Again, today, I fell into my morning routine. We all do.
   Routines: we have them, no matter how strict or subliminal they end up.
   Mornings we bathe, dress, eat breakfast (alone or before anyone else is awake), check the news feed or your bank account on your ever-present mobile device, and then set off to work (the same route, the same streets or street car number); perhaps a stop at the coffee shop, banal chatter with the barista-of-the-day, obligatory greetings to office mates or tales of last night’s game; you get the picture. It’s an everyday day. Most days.
   If you substitute one item for another, an instance here or there, and we all do the same things, mostly every day, whether we pay attention or not.
   For me, during these pandemic days, it begins with a morning walk before the streets get crowded or well before much of Toronto’s humanity is even awake. I like the silence. I’m not ready to talk to anybody, except for the afore-mentioned banter with the barista, and rarely get more than 1,300 steps into the day without my morning cup of personality. Then I wander.
   Following my morning constitutional (maybe an hour and a bit later) and prior to preparation for whatever I am about to do, I will take a moment for only my self.
   I sit at my desk every morning, before tearing into whatever needs to be done, and reach over to the bookcase on my left and, without looking, grab a book of poetry. With the same attention to detail, I flip open a page and I read aloud the poem in front of me.
   It has become my daily ritual.
   Now, I will often read a poem or selection of poems at different points of the day, but the first poem of the day, selected randomly, is the most important to me. I know it is the most purposeful reading I will do today. I know, often depending on the day, that I will eventually (and undoubtedly) come across some disturbing news, critical information, or must-read utterly repugnant corporate missive that will surely set the remainder of my day off kilter.
   For this reason (and many ancillary excuses) this ritual is important to me, especially after a protracted period where many of our rituals — personal or public — have been stripped away by this pandemic.
   We are only now able, after some 15 months, to gather for small ceremonies like weddings, funerals, or birthday celebrations. We are now into the second year where graduation from any form of education has been limited or prohibited. These are all time-honoured public rituals that signify dramatic changes in our lives. Weddings, birthdays, even graduations can somehow be worked around, but grief is a ritual that must be acknowledged.
   Rituals. We have them, or are meant to have them. COVID-19 and its variants have taken many away.
   The Oxford dictionary defines a ritual as “a prescribed order of performing rites” or “a procedure regularly followed”. A routine, in the same dictionary, is described as “a regular course or procedure, an unvarying performance of certain acts.”
   There is a difference, however slight, between routine and ritual.
   A ritual might not be the early-morning jog, or yoga practice. It might however be that moment where you roll out your mat, kneel into your space and whisper a slight prayer or mantra that will pull you through the class.
   Your ritual might be sharpening three or four pencils to their finest point, so you can begin your morning pages; that 11 or 17 minutes of a timed state-of-conscious writing that brings your thoughts into focus and helps define your purpose.
   Perhaps you light a candle, or incense, each night as settle in with a novel or some self-help book or another. Maybe the candle is better spent next to a hot bubble bath where you cleanse both body and mind of the residue of the day.
   Your own ritual may, in fact, be a daily meditation. This may take place while you sit cross-legged (or not), eyes closed or wide-open, and ponder where you are or what you have experienced. It may also take place while you walk around the block after sunset, each step expanding your thoughts or intentions.
   Purposeful time to yourself is a ritual you shouldn’t ignore. You are the only one that can do that for you.
   It is your choice.
   For me it is a random poem, faithfully read each day.
   Choose what best serves you. Realize; no recognize, what breaks up your routine. Feel the difference. Know the difference. Know it is your ritual, and not so much routine, that gets you through the days.
   Not only is it a rite; it is your right.

© 2021 j.g. lewis

Gratitude flows two ways. It must.

For gratitude to be gratitude, it has to be given, as it is accepted; free of conditions; without demand; without expectations.

As an exchange, there needs be, at its most crucial point, equality. Both the giver and the receiver should, even if only for a moment, bask in the state of grace allowed, and furthered by, the humane act of giving.

Gratitude is ‘you are welcome’ as much as it is ‘thank you’.

