Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Write About…Your Own Topic

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

 

Instead of responding to today’s prompt topic, I chose to work on a portion of something that I hope to incorporate into a longer piece, and it may come into one of the 1000 word assignments.

 

Matthew 7:8 “For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.”

I’m seeking. I’m knocking. I’m trying to remember the exact verbiage the camp counselor gave us, when he encouraged us to step out into this night, be alone with ourselves and God, and invite Jesus Christ into our hearts.

He made it sound so good. So simple. That all we had to do was ask, and we’d be privy to the bridge. A direct line of communication to God, and the essence of unconditional love filling our hearts. Jesus was waiting, he said. Available in every moment, but we had to ask.

As I walk in the open field, I can see the white of my Keds in the moonlight. I look up to see millions of stars, a splay of crystals on black velvet. Is He there? Tall mountain pines stand sentry at the edges, housing a few other seekers, whose shadows I see moving slowly about immense trunks. They, too, are finding their place, looking for the spot where they can sit, make their request, touch God.

I stop wandering and wait. Sit down where I am and listen. There is the sound of crickets in the blades. A cabin door shuts in the distance. I search my heart, this doorway he said, was the way in which I could be received, accepted, reborn. I lace my fingers together, feel the wrinkles of my knuckles. Unlace my fingers and trace the knotted string of the friendship bracelet around my wrist. I try to clear my mind of all thought. I ask again, listen, wait. But there is nothing.

I thought I’d hear a voice. Or maybe get some kind of sensation. Butterflies in my stomach, or a presence, very clear, inside my chest. I only smell pinecones on the summer breeze that floats across the lawn. See the outline of tree branches bounce with the moving air.

When I go back to the group tomorrow I will accept the invitation. Raise my hand and step forward from my metal, folding chair. Yes, I have asked Jesus into my life, and I will be his follower. I will make this claim, believing. Hoping. Never wanting to ask if I was the only one who didn’t feel Him. Unable to face the fear that, perhaps, there is something intrinsically wrong with me. Too afraid to question why God didn’t come, even when I asked.

 

courtesy of Jason Trbovich
courtesy of Jason Trbovich
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Write About an Object That You Coveted As A Child

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

You are gifted a blanket at birth. A crocheted rectangle of comfort, in pinks, and blues, and greens. After two decades, and thousands of washes, it is a tatter of gray, more aptly described as a ‘security blanket’. Unraveling yarn makes gaping holes in its center, but the edges are what matter most. The solace of this blanket comes in the feel of the familiar, textured softness of its edges through your fingers.

Your rhythmic circumnavigation of the blanket, traces the weave through thumb and middle finger, bringing a solace like nothing else. Its comfort outweighs the awareness, that it is a little weird to be twenty and still sleeping with a blankie.

You realize you’ve got an odd attachment to a ragged bit of cloth, and wonder about why the fingering ritual brings so much peace. Then, a revelation. You watch the tracing of rosary and mala beads through the fingers of the devout, realizing you do the same with crocheted string. Your attachment to tactile tracings is suddenly elevated. Perhaps it’s spiritual. Maybe even past life bleed-through. You continue to keep the blanket.

But then you turn 21, and a hippie from the dark side, named “Many Rivers,” (black cape, and hood, and all) steals your gear at a Rainbow Gathering on top of Mount Shasta- his booty includes your borrowed sleeping bag, which had your spiritual security blanket stealthily stashed in the bottom.

You search all over the mountain’s campsites, asking every free spirit you meet if they’ve seen your rag of a rectangle anywhere. And when someone tells you they think they saw it in a pile ready for burning, you run there just in time to find smoldering ashes.

You find a place to be alone. There, you cry. The deep and sorrowful wailing-kind-of-cry (because you are on this mountain to free your soul, and touch the depth of your beingness, so you know that it’s essential to release every ounce of agony). And after the tears have purged several layers of pain, the color of the sky looks different. You notice the wildflowers waving in sunlight. You wipe water from your face with sooty fingernails, and watch butterflies flit through the grasses. Everything seems to be conspiring to this bittersweet moment, your loss some sordid gift, signaling your growth. Through snot and no tissue, you realize your rite of passage: you have graduated to a blanket-free existence, the remains of your pseudo-security, ceremonious ashes on Mount Shasta.

 

courtesy of megananne
courtesy of megananne
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Write About the Most Fascinating Job You’ve Ever Had

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

Wanting to learn how to spin wool, I found a sheep farm in Vermont, and began an apprenticeship with Lois and Babs. Lois owned the farm, offering me a modest, cozy shepherd’s room. Babs was the farm manager, caring for about a hundred ewes, and a select five rams, kept for their docile nature. No aggressive males were allowed on this farm, owned and run, by lesbians.

Lois had been married over twenty years, but she recounted an unhealthy relationship, which now had her “done with men forever.” Babs was kind, and down-to earth, with sun-browned wrinkles by her eyes, that winked when she whispered “the best kept secret is life after 50.”

My first day on the farm involved learning the protocols of moving in and out of the barn, and feeding the sheep. After the work was done, I left to go on a hike, returning before sunset to feed again.

When I opened the barn door, one lone sheep lay on her side, heaving in the aisle of the stalls. I ran for assistance, then returned to the sheep, which was gasping for breath as I held its head in my lap. I felt the weight of a 300-pound animal, heavy in my hands, then suddenly releasing to stillness in my arms.

Lois was convinced it was my negligence that had allowed the sheep to escape its pen, overgrazing itself to death. I was certain I had secured everything appropriately, but her doubt in me had me questioning myself. As a natural consequence, to what she was sure was my careless oversight, she insisted I assist with an immediate autopsy.

We loaded the sheep’s body into a wheelbarrow, and made our way outside. It was dark by now, and I was to hold the flashlight while Lois cut into the soft pink of the sheep’s belly with a carving knife. Within was a warm, red pool, housing flesh and organs. Lois’s hand gripped a mass of tissue and pulled forth the lifeless, wet weight of a lamb. In the beam of my flashlight, she reached inside again, bringing forth a second limp body. The sheep had been pregnant with two babies, both of which had died inside, never delivered.

In the sadness of the loss, I was suddenly vindicated. It felt good to be absolved, but I couldn’t forget the feeling of bitter anger Lois had shown in her quick assumptions.

We both tried to shake it off, as she quipped, “Well, welcome to the farm!”

courtesy of Sean Hurley
courtesy of Sean Hurley