Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Weathering Storms

Our island is in a flash flood watch. Thunder and lightning through the night. Nearly three inches of rain per hour in some areas.

With wild weather outside, we are giving thanks to be warm and dry within the safe shelter of home. Rain pours down upon our roof and the sky lights up in flashes. A booming distant crack follows not long after, rattling us.

The Bohemian looks at me. “And we are thinking to camp at the beach for a couple months this winter?”

I sigh. “Well…”

We live in the tropics. Even in this inclement weather the temperature gauge hovers around a comfortable 70 degrees. It can get soggy but not, technically, cold.

The theme of home is in the air for us, as we enter the final month of our sublet and do not yet have a new place lined up. Yesterday’s post recounted a moment of the Bohemian and I gazing across fields at our hoped-for dream home. That place is quite possible, but only a potential reality in the distant future. Between now and the new year, we need some home base, even if it is temporary.

Hence the talk of camping. We thought, why not? Folks save their pennies to travel to an island paradise and pitch a tent on a tropical beach. Why not set up camp at our neighborhood beach park and begin every morning to the sound of waves lapping at our tent door?

We’ve mentioned it casually to Jeb, who instantly goes to practicals. “What about the bus stop?”

“Yeah, it’s close by. I’d get you there like always, no problem.”

I’m thinking internet. Posting here to the Archives would mean crafting pieces on my laptop then piggy backing on the local bakery’s wi-fi in the mornings, in order to upload my daily pieces.

It would be an adventure. All of our things in storage. Homework by headlamp. Public bathrooms. Cold showers. And…those heavy winter rains.

Moodah the dog is curled up in the Bohemian’s lap as another dance of lightning and thunder shake the sky above our sturdy cedar home. I shut the laptop screen that shows no new rentals on our local classifieds’ website. I sit down by my husband and the dog.

“Yeah, winters can be wet and stormy.”

No matter how we look at it, there is no perfect resolution in this moment. No certain outcome.

What we do have are two empty tea cups and rain falling on the roof outside. We will soon get cozy in our bed and, eventually, this storm will pass. We will hope to wake in the morning (because we realize, even that is never guaranteed). We will continue taking steps to try to find our next place. Try to strike the balance between taking action and just letting go to trust. Try to follow our instincts as well as our minds.

In framing our current dilemma, we’ve asked each other this question: “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Truth is, we’d end up sleeping on a tropical beach, watching sunsets ocean side and living just a little closer to the elements. I think we could weather that storm.

It’d certainly give me something to write about…

2013-10-01_lightning ocean
photo courtesy of Andrew Malone
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Lamp Lighting

We can see it from the cemetery. This house that we think may be our next home.

As an albatross flies, it’s about a mile and a half away from us. We stand beside hundred-year-old lava rock grave stone markers, in a simple cemetery just down the street from where we currently reside. Between us and the peeking A-line rooftop of our dream house, lie grassy meadows, one steep valley, and several property lines with fences. Of the house, we can see nothing but windows.

“I don’t know…if we could walk straight from here, it would probably take 15 minutes to get there. It’s not far.”

I’m assessing distance while the Bohemian nods, his arm around my shoulder.

“I’d like to see a light inside. You know, something that warms it up,” he says.

It is sunset and the light is fading. The distant house windows are dark, reflecting nothing distinguishable from this range.

“How about those old-style lamps? You know the ones that were at the front of houses on the posts?”

“Didn’t those burn on kerosene?”

“Yeah, maybe…” The Bohemian laughs.

We are living between our dreams and the practical, trying to dance this balance between the two.

The practical facts of our current situation are as such:

  • The rental agreement on our current sublet ends in four weeks, on the first of November.
  • We believe that we may be able to actually settle for the long-term(ish) in the house peeking at us from across the fields. However, that scenario is contingent on several factors completely out of our control, which will not reveal themselves until November. Should all bode well, we still would not be able to begin dwelling in the dream house until December or January.
  • Hence, we are in a 2 month limbo, looking for something temporary, while wishing on a hoped-for-but-not-guaranteed abode.

At this juncture, I will add that Craigslist currently shows 12 long-term rental listings, only two of which, are on our side of the island, with one of those listings asking $3000/month for a two bedroom, utilities not included.

It feels good to look out over green pastures at the only roofline in sight, imagining ourselves lighting up that house with warm, golden hues from the inside. As the sky fades into grays and lavenders, we stand at the cemetery taking in the view. As we do, the dark shape of an owl glides low above the meadow just before us.

It is special there in the quiet. The silent swoop of an owl. The setting sun with clouds outlined in pink. The scent of plumeria lifted to the breeze. The old-time spirits of the cemetery, deep in the ground, marked by crumbling, moss-covered markers.

