WIth the light shining longer these days, it feels as though I’ve overslept by the time I stir at 5:45am.
Already there is rising sun and chittering birds.
My head still sunk to pillow, I steep in the remnants of my dreams. No plot or setting. Just the image of an ankh made from the wood of a Hawthorn tree.
I leave my bed and burn the incense. Brew the coffee. Writing time gives way to researching Egyptology, this key of life.
Still mysterious in its meaning, the ankh is thought to encompass both the male and female and symbolize eternal life.
As the mauves of early morning transform to orange and gold, I realize that no masterpiece of words will be crafted today. Obligations pull as the sun fills the sky.
I remind myself that the Archives are simply a recording. Some days more mundane than others.
This morning, it’s a cryptic dream of ancient origins that will segue me into Honey Nut Cheerios and a school lunch prep. Inside these cells of mine that walk through school fund-raisers, yoga postures and gas station fill-ups, there lives a wealth of layers. Am I just a filter through which lifetimes and dimensions beam?
What’s more real? Writing a check to the electric company or a dream of the key of life?
Questions that may never be answered. Just a recording here today. 6:21am on May 19, 2011. One mother at the computer before her son awakes. Sitting on an island in the middle of the Pacific, drinking coffee, dreaming, and writing as if any of it matters. Somehow, in some small way, I can’t help but believe it does.
I’m waiting in bumper to bumper traffic, crawling and stopping, merging and signaling. Patience is the only virtue in this line of cars and there is nothing to do but idle while the economy bag of organic frozen blackberries beads liquid among my groceries in the backseat.
I don’t want to wait for invitations to transcend. With all these chores, a moment of profundity doesn’t seem to fit anywhere with Costco or gas stations or credit card bills. What’s enlightening about being stalled out with end-of-the day traffic congestion? Yet, I let the Chevrolet emblem that I have been staring at on the car in front of me, transform into a key attempting to unlock my perception. Subtly, the buildings on both sides of the street come into sharper focus. The sign for the Wahoo restaurant bears a giant Hawaiian fish-hook, waiting. The wall of Boss Frog’s surf rental shop is adorned with a hand-painted sea goddess, beckoning. A man in a lime green sweatshirt crosses the street on the light. The red turn signal on the Toyota truck flashes in jeweled dimensions.
With a simple willingness, can I perceive this scene more totally? Can I become more aware – awake – as I hold the steering wheel, inching past McDonald’s on my left?
Eventually, the bottle neck uncorks and traffic begins to flow again. That driver’s window of mine is now fixed and I can roll it down and feel the wind. Afternoon sun streams from behind Anahola’s majestic mountain and mingles with strands of my hair that catch the draft and swirl above the highway. Susheela Raman has been chosen by the Cosmic DJ in the iPod shuffle. The music features the ancient sound of tablas that tap my heart. Harken India. Move me to places beyond space and time. To realms I do not understand, only feel.
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
Window down, wind rushing, sun shining, Susheela singing.
Never mind that the day’s work is not quite finished and there is still a meal to make. That the ultra-sound results weren’t what I hoped for. That my boot-inspired fantasy of travel may not turn out the way I imagined. Jeb will need help with homework. My solo mothering journey shows no end in sight. And at day’s end I will say good night to a full moon – alone – for at least the 50th time. In the morning there will still be bills to pay.
Never mind all that.
This precious moment with sound and wind and sun is the iridescent jewel. The inner reaches of my heart aligned with this exacting instant – this is mine. The greatest gift. Ever-available to be received. Experienced. Felt. Lived.
I say, yes and thank you. Dance it for as long as I am able.
Yesterday I stood with headphones and a microphone in the studio of Kauai Community Radio asking every listener to make a phone call and donate money to the station. Across the board from me was the host of an eclectic show that features music, musings, poetry and inspired words to enlighten.
This DJ is ringing bells and calling in the angels while I’ll repeat the phone number to call. Usually, this radio show is stretching toward the realms of the Divine. Today, I’m grounding the conversation in tallies and cold hard cash, making requests for thousands of dollars.
The host reads Hafiz, reminding listeners of the The Friend. When the poem is complete, he mentions that inside the book jacket, the translator, Daniel Ladinsky, has made a dedication to avatar, Meher Baba. As we’re live, on the air, he hands me the 1937 photograph of the guru, standing in Cannes, France. He is by a tree, smiling in white, hair flowing. So often when I gaze upon photos of this man, waves of sensation run through my body. A visceral reaction that defies rationalization, one I have never fully understood.
I stand looking at the saint, reverberating in the high prose of Hafiz, and I repeat into the mic that the radio station has less than two hours to reach its goal of $50,000. I announce the phone number again. I mention the tax-deductible aspect of their donation. I try to bridge the worlds of the practical and the ethereal as the host rings those om-engraved chimes one more time.
He cuts to music and I stand with Meher Baba, black and white, in France. The phones are ringing in the studio and volunteers are bustling about. What is it about this man?
Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Rex had been staying at his ashram in India for months before landing back on the island into my arms, so many years ago. Like many devotees, he carried multiple photographs of his guide and I was surrounded by pictures of the man that gazed at me through the rose and sandalwood incense Rex burned in his honor.
On Rex’s second day back home, the day we conceived Jeb, it was Meher Baba that gazed at me from a necklace around his neck, smiling in unconditional love as spermatozoa met ovum.
The phone rings again in the KKCR studios and this time I answer. A woman with the last name of Amsterdam calls to say that she wants to donate to the station because we mentioned Meher Baba’s name. I take down her address, phone number, email and the amount of money she wants to give, filling out the appropriate form. Is this what it looks like to bridge the worlds?
At high noon, the radio station’s fund drive has officially come to a close and in about 2 hours we’ve raised over $2,000. Peter Gabriel is singing that in this moment he “feels so connected” and the program host’s spirits are soaring as he lip syncs along, rejoicing in the accomplishment.
Next week it will be back to Persian poetry and excerpts from the We’Moon Calendar. He can gaze upon the face of Meher Baba or any other saint with no need to mention monetary sums.
As for me, I’m usually at home with Jeb on Sundays. Not always listening to the radio. Often cleaning the bathroom or building Legos. Making bridges of my own between that ecstatic day of conception – March 13, 2003 – and all of the practicals necessitated to live the fruit it bore. One of Meher Baba’s more well-known quotes comes to mind as I ponder living this link.
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