Mythos & Marginalia

life notes; flaws and all

j.g. lewis

original content and images ©j.g. lewis

a daily breath...

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 . . .

good intentions

I am going to yoga later this morning. At least, that is my intention.

   It’s almost 6 a.m., and a mat that hasn’t seen much activity in quite a while is waiting beside my packsack. It has been years, really, since I have stepped into a class. I’ve been feeling, lately, like it is time to do what I used to do regularly.

   Almost a decade ago, yoga was a true constant in my life. It was a practice that, for all intents and purposes, consumed me physically, mentally, and spiritually.

   Today, I’m trying to get that feeling back.

   I have very few expectations.

   My balance is not what it once was, I am often stiff and struggling, and I’m feeling the need to give this body the stretching it needs. My birthday a few days ago reminded me I am not getting any younger.

   So, I’m off to yoga in a few hours and I am doing so with good intentions.

   Namaste.

06/14/2024                                                                                          j.g.l.

Mondays are just young Fridays

   within the company of others

                   we navigate space

 

           between now and then

                 choosing where we go

         and with whom we travel

 

                 at times it gets crowded

                       and still seems lonely

         otherwise comfortable

         on our own

 

             companionship makes

             the journey worthwhile

 

 

06/10/2023                                                                                          j.g.l.

in hindsight

Reasons are excuses,
explanations simple
rationalizations for
what you are thinking
or feeling. History is
full of reasons and,
in hindsight, excuses.
Or promises.
I have known many.

©2019 j.g. lewis

cloud songs

This day will pass, though 

scattered thoughts will remain, as 

we question or consider 

           our joys and pain. 

   We never know, but always care, 

about reasons and results that 

do not seem fair. 

   It is our way; it is this life;

is this how we survive on the edge 

of a knife? 

   Sharper than we give ourselves 

credit for as we seldom take tally 

or measure the score in 

this game of life that we all play, 

             not just now but any day.

 

06/13/2024                                                                                            j.g.l. 

another chance

Hope

is a lottery ticket.

Chances slim, odds even

more unlikely, yet we pay.

We play, 

we hope, like last week or

the week before.

Tomorrow, again, 

is yet another chance;

a ticket purchased

speculative happenstance.

Always aiming for a win,

we gamble with our time

like it is a sin.

Dollars spent

defy common sense, as

we try again, and have

many years hence.

You cannot 

predict when your 

numbers are up, 

guesswork or repetition 

not nearly enough.

Still, we think, 

in time, luck will step in,

but it is only the hope 

that lives within.

 

 

06/11/2024                                                                            j.g.l.

express yourself

How are you at expressing yourself?

Do you always tell the truth?

 

 

06/09/2024                                                                            j.g.l.

I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.

j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.

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Decision Time

Posted on January 14, 2015 Leave a comment

Decisions

Decision Time

What will I do today? This week?
Each day I ask this, of myself. I ask this of others;
daily, hourly . . . each second of every minute I ask questions,
and
with each question comes a decision.
We all make decisions
all the time.
Continually.
Where to go, what to do, what to buy, whether to stay,
what to say,
how to say it, how to ask a question. ?????
All decisions.

Each and every act, goal, accomplishment or
failure, begins with a decision.

How can I be sure the decisions I make are right, or proper, or ethical . . . even moral?
I can’t.
I can try.
I can leverage all my knowledge and experience, and hope, and plan,
but even then I can’t be sure the decisions I make, at that time, are correct.

I am like everybody else.
We all struggle with decisions.
Many, or even most, of the decisions we make involve someone else. In fact, many of the decisions we make must function, or cooperate, or align, with decisions made by others.
And that is hard.
Even the simple decisions we must make are hard.
Every decision is one of hundreds of inter-connected, though seemingly unrelated, decisions made each day.

Life is a cumulative series of decisions.

Your decisions impact the lives of those around you; those you love
or those who, just by their nature of being where they are or what they are,
are just there.
Every day.
Every day we make decisions.
You decide how you will be viewed, how you will be remembered,
how you will be accepted, or how you will accept others.
All decisions.

