take days or weeks to arrive at the intended destination. There is not the immediacy of electronic communication, but there is not the need.

A handwritten letter is timeless.

        Confused by what is important,
   outside of the deception,
   outside of the party lines,
          guided by misplaced trust.
  We have become
disciples of those with
   as many faces
        as hands.
    Did you know
             the ramifications of what they’re
        saying or the power
        they have?
                           Politics.
I wonder what is important
      outside of the violence
      outside of the gleaming excesses.
          I don’t think this world
   needs to hear more political apologies
every single day.
  We all lead hectic lives,
  we think – or hope – that I or anyone
can be forgiven for forgetting
     what happened when
     we trusted
leadership and looking forward.
        No accountability.
     We do not
  blame – or fault – you, I or anyone
trapped by this contagion, this sin
   brought on
     by ego and ignorance.
        Politics. The evil within.

© 2019 j.g. lewis