Jacki kellum

Us Icarus (inspired by Jacki Kellum)

Us Icarus

Oops Icarus,
An all-too-fine conviction
Of the troubled ones who
Try too high to fly
And those of us who
Thus fall

I wonder if it helps
That the parent in the
Mythic flight is older
And designer
Of the task ahead

If we learn to fly
Study something of
The design and
Making
Of the wings

Might our take-off
End in a landing that
Makes our flying
Success as well as
Joy

C L Couch
(inspired by Jacki Kellum’s compelling thoughts on balance, https://jackikellum.wordpress.com/2016/01/07/a-case-for-balance-recalling-the-myth-of-icarus-and-daedalus/)

January 8, 2016 5

Writing Prompt [response]: Do you think that it is important to share? Describe in detail another way for you and others to share–to give to people around you.

“there are ways that others need our presences, too”

“in reality, we throw gold mines into the trash”

by Jacki Kellum

Do you think that it is important to share? Describe in detail another way for you and others to share–to give to people around you.

Presence as Presents

by C L Couch

On this Thanksgiving, I won’t be with family. I’ll be dining with neighbor friends. And I’ll be cat-sitting for other friends who will be away enjoying a family reunion of sorts.

I’ll be bringing nothing to my own activities except myself, my choice, and time. I will feed the cats then visit with them, and they will ignore me. I will sit with my neighbors, enjoying the company of children and of parents. Then I will go home, alone.

When others do this—providing nothing but themselves—I call this the ministry of presence. (So do others, too.) When I used to work with youth, I surprised my ignorance of talent with an asset of simply being there. I didn’t what to say to youth, then discovered that wasn’t the important part. The important part was reliable company. Youth needed to know that someone, ideally someone without an agenda, would be there this time and probably the next.

So that’s how I share. And I imagine how anyone can. I will say that I’m a trained and active listener, which helps in interaction of any kind—even with indifferent cats. But if anyone shows up without self-preoccupation and then maybe shows up the next time. Well, that’s sharing. That’s even ministry.

Yes, I guess it means going beyond merely eating food and watching the game. But not much more. Talk with those, a little, who are there. More importantly, listen to what anyone has to say.

So Happy Thanksgiving to the relatively inert, as I will be. Happy presence to all. And, to all, a could night.

(image credit, http://www.usb-resources.org from Google Images)

November 20, 2015 5

Writing Prompt: Describe your worst ever Thanksgiving meal.

while wrestling with recall, it turns out what should have been the worst day turned out not so bad–a terrible time, a moment of grace

Cathartic Thanksgiving Day

My worst Thanksgiving ever. Hmm, I can’t recall. Not that Thanksgivings were always grand. But they tended to be good. The years my mom was dying from cancer. I can’t imagine those Thanksgivings were good. I was trying to visit her in the hospital each day or taking care of her when home, trying to take care of the house, trying to work a job across the city.

But I think for the holidays my siblings came to town, and I had a holiday of sorts unto myself. I didn’t cook or do much of anything except sit still. And Thanksgiving Day was peaceful. Same thing at Christmas.

I probably felt tired and numb at heart. The constant pace of covering everything increasingly took its toll by coring out my spirit of enthusiasm, which I then learned to manufacture. I felt bound to provide for my mother and others, though more and more I felt little else. But it seems that in my memory of mind (though I wouldn’t trust myself to be my own life’s reliable narrator), I can recall the long table in the dining room space, all around the table the folk that I’m related to. Lots of containers filled with many things, turkey in the center, carved. Glasses we could make sing by rubbing fingers around the rim, which always bothered someone (I can’t recall whom). A hum of conversation with a layer of laughter on the top, like whipped topping on the pie. (Always more than one actual pie.)

A good day in a miasma of sad and difficult time. An anodyne. Better yet, a day of grace.

There would have been two such Thanksgiving days while my mom was sick. The third year I think maybe there was little celebrate or nothing at all. And within a year or so, I moved out, as everyone had gone before over several years’ time. Leaving my dad who later left on his own, too.

C L Couch

image from http://www.kutkupret.com and Google Images

not dissimilar from our actual table; even the chandelier looks right, though our walls were white

now off to make a turkey sandwich

November 20, 2015 1

Jacki K’s Free Writing Prompt—What Makes You Grateful?

A Free Writing Prompt for You: What makes you grateful? How do you say, “Thanks”?

from Jacki K

response and illustration

Is that free writing or freewriting? I’ll probably respond to both. And with. Okay, I start.

Finding something lost makes me feel grateful. And I say thanks. To hear good news from family makes me feel grateful, too.

Longer time on earth—and I like being here, by the way—means loss. Someone dying is not about me, but I can’t help but take it personally. I think we’re supposed to, actually. After all, after death the issues are for those us remaining.

With losses that are severe—yes, loss of life but also loss or lessening of health and means and prospects—the small things to be thankful for mean more. I mean, I suppose losses in life could lead to bitterness, though as a lifestyle I try to move myself away from that. Maybe when I’m old and all alone, I’ll give in.

