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 · 2 Comments

Playing with the Dudes

Jeb wants me to play with his dudes.

The dudes being a gaggle of plastic, two-inch tall fighters representing three distinct groups:  cowboys, Indians and the military.  They come in the rainbow colors of red, green, blue and yellow and look to be circa 1954.  Each one strikes a pose of some kind of offensive stance while holding their respective weapons.  The cowboys and military wield guns and cannons while the natives hold other more rudimentary tools of attack.

Jeb has brought these aggressive (albeit inanimate) little warriors back from his dad’s place.  There’s a no-toy-gun policy at my house (which does not apply at dad’s) and Jeb’s pushing the pacifist envelope by lining up these warring dudes on the floor of our living room.

As he does so, he explains to me the backstory.

“The cowboys and the Indians used to fight each other.  But now they’re on the same side and they’re fighting the military guys.”

As Jeb fills me in, I’m on my hands and knees in the bathroom wiping down baseboards with biodegradable, geranium scented cleaning product.  I know this is an opportunity for a teaching moment.  There must be a way somehow that I could distill the complexities of war and history into an age-appropriate conversation. But over by the toilet bowl, the conscious parenting portion of my brain is drawing a blank.

“I want you to come see my dudes.  It’s fun.  We can play with them.”

I finish up and come to see each guy standing flat on his little rounded platform of plastic.  A few characters are engaged on their bellies in aimed attack.

Jeb reaches an Indian out to me.  “Here, you’ll probably like these guys the best,” he says, without needing to say that it’s because their weapons aren’t guns.

I sit with him and he takes to positioning the different guys in odd locales, including attempts to balance one on my shoulder.  A blue cowboy stands on my knee, legs bent, with a gun pointing out in each hand.

I take him between my thumb and forefinger.  “This guy needs to chill out.  He’s got a gun in each hand.  He needs to relax a bit.”

And since we’re by the tub, I turn on the faucet and position blue, double-fisted cowboy under the tap.  The water cascades over his head until just the tips of his gun barrels break through the stream.  “Ahh…there we go.  It’s like he’s under a waterfall.  There you go, cowboy.  Just relax.”

Jeb laughs.

Some of the dudes are replicas, only varying by color.  I find three two-handed gunslingers in yellow, red and blue.  “Oh look, these guys want to dance together!”

I circle them up so that their outstretched gun barrels touch.  “Maybe ring around the rosie!”

“Oh, and these guys…”  I find two more replicas, both in blue, with weapons as extensions of their hands.  “These guys want to hug each other.  Ahhhh….”

No profound teaching moment here.  I’m more a parody of myself, really.

But Jeb already knows my feelings about guns.  They’re tools, not toys.  He knows I don’t like war games (in real life or in play).

And taboos can make things more enticing.  I try to find balance in my responses to his intrigue with weapons and war.

On this afternoon, I was willing to play with his dudes.  But I couldn’t hold back from taking his fearsome warriors, giving them hydro-therapy, making them hug, hold hands, and dance.

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.