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The Honey of Peace

Last month in California, my father loaned  me his special desktop copy of Robinson Jeffers Selected Poems.  I was on a pilgrimage to Tor House, but first, five days in my feel-good place.

Dad's book at the Jeffers' Cornerstone

Within hours of arriving at the land of my solo retreat, I was out of sorts and feeling stuck.  Searching for clues, I flipped through pages of poetry and found the somber piece “To the Stone-cutters” (entire work can be read here).  My journal entry begins by quoting the last line.  One that seems even more relevant now as I try to glean some nectar from the words I wrote during that expansive time.

Here’s an excerpt from day one, as I began to unravel in that coastal dwelling.

“The honey of peace in old poems…”  Robinson Jeffers

‘Dance Church’ is next door and the bass is pumping.  I know that I love to dance but there are reasons I am here, not there:  jet lag, no sleep, bloodshot eyes, bad music, closed circuits, just don’t feel like it.

I peek in the window and be the voyeur that watches but doesn’t want to take the plunge.  Sixty happy people move and jump in a mass of ecstatic wildness.  A man exits, sees my indecision and encourages me to go inside.  I tell him that I am just too tired.

“I was too, but it woke me up…”

Eventually, I enter.  Somewhere around the Van Halen song, “Jump”, (that’s right, ‘go ahead and jump!’) I’m telling myself that I just can’t dance to this.  But then I try it anyway.  David Lee Roth’s mantra segues into something more palatable and I’m soon a member of the congregation, dancing my own kind of freedom.  My state is altered, my body enlivened and I get so into it that when Dance Church is over and it’s time for dinner, I can barely eat.

Later I’m in the hot springs on a new moon in the starlight.  A bath with myself and two women – silent.  After a long while one begins to gently sing:  “When I am in the light of my soul I am home.”

She sings this line quietly for a short time then slowly exits the bath.  More silence, warm water and calm.”

Ahh…the honey of peace in old poems.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Porosity

I wake in the dark to the sound of the garbage truck out on the street and the word porous in my mind.

Mmmm…a word in the mind upon first waking may be significant.

Apple’s Dictionary application defines it:

porous |ˈpôrəs|
adjective
(of a rock or other material) having minute spaces or holes through which liquid or air may pass.
• figurative not retentive or secure : he ran through a porous defense to score easily.

DERIVATIVES
porosity |pəˈräsətē; pôrˈäs-| noun
porousness noun
ORIGIN late Middle English : from Old French poreux, based on Latin porus ‘pore.’

Porosity.  Now there’s a word.  Suggesting a permeability.  An allowing of things to move and pass through.  An openness.

This past December I was on a rock-themed tour of California.  Seems stone was everywhere.  Either in the shape of some massive monolith before me, the foundation of a tower I was climbing, or as a small token in my pocket.  On more than one occasion I witnessed how these rocks had been shaped by time.

Much of what I saw would be considered to have little porosity.  And yet, despite it’s solidity, the incessant motion of repetition and time forged new shapes out of hard rock and earth.

An example:  Native grinding holes by the creekside in Central California.  When my finger tips touched the bottom, the depth of the hole was up to my elbow.

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved

Or the classic photo op found at Pfeiffer Beach in Big Sur where water has cut through to shed light.

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved

It’s 7:10am and I have a lunch to pack, a breakfast to make, a radio program to prep for and taxes to complete.  In summary, I gotta get on with the morning.  I’m seeking a simple way to tie ancient grinding holes, porosity and life-in-general together in a metaphorical closing sentence here.

Basically, it seems the experience of life itself shapes us.  Our beings will not remain unchanged.  For today I’ll let my form be porous and see how it feels to let it all pass through.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Hand on the Heart

Friday was full.

Jeb stayed home with the sniffles while I tried to work from home.  He did as I requested, which was to keep himself occupied while I tended to my tasks at hand.  But being that he was not really all that ill, he had plenty of energy to essentially turn his room inside out.

The dishes in the sink, the pile of Legos scattered by the door, the voice of Casey Kasem as Shaggy on the Scooby Doo DVD  – I tried to tune out the peripheral chaos and focus on my work.  At one point I realized I had to see a client and Jeb was going to have to come with me and occupy himself in the car.  I’d sent an email and left a message with Rex in hopes of getting a little relief but there had been no reply.

I gathered my essential work-related items and then began hastily throwing together some snacks for Jeb’s backseat excursion.  A tangerine, a bowl of cheddar goldfish, a breakfast bar and some water.  He put a basket of toys together and we ran through the rain to load up in the car.

As I pulled out of the driveway thinking of how I could most gracefully appear professional yet still tend to the needs of my under-the-weather-child, I felt the tension ripple through my body.  I knew this feeling.

I’d spent 5 days in December having an intimate exchange with this strained sensation.  It feels heavy, like something of a mountain on top of my head.  And this mountain is ever-demanding and never lets up.  Under the pressure of this prominence my very being constricts and tightens.  Things move faster, my patience grows thinner and eventually…I get mad.

So Jeb’s in the back seat trying to see if one of his Star Wars Storm Troopers can fit in his remote control Jeep while Buzz Lightyear looks on.

Buzz Lightyear and a bald Mr. Potatohead

Riding shotgun with me is my laptop and paperwork, a ten page to-do list and a stick of gum.  I feel the overwhelm close in on me like a shroud.  And then I remember the words of the Ambassador.

If you follow the Archives you may recall the Ambassador shared his story of 15 seconds of grace. He also imparted some sage advice for moments when grace can’t even be felt for a millisecond.  He suggested the simple gesture of a hand to the heart.  A deep breath in.  And just be there like that for a moment.

So I’m driving down the highway with Jeb and Mr. Potatohead and I reach my hand to my heart and breathe.  There is a comfort there of simply feeling a hand on my chest.  An abbreviated version of a self-hug.  I notice the air in my lungs.  And I begin to see the green of the wet trees along the highway with a bit more vivid vision.  After about a minute, I do realize that my body has relaxed.

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved

No circumstance has changed.  I still have a client to meet.  Jeb is still sniffly.  But I’m a bit more calm.  And then I realize that the mountain on my head is not just sourced in situation.  Surely life will provide plenty of external conditions to challenge me.  But in the end, I’m the one who decides how it affects me.  I choose to tighten.  I choose to lose my grace in haste.

Hand on the heart makes space.  I like this.

Within five minutes of arriving at my clients’, Rex texts me that he can be with Jeb.  I shuttle him to his father’s place with gratitude and have the rest of the day to focus freely on my work.  I’ll admit the day still saw instances of tension and I forgot all about my heart.  But I had a glimpse of mastery in that moment there with Jeb and the toys and the highway.

And you know, just for fun…if you’ve read this far.  I invite you to try it for yourself right now.  Put your hand on your heart and see how it feels.