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Listening to Stones

As Jeb and I spend our last days in California, I’m scanning the surrounding hills for our next adventure.

When I was about his age, these foothills watched me in summer heat, slip into swimming holes where toes mingled with algae and pollywogs. In the winter, my siblings and I would pull on our ‘moon boots’, the shoes made for snow but excellent for slick grass and granite boulder hopping. We’d comb the hillsides, climbing up – sometimes on all fours – and then run back down, digging our thick-soled shoes into the decline.

Long before us, Native people lived among these rocks and crannies. They were intimate with the Oaks that gifted the acorns that fed them. Not far from the creek bed, there still remains the grinding holes where generations of women sat working to feed their families. A tradition practiced for so long it shaped stone.

As a children we could sense something special here. There were no stories or explanations. But we could feel it in the rocks. Memories retained in granite. The limbs of an old Oak tree echoing of something ancient and mysterious.

I like to take Jeb here and let him feel it too. In a time and place where natural spaces are rapidly being lost to construction and pavement, I know this place, these moments, are rare.

This year my father gifted me last year’s Christmas poem, not long after we brought his grandsons down off the hill. It seems we have our own small tradition. The grinding holes are no longer used, but if nothing else, the landscape is still here to experience. These rocks abide to share. The foothills whisper.

Now with my son, I lean in close and listen.

CHRISTMAS 2010

                                                  The dead,
too, denying their graves, haunt
the places they were known in and knew,
field and barn, riverbank and woods.
– Wendell Berry (“2008, X.”)

Even now the headstones claim
little flats beneath nameless draws
either side of the house, rough

granite boulders set at the head
of deep holes filled for horse and dog –
where the deer lay down to shade

when I was a boy, and women healed
the spirit, burning sage, chanting
until they fell asleep. Hollow ground

to horses’ hooves where my children
played pretend, those great imaginings
that beg to fly – now walk their sons,

listening – feet wet in grass.
To come home for Christmas can be
a gift – so many voices welcoming.

 – John Dofflemyer

courtesy of Amanda Bouscher
courtesy of Amanda Bouscher
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 1 Comment

Time Line

let’s pretend time is a line
and I’m standing
right here
upon it
bubble wrapping
antique plates
that were my great grandmother’s

down that line behind me
are other relics
mementos that rise
to the surface
as if god
stirred a pot of stew

letters and postcards
newspaper clippings
slip up
and out
into my hands
photographs of my parents
forty years ago
wedding attire
and full innocent
love
in their smiles

here I am
holding these delicate dishes
they’ve moved down the line
up to me
passed through marriages
and family cupboards
setting places
for hopes and disappointments
now in my hands
they’re leaving California
I’ll meet them in Hawaii

and if time is a line
I’m right here
looking forward
to delivery confirmation
new old dishes
and the Bohemian
at my table
we can play house
pick herbs
and make dinner
by the kitchen window

ahead
behind
on the line of time
here and now
I stand
boxing heirlooms
beside me
my son
the swirl of his father
and myself
all blended in his smiling
eight year old eyes
my living proof
of love embodied
and the reminder
of the brilliant pain
that life will change

but time is not a line
so neat straight and narrow
so the generations
surround me
all those choices
facets on a diamond
simultaneously existing
with plates in my hand
a laugh from my son
a vision of a love
and what’s to come

I guess it doesn’t matter
what shape time takes
I’m just here
breathing
holding relics
visions
my son
now
in the stew
bubbling
in change

courtesy of paganpages.org
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Fanning Flames

In my California mornings, I reinvigorate the fire.

In early light, the sun not yet crested above the surrounding hills, I bundle in layers and follow my breath to the fire pit. The coals from last night’s big Oak round have burned down to a few pulsing cinders.

With cold hands, I gather the small sticks, a toss of Oak leaves, and begin to fan the flames. Sometimes Jeb is with me and we can huddle around the smokey pile, feeding and blowing in delicate attention. Other times he’ll wander off to stand among the dogs that wrestle on the frosted grass, leaving me to stoke alone.

I can pull my hair back with one hand and bend in close to breathe long and full into the orangey-red embers. I’ve been building fires most of my life and there is always a satisfaction felt when my own exhalation makes flame. My breath to fire, wood crackling to catch, a small blaze building.

This warmth gathers us. Family members from three to sixty-three, wander out in the morning with steaming mugs in their hands, big coats and sleepy eyes. The fire wakes us. Even once the sun has cast slants upon the melting lawn, the fire will still hold a steady flame. Spirals of smoke will dance in light throughout the day.

We realized last night that the fire has been burning without pause for three days. A heartbeat pumping, our family’s outdoor hearth is only an ‘h’ away from the love-life source that keeps us living.

We laugh at how I’ve taken to keep it burning in the morning. I love the unending cycle of stoking coals to flame.

“Well, whaddya think? Let’s keep it burning til 2012!” we say as we sit and warm our hands.

We smile in the cold as the knees on our jeans get toasted. My father’s quiet tone
drifts in the swirling smoke, our eyes fixated on the flames.

“…there’s something about a fire…”

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved