Mythos & Marginalia

life notes between the lines and along the edges

  • this age and stage

    About a month ago I signed up for a program looking into mobility and healthy aging, anchored by weekly two-hour sessions at a local community center focusing on exercise, nutrition and information with a physiotherapist, dietitian and public nurse. 

       The group-based sessions are “focused on increasing knowledge, skills, and behaviors related to activity, healthy eating and available community supports for older adults.”

       I am, after all, an older adult. I knew that when I signed up for the program — administered by McMaster University — that were looking for study participants aged 55+.

       It was only after I arrived at the first session and was waiting for the program to begin that the term “older adult” had an impact on me.

       As I browed through the information brochures in front of me, I read, over and over, references to this age group: “Physical activity for older adults”, “24-hour movement guidelines for older adults”, “Active Aging Canada”, and “Canada Food Guide Tips for Seniors” with a thorough collection of tasty recipes enhanced with key ingredients for “older adults”

       Then there was the newsletter with a headline that really affected me: “Looking to make the most of your Golden Years”

       Really?

       Is this the “stage of life” that I have entered?

       Now, I have not officially retired, I do not yet receive my pensions (government or career-related). I am almost hallway through my 63rd year and less than a few years away from receiving those lifetime benefits so, in my government’s eyes, I am close to being a true “senior citizen”.

       But I am not sure I feel like it.

       I am indeed at the lower end of the “baby boomer” classification, a demographic I have belonged to my entire life (and totally dislike the recent negative connotations of the term “boomer”). This group has aged, grown up with me, and is commonly accepted now as “seniors”. It is a sliding scale that begins at age 55 or 60 is, in fact, the age group I am now in.

       The decades have blurred one into another.

       But “Golden Years”?

       How can that be?

       I admitted, long ago, to being middle-aged. I think that started half a lifetime ago when my father retired and joined the ranks of a senior.

       But am I now what he was then?

       You are what you admit.

       I’m older. I have never really been accused of being mature, and since I was a kid was told, many times, to act my age. 

       How can I be nostalgic about my youth when, most of the time, I still feel youthful?

       Is it time to accept the obvious?

       I guess, if I am going to accept the seniors rate at the cinema, gladly take advantage of the discounts and special “seniors” offers from many retailers, and reduced rate on public transportation, then I must start admitting I am in fact a senior . . . or an “older adult”.

       I am.

       This week, perhaps at this “seniors” session, I started to believe it.

       It’s a lot to think about.

       This week’s session included a cooking demonstration, exercise class and a lot of discussion about living and aging. Each of the program participants are at different stages of “adulthood”. Outside of a couple of the presenters, I was, I think, the youngest person in this group of older adults (I still have difficulty writing that phrase).

       That itself is thought provoking.

       I am truly looking forward to retirement and have been mentally preparing myself for a couple of years. I’ve got plans and so many things I want to do at this age and stage of life. Most of my plans revolve around the sort of things that a regular work week gets in the way of.

       Whether or not these are, in fact, the golden years, or that I am entering the “Autumn of my life” hasn’t really been something I’ve though a lot about.

       But I am now. 

       When did that happen?

       How long will it keep happening.?

    © 2024 j.g. lewis

     

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  • wordless poem

    Each line speaks in ever-present tense, past 

    shadows whispering still, amidst perpetual 

    foresight. Memories commence for a stanza 

    or two, if you are prepared to listen.

     

     

    © 2024 j.g. lewis

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  • summer summary

    As summer fades, as they always do, I took a moment yesterday to browse through photographs I’ve made over the past few months to remind myself where I have been living.

    This will be my last summer in Toronto, a city that has been home for a decade.

    When I first arrived here, I began to spend many hours and days wandering the city with my camera, both as a means of familiarizing myself with this huge metropolis and also refamiliarizing myself with camera skills I had not been using as much as I should have. I was inspired by new landscapes and the sheer magnitude of the city’s size, and over the years have indulged in the street photography that was available for me.

    This past summer, as I’ve been focusing more on other aspects of visual art, I did not venture out with my equipment as often as I should have. Still, I found some time to capture images of the places and people in a city that now feels like home.

    ©2024 j.g.lewis

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  • Death on these streets

    I have never been inside a safe injection site (I have no need) but regularly pass by one such place in my neighborhood. I do, however, see the signs everywhere because the activity that goes on inside these facilities spills out onto the street.

       Discarded needles along sidewalks and city parks are, at times, as obvious as dog shit and encampment tents.

       This city has long had an illegal drug problem. I hesitate to call it a crisis as it is only one plank in the many issues of poverty, homelessness, and crime that we live with in the reality of Toronto. It is more than it is, and too much for this city council to handle.