We wake and walk upon each decision we make.

Some, in fact most, decisions are irreversible; resolution is not even in your hands.
And the decisions made by others may possibly be the most difficult decisions to deal with.
You are forced, without having to decide, to deal with the consequences
you had never intended.
One decision leads to another, and there is always the danger of collateral damage.
And if we don’t question the decisions made by others, we wonder: why they did that; why they said that; why they left, or let you go?
All are questions fuelled by decisions, and decisions made without your input. Mainly
decisions made with little care or without concern for you.
Then again it’s not the actual decision that hurts, as much as it’s how you react to the decision.
If you don’t react properly, there is certain to be conflict.
Decisions can lead to arguments, as much as agreement, or conclusion, or worry . . .

Without decisions we do little, or nothing, to contribute to
this grand parade we call life.
Think about it.
There, right there, that’s a decision; you have to decide how you will think about it
and what you will think about.
What will you think?
What choice will you make?

If you don’t make a choice, you are leaving it up to a chance, or fate. Kismet.
And taking a chance is nowhere near effective as making a decision.
It might be easier, at the time,
but really it’s not.
Not at all.
When we make the decision to leave it up in the air — to leave it to chance — that in itself
is a decision; not one to be taken lightly,
and one that can only lead to indecision.

Indecision can kill you, if not physically then morally, or spiritually.
Just as the wrong decision, or even the right decision at the wrong time, can
take its toll on how life should, or could, be lived.

With decision comes responsibility.
We own each decision we make, and every mistake made.
Spur-of-the-moment decisions often haunt us the longest.
So how do you make the right decision, without worry, without regret?
I suppose, above all else, it’s a matter of being flexible, and even more so,
being fair.
If you are making a decision it should be made in fairness, and with intention.
And it should be made for all the reasons that are good and whole,
and right.
Not just right for you, but those you care about.
Think about it.
Ask yourself: What do I want . . . what do I really want?
Or,
is what I have what I really want?

Is it?
Make that decision.

My January Breath

Posted on January 7, 2015 Leave a comment

 

January Breath

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.

Only Wednesday

Posted on December 31, 2014 // 1 Comment

IMG_5467

 

Only Wednesday

Wednesday sits naked                                                                                                                               and ordinary                                                                                                                                          waiting

between the bookends of social Saturday
and restive Sunday. The day is                                                                                                                little more

than a cluster of hours or a stop on the                                                                                        treadmill. Indecisive and                                                                                                                       lonely

nobody chooses a Wednesday. Nothing                                                                                       happens                                                                                                                                                           on a Wednesday

and it’s the same each week.

 

Sept 11/01, a Tuesday. London Subway bombings: July 7/05, a Tuesday, also July 21/05, and also a Tuesday. Assassinations: John Lennon on a Monday, Martin Luther King Jr. a Thursday, and John F. Kennedy a Friday. Kurt Cobain’s body was discovered on a Wednesday, but he chose his way out three days earlier. Nothing happens on a Wednesday.

There are fewer concerts mid-week, and opening night is never a Wednesday. They never open the Olympics on a Wednesday. Nobody gets married on a Wednesday.

Yet I will choose Wednesday, or I will start with a Wednesday. I’ll begin with a page, a place where I can plant my thoughts. I have many thoughts, each week, every day (even on Wednesday), but I will commit to posting something once a week. There are seven days to choose from, and I chose Wednesday.

Now I may post something else on some other day, I’m like that (a true Gemini). If I am moved or if I have time, if the stars align or the moon gives me a nudge, or if something is really bothering me, I won’t wait for Wednesday. But I will post something each Wednesday.

Something will happen each Wednesday, every week. Right here. If you want to see, or wish to be reminded, sign up. There will also be a daily breath (usually 140 characters or less) and it will not be limited to Wednesday, but will, or should, arrive every day.

Until Wednesday . . .

-j-

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