It’s interesting, or odd, how you do something with dedicated regularity, and then suddenly stop.
   Not just for a day or three, it goes on for months.
   And you’re not sure why.
   Yes, you think about it, but you don’t analyze it with any sort of concern. Like it will all come back to you.
   And surely you will, but why did you stop?
   We are all creatures of habit.
   Often, what we do becomes a noticeable part of who we are.
   But who notices when something changes.
   Maybe something has altered your daily routine and you can’t find the mental space or strength to figure it out.
   It’s not like you, yet day after day after day you don’t do what you used to do daily.
   Your routine has been disturbed, as if new priorities have pushed away the reason you got so involved.
   Days go by, and then weeks, and you still don’t know why.
   It’s not like you haven’t done this before.
   These are the moments or minutes that ground you.
   What are a few minutes in the course of a day, a week, or a life?
   It matters.
   You matter, as do the little things you do.
   And they do. Or, they did.
   Maybe they will again tomorrow?

Left brain. Right brain. A delicate balance.
A left-handed Gemini; no stranger to controversy, but
I can’t take sides. I dart back and forth regularly between
a practical reality, where I must live,
and the fractured imagination where
I want to be. And I, a dreamer, know this. We all dream,
of course we do; there you find other people, and you.
Déjà vu.
We’ve been here before.
Pyjamas in bed, most of the time. Insomnia.
You question the whys.
Never settling for the answers, there is always another way.
Another sleep (when else would we dream), another day.
Imagination can soothe.
Practicality will confuse.
My imagination is as practical as my every day is creative.
This is my choice, my voice, and where I choose to live.
I’ve been here before.
I will come back often.

“An idea is salvation by imagination.”
-Frank Lloyd Wright

© 2018 j.g. lewis

Will half of a full moon count for much
if we look longer?

Luna waxes and wanes, sharing its silence,
or its spirit, in each phase.

Do you ignore all that is not complete?

Will you allow yourself to be sated by
what is not there?

We only see what we believe.

It might only be darkness, though it
may well be more; full or not.

© 2022 j.g. lewis

Sixteen times per minute,
twenty-two thousand breaths
in a day. No time
like the present.
There are no other excuses, but
there are always other ways.
Breathe. Choose today
to speak up when you can,
push out the latent sorrow,
guilt, and anguish
only you can understand.
Inhale. There is no life, no
oxygen, like this day. Despite
our selected perceptions,
there is not a
single breath to waste.

©2018 j.g. lewis

Every year, as we near the end of the calendar or come close to our winter’s solstice, I make a list. I write two lists actually, on one slip of paper with a bold line drawn right down the middle: the dividing line.
  On the left side I begin to list all the negative crap I have dealt with over the past year, the frustrations and things that got me down, or couldn’t be resolved. To the right (because it’s all right), I freely list all the good things that have taken place, the positive news, and stuff I simply feel good about.
  It’s my way off summing up the year. Hopefully the good side is longer than the bad. Usually, it is.
  I then take the paper and tear it down the middle, right along the line, separating the positive from the negative.
  The left side I’ll tear it into tiny pieces and toss it in the recycling bin, or flush it down the toilet. Gone. Good riddance to bad rubbish. The right side I neatly fold, slip it into an envelope, and mail myself a letter.
  Cathartic, yes, it’s my way of leaving things behind and stepping forward with a new positive attitude. The year-end review is invaluable, providing me a better idea of what I have done. It also rids the mind of what is no longer important.
  I don’t open the envelope when it arrives in my mailbox, but only slip it into my most recent journal. I keep it there for future reference; perhaps there is a day I’m feeling down and need pep talk, and I’ll open it then. Or, maybe the next year will be kinder to me and I won’t need reminding.
  Presumably, it may forever sit, unopened, in my journal, and that’s not a bad thing (I left all those behind). Writing the lists keeps me looking ahead, and that’s much easier once you’ve got the negative stuff out of the way.
  Others have told me they appreciate this exercise, and have adopted my practice. It might just be a symbolic gesture, but deep thought and action often provides us with those little moments of resolution.
  This year, I’m taking a more concise approach and listing one positive thing I’ve felt over the past year, and one negative aspects of my life (or the year of my life). It’s been another rough year; I don’t want to dwell on it. This is the good thing I want to remember today, next year, and in the decade to come. This is the list I’m going to mail to myself. I may never open it, but I know what is there. You want to remember things like that.
  I’m then going to take the other side of the paper, the negative element that has been bothering me, and I’m going to set a match to it. I’ll let it burn to ash, disappear right before my eyes, as if it is a ceremony or exorcism.
  It’s not that I won’t think about it again — this kind of stuff always haunts you — but I will know, in my mind, I have dealt with it, that I’ve made the effort to remove some of the negativity from my life
    It might only be symbolic, but don’t we all need more symbols, or gestures and actions to mark even the smallest steps we take forward?