Jamieism

 

If I have a religion, it’s Jamie McEwan –

The man who happened to be my father.

It’s a religion of rivers and books,

Long, ambling talks over mugs of hot tea;

Drawling, chewing on your words, telling stories;

Laughter like rain, deep eddies of quiet, too.

 

Our holy book is written on the heart

In letters made of sturdy, sinewed love;

And all our rituals are solemn, playful,

Woven through the weft of daily life.

 

And for a temple? You can have your pick.

A river or a bookstore makes good sense,

But anywhere that stirs the stagnant blood

Or fires up the ponderous brain will do.

 

There’s no dogma, and no dietary rules,

Although a thoughtful moderation is advised;

There are no priests, or really any god

Unless, perhaps, the world itself is God –

 

A blind, unthinking, terrible-beautiful one

As full of change and pain as life itself.