Sadly, and often, in this give-and-take society, there is an imbalance of power. The provision of aid or assistance is viewed as strength, with the acceptance, or receiver, as weak. Charity — a worthy and necessary act  — is boastfully promoted and endorsed. The ‘look at me’ or ‘look at us’ attitude removes the true shine from an otherwise generous act as it makes the giver more important than the need.

It’s pretty ugly out there. We, as humans, have continued to allow this to happen. Captains of industry, politicians, plumbers, and the powers that preach have continually deceived us. We have almost become pre-conditioned to accepting this conditioned eye-for-an-eye type of attitude of gratitude.

It should not be more difficult to understand, as it is to accept, gratitude.

We need to help each other, more. The spirit of giving should be fostered among us, but we end up asking too many questions. Even if just by questioning where any form of gratitude flows, we are suspicious. We look for ulterior motives and hidden reasons.

How do we get past the doubt, or the disingenuous, to not only show our thankfulness, but share the act and purpose bestowed upon us?

We, perhaps, need to be more thankful of what we’ve got and more gratified in how we share our place and purpose.

Indeed, as with the adage ‘the hand that gives is the hand that gathers meaning’, it must be more than exhibiting kindness towards others as a means of benefiting the self. We need to recognize the profound connection of the hand that gives and the hand that receives.

The benefits are shared, are equal, and are needed. There is a deeper meaning in not only accepting selflessly, but in giving graciously.

© 2019 j.g. lewis

 

 

          Left behind or lost.

Misfortune, missteps, mistakes,
a question again:

What do you do when something is missing?

          Comfort, affection,
          lost your direction?

Where have you been and where do you go?

          Do you wander
          or do you wait?

All alone.

          Do you know?

      How will you find your way?

 

© 2021 j.g. lewis

You begin to understand, at a certain age,
it is not about understanding everything.
It doesn’t make sense, any more, any less,
but becomes easier to understand
or accept. Nevertheless,
in this realm of limited-time offers and
best-before dates, coming of age seems right.
Come what may, give or take,
to trial and error, it no longer matters, now,
who wasn’t there. Destination straight ahead,
on a certain date, in a certain way,
you carry any range of emotions
more purposefully, on any given day.
Often you have more to say, yet wisely choose
whom you repeat it to.
Every day is not the same.
Glimpses of yesterday rarely appear. Anyway.
This was the tomorrow we looked forward to.

©2018 j.g. lewis

I am numb.
   Actually, I am sickened by Monday’s developing news about four pedestrians killed by a truck Sunday evening in a city not that far away from me. Then it was reported a fourth person, a boy, who also suffered serious injuries.
   It was later reported that all victims were three generations of the same family, who were hit when a truck jumped the curb at an intersection.
   By Monday night, it was reported that it was not an accident, but a premeditated attack on a Muslim family.
   The nine-year old boy has lost his father, mother, sister and grandmother: targets of a 20-year-old man who deliberately drove onto the sidewalk and mowed down this family.
   He did so because they were Muslim.
   It was a racial attack.
   It was mass murder.
   The driver has been charged with four counts of first-degree murder and one count of attempted murder. Police have said other charges, including terrorism, are possible.
   We’ll learn more as the week progresses, even more when the driver, barely out of his teens, appears in court Thursday.
   The investigation continues and the news spreads – like sadness, grief, fear, and anger – across this country; across this globe.
   It was an act of terrorism, said Canada’s Prime Minister Justin Trudeau.
   My heart and soul reverberates with each piece of news from every broadcast I hear. My eyes tear up as I read newspapers and points of view on social media.
   I can make no sense of this.
   I don’t think like that.
   This was a family out for a walk together on a warm spring evening, one of the few things we can do, as a family, in these COVID-19 lockdown days.
   They were attacked.
   They were killed because of what they represented to one man.
   I don’t like thinking about it, can hardly write about it, and don’t want to talk about it; but I must.
   We all must talk more openly about racism and hatred in any form.
   We must talk with family, friends and strangers.
   We must speak out against hate. And discrimination. We must speak out against violence, in action and intention, against others.
   We must do this together.
   We are all human.
   Speak out against hate
   Speak up for others
   Speak up for your self.
   Speak up for this family.

© 2021 j.g.lewis