bird bath overflow with papaya leaf after downpour ~ photo by Jessica Dofflemyer all rights reserved
I’ve been steeped in the past by looking through old journal entries, trying to piece together details to convey stories. Big Sur just a month ago. British Columbia fifteen years past. Funny how the act of simply reading the words can stir the proverbial pot and thicken the broth. Perhaps the emotions conjured through reading are a gateway through which I transcend time and space. A vehicle with which I can build bridges or burn them down, depending on my desire.
For now I’m just thankful for how long the ink lasts on aged paper. Hoping the mold doesn’t overtake my treasure trove of journals before I cross all those bridges (and digitize those stories somehow).
With the pot simmering and my heart transporting itself through time portals, it’s good to remember true North. Which literally happens to be my physical locale in the island chain. Home is where the heart is. And there’s certainly some love and beauty in the backyard.
the tropical version of a Maxfield Parish painting ~ photo by Jessica Dofflemyer all rights reserved
By Day 3 and 4 in my feel-good place, I was certainly more in touch with the feel-good. I’d overcome resistance. Had grooved and was moved in the Dance Church. I’d ventured into the Rise Up Singing! class and harmonized a gospel tune with twenty other singers. I’d had a cleansing cry with my workshop facilitator, confessing I was mending a broken heart. And of course, my daily soaking rituals were dissolving layers in ways that only hydrotherapy can do.
So by Day 4, I’d quieted down into a soft hum. I could sit in the meditation hut for 30 minutes of silence without struggle. Calm seemed to seamlessly transition from the hut’s round purple pillow out the door into my day. My mind was clear. My heart open.
As I walked along the seacliff, an old spiritual of which I only knew some of the words, would surface and lilt through my throat to the salt air.
Swing low, sweet chariot coming for to carry me home Swing low, sweet chariot coming for to carry me home
The song somehow soothed me. And I was truly home. In the midst of such external beauty, yes, it was my idyllic abode. Big forest trees, ocean, mossy rocks, succulents and cascading waterfalls to the sea. Steaming springs that bubbled forth from the earth. But it was on the inside that I felt that resting place of ease. Connected with my truest self – my own chariot – I was home.
…my love for him is enmeshed in the sound of that river flowing. He is in the water and the bowing cedar trees. Our love is grounded in this place. The trees sing of him, the paths hold the story of our connection, the rocks and lawns tell of the sweetness we found in Love, with each other. This Love is housed in my physical body- my very cells. The land knows. It reminds me.
Walking out of the meditation hut on Day 4, I realized that there was no extracting him from the wind in those big trees. And I did not want to anymore. The breeze was no longer bittersweet. What blew through the branches that whispered of him, more deeply held the essence of Love itself. Love that was shared between a man and a woman but was a reflection of my own heart. A gateway to a Love more vast than anything that could ever be ‘mine’, yet all that I ever was.
photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved
shine your light you don’t have to let go of that sweet essence the connection you made was your own true Beloved full and rich with open heart you stumbled forward arms outstretched to touch the grace in wonder
the essence is alive in you through you it’s what was is and always will be yours Love Home
As part of a retrospective on my recent travels to California, I’m offering another installment to the series “Excerpts from the Coastal Dwelling.” A collage of journal entries, narrative, photographs and random poetic waxing.
Here’s Day Two:
the California Sweater
The pools become my addiction. I’m called to them again and again. Three times yesterday in a short amount of hours. I end the day and begin the day with the baths. Hot water. Cold water. Steep deep. Let the steam rise from bare skin on cold coastal air. Every combination. Quiet. Speaking. Silent. Alone. Communal. Wash hair. Keep hair dry.
After soaking I bundle and seal in all of the healing warmth with socks and boots, double layers and the California Sweater [named so because it’s stored in CA for when I come to visit]. The wool blanket/sweater I rescued from the giveaway bag – my father’s – the one he got in Mexico twenty years ago. It exudes the subtle scent of slightly damp wool and the weave lightly prickles my skin. This sweater is wrapped around me now as I write ink to paper and gaze at the ring – the jade one from Hawaii – its silver casting has turned iridescent turquoise from the minerals of the hot spring. I really must remember to start taking jewelry off in the baths.
[Though I was cleansing in the waters, I was emotionally steeped in the essence of the love with the rocket scientist that had seeded in that very place the year before. I was making peace with landmarks around every corner.]
It all came up today – a small cry, really, but one still the same. We were instructed in our workshop to write our life’s key points in five year increments. Thinking of the past felt like raw tenderness. Any recollecting just brought a floodgate of grief for the love that grew from these very grounds one year ago.
These crystalline moments of sweet connection are enmeshed in the landscape here. I pass the grassy field where we knelt and shared a tangerine while butterflies flit around our heads. There’s the cliffside bench, the corner tree, that table in the solarium. I walk past the cabin and the Bottle Brush tree – the backdrop for our happy photos. The scene’s familiar but he has vanished.
If I was not left with questions I think that I could walk among our monuments with gentle thoughts and sweet memories. A gratitude. Can I still find this place inside myself even if the questions are never answered?
Facilitator encourages me to be thankful for what we did share. She says sometimes things don’t always look the way we thought they would. And as we write our intentions and desires regarding our livelihood – our place in the world – the doubts arise about dreams. Are they really possible? Can I trust my heart?
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