We are all liars.
In that
we find truth.

I don’t like that statement: We are all liars.

It speaks to all that offends us, it ruffles our feathers, it confronts the widely-held belief where truth is a virtue held in the highest regard.

We believe ourselves to be truthful; in many ways we believe it is the strongest plank in our moral platform. We tell ourselves it is our goal, our destination, and our destiny.

Truth.

Truth; we listen for it, we search for it, and we live for it. Fuck, at times we believe it is all we know. Or all we want to know.

We don’t.

So we tell ourselves things to make us believe, we lie to ourselves to make us believe. We lie to others to make them believe, in us. Where we slept last night, how we performed at our workplace (or what we actually do), how we feel about something, how we enjoyed dinner at our best friend’s home – we don’t always answer those questions honestly.

We are liars. We don’t always tell the truth.

We tell untruths. Falsehoods.

Fibs.

Lies.

We might even classify it as a rationalization, a self-medicating myth we feed to ourselves to help us believe we are who we are, and what we are, or to make people believe we are better than we are; even better than them.

We lie to them. And worse, we lie to ourselves.

We say things — under pressure, out of guilt, perhaps in the throes of passion — that are simply not true, things we know will never happen, and still we say them.

We even say them truthfully.

We are all liars.
In that
we find our truth.

 ©2014 j.g. lewis

  “People need good lies. There are too many bad ones.”
                                                                                    – Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

Above illustration photographed off the wall of some Starbucks, somewhere in Toronto. The artist’s name was not on the sketch.   Please contact me if this is your artwork, so I can give credit where credit is due.           Much respect j.g.l.

 

Over the coming days we are going to hear a lot about mothers. Whether through media advertising or the chatter about the office, it doesn’t take much to remind us this Sunday is Mother’s Day.

Once a year we collectively honor the person who brought us into this world. One day, surely, is not enough to celebrate the miracle of motherhood.

Throughout our lives we learn, each day, about ourselves, and about others. We learn from mistakes and accomplishments, we learn from teachers, partners, and friends; but at the core of our knowledge are the lessons learned from our mothers.

The first person we imprint on, mothers teach us the basics of eating, sleeping, and living. They teach us comfort, just by being. We learn, through them, the power of a hug, how to communicate, the importance of clean underwear and a good night’s sleep. From our mothers we know kindness, forgiveness, and humility. Sadly, we never fully learn how to appreciate all that a mother is.

Motherhood is the act (or art) of sacrifice. Mothers do what they do to keep their kids safe, and to help them grow. They do it without question. At all ages they comfort their children through skinned knees, prolonged hospital stays, broken hearts and broken marriages. They are there for us, always, in all ways. That’s what makes them mothers.

Mothers give us something to believe in. When hungry, as a child, we knew mom would have dinner on the table, or lunch packed for school. When we had to get somewhere, or be picked up later, it was mom who was there. When frustrated, or disappointed, a mother’s ear was always available.

A mother makes growing up comfortable, they make growing up bearable; they make growing up necessary.

In a world where expectations are high, rules are set, and guidelines placed on just about everything we do, we intrinsically know a mother’s love and acceptance is there unconditionally. And they provide it whether we say thank you, or not.

Mothers give us someone to believe in. My mom, now long gone, remains the greatest influence on my life. She not only provided me with lessons on parenthood by example, she also taught me to believe in myself. In athletic, artistic, or career pursuits, her words of wisdom have always guided me. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

I haven’t done everything I want (not yet), but I keep trying. I continue trying for me, and for her. Mothers are there your entire lifetime. Even when they are gone, the morals and moments keep coming back.

Mothers do amazing things, every day. In fact, a mother is charged with the most amazing thing of all. The role, in its most elemental description, is being the one to give life. Think, just for a moment, of what a mother is able to produce from her body, a body that is able, has the power and capacity, to produce another human being.

From the womb come eyes that take in beauty, lungs that fill with air, fingers that touch, and souls that transcend time; all produced from a mother’s body.

I can pride myself in what I have been able to give, or pass on, to my daughter, but I didn’t give her life.

Anybody who doesn’t believe in miracles need only think of childbirth. Any one who doesn’t believe in true love only needs to think of their mother.

She first held my hand
five delicate fingers, swallowed up
in my palm. Fingers grasping
                            at my fingers.
Tiny.
No indication of such a big life.
                           There was comfort
                            Reassurance.
                            A small hand, I thought I could
                            hold it forever.
              Tighter
              to keep it there.
              Stop it from growing

The hand has grown, still delicate
                           there
                           in my palm.
Now that of a woman
like no other
a part of me.
Like
no other woman.

                 She is full with 
                 room to grow
                                    to emerge.
                            She is what I have, and
                            the one who is
                                             always there.
As I have tried to be.

A strength more than physical
difficult
to comprehend.
A gentle patience, a
small hand,
wisdom larger than
life itself.

                            I want to hold her hand
                            a while longer
                                                  to reassure
                             I have done something right
                                                          in this world.
When there
I have no questions.
None of myself, as a human being
                                     or otherwise.
                           I host
                           too many doubts
                           which have withered
                           my ability
                           to see.

In her I see what I am and
what I could be.
If nothing else,
the one good thing
I can be
and will always be
to her.

©2015 j.g. lewis

 

I could warm milk on the stovetop, but that
would only leave a mess. Sometimes you don’t do
what you need to do, because it leaves

a mess. The day still stings, long gone now. It’s shadows
of commerce and confusion invariably run up
against ever-present fears. My heart is restless, doubting

all intelligence my head provides. My body rises,
on its own will, against tepid protest, returning
slowly to an empty kitchen. Six minutes

past three. It feels later. The clock denies. Laughter outside,
from wayward teenagers, scurries through the window.
I wonder how, in the past, I could sequester myself

from day-to-day cruelties. I wonder why I no longer
could, or was allowed to. Or why I let myself
express everything I felt or what I didn’t. The soul

recycles its madness, the night still the night, taking
on the tensions of a thunderstorm that will
never come. My body is weary, all of me is

weak. I am tired. Yet my fingers move, like this is
automatic, like this is what they should be doing. My
mind is all over the place, but my fingers are here. Words

appear, recounting, repeating, earnest thoughts of fears
splattered across the page. Sometimes you have to do
what you need to do. Even, if it leaves a mess.

©2014 j.g. lewis

 

yesterday 
        today
was
tomorrow

I had many things to do

                              things I had put off
consciously or 
unconsciously       it mattered not
       I was determined to get them
done
one         (or all of them)
by
one
done      today

when it was tomorrow

it seemed easier
it seemed manageable
it seemed as if there would

be time
when today
was tomorrow

yet as tomorrow came,
       as it always does
       as yesterday lost hold of
the hours and
                            its way
and tomorrow just happened
anyway

it seemed                                                 as if

time had passed me by
as if a day;
today or any day
slipped off the calendar
falling like a rose petal or
disgraced politician
into the basket of days misspent
or wasted

days which promised more
but delivered less

tomorrows do that
they never quite live up to
today

and all too often
become a yesterday

©2014 j.g. lewis