Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Being With It

I had made other plans for today.

But you know about plans…

Jeb wakes with wild gestures to his throat, signing that he doesn’t feel well enough for school. My inquiry as to whether we need to take him to the doctor is met with strong head shakes in a definitive ‘no’.

I don’t really think he’s that sick. A little congestion, a little scratchy throat. I could push it and make him go. Maybe some would say that’s what a good mother would do. But I don’t have ‘some’ standing in my kitchen. And I’m not feeling like pushing a tide.

Meher Baba

So, I acquiesce. Call the school. Set Jeb up on the couch with a fresh sheet and a magazine. Try to justify this day off from school as a learning opportunity, as he plays the saint-taking-silence and writes notes to me on notebook paper. He’s practicing his spelling and writing skills, right? He’s communicating. He’s telling me his dreams.

“Mom this is the darngris part win I go to sleep I amagin me in a checrs game and win ever I move a checkr stuff comes up in to my nose This is y I think as a sicnst I think I need mor water”

This morning I guess he’s the scientist-saint, slash, medical intuitive, slash, dream interpreter.  Some may say he should be at school studying his spelling.  But I quell that scrutiny as best I can.  Try to silence the judging thoughts.

Taking cues from everything I know and trying to apply it to this curveball in my day, I soften. I do not resist.

I send the necessary emails to the appropriate people, restructuring my schedule as best I can. I choose not to react with stress about this turn of events. I decide I’ll stay calm.

Meher Baba

I come to WordPress, ever committed to posting my daily chronicle. Offer you a glimpse into my impromptu morning. Upload pictures of Meher Baba, which somehow always make me feel better. The man was silent for 30 years. Take a look at his face. He knows something.

Man, I hope I’m starting to get it.

Meher Baba
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

The Thrill

there are the dare devils
climbing cliff faces
walking tightropes
wrestling alligators
jumping from airplanes

I have no desire
to throw my body from great heights
no need to face mortality
through risking life and limb

but in the realms of the heart
that dangerous
vast space
of vibrantly pumping chambers
I dip more than a toe
in the rich life force waters

I keep diving in
to try

in early exploration days
I’d just part my chest like curtains
show every vulnerability
of my beating heart window
a few select men
I’d let them
reach in to hold it in their palms
just coursing with raw
and risking love

like some thrill seeker
that wants the rush
of the triple corkscrew roller coaster
I still seek the butterflies
to metamorphose
my mind

rattle me
to take the chance
that transparency and truth
will transform me
to a freedom
only found when we
stop
protecting

at the center
of gut and head
these hearts are delicate
though love’s resilient

through bruised
battered
broken
numb
eventually
I’m back to scaling
the dazzling
death-defying
(please give me little deaths)
terrain
of the heart

what is it
that compels me
to dare to be so scared
to face all fears
and feel?

these odysseys
may end
with greater vistas
but there’s no promise
it will be shared

maybe part of the thrill
is knowing
full well
where I may find myself

clinging to some slippery slope
heart pounding
head surrounded
in brightly colored butterflies
morphing

vision vast and new
I may well
be
alone
in this quest
breathless
but oh
so very much
alive

courtesy of apliniste
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

World Records and the Twentieth Century

“You know why this book isn’t so cool?”

Jeb is pointing at the Guinness Book of World Records.

“Why?” I ask as I butter his toast.

“Because it’s so old. Everything in it is really old-fashioned.”

“Well what year is it?”

“One thousand…nine…nine..three…”

Jeb’s still learning how to read big numbers and I’m suddenly aware that since he was born in 2003, the 1900’s are an era he’s completely unfamiliar with.

“Right, that’s 1993. That was before you were born.”

“Yeah, I know. That was like 100 years ago!”

“Well more like about 20.”

“It was so long ago they thought they had cool things but really they didn’t – not like stuff they have now.”

I figure he’s meaning technology for the most part. Both sides could be argued on whether or not Whitney Houston is/was cool.

Then I enter the realm of the stereotypical old-timer that I can’t believe I am becoming. A smidge of nostalgia emerges. “Do you know where I was in 1993?”

“Where?”

“I was already out of high school and living on my own in San Diego.”  (Man, that was 1993! ) My life is set to soundtracks so I run the playlist quickly: Spin Doctors, Arrested Development, Pearl Jam, Steel Pulse and Dinosaur Jr. Oh yeah, and that strange Jim Croce phase.

I hear myself sounding like the adults around me when I was young. How they’d tell you something time-related with a hint of a smile. Their own little joke. The secret of perspective they knew they had and you did not. Now at 38, I’m humored by the fact that my seven-year old doesn’t know how to say a year outside the 21st Century.

It’s time for breakfast and we put library books to the side and I hand Jeb his toast.

I sigh with a smile.  “Yep. That was a while ago.”

I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem accurate. I can’t quite bring myself to say “long time.”