Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Four Bars and Excellent Reception

Jeb’s trying to reach that little dreadlocked, bed-head snarl on the back of his head with a brush.  Blue-green digital numbers at the stove top (the only clock in the house) read 7:54am.

It’s time to begin the loading of the car, do the school drop off and get to my work appointment.  I’ll be away from home all day.

Laptop, power cord, file folder box.  Mail, sunglasses, phone…

“Mom, have you seen that little black folder that had my spy notes in it?”

“Mmm, last time I saw it was when you were writing in it on the couch.”

Case for my sunglasses, water…I pause at the phone’s power cord.

“Oh, I found it!” Jeb calls from his desk.

In the flurry of gathering hands, the phone cord suggests quietly that I may need it today.  I never bring my charger cable with me.  But I pause a half-step long enough to realize that I’ve promised myself in these days of inner searching to follow intuitive promptings as they arise.

No time to even check the battery level on my phone, I grab the power cord and toss it in the basket with the mail.

“Jeb, did you get your socks?”

Ten minutes later and it’s three kisses and “See ya!” with a little Jeb hand wave at the red school house.

I make the short drive to my business meeting and complete a brief phone call (hands-free, of course) as I pull into the driveway of my destination.  Glancing down at my phone, I see that there is less than 20% of battery life left.

The dialogue box asks if I would like to Dismiss this message.

This – this entire life experience thing – is all just an experiment, with me collecting clues where I can and chronicling what I find.  I’m in awe at its simplicity.  Humbled by the mystery.  Still perpetually eager to try to uncover something I didn’t know before.

In the flurry of the morning’s prep, a quiet thought suggested I grab a power cord and I made a conscious decision to do it, even though it didn’t seem logically necessary.  I had nothing to lose by listening.

Within range of a quiet nudge and clear signal, I’m thinking I was in that four-bar, excellent reception zone.  Connection, solid.  Low battery, yes, but the available tools for recharge.

My metaphoric mind and I, we can’t help it.  We think we found a clue.  Not going to dismiss this message.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

The Way

I’ve always been a walker.

In school days before cars and drivers licenses, I’d walk for miles.  Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends.  There were only a couple of girlfriends who were really up for the distance.

I recall a walk through suburban streets with a close friend around the age of 14.  Our footsteps stirred philosophy and metaphors as we began to liken life to the road.  Sometimes there were crossroads, sometimes detours.  As we walked the road of life there would be days of easy streets and rough patches with plenty of potholes.

The walk that day was vivid.  The black asphalt beneath my white Keds.  The olive trees and tidy pansies bordering short-trimmed lawns.  The goose-bump feeling of discovering a key to unlock one of life’s great secrets.  Life was a journey!

I was 29 years old when I began to read about The Camino.  The ancient pilgrimage path that runs through Northern Spain fascinated me.  I decided that I would walk the distance.  El Camino de Santiago would be my next adventure.  Or so I thought…

That same year I conceived a child and embarked on an adventure with no airfare required.  Books on the Camino were traded for “Wise Woman Herbal for the Childbearing Years.” I had come to one of those forks in Life’s road and the greatest journey of my life began.

courtesy of Wikipedia and UNESCO World Heritage Site

The pilgrimage still beckons.  Over the years it’s been small whispers that remind me of a calling.  But since last week’s ultrasound report, that path through a foreign land has come front and center.  Maybe it’s a case of the cliched ‘bucket list’ surfacing on cue when a health issue arises.  That big endeavor shelved for later takes center stage with a leap, exclaiming “Carpe diem!”

Or maybe these fantasies of cobblestone streets, rolling hills and Spanish train stations are merely fantastical reprieves from the reality of second opinions and potential medical bills.

Regardless of why I’m dreaming, there’s a sense I’ve been on that Spanish path before – that one day I’ll go again.  Was I a pilgrim in another life beneath the Milky Way?  I don’t understand what pulls me toward the Basque country. But then some of the most interesting things in life don’t lend themselves to logic.

Driving in the car the other day, Jeb says, “I want to go somewhere they speak a different language.  Somewhere we’ve never gone before.”

And I’m thinking, “Oh, I’ve got a place in mind.”

