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Diary of a Sleepy Woman

The coffee grinder is with me behind closed doors of the bathroom at 3am. It whirs in a muffled grind beneath the padding of a thick bath towel. I guess this is what you call considerate insomnia, as my occasional real-early rises occur, now, within the presence of another. On this particular morning, the Bohemian rests soundly and Jeb is crashed out on the couch, nearby.

I should be sleeping and replenishing my reserves. It’s been a week of caring for Jeb in a second wave of sickness – this time the flu, with a full night of off-and-on vomiting. While monitoring his temperature and forcing fluids, I’ve juggled work schedules, washed sheets and made dinner. No, I did not make it to posting to the Archives yesterday. But I did capture a centipede that slithered next to Jeb’s bed, leaving the Bohemian to simply stare, empty dustpan in his hands, as I quickly disposed of it (with blessings). (Centipedes outside, I come in peace. Centipedes inside, by the bed of my sick son, not welcome).

Tiring as this may be, I’m not alone in my labors of love. And this is something new. The Bohemian is a constant, continually keeping the kitchen sink empty. Loads of clean laundry I dump from the basket magically transform to neat piles (my underwear has never been folded so neatly before). When he’s not taking out the compost or sweeping the kitchen floor, the Bohemian’s in our back yard pruning. I look up from my work through the window, to see him staring in at me from the top of the kukui nut tree, wielding a hand saw and fat grin. He’s opening the view.

Yes, I am surrounded by new sights, fresh viewpoints, expanded perspectives.

I’m recalling the day I gifted him a toothbrush to keep at my house. This evolved to the offer of half a drawer for two sarongs and t-shirt. Now, he’s got four drawers and we hang 13 of his shirts in the closet. The sight is surprisingly strange, but I like it – yes, those are men’s clothes hanging next to mine.

After a full and long day, we sigh and find ourselves face to face in the kitchen. He’s been digging holes and making electrical repairs. I’ve been up since 1am with vomit and centipedes. We’re smiling but I’m wondering if this free-spirited soul I met on the beach may be having second thoughts about all this domesticity.

Before I can consider it further, Jeb enters with Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Last Straw, requesting the Bohemian read aloud. The man is surely tired. One would understand that he may not be in the mood to delve into reading a children’s story right now. Especially, since English is a second language – one that he’s learned completely by sound, not sight. But ever-amazing, he agrees to read the passage Jeb indicates – the one where Greg wants to make a good impression on the girl he likes at the school dance, but his friend intercedes and ruins the moment.

The Bohemian reads each word carefully. He’s patient as he trips through a few phrases. With the tables turned, Jeb can occasionally tell him how to sound it out. He reads not one, but at least ten pages, laughs and says, “This is a good book.”

Dinner is bubbling in the oven. Jeb is on the rug, listening with a smile. The Bohemian is standing in the kitchen slowly reading with sweet intent. Greg’s mom is trying to herd the Heffley family to an Easter Sunday service. I’m finally sitting down for the first time all day.

I don’t’ know where  this tale is going (ours, that is, – and, of course, how could I?) Certainly, at times I’m afraid of sudden turns in the plot. But for now, in this simple moment in the kitchen with Jeb, the Bohemian and the voice of Greg Heffley ala a thick Czech accent, I’d say that I’m liking this story.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
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Tax Talk and Lace Underwear

I told him that we may want
to keep it romantic
all this family stuff
seemed to take
even the best ones down
my fear
that once he was really in
there’d be more chores
less
candlelight

and now
he’s in
at 5:55am
the kitchen, that is
where we’re whispering
the sweet somethings
the practicals
Jeb’s fever that woke him in the night
strep throat symptoms
and general excise taxes

this morning
before sunrise
it’s the takeover
from sexy
to sickness
schedules

at least I’m aware
standing there
in nothing
but my Ganesha t shirt
and Victoria’s Secret
underwear
that something here
has changed

our meeting adjourned
he’ll trim his beard in the bathroom
I’ll come to write poetry
while Jeb still sleeps
the sun’s rising
soon
there’ll be
wet wash cloths to wring
a thermometer to monitor
coordination of
work and dinner

and then
he says
“come see the sky!”
we step out onto the balcony
whack webs away
to see
pink clouds
hear the birds
gaze upon
the sliver that’s left
of the moon

 

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

 

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The Possibilities

I was going to let myself off the hook this morning.

