Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

What the Stars Showed Me

Certainly not resigned, I have taken a pause on Submission.

For those following the Archives, you may recall that I’ve come to lovingly regard the process of sending my writing to various publications as “Submission.”  Turning the noun into a verb helps me surrender to the whole experience – acceptance and rejection alike.

These past weeks, creative juices have been flowing in the direction of packing boxes for my upcoming move, with little time to keep up with the Archives here, let alone submit any work elsewhere.

Ever-keen to take the cue of cosmic winks, however, I’m paying attention when the editor of an anthology requests I submit a piece or two. There are no guarantees one of my works would be chosen but she has urged me to at least make an offering, specifically referencing a short, non-fiction story called “What the Stars Showed Me”.

With minimal time to make revisions or even second guess myself, I’m readying to print, seal and stamp.  In my present flurry, there’s no room to pin hopes or expectations.  Hence the liberating freedom of Submission.

Taking it one step further and throwing all hesitation by the wayside, I’m posting an excerpt from the piece about my night camping near remote hot springs, right here.

“The moment I woke up in my hospital room, I knew I was not going to Kauai. With complete clarity, I decided that I was bound for British Columbia. I had been to BC once before and I knew one man about my age in Victoria. He and I had met in a parking lot at the house of Anne of Green Gables on Prince Edward Island that past summer. We’d spent a few days traveling with friends, exchanged a couple of letters, and he’d offered me a place to stay if I came to town.

Three weeks post-op, I am healing a fresh scar and making my way to Canada. And in this moment, I am deep in the night, freezing my bones in the Olympic rainforest, dreaming of cats while psychedelic forest trippers howl. I cannot stay in my tent. I have to make a move.

Survival instincts determine that I will try the first lower pool, with hopes that it will be empty and the water will warm me. As I walk with my flashlight through the dark, I can still see the glow of lights through the trees at the upper pool. Illustrations from my childhood edition of Rumpelstiltskin taunt me.

It was a gnome-like trickster that helped a maiden spin straw into gold.  In exchange for revealing one of life’s great secrets, he insisted she give him her first-born child if she could not guess his name. Illustrator, Edward Gorey’s spooky sketch showed a scene in the night when the maiden’s servant spied upon Rumpelstiltskin dancing round a fire in ghoulish delight. He was celebrating early victory at having stumped the maiden. That child would be his because no one knew his name was Rumpelstiltskin! The flame and shadows, the trickery, the trollish stature of the creature with the strange name who wanted babies as his prize – the darkness of the tale had made an imprint.  

Now, deep in the shadowed forest, real wild beings hoot in twitching light up on the hillside. As I cross the bridge, my flashlight begins to flicker and fade. There is the smell of sulfur and moist air. I arrive at the first pool with enough light to see that no one is here. The water is shallow with some protruding rocks, but it is quiet and I quickly strip down to immerse myself. The temperature is tepid. Not the steaming hot of the upper pool, but it’s enough to match my body temperature and quell the chill.

Though the water is not deep, I am able to submerge my whole body and find a spot among the rocks where I can stretch out. Using a boulder as a pillow, I rest my head back and look up at the night sky. A sparkling of stars dazzle the thick black backdrop. So many white studded twinkles splay before me – all magic seems possible.  

My ears are perked for sounds from the howlers, but all is now remarkably quiet. Not in an eerie way. There is a genuine calm. It is so still here in the trees I almost wonder if I was dreaming the wild ones, just like the kittens. The warm water envelopes me and I am held by the stillness of the trees and the rock beneath my head. I float in awe at the quiet of the night. See a shooting star and make a wish – the same one that I have wished so many times before. May I please one day have a child.

At some point I drift off into a subtle sleep. I don’t know how long I rest there but it is still thick in the night when a light misting begins and wakes me. A new, more immediate wish comes instantly to mind:  Please, no rain!  And just as soon as the silent plea arises, another shooting star arches through the sky and I pin all hopes upon that celestial body.

As if I am actually orchestrating with the elements, the misting immediately ceases and rain never does appear. I relax in the water, no thoughts of getting pruned, just grateful for the rock beneath my head. I acknowledge the strength of my body that has carried a 35-pound pack to this camp spot only weeks after major surgery. I am thankful for the one ovary that remains within my womb, still housing hope for creation yet to come. I am grateful for the quiet of the forest. I am happy for the comfort of my earthen pool.

Nestled in soft silt and stone, I watch the night slowly turn from black to dusky purple. Nearby roots and trunks reveal new dimensions in early light. The landscape that has held me through the night is now unveiling. Stars fade from my view.

The forest stirs. Animals rustle and the trees arch and stretch in the beginning warmth of morning. Exiting my liquid haven, I now can see it is really not much more than a glorified puddle, even more shallow and small than I had realized. Yet within those simple elements had swirled the golden mystery. Transformation of cold to warmth. Fear to ease. Dark to light. “

Excerpt from “What the Stars Showed Me” by Jessica Dofflemyer

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Scratch-free

Continuing on the thread of the posts from the last two days, I’m still pondering the perspectives of “No Enemy” and “That Which You Resist Persists.”

