Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

On My Watch

Accidents happen…but not on my watch.

I see myself trying to uphold this fallacy in every reminder that trails in the dust behind my eight year old’s trotting flip-flops.

“Be careful with those sticks…”
“Be mindful of cars…”
“Did you put sunscreen on your face?”

I am everything in these moments. The responsible parent. The nagging mother. The hapless human in illusion that she can outwit fate through continual precautionary tips.

I get the feedback.

From my son, Jeb: “You’re being too much of a mom.”
From a family friend (his children grown): “You can’t live in fear. He’s having fun.”
From another mother (her children small): “You’re being a good mom. We all need to be more aware.”

I’d like to think I’m far from phobic. In fact, I think I’m a pretty laid back mom. My son kayaks the open ocean, climbs trees, surfs waves. He jumps and dangles, burrows and karate chops. He has even been away from me for days at a time. I swear, I am no smother. But I observe my grasping.

Not grasping for my son. Just grasping for control of all things ‘bad.’ I’ve made it clear, mishaps are not welcome here.

Ever since the recent news of a friend who lost her child in an accident – a swift and sudden turn of events, forever changing that family’s course – I’m finding my alert-meter turned to high.

Fear is watchful, ever-vigilant. But where am I?

Somewhere beneath the tensing muscles in my stomach and the strain of warning words moving from my throat, is a woman who wants no mistakes. A woman who would like to skirt suffering. A woman who loves deeply.

And present, too, distant in the shadows of circumspection, there is another Watcher, observing this whole scene.

This Watcher, she smiles a compassionate smile. To that eight year old child that wants to experience and be free, unwitting in beautiful innocence to all the darkness of the world. She smiles to the mother who wants nothing more than to see her child grow strong and full, safe and sound. This mother, who in sweet foolishness believes, that she can override destiny.

I believe this Watcher is my truest self (shed of all the fear and doubt) and this Watcher knows. Or knows that she does not know. Does not know the way of life and death. Does not know the place where choice and fate divide and collide. Does not even know what is truly ‘best’. But has a hunch it has something to do with surrender.

A friend told me when I gave birth to my son, “As soon as they’re born, give them back to God. They are not yours.”

At the time, I thought I understood what that meant and it seemed sage advice. Now I get to live it.

Yes, Jeb’s still going to wear his helmet. No, he’s not quite yet ready for the pocket knife. Yes, someone has to be watching when he swims in the ocean. And no, despite his pleas, we are not changing his iTouch settings to age 12.

On my watch, I want to know I’ve done my best to stay aware. Done what I could to keep Jeb safe. But who am I to think that I really have the power to keep all ‘bad’ at bay?

I’ll wholeheartedly welcome in the good. Try to remember that things don’t always go as planned. There are greater forces at work.

They hold me. My son. This world.

Keep watching, but let go.

photo courtesy of tee.kay
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

From the Mystics

If you’ve ever watched a newborn baby, you’ll know how it is, celebrating every movement with awe and glee.

“Ohh, look! He just moved his finger!”

As the baby grows, these gestures evolve to smiles, laughter, sounds and eventually roll-overs, crawls and walks. As for me, I know one day Jeb will ask in his newly deepened voice, “Mom, can I borrow the car?”

But for now he’s only eight and there’s been enough time between today and his first smile that I take most of his moves for granted. I don’t marvel at his tree climbs or rock hops. Though, together, the two of us have been sitting with rapt attention as we watch the simple blink of our turtle’s eye.

I know lately I’ve been a bit turtle obsessed. I’m letting myself be preoccupied, since it’s not every day that a turtle shows up in your yard. Perhaps one day all of Zelva’s minute movements will have lost their magic. It’ll be “of course” to know that there’s a turtle in a pool by the banana patch. Though I hope I don’t get used to it.

Because that’s just it. More than thoughts on everything turtle, what I love about this slow-moving testudine (nice, huh?) is that she brings me to the present moment where I begin to appreciate every nuance.

The woo-woo lover in me, ever-seeking magic in that thread I’m following, can play with the idea that Zelva comes as a gift from the mystics. For those following the Archives, you may recall that post from a few weeks ago, on the first day the Bohemian and I landed in CA. Not long after our 6am breakfast at the Omelet Parlor and the public bathrooms at Venice Beach, we sighted dolphins at sea and a graffiti Buddha on the wall. By 10:30am we were at Lake Shrine Temple, a sanctuary dedicated by Paramahansa Yogananda and home to the Self-Realization Fellowship. We were greeted by painted turtles that swam up to us at the dock, where we stood beneath the sign that read “Be still, and know that I am God.”

Was it a harbinger of things to come? That we would fly home, 3,000 miles over the Pacific Ocean, only to have a painted turtle come climbing over rocks and lawn to sit beneath our puakinikini tree?

Paramahansa Yogananda

Her presence evokes the same stillness I found that California day at Lake Shrine. Sloooowing down. She stills me. In this place, I take less for granted. Still find the awe in the dance of life’s movements. Flesh over bone, eyes under lids, breath filling lungs and wind in the leaves.

I can dream of a day when the whole world will opt to move at turtle speed, though it’s hard to imagine how.

For now, I’ll look to my turtle guru, Zelva. Try to bring awe into the everyday paces.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Enter Zelva

making beds
instead
of writing poetry
there only
comes
a title
enter Zelva
with a czech
‘z’
that sounds
like
‘zj’

what does it mean
when your eight year old
is struggling
in the morning
with shorts that are too big
you’re making pancakes
but thinking of that book
you want to write

if only there was time

there’s that
slow
moving
turtle
in the backyard
the one that just
showed up one day
making you all
pause
stop
and stare
observing
every hint
of movement
each one
counting
so very much

enter Zelva
putting us all
in some sort
of meditative
state
wondering
about the world
inside her shell

Zelva