After a two-day intensive writing workshop, I knew I hadn’t been slacking on my craft. With a holiday (in honor of one of my heroes, by the way. Bless you Dr. King!) and no work today, I announced to Jeb and the Bohemian that I would be officially sleeping in.

Yet, at 5:45 this morning, I could stay in bed no more. The keyboard called me.

This past weekend’s workshop, “Writing About the Extraordinary”, was led by the amazing Hope Edelman, author of several books, including one called “The Possibility of Everything.” We were invited to come with 750 words describing some remarkable event from our life. Despite the multitude of phenomenal encounters I have experienced in my 38 years, I was at a loss as to which one to choose.

In very uncharacteristic fashion, I showed up to the workshop, essentially empty-handed and (almost) late. Yet, over the course of two days, Hope’s practical teachings framed a foundation from which I could ground my extraordinary experience(s) into something that had meaning.

There were three very distinct events that called to be written. And what I discovered about them was that despite the phenomenal quality I experienced, first-hand with each, there was a gap. A gap between my logical mind that wanted to make sense of it and my feeling self that knew.

Between the realms of intuitive and intellectual knowing was a rift that was hard to navigate.  Without the security of a bridge to the logical mind, doubt would inevitably creep in. It would whisper dissuading arguments. If I couldn’t understand it, maybe it wasn’t true.

Instead of degrading myself for being a Doubter, I realized that perhaps a strong thread in my extraordinary experiences was the doubt itself. The human inclination to question even the most vivid, when we cannot make sense of it.

With this revelation, my piece began to be written.

Dedicated as I am to chronicling here in the Archives, I’m including an excerpt from what came out of this weekend’s workshop. I sense that the experience I describe is framed by two more events, yet to be detailed in writing.

For now, I’m grateful for an amazing weekend, inspired by the possibilities.

~ Excerpt from a work in progress…”Writing About the Extraordinary” assignment, January 2012.

Standing at a stream crossing, naked but for my butterfly sarong, banana trees bowing beneath the weight of a fresh rain, I look at him and know I have a choice.  I can say yes and surrender into loving him.  Or say no and choose a different trail.

I choose yes and let myself fall deeply into love, though our next three years together are filled with a full spectrum:  passionate pledges of abiding devotion and a series of dramatic break-ups punctuated by slamming doors. 

We lived in this push and pull, housed in an old school bus up on blocks, our bed by the swinging exit door in the back.  I was in my late twenties and feeling nesty, dreaming of a family.  He was in his early thirties still hoping to make it big with one great song or simply resign to a life meditating in a cave.  His photographs of saints, propped up on guitar amps, collected dust where the bus driver’s seat had once been, staring at us in faded wisdom, amidst ashes of burnt incense.

Uncertain of our fate and all my family yearnings, the Musician boarded a plane for four months travel through India.  In his absence, I made a garden.  Uprooted buffalo grass with a pick axe.  Planted marigolds and basil in the front yard.  Hung prayer flags at the screen door.  Carefully journaled my dreams.

I signed up for a women’s workshop.  A two day course designed to connect women with their wombs and sacred sexuality.  Having lost an ovary when I was eighteen and undergone a second surgery on my remaining one, I was fearful that my dream of being a mother may never be realized.  I attended the workshop with the intention of opening to fertility and signaling to the universe that I was  ready for a family.  My not-sure-if-he’s-still-my-boyfriend-but-maybe was still in India and I was clear that if he wasn’t the one for me, I wanted to make way for the one that was.

 I sat in the circle with 11 women.  We had done some stretching, breathing deeply.  We followed the invitation of our instructor to allow tonal sounds to move through our throats.  A cacophony of pitches wove through the circle, my ears ringing, my body vibrating.  I was toning, too, with closed eyes, listening to the layers of sound when suddenly I tuned to the song of a bird at the window.

The call was like none I had ever heard before.  Its delivery alien, not earthly, as though coming from some other planet.  And as I listened to the bird my being was washed in a resounding truth.  A transmission imparted that surpassed words.  It was not language, simply an understanding.  Cellular, clear and plain.  I would, undoubtedly, have a child.