Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Liquid Gold

Jeb tells me that his friend at school thinks I’m a billionaire.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“He said, ‘Your mom is a billionaire.’ He thinks you’re rich.”

“Well, you know what?  I feel rich.  I have a healthy and wonderful son…”  Jeb smiles.  “A beautiful house to live in.  And great friends and family.  I’m a wealthy woman.”

He listens to my words while continuing to tie his shoes.

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer

“What did you say when he told you I was a billionaire?”

“I said you weren’t.”

“You did?”

“Well, yeah.  Because you’re not.”

“Right.  Of course.”

Later I squeeze a bounty of citrus gifted by friends.  Filling my glass, I am satiated with sweet treasure.  Liquid gold.

And as night falls, Jeb does homework while I wash Tupperware.  I’ve got three days, five appointments and two pages of ‘to-do’s’ before our trip to California.  Yet there is a peace.  I feel the warm light of my tunnel’s end.  I’m already half-way on vacation.  I’m coasting.

Feeling like a very rich woman indeed.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

A Swig from the Leaking Barrel of Love and Light

Home together on a rainy night, Jeb and I pull out old Saturday Night Live skits, fast forward through some adult humor and find a few goofy gems.  Kings of the just plain silly, Chris Farley and Will Ferrell have me laughing harder than I have in weeks.

Maybe it’s been longer than weeks, as Jeb says, “Your laugh! It’s so funny,” as if he’s never heard it before.

In the morning he crawls up into my bed, looks at my face in the light and says with candid concern, “You look like you’re dying.” Not quite the pillow talk a woman wants to wake to.

He then traces a finger along my aging cheek. “You’re getting so many spots. You really look like you’re dying.”

Continuing his assessment, he puts his hand to my chest. “Is your heart beating?” He lingers a good two seconds then confirms, “Your heart’s not beating. I don’t feel your heart.”

“It’s there, it’s beating,” I say.

“But you’re too young to die…right?”

I affirm. I am too young to die.

I know I’m alive.  Just yesterday I did all those human, earthly things:  sorted toads and spiders from the rain soaked recycling, vacuumed dust bunnies from the closet, picked up the mail, bought groceries.

But am I really living?

Does Jeb see more than just my crow’s feet? Does he sense a body breathing lacking life force?

At my desk the cover of Daniel Ladinsky‘s renderings of Hafiz poetry shimmers in gold and periwinkle blue: I Heard God Laughing. Poems of Hope and Joy.

Flipping through the pages it’s as though Ladinsky and Hafiz have conspired to give me a talking to.  A loving scolding that cracks open my heart.

I Know the Way You Can Get

I know the way you can get
When you have not had a drink of Love:

Your face hardens,
Your sweet muscles cramp.
Children become concerned
About a strange look that appears in your eyes
Which even begins to worry your own mirror
And nose.

Squirrels and birds sense your sadness
And call an important conference in a tall tree.
They decide which secret code to chant
To help your mind and soul.

Even angels fear that brand of madness
That arrays itself against the world
And throws sharp stones and spears into
The innocent
And into one’s self.

O I know the way you can get
If you have not been drinking Love:

You might rip apart
Every sentence your friends and teachers say,
Looking for hidden clauses.

You might weigh every word on a scale
Like a dead fish.

You might pull out a ruler to measure
From every angle in your darkness
The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once
Trusted.

I know the way you can get
If you have not had a drink from Love’s
Hands.

That is why all the Great Ones speak of
The vital need
To keep remembering God,
So you will come to know and see Him
As being Playful
And Wanting,
Just Wanting to help.

That is why Hafiz says:
Bring your cup near me,
For I am a Sweet Old Vagabond
With an Infinite Leaking Barrel
Of Light and Laughter and Truth
That the Beloved has tied to my back.

Dear one,
Indeed, please bring your heart near me.
For all I care about
Is quenching your thirst for freedom!

All a Sane man can ever care about
Is giving Love!

~ Hafiz (translation by Daniel Ladinsky)

This morning I’ll meet you at that veritable fountain of youth and raise a toast poured from that Vagabond’s leaking barrel.

Cheers to Light and Love and Laughter!

 

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 1 Comment

Divining Water

I have not lost my voice.  Clearly my typing fingers still work too, as I continue to tap away about intimate details in this public forum.  I experience with certain posts (such as At the Altar) something I can only liken to buyer’s remorse. Dare to publish a soul-exposing piece, then question my better judgement and resist all urges to log in and hit delete before anyone reads it.

I take my discomfort as a good sign.  If I were witching for water my dousing tool would be moving.  I sense there is a wellspring below the surface and through the words and honest sharing a rich resource may be divined.

Years ago my father shared a book with me called The Moon Under Her Feet by Clysta Kinstler.  Through Kinstler’s bibliography of history, myth and literature, she crafts a narrative of Christ through the voice of Mary Magadalene.  The read was rich with fresh perspectives for me at the time and one idea persists to this day.

In the bible’s version of the crucifixion story, Judas accepts money from the authorities in exchange for revealing Christ’s whereabouts, then seals the deal with a kiss in the ultimate betrayal.

In Kinstler’s story, Judas was Christ’s twin brother, appointed the task of helping him fulfill his destiny on the cross.  It was from Judas’ deep love for his brother that he agreed to be the one to appear as though he had betrayed him with that kiss.  When in truth, he was simply playing his role in moving Christ toward his transformation.

What if I could think about a hurt that had come from the actions of someone close to me and imagine that our two souls had made some silent pact?  Between us some long-forgotten, cosmic agreement had been made to help each other as humans learn love’s greatest lessons. What if we agreed that one of us were going to do something that seemed the very opposite of loving?  It was going to look bad, it would certainly feel painful.  But the greater truth was that this betrayal was necessary in order to grow. The hurt inflicted would ignite the fire that would raise the phoenix from the ash.

One step beyond forgiveness, this perspective (real or imagined) can actually create a gratitude towards the one that ‘did me wrong.’  There never was transgression.  Every one played their part in the story to perfection.  How radical is that?

Just like that dousing tool pointing me towards water where it looks like only land, I trust that beneath the surface of my Judas there is a spring just waiting to be tapped.