So lost keys, then. And that one piece of paper with information on it that I need. Sleeping a number of hours without obvious break. A day of color, whatever the season. Which would include a cardinal on the snow. Something new and interesting I see when I drive by. A new-to-me old building to admire or a community announcement that shows the town alive. Remembering to have grabbed exactly what I needed on my way outside the door.

There are many things. Imagine yours.

I do say thank-you and perform small courtesies in kind. Whatever the reaction is matters, though not so much. The joy is in the giving. And so is thankfulness. Small things to be thankful for are gifts and courtesies. I’m a better person when I know these and acknowledge them.

Aren’t we better people for saying and receiving thanks? Giving or receiving? Both? You’re welcome. And thank you.

C L Couch

for the image, kennethkeiferphotography.zenfolio.com (from Google Images)

November 16, 2015 4

Jacki K Challenge, memoir with image(s) and metaphors

Jacki K Challenge, memoir with image(s) and metaphors

(www.whatwillmatter.com at Google Images)

The painting might be depicting the story of Narcissus and Echo, but I can think of no better way to think of the self as through reflecting into glassy water. And the art looks like the pre-Raphaelites again, a favorite school of mine.

The Song of Myself by Christopher Whitman (by me)

The title is an homage, of course, a
Metaphoric salutation to the great
Transcendentalist, who also was
A correspondent in the Civil War, up
Close to the blood-washed fighting

Do I see myself as a war? I do not
But rather see myself as a struggle in
Stillness, like the water in a pre-Raphaelite
Painting—reflections on reality were
Important in that school; they are
Important to me now

I reflect and, as best I can, marvel at the
Metaphor so wondrously used by Paul
In his assertion that we see through the
Glass darkly for now—and like a dim
And frosted mirror, I see myself as best
I may, while on this side

The song about myself, then, that I might
Sing, is one of dissonance—I don’t know
If Whitman heard any of his words set
To musical notes and then performed—my
Song would be entirely syncopated and
In minor keys, a monstrosity of jazz, a
Movement barely born when he wrote
About the war and then about you and
Me

(www.dreamstime.com at Google Images)

You know, it’s impressive what you can search for while at or with Google Images. First, I searched “the self.” Then I searched for “a small house” and then “a small brick house,” because that’s what I was really looking for. And, I’m sorry, I selected two images because self and small house were too compelling to enter into competition.

My Small House

I lived in a small house after
Being born in a hospital since renamed

The photo above is neither mine nor
Theirs (the other members of my
Family), although the resemblance to the
Actual look is surprisingly close, because

I view this house only in memory now
And for some many years: a red-brick house
With greenery in front, behind; a pointed
House too small for four brothers and Mom
And Dad , and then my sister arrived—so

We were not there so long—and yet this
House is my earliest memory box; take
Off the top by grasping at the point, and see
Inside images of my father reading, my
Mother cleaning, and the me I saw
Once within a mirror, after coming home

From the hospital again—four, now, and
Having fallen onto the hard floors
(Wall-to-wall carpeting would be next,
For sure) and splitting my four-year-old
Forehead open: in this image, I see me

Head bound up, wearing my favorite
Shirt (I don’t know how I know this), red with
A seal stitched on the front and balancing
A ball upon his circus nose

Wound and red and balancing—metaphors
Too soon worked out in the troubled new
House

November 7, 2015 0

Jacki K Day Five

A story about a trip with an image from Google to go with.

Once my sister and I drove and rode to Stratford, Ontario. Stratford is a small town west of London (Ontario) and a good ways west of Toronto. During the season, there is a drama festival there. There are several theatres in town, all of which give productions in repertory. So one can see things, many things, in only a few days’ time.

The dramas are world-class. They are reviewed in publications from around the world. Production quality is amazing. Whether in the round or behind a proscenium, set pieces move like magic, becoming places, overall, of many levels for actors’ interactions and actions. I say actions because, when histories or tragedies are given, the staged fighting is visceral and intense.

In addition to after-theatre fare, a reward in Stratford is walking through the town during the day. There are many places to visit. Many stores, of course, some selling products in pewter whose source was Saint Mary’s, the next-door town. But it was the bookstores that really were the treat. There were several and, whether new or used, the variety and quality of inventory was so delightful to ingest.

My sister and I saw a production of The Tempest that we still talk about with wistful fondness. And we talk about our last dinner in Stratford. We were both poor (I’m still poor), but I let Amy talk me into going to an extravagant French-styled restaurant. (Mostly, Stratford has an anglified feel.) She was right about making the investment of money and time. The meal experience was fantastic. Fantastique, I guess.

During this trip, my sister talked with me a great deal about a man she had met and was planning to marry. I didn’t know much about him, since Amy and I were living in different cities; she was busy working after graduate school, while I was busy getting ready to go. But I learned much now and was pleased she was willing to share so much. She also told me how this man reminded her of me. Always something impressive for a brother to hear.

A pre-Raphaelite painting depicting the play The Tempest. The discovery of Bermuda by the English (in a shipwreck-ing storm) was the inspiration for the play.

(www.johnwilliamwaterhouse.com at Google Images)

November 5, 2015 5