mom’s recipe or
make it up as you go.
Is there a better day
Take the time
Remember the leftovers.
original content and images ©j.g. lewis
A thought du jour, my daily breath includes collected and conceived observations, questions of life, fortune cookie philosophies, reminders, messages of peace and simplicity, unsolicited advice, inspirations, quotes and words that got me thinking. They may get you thinking too . . .
There is nothing definite about autumn.
Fall is fickle, if not downright unpredictable, right down to when it begins.
We have ‘Meteorological” autumn: defined by splitting the year into nice simple quarters with September 1st chronologically marking the day.
Then we have “Astronomical” autumn beginning on September 22nd and marked by the autumnal equinox.
But last week, I observed “Spiritual” autumn, not as much defined by a date as a feeling.
It was unexpected actually. It was Thursday. The weather had been downright balmy as of late and the trees remain lush and leafy. The gorgeous colours so familiar to autumn have hardly arrived, so the morning chill took me by surprise, and I without a sweater.
Indeed, it felt like autumn.
Autumn comes with the end of summer and is elated closely to going back to school.
How many years of my life have been marked by September? Certainly those of my youth, when summer seemed to last a helluva lot longer than it does these days.
Enjoy your autumn; stretch it out as long as you can because winter, most certainly, will be much more definite.
I'm like a pencil;
Still I write.
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
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My January Breath
Snowflakes. Only movement. Twilight comes until twilight goes. Daylight leaves too early. Swiftly. The deeper the night, the colder the darkness.
My January breath suspended, my thoughts wishing to go somewhere. Anywhere, other than here. A deafening winter silence.
The air is slow.Still. Almost. Alone, even in the shadow of the streetlamps. Nobody to shield your ears from the cold, or dampen the inevitable.
Pointless the task, reviewing patterns and paths carved into the cartography of the ego. Realization. What once was, may never be. This season stays the longest.
Even with full sunlight. The wind, should it decide, rips through me. Harsh. I am not here, not really. Permanent as my January breath.
Flurries obscure constellations and the moon. Isolation. The circumference of my being is reduced. Limited. Blinded by temporal beauty, or tears.
Nothing has happened, or is happening. The brazen wind chill clashes with body heat, the atmosphere the victor. Obvious. The world still gets in your eyes.
Time agape with a grey known only to the night. A solitary trek through the ordinary. Undisturbed. Each step resonates the soul-crunching scream of a thousand snowflakes.
Beneath winter’s fickle facade, the ice cracks. The fragility of the planet apparent. Vulnerable. Each season has precious moments. Gone. Time stands still. This is my January breath.