I shed a tear today,
one for myself, and one
for others. I shed a tear
on behalf of my brother.
My sister, I know,
will shed many of her own,
but I shed one anyway,
so it be known.
A tear to remind me,
again, of my father, a
bigger one then
for my dear caring mother.
I shed a tear also
for someone unknown,
but I read today
how the flowers have grown.
I shed a tear
for those in pain, and for those
who cannot love again.
I shed a tear for
a missing child, I
shed a tear for
my missing wild.
I shed a tear, knowing,
I must
be stronger,
knowing I may need
to shed them
a little while longer.
I shed a tear
as I try
to be kinder, every
tear I shed a constant
reminder.
I shed a tear
and then realize
how a tear reminds us
why
we have eyes.

© 2015 j.g. lewis

 

     Self-actualization is bullshit.

I wrote this down about a year-and-a-half ago, an entry in my agenda. I do that, scribble out a thought, each day. It’s part of my process, not of writing, but of being a human being.

Each day this thought, or quote, or collection of words, becomes a mantra. It is something to think about, up and above all the blessings and ballyhoo one may encounter as we walk on this planet. The words provide a focus. Some people are more apt to select a sonnet, or psalm, or lesson from Buddha or Paramahansa Yogananda (I’ve written down a few of those), but I’m more likely to ponder a Pete Townsend or John Hiatt lyric, or a slice of graffiti sprayed under a bridge, as I am a random retrospection.

I’ve been a quote collector for decades, but didn’t really start writing them down until January 2013, as I was partway through this period of evolution (a much sexier word than change). Some of the words have, and will, appear on this screen, as a daily breath . . . others remain personal reminders, only to my self. It’s a part of being here.

Over the past few years these valuable offerings and observations have included;

     I know nothing.                                                  Things are going to get easier              
     I learn everything.
                                            What happened to faith and patience?
                                                                                                                       Do no harm
           If the moon whispers . . . listen                                                 but take no shit
                                            Put everything you have
                                            into everything you do.
                                                                                       If you roll like thunder
              Infuse your muse                                       You’ll crash like lightening

Each word, each day, provides a moment or two of reflection. I establish my truth, I go about my life, and then do it all again the next day. It is my route towards improvement, becoming more aware of my self and others, and being a better person.

The ‘self-actualization is bullshit’ entry strikes a chord, right now. Then, on that day, it was written in anger. Then, some days, anger was a common mood. Now it serves as a reminder of where I was, and an emotion that no longer serves me.

The course of change is focused mostly, or at first, on eliminating nasty habits. As your personal revolution continues, you find reason to drop the insidious envy, and fear, and doubt, and traits no longer useful. Yes, there are periods of grief that offer repose, and it comes in moments when you realize your addictions and afflictions are not of substance, but of ego and attitude.

As you move closer toward your intended purpose, you chose not to let the weight of the past knock you down, and foster a gentler, simpler approach. It’s not that life is simple, but it can be broken down into more manageable portions.

Yes, the principles of self-actualization do come into play, and not all of it is bunkum. On any given day, you will find yourself facing the bitterest of truths and the need to do so.

Abraham Maslow, in his hierarchy of needs, sets self-actualization at the top of the pyramid. The basics of food, shelter, and security are all required before you can self-actualize, as is the sense of belongingness and the need to be good.

As you struggle to get a grasp on the real world, it’s easy to get stuck on the need to be good.

Good. Now, there’s one hell of a confusing word; totally subjective, and there are so many interpretations. You can be good at something, and strive to be better, but how good is good? Are you ever good enough? The good I speak of is not demonstrated proficiency in your craft, profession, or pursuit, but rather the goodness that wends its way through your ribcage and runs along your sole to the core of your existence.

This good is more of feeling, and of truth. For with the act or path of goodness, you must be able to give yourself freely to a community, to love, to care, to show empathy and forgiveness. Goodness — and it cannot be demonstrated in some brash or vainglorious manner — is to accept your self in the most human way and, more so, accept and believe in others.

When you can find comfort there, in yourself and with others, you know you are good. It is the realization of this goodness that will allow you (physically, spiritually and emotionally) to achieve your goals and to arrive at this place.

I suppose I am still looking for the place, but I seem to be finding contentment in where I am. It hasn’t been an easy journey (is anything that is worth pursuing?) and it has taken hundreds of yoga classes, a temple’s worth of candles, 238 (or 241) pencils, and a carton of scribblers, journals and wrinkled scraps of paper.