       A recent announcement by our provincial government has, again, brought the existence of safe injection sites to the top of concerns discussed and debated. The Tories intend to close more than half of the 17 existing locations in this province in short order. They, instead, have a multi-million-dollar concept to better care for the addicted and afflicted.

       The government have been working on this plan after a review of safe injection sites sparked by the shooting death of a young mother last summer. The woman, walking home with groceries on a sunny afternoon, was caught in the middle of a shootout between rival drug dealers who operate near one of these “safe” sites.

       This provincial government has long avoided dealing with the drug crisis. There has been talk of, for some time (but no action), increasing rehabilitation centers to help people get off the drugs they rely on. Through the years both overdoses and fatalities increased exponentially.

       The Ford government’s announcement, it says, is designed to stop all that.

       Problem is, this is a Conservative government who cannot keep emergency rooms open, sustain a necessary number of hospital beds, and have not provided either enough mental health supports or rehabilitation facilities, nor shelter beds or social housing. 

       So, all these planned closures in favour of proposed HART HUBS — ‘Homeless and Addiction Recovery Treatment’ —  is so suspect. There are currently no options in place so the closure of these existing facilities by next spring will result in more overdoses, more deaths, and increased pressure on an already overtaxed emergency services system. Ambulances and paramedics are now run ragged.

       It is a problem with costly solutions we are still not sure will work.

       The city is unsafe in so many ways — gun violence, poor planning and traffic congestion leading to increased deaths of cyclists and pedestrians — and now this.

       City council is financially unable to deal with what is before us due to both the financial mismanagement of the past and its current need or desire to spend much-needed capital on attracting events like FIFA soccer in a few years. There is a focus on bringing visitors here, instead of caring for those who call this place home. 

       Some city councilors are paying more attention to the issues than they ever have before; some are grandstanding you might say (I do), but the action is mainly (and rightfully) criticizing other levels of government rather than doing what is needed.

       Yes, it is a multi-level issue requiring a multi-pronged approach, but nobody is dealing with any of these issues deeply enough or quickly enough. 

       And, so far, death on the street is the final and finite result. We need action, not simply reaction.

    © 2024 j.g. lewis 

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  • as I am

    Love, as benevolent beings, is what we live for: generally, specifically, and personally. It is, at times, a force often doubted or denied, but our lives are full of love. If we choose to look.

       Familial love should prepare us for everything else we come to cherish. Unconditional, above all else, it is possibly our first experience with contentment. Even to your youngest self. 

       Through our families we are introduced slowly to divine love — ‘agape’ as the ancient Greeks might say — in whichever faith or familiarity we are raised into. The principles of such will, in essence, provide morals and meanings that guide us through the days and decades.

       Friendships or platonic love becomes important to our being as the world we step into grows larger and more complex. We recognize there are others to rely on and experientially grow with.

       Romantic love speaks for itself: you know it when you feel it.

       It is self-love, above all else, that keeps us in the state to care about everything else. Of all the love available to you, self-love is crucial to your well-being. When that commodity runs short, or becomes unrecognizable, you are unable to function as you should. The difficulties become obvious, if only to yourself.

       I have been struggling for a time, I know it, I do; but had not recognized the symptoms as early as I should. I know it now, but didn’t then or didn’t when, I needed to.

       My mental health suffered, dark thoughts consumed my headspace, and it took (or takes) time to get over. Anxieties are no longer day-to-day, not in the same way. It took work and an understanding beyond what I could see (or had been seeing). My natural curiosity led me to research. I went deeper than I thought, made therapy a part of me and walked a little closer to central patterns of my life. Yes, I journaled — I found the time —I made the words my own: so many thoughts others may never read but important, nonetheless.

       A self-journey, indeed, but there where people around to support me, guide me (when I let them in), and love me as I was. In this process, full of distractions and diversions, I came to the stark realization that there was nobody else to blame for my issues and misunderstandings. For far too long I realized I had been. 

       I began to own up to my responsibilities; to live in a state of action and not reaction. It was revolutionary, at least to me, and I didn’t come to that decision recklessly.

       This revitalization of sorts has come over these past months where I began doing things I haven’t done for a while. It was my own art therapy you might say, I do, because I can find no better description for the attempts I made. This self-care has offered a new level of self-assurance.

       I did not see the sign until recently: Love me til I’m me again.

       I have been. I am now of sound mind, most of my time. I am me; perhaps not always the person I wanted to be but I am better able to live and be loved, just as I am and what I will be.

       This is not an easy admission, but I am the me I will continue to be. I am, now, happy with that. I must be.

       I am me.

    © 2024 j.g. lewis

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