I’ve also been reflecting on the beautiful word “ease” and thinking about how I want its essence to infuse my life.

If resistance is essentially a frictional “no” then perhaps its antidote is a welcoming “yes.”

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

Affirmation to the moment at hand.

I used to hike hidden goat trails with friends in remote valleys.  The paths were narrow and usually overgrown with flora, especially the invasive lantana plant, full of thick thorns.  As we made our way through the underbrush someone developed a mantra “no resistance, no scratches.”  

We found that the more we relaxed into walking through the brush without recoiling or fighting the branches, the more we became almost impermeable to getting scratched.  It was an energetic, almost like Tai Chi, where we became ‘one’ with our surroundings and moved in easy coherence with our environment.

Saying “yes” to the moment doesn’t necessarily mean a passive existence.  I believe we can still shape our moments, like a sailor uses a rudder to steer a boat within the current.

To apply these metaphors to the here-and-now, I’ll tell you that Jeb has now woken from his slumber.  He’s hungry and desiring to share with me the record-breaking animals from his Book of World Records.  It’s time to prepare his lunch and make my bed.  Life calls me away from this writing realm here in the Archives.

I could either cling to the banks or simply go with the forces that are now moving me in new directions.

I know I’ve got my symbolism all overlapped.  Brambly bushes on earthen trails and the watery currents of life’s river.  I won’t resist, just accept that it’s a makeshift morning with little time for writing refinement.  Hopefully, you catch my drift.

I’m thinking ease.  I’m envisioning gentle currents with steady steering.  I’m feeling scratch-free.  I’m saying “yes.”

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Resist Persist

“That which you resist persists.”

We ate dinner at a friend’s house last night, where a six-year old was thrilled to have seven-year old Jeb to play with.  But Jeb wasn’t into it.

At first he would hide.  I guess he partially enjoyed hearing her call his name repeatedly as she hunted for him.

“Jeb…Jeb…where are you?”

Whenever she’d catch a glimpse, he’d run off into another place and she would quickly pursue trying to uncover his whereabouts.  He’d eventually give up and spend some time with her but then quickly tire when she groped at his body or got too close to his face.

At one point he comes and hides behind my body like I’m the target “safe” zone in a game of tag.  His eyes plead with me.  I can tell he’s trying to be kind but he’s reached his personal space limit.  Something distracts her and she wanders off (temporarily).

I tell him, “Use your words instead of running away.  You can explain that you just want some space.”

Seeing a clear window of escape, he nods and then dashes away downstairs before she notices.  I return to dinner prep in the kitchen with the adults.

Not much later I hear voices from outside through the screen door.  The occasional sound of a skateboard tail scrapes on cement and the voice of a little girl prods with yearning and delight., “Jeb…Jeb…Jeb.”

I hear Jeb’s voice, “I just want some space.”

She’s having none of it.  The more Jeb tries to flee, the more intent she is.  I peek out the window to see that he’s taken refuge in our car, peering out the window like a caged animal.  She is loving this.  She takes his skateboard and begins to roll around on it, certain that this will get his focused attention.

What was, at first, a desire for her to play with Jeb has now become a game of how she can get him to pay attention to her.  The more he tries to run, the more challenging her mission.  And she is determined.  She’s nowhere near hearing the word  ‘no.’

The skateboard move is the final straw and I have to go downstairs and intervene as Jeb is bee-lining to his sacred board to scoop it up and cloister it in the car.  This isn’t the exact attention she was wanting, but if it’s all she’s going to get, she’ll take it.

Looking at the phrase, “that which you resist persists“, I see it is playing out in living color for both of these kids.  Clearly, Jeb’s desire to avoid his younger peer only exacerbates her presence in his space.  And for her, the one thing she doesn’t want – Jeb to ignore her and run away – continues for as long as she employs her strategy of force.

I have compassion for both of them.  Wanting one thing but getting the opposite.  If I were a better parent I probably would have come up with a great way to help them both.  Instead, I was left to continue making requests that she give Jeb space, while eyeballing Jeb with the parental “be kind to her and do the best you can until we get home” look.  At dinner’s end, I could tell Jeb was tiring and she was gaining ground.

By the time the creative spins on his name began, “Jeb-o, Jebby…” I knew it was time to load up and go home.

On our drive back to our place I acknowledged Jeb in all of his patience.  I tried to explain to him that she simply had a desire to play, she just didn’t know how to express it in a way that felt good to him.  He actually said he was glad I was his mom and that he was thankful I supported him.  On the positive side, the situation brought he and I closer.

This morning I’m still pondering the concept, “that which we resist persists.”  What areas of my life are ‘dogging’ me?  Where can I simply surrender, thus experiencing the change I want?

Funny, it may often seem that if we relinquish to the thing we are trying to avoid, it will overtake us and we will not get what we want.  Could it really be that when we let go to that which we are afraid of, we may get the very outcome we desire?

I’m going to be a scientist and keep experimenting with this.  If you’ve already taken this one into your life-lab and have an experience to share, please chime in.  I’d love to hear the results.