As we turn to leave, I think about the souls that rest there. How each human lived a life, however short or long. That they each got their chance to move about the earth and live a lifetime. Five senses, looking, listening, touching, tasting, smelling. And dreaming…they all got a chance to dream. Hopefully, they got to live their dreams.

The Bohemian and I walk side by side, step out of the cemetery gate and back on to the quiet, two-lane road. I hear the flip-flop sound of our summer sandals as we move.

This is our chance to walk upon the earth. For how long, we do not know. We get to be here. To sense it all. Maybe even lean into a sixth sense and follow it across the fields. Together, we can dance between the classifieds and that distant roofline with dark windows.

Dream about lighting lamps.

photo courtesy of Joseph Thorton
photo courtesy of Joseph Thorton
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Natural Consequence

There’s the basics and the extras.

That’s how I’m breaking it down to Jeb these days. Of course, it’s all relative, too.

A few posts ago, I was grappling with the statistics that showed three billion humans living on less than $1000 a year. So by saying that putting Jeb’s dirty plate in the dishwasher is a ‘basic’, is already an ‘extra’ for nearly half the planet.

That said, since I’m giving you a glimpse into our little reality bubble, the extras here are things like riding with his friends at the skatepark. Using his iTouch. Watching a movie on a school night.

And the basics are just the usual. Take care of your body (wash it and brush your teeth), clean up after yourself, do your homework, be respectful.

These fundamentals are supposed to be our guiding compass. Something solid. A foundation from which the bonuses can then blossom.

And this last week, Jeb and I delved into his nine-year old world of add-ons. He stepped up with the basics and reaped the rewards, reveling in the feel-good place of supplements. He got an extra helping of ollies and pop shuvit’s at the skate ramp, and more time with Maroon 5 crooning on his iTouch.

Things were smooth. Our infrastructure secure. All was well in this perfect equilibrium of checks and balances. It was all so streamlined I should have known a seismic shake-up was just around the corner.

Simply put, yesterday was a debacle.

I’ll spare you (and our family’s public profile) the rattling of details on how the basics just weren’t met yesterday. But here’s the gist of me, in all of my lost, self-command of cool.

2013-09-27_sugarapple_crack

“No extras without the basics.”

My words meet air in an exasperated shrill.

I hear myself. I am some strange kingpin who’s invented her own language. If I wasn’t so vexed, I’d be laughing at myself. Words leave my mouth as Mother, but I am alienated from the woman who utters them. Who is this lady? Her hands move in exacting gestures, iterating the importance of her point.

My husband – the Bohemian – sits on the couch watching the scene. Ever-patient, ever-supportive, he agrees with what I’m saying, yet for now, he is quiet.

In this moment, I am far from sexy. In this moment, I am far from the calm, enlightened parent I want to be. In this moment, I am irritation embodied. And right now, I think I hate homework more than Jeb does.

The whole thing is embarrassing. This admission that often I am not the parent I wish to be.

Contemplating the family model of 100 years ago, it seems parents didn’t question themselves. Five-year olds were on the farm, feeding livestock right along side their moms and dads. Home life conditions may have been more harsh – not quite so warm and fuzzy – but the basics seemed to be quite clear. Undisputed.

Today, we are no longer in the 1900’s. We have evolved, right? (right?)

I do my best to live a conscious life, and so that means I make attempts at parenting with awareness, too. I’m trying. But the worst is when I’m in the limbo. Not old-school “stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about,” but not the Cesar-Millan-of-child-rearing with “calm-assertive” energy, either.

No, just the convoluted mix of neither, which finds me in the hell realms, wavering in an amorphous midland of second-guesses steeped in aggravation.

So what’s the point of dragging you into this inferno with me? I don’t think this sharing is just about the vent.

Perhaps it’s the practice of being transparent. Admitting that there are times when, not only am I a conscious parenting failure, but I fall short of my human potential, too.

During yesterday’s disaster, you could glimpse inside the living room to see a family of three, dealing with dirty clothes on the bathroom floor, an overflowing compost bucket, and a misplaced spelling list.

Take a look outside that little room, and you’ll see the extras were coming on in spades.

Just beyond that family’s front door, exotic fruit ripened on the trees, with names like sugar-apple, chiku, and surinam cherry. Mother nature does not hold back. The basics of rain, sun and fertile soil are enough to illicit the sweetest nectar of bumper crops.

Far from the negotiations had about age-appropriate apps to be downloaded on electronic devices, the life cycle of a tree roots in the simple. It’s not complex. No second guessing. All compass points align with True.

Extras, just a natural consequence.

2013-09-27_sugarapple_ariel