That night, I take a pause from the Google search phrase “holistic treatment of dermoid cyst” and have fun with “children on Camino de Santiago”.

This may be a grand vision, but great forests all begin with seeds.

And as I dream, I’ve come across a documentary in progress.  Below is the trailer for a film that follows a few brave pilgrims as they make their journey on this sacred trail.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

On Being a Worm (and other lessons from the compost pile)

Before I knew that doctor appointments would take up two of the week’s work days, I had committed to being a driver for Jeb’s school field trip.  Once a week the children gather at a nearby organic farm where they experience every aspect of growing food – from seed to harvest.  They eventually sell their produce at their school’s farmer’s market.

Yesterday was compost.  One by one, the children step up to a large bin on a scale and add their weekly bucket of food scraps to the heap.  Everyone gathers around the slop, many with their noses tucked beneath their collars, as our farm leader looks and inspects each contribution cheerfully.

“Yes, this one has had a lot of air.  A good fresh batch.  This is great.  Oops, a few stickers on the banana peels.  Let’s just get those off.”

She sorts her fingers through the decomposing food without a trace of hesitation.

Another bucketful gets added and the children have to step back not to be splashed by the slush.  The scent of ripe and rotting scraps wafts warmly in the air.

“Ooooh!” says one of the children, pointing at the new addition.

“Yes,” says our farm leader, matter-of-factly, “this is more chicken food than what we want, ideally, for our compost pile.  Does anyone know what those are?”

The five and six year olds don’t answer right away.

“Those are maggots and they come from flies when flies lay their eggs.”  She goes on to explain the life cycle of a fly and then suggests that we don’t let the compost sit around quite so long.

“Make sure you bring your compost every week,” she says with an encouraging smile.

Jeb and I haven’t brought compost at all.  We have a system of our own at home.  But I think about how all the children and parents have gathered around to see the different bucket contents revealed.  I can tell that Maria’s family had beets that week and it’s clear that Adian’s parents drink lots of coffee.

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved

I may be brave enough to reveal my heart’s inner longings and the biology of my womb on WordPress to a world of strangers, but I feel way too private to show my compost to the peering eyes at our neighborhood farm.

This week’s contribution weighs in at 65 stinking pounds.  Flies swarm and the children’s olfactories are hitting max capacity.  Applause all around for what will be a great addition to the farm soil and the saving of space in our island land fill.

Our sweet farm leader with her strong, tanned arms and well-worn, woven hat takes us to the big compost pile where food scraps are transforming into rich fertilizing soil.There is a formula of layering.  Wet, dry, soil.  She shovels our wet slosh to the top of the pile, layers dry banana leaves on top and then adds  scoops of earth.  We all repeat the formula together.

“Wet, dry, soil.”

The magic recipe for transforming old into new.

My metaphoric mind and I turn over the layers of life’s lessons.  Which ones are wet?  Which ones are dry?  And what would be the soil?

“Hey, there’s a worm!” one child exclaims as our farm guide adds more earth to the heap.

“That’s right, he’s a good helper for our pile,” she confirms.

One child asks about how they breathe as the worm is buried in another scoop of dirt.  The adults are amused and stumped.

Ever-positive, our farmer says, “That’s a good area of study.  We’ll have to find out more about the respiratory system of a worm.”  She’s smiling.  “They certainly are breathing!”

It’s hot, the kids are thirsty and the compost smells.  I’d been resistant to this farm trip because I didn’t think I could afford to miss more work.  But occasionally Jeb will come over, put his arm around me and squeeze.  He’s happy to share a moment standing in the new carrot sprouts.

courtesy of My Anatomy from University of Illinois Extenstion

I’ve got my own inner compost pile to sift.  Stacking the wet of deep-seeded funk with the brittle truth of dry.  There will be worms and maggots and even butterflies that are not beneficial but nothing goes to waste here in the garden.  We use what we’re given, work with the elements, learn to transform. To grow.

Back at home I discover that worms breathe through their skin instead of lungs.  As long as they stay wet they can absorb the oxygen.  I liken the wet of worm to the openness of human feeling.  May I stay supple and fluid to life’s lessons.  Allow my feeling heart to flow.  Let my instincts guide the rooting through the darkness, transforming muck into something rich and good.