Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Sifting the Alphabet

What words matter?

I’ve been paused on lip service in an obvious hiatus from the Archives. The question has arisen on more than one occasion these past days. What’s worth saying?

Not that I’ve abandoned letters. I’ve been with my proverbial sack of sounds doing a phonetic shuffle. Sorting poetry and prose to gather a collection that represents this “For the Archives” journey so far (aka “my first book project”).

What pieces that I’ve written get included? What expressions really must be shared?

And as I sift through 18 months of musings – my little journey to find the profound in the mundane – life and death go on, eclipsing any of my human edits.

Beyond the stack of my book’s first draft pages, I learn of four deaths in seven days. A small child, a young woman and two other people in their sixties. I know each of these souls only distantly, if at all. But their passing makes an impact. Stirs somber conversations between friends. Perspectives are upheaved, seeking new places to settle.

Words between the living are exchanged. Like

“Each day is precious, enjoy it fully.”

or

“There’s only one thing to do in this life, and that’s love.”

I hear the sounds of affirmation swirl the air. My heart can feel the longing to live them. But my mind seems one step removed.

As if there is some fuzzy veil between me and truth. Pearls of wisdom may come rolling off my tongue, but unless I become that gem – shine its rare and simple beauty in my everyday existence – then isn’t it all just words?

Is it possible in my human experience to really know (then LIVE) the true preciousness of this life? Is my mantra of ‘the moment’ just a rote recitation, more habit than authentic?

I need to be rumbled. Shaken to rid the dusty corners of my mind of all its cozy comforts. Dismantle the shroud that shields any part of my heart. I long to be rattled to feel fully and live deeply. Yes! This sounds to be the most grand and virtuous path!

Yet, I want the safeguard. I am but so afraid of feeling any pain.

Is there a way to gently be enlightened? And if we touch Grace, even if only for an instant, are there words left to describe?

These days, inside, exists a whirling discombobulation. I witness. Feel all yearning spin and twist with hesitation.

I am rendered silent, left to sift letters through the air.

photo courtesy of fdecomite
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

From the Mystics

If you’ve ever watched a newborn baby, you’ll know how it is, celebrating every movement with awe and glee.

“Ohh, look! He just moved his finger!”

As the baby grows, these gestures evolve to smiles, laughter, sounds and eventually roll-overs, crawls and walks. As for me, I know one day Jeb will ask in his newly deepened voice, “Mom, can I borrow the car?”

But for now he’s only eight and there’s been enough time between today and his first smile that I take most of his moves for granted. I don’t marvel at his tree climbs or rock hops. Though, together, the two of us have been sitting with rapt attention as we watch the simple blink of our turtle’s eye.

I know lately I’ve been a bit turtle obsessed. I’m letting myself be preoccupied, since it’s not every day that a turtle shows up in your yard. Perhaps one day all of Zelva’s minute movements will have lost their magic. It’ll be “of course” to know that there’s a turtle in a pool by the banana patch. Though I hope I don’t get used to it.

Because that’s just it. More than thoughts on everything turtle, what I love about this slow-moving testudine (nice, huh?) is that she brings me to the present moment where I begin to appreciate every nuance.

The woo-woo lover in me, ever-seeking magic in that thread I’m following, can play with the idea that Zelva comes as a gift from the mystics. For those following the Archives, you may recall that post from a few weeks ago, on the first day the Bohemian and I landed in CA. Not long after our 6am breakfast at the Omelet Parlor and the public bathrooms at Venice Beach, we sighted dolphins at sea and a graffiti Buddha on the wall. By 10:30am we were at Lake Shrine Temple, a sanctuary dedicated by Paramahansa Yogananda and home to the Self-Realization Fellowship. We were greeted by painted turtles that swam up to us at the dock, where we stood beneath the sign that read “Be still, and know that I am God.”

Was it a harbinger of things to come? That we would fly home, 3,000 miles over the Pacific Ocean, only to have a painted turtle come climbing over rocks and lawn to sit beneath our puakinikini tree?

Paramahansa Yogananda

Her presence evokes the same stillness I found that California day at Lake Shrine. Sloooowing down. She stills me. In this place, I take less for granted. Still find the awe in the dance of life’s movements. Flesh over bone, eyes under lids, breath filling lungs and wind in the leaves.

I can dream of a day when the whole world will opt to move at turtle speed, though it’s hard to imagine how.

For now, I’ll look to my turtle guru, Zelva. Try to bring awe into the everyday paces.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 1 Comment

Sizing the Shell

A potential wedding dress arrives in the mail, and just like my dream last week, it’s at least two sizes too big.

I take a break from how to alter silk and ruffles, overcome with a compelling urge to give another try at rendering our turtle. In case, you’re new to the Archives, a painted turtle wandered into our yard last week and she has become the latest member of the family.

Her name is Zelva (the Bohemian helped with the Czech name for ‘turtle’), and on her first night with us I was artistically inspired. Never meant to be a realistic interpretation, (more fantastical, really, as I couldn’t get the Grateful Dead’s “Terrapin Station” out of my head) I played with color and lines.

But Zelva has had more to show me since that first night. There’s not much to do with a turtle except sit with it in the sunshine and watch every deliberate movement. She’s a natural mystic in perpetual meditation. And these backyard lawn sessions have given me more time to contemplate her shell.

So while the white Neiman Marcus dress hangs in the bedroom saying I’m a size four not an eight, I’m at the kitchen table trying a second take on Zelva’s little turtle body. There’s a bit of fantasy in both of these shells I’m trying to size. The wedding dress will have some kind of veil and the turtle, well, her likeness gets a little gold marker bling.

It’s summertime with turtles, wedding dresses and late night art projects. And just some mysterious thread I’m following.

Zelva, take one
Zelva, take two