It has taken great thought, and it takes daily reminders of where you want to be, and what you are. You need to be honest, you need get past the bullshit and do what has to be done, but most of all you need to be there to get there.

Show up
Tell the truth
Risk everything

© 2015 j.g. lewis

 

No light no longer
               No longer young
Decommissioned ship in the harbor
               Eleven floors down
Elegant still
               Naked then on twisted hotel sheets
               Restless as a taxicab
               Sunday night in July
A night
               Following a day following a night
Sunlight not once disturbing the
               Prurient darkness of air-conditioned anonymity
               Mascara-streaked pillowcase
               Necktie carelessly discarded on the carpet
Slender fingers
               Nicotine-stained
               Nervously twisting through unkempt hair
Glamorous yesterday
               Bedhead now
Give me space
               First give me a light
Deceit sticks to the skin in the ugliest manner
               Like humidity
Her husband is on the phone
               I’ll step out
But can’t
               Walk away

©2015 j.g. lewis

There is a small mustard streak on the crisper drawer, inside the fridge. Inside this particular crisper rests a half bag of semi-composted baby spinach. It’s not that I don’t eat a lot of spinach; I just don’t eat it from this particular bag.

And it’s still there.

Early last week, the sign pictured above was posted on the bank of refrigerators in the lunchroom at work. I presume similar signs were posted on similar fridge doors in other lunchrooms within the company’s high-rise architectural wonder.

Now I wasn’t home all day Sunday, but someone was, and the fridge is still in need of a good cleaning. Nobody showed up to do the job.

The sign, as you can see, said “all refrigerators”. It didn’t specify a certain floor, or building, or city for that matter. The sign said “all” fridges.

I like to take words seriously.

Now I hadn’t heard anything on the radio, or television, and nobody Tweeted, about a national or international campaign to ensure all fridges were cleaned. Nor do I recall any sort of Royal proclamation. But, you know, it could happen. The Easter Bunny still shows up, and Santa Claus, so maybe there was this new mystical entity that would, each year on August 2, visit households worldwide to empty and clean out the refrigerator.

It could happen. Most likely though, it was somebody not truly thinking about the totality of the project, and they just slapped up the laminated sign rather than thinking about how to better convey this rather timely message.

Think of all the mothers who may have spent Saturday evening baking, just so their children could leave a plate of cookies and glass of milk for these fridge elves who were going to magically appear and clean out the icebox. How disappointed were the kids who woke the next day and rushed to the kitchen for Corn Flakes, only to discover the cookies had not been eaten?

How disappointed were the mothers? Who wouldn’t want to wake up to a clean fridge?

Words are important; not only for conveying messages, but for the messages they convey. Words have always been important; how else would we know what has happened before, or be warned of what is still to come, if it weren’t for words.

Correct word usage has been essential, historically, but as information now arrives at a pace we have never before known, words are more crucial than ever. Words provide context. Words provide content. Words provide consideration. It’s important to care a little more about how you use your words, and what words you use.

If you want to make a point, make it effectively. Be specific. Say what you mean, mean what you say, and say it like you mean it. If you leave holes, sure enough, something or someone will slip through. The more open you have been, or less specific you are, the more room there is for greater interpretation, further confusion, and higher expectations.

© 2015 j.g. lewis

 

The radio no longer crackles
as it used to do
with
the lightening,
as
it happens.
Through the darkness
a voice calls out, Pagliaro singing to the broken and the lame.
                                                                                              Rain, rain,
                                                                                        rain showers.
The radio crackled in the night
sharp-edged static
then a stinging silence
before the thunder,
not but a few heartbeats.
The sky
opens up.
Thunder and lightening, touches the earth, as you feel shame.
                                                                                                Rain, rain,
                                                                                          rain showers.
The radio plays to the lonely
as it always has.
The moon
cowers behind vengeful clouds.
She, partially broken, is vulnerable
like you.
Still not there.
Unable to protect, as you thought she could, from all the pain.
                                                                                                Rain, rain,
                                                                                          rain showers.
The radio no longer crackles
across the airwaves.
Emotions, still fragile,
shatter
in the rain.
No one is to blame.
Strengthen my faith.
Let me live again. No longer broken, no longer tame. Not again.
                                                                                                 Rain, rain,
                                                                                           rain showers.
© 2015 j.g. lewis

They don’t make radios, or write songs, like they did in 1971. Michel Pagliaro still rocks.