Jill Jamison's Blog

Take a moment

Show Me Where to Dig. March 23, 2018

Filed under: Uncategorized — jilljamison @ 5:41 pm

pexels-photo-296230.jpeg

For my entire life, since I was able to write – since I was able to place phonetic sounds and vibes into particular rhythms to words to poems and stories – I thought, you know, I should write – it felt good to capture the dance of sounds into streams of thoughts and pool myself in emotions of sentences – it felt good – an interrupter, a translator of emotion for those who don’t have time to figure it out – I would be the one to sit and think and write it down – but now –

now –

now –

now  – I wonder how well the garden is gonna grow when the forecast is snow –

how did my skin get so sensitive when the rest of me stopped –

I haven’t written a lick –

it’s hard and I give up.

I’d rather watch the peas grow –

and worry about the random thistles in the front garden bed –

I’m wrestling, no, suffocating, no, killing, no –

oh, the stories in my head.

Because I don’t like the work not when it’s bad.

so give me that shovel –

and show me where to dig.

 

time and mercy. June 21, 2017

Filed under: Creative Nonfiction,Dear Jack,Family,Life — jilljamison @ 5:16 am

falling-bioshock-infinite_irrational-games1600-2_1600x1129_marked.jpg

 your shoulder on my fingertips, so skinny- so small, the cancer, the chemo had taken most of you. and my fingertips hated feeling your bones and my soul cried for mercy, and mercy – for those who have never had to cry for it, well, it cuts through time. –  so. much. time. and those bones will always feel the same, endless and infinite like you and I.  Three years is too much time for my brain to understand. time. what are years. i’ve heard that the cherokee don’t believe in time. time is another concept. so maybe i’m part cherokee.-at least, maybe i am when i remember you – when i remember the last time i touched you, that slight moment, that slight squeeze, didn’t that last forever? etched in my brain.your shoulder on my fingertips, so skinny- so small, the cancer, the chemo had taken most of you. and my fingertips hated feeling your bones and my soul cried for mercy, and mercy – for those who have never had to cry for it, well, it cuts through time. so much time. and those bones will always feel the same, endless and infinite like you and I…. three years is too much time…

 

Nuclear Heat September 9, 2016

Filed under: Inspiration,Life,Poetry,Random,Uncategorized — jilljamison @ 10:39 pm

50ccf32f5c58b26b7920d8eca43d3cd9

Nuclear Heat

I’ve got theories about your heat –

how you must suck in the energy around your feet,

around your heart and mind, hoping you’ll find

an easy disguise that will take away the attention that you might be getting

for not letting out what you truly want to say,

so instead you keep folks at bay. And it makes you nervous

when you meet someone like me

who understands your heat and your energy. We can’t be ready yet

to let someone in so close. Afraid again there will be burns to ease

and it’s too hard to believe that someone in their right mind could love me for me.

So you suck it all in: the infinities, insecurities, the endless possibilities

and the fire dances on your skin and spreads like gasoline in a dry, soybean field.

And what’s harder is dealing with the things that can extinguish the flame that strains

the balance of our cores. And what’s more is that I love your heat,

your aurora that beats with intensity and colors so strong that I am pulled along

with childish curiosities.  I’m not gonna ask

questions so soon, and I’ll resume my ramble about your heat

that’s like the sun that warmed the sand next to the coral reef.

And I’ll tuck that into my memory, fold it safely and slip it

into the pocket of my favorite, worn out pair of blue jeans.

But I re-track and take you back because I never did say

these were very good theories anyway.

 

Like a Sunflower or A Thousand Sunflowers July 29, 2016

Filed under: Creative Nonfiction,Dear Jack,Family,Life,Uncategorized — jilljamison @ 5:51 pm

images

My mother’s favorite flower is the sunflower, and a thousand yellow sunflowers are in her kitchen – on cabinet door handles and coffee cups, oven mitts and pot holders, painted on pickle jars, tea kettles, sugar bowls, cream pitchers and refrigerator magnets. Mom has fake sunflowers stuck in sunflower vases, and two ceramic sunflower wind-chimes that clank and rattle every time Jack shuts the door to the bathroom which he has just learned to use. Like a sunflower, my mother follows every movement of her son’s son.

IMG_1941

 

We are, indeed, feeling. July 27, 2016

Filed under: Uncategorized — jilljamison @ 8:25 pm

circle-children-holding-hands-11092986

I can’t stop paying attention to the politics of our day. I wish I could stop because I am giving myself a headache, a heartache, a mess of feelings and misunderstandings that I am having a hard time untangling. I am left wondering where I am left. I mean as who I am, and what I do, and how to explain the emotions and temperaments of this time to the next that comes after me. I sense, I believe that I am part of an important generation. My generation, my friends, those of us born into this world when we were not so-connected to each other – when we were permitted to let ourselves wonder in thought and body without interruption or judgement with freedom to digest situations and examine our own ideas and beliefs – those of us who have grown with technology, who first saw computers in the classrooms, and through the years have watched our society implement technology for tenderness – we, dear ones, are the connectors. I have an aching feeling in my heart that says the souls that follow in my footsteps will need to be taught, to be reminded constantly that they are capable of thinking. We must remind them of their inherent ability to band together as a human race. It is up to us to remind our children on a day to day basis, that we are all human. As I write this, my human nature wraps me up, overwhelming my heart with the strong sense of responsibility, a need to interpret these emotions that our society is feeling when I’m realizing we are forgetting in the very first place that we are indeed, feeling. That we must remind ourselves every day that we are indeed, human..

 

Rectangle Tables June 21, 2016

Filed under: Creative Nonfiction,Family,Grandma Betty,Uncategorized — jilljamison @ 4:15 pm

76fa9e8ef6aca34f650a9d583819580f

I’m pretty sure heaven looks like my grandmother’s kitchen, looks like the kitchen table my grandmother described in her journal, the one she used to have before Betty Lou bought her a round one. Heaven is the rectangle table that Grandma cut up beef and hogs and deer on. Heaven is the table that holds the souls of the ones we love. My brother sits at the table, eats and laughs with my grandmother. Grandma feeds him her leftovers, pulls out all the containers from the fridge, from the pantry, from the clouds. I’ve still got more, I bet she said. And they eat and remember and laugh and hear my prayers when I call. 

 

Like Dragons and Unicorns.

Filed under: Creative Nonfiction,Dear Jack,Uncategorized,Writing — jilljamison @ 3:45 pm

pkyKhOtNFZ-10

By now, I have spent countless mornings writing. Cathartic is what most people tell me this is, and they are probably right. I have recorded and deleted and wrote and erased thousands of times a week. I am not consistent in my writing. Like the ocean, I ebb and flow with words. Manic almost in this type of work mode I find myself living. I catch myself swimming in uncertainty, wondering why I feel the need to write words down, interpret these emotions or at least try to figure out what is real because some days when I’m writing, when I’m remembering, I can feel my brother right next to me, swarming around me like approval. But so bittersweet. Like with any memory, any legend or myth, those as big as dragons and unicorns and santa clauses and tooth fairies, I catch myself thinking that I can see him if I only believe hard and real enough, and sometimes, when I’m writing, I feel him next to me and the memory will hold me. Like a lightning, like a flash, I remember, and suddenly, I am a grown woman crying at my computer.