Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Every Success

There are those cordial notifications, commonly referred to as “rejection letters.”

In the matters of the heart, these may begin “Dear John…”  In the world of publication, they often start, “Dear Writer…”

In a past post I celebrated these literary thanks-but-no-thanks notices.  Opted to focus on their parting words, “Best of Luck” and take it as a sign that I was in the process.  Maybe even consider showcasing these signposts as evidence of the writing life, proof that I was active.  Take it as a blessing.

Well, recently I’ve been showered with what I will now officially coin the “Keep Writing” letters.  Two in one week!  Internationally spanning publications from Iowa to Paris.  Double the boon!  It’s worldwide!

Now, I’m laughing and light-hearted.  There’s silliness in my sarcasm – I truly am not bitter.  I may erect a cyber-shrine to all these benisons, just to embrace it fully.

How many recipients of break-up letters have been left to hang their heads alone, feeling they weren’t worthy of the love?  How many writers, who were wished ‘every success’ in those closing lines, wondered if their expression was worthwhile?

Sure, I’ll take note.  I still have work to do in refining my craft – forever.  But I take it as a challenge to turn these notes around.  Little reminders from the Cosmos to just Keep Writing.

So in a week that gave a double-dosed directive, I am also gathering up the courage to attend a two-day workshop.  The theme:  Writing From the Heart.  There’s been some talk that one brilliant, unknown writer may be attending (“he’s amazing…like the caliber of Faulkner…I really hope he comes”).

I notice that I’m gulping.  I really hope he doesn’t come…whoops, did I just say that?  No, that’s not really what I mean.  That’s just those little Xerox-copied-every-success-wishing notices fanning flames of fear around me.  My desire to hear a master craft this language is far greater.  I want to sit and listen to how he does it.  I want to gather inspiration so I can be my own best caliber of…me.

So, the Keep Writing prompts have been duly noted.  This is certainly not all she wrote.  Today, I’ll be walking myself with pen and paper through the threshold of that writing workshop door.  Continuing onward.  Showered in the blessings of ‘every success.’  Writing from the heart.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 3 Comments

Unearthing

at 3:30am you wake
with a feverish (but sleeping) child beside you
tell yourself to go back to sleep
but The List and all it’s have-to’s seep in to rouse you
before eyelids have their chance to shut it out

by 4 you give up fighting
brew coffee
grab your journal and a pencil
archeological tools for a delicate excavation
select teardrops have been falling
you don’t know why

all of these buried artifacts, so fragile
the slightest brush
a breeze
can blow dust to reveal some treasure
an aged clue

you uncover moments
like the day your dad pulled away in an empty station wagon
the note your seventh grade boyfriend gave you, saying he wanted to break up
the sound of the screen door closing when the pregnancy test strip turned pink
that dashing gentleman’s voice conceding, “Hon, raising a child is exhausting.”

you turn these shards over in your hands
piece together how they set a scene
look at the new development around you
wonder what to do with these old remnants

you know sometimes
it looks like love leaves

just when the dig seems it may reveal some answers
your feverish child stirs and needs you

he’s warm and weary but he’ll be OK
this flesh of his
the evidence beside you
that once you believed
that love was all that mattered
that it would be enough to stay

it’s easy at the excavation site
to see the broken pieces
scattering proof that you were wrong
life can’t be built on love alone

but as the sun begins to rise
and the journal needs to be shelved
that List is inching closer to the fore
you can’t help but put some hope into this day
that somehow
there could be a bridge
between the ancient history of lessons learned
and the evolution of new buildings in the making

that love lives in the foundation
it can infuse architectural plans
course through the hands
some hands
whose hands?
these hands
that are willing to stay and build it

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Bridging Fire

As the morning light comes on before 6am these days, I’m finding myself scrambling to keep up with time.  Yesterday I may have walked leisurely on a plush red carpet, but that was Sunday.

Monday morning I’m back on the highway, my day scheduled until nightfall.

Still I remind myself to breathe.  Come here as a gesture, if nothing else.  That this life is still mine.  This half an hour before breakfast can be my place for words, thoughts and feelings.

I can quickly type out a moment from last night’s Beltane fire.  No amorous running through the woods or sightings of the May Queen (unless she was peeking from the nearby garden).  Just time with friends around a back yard fire, built by Jeb with our neighbor.  We each fanned the flames in our own style.  Added twigs under the stars.

I calmed my nerves to open and let Jeb jump across the blaze, not once but probably at least ten times.  His belly full of post-Easter jelly beans, he was wild with the passion.  Excited but intent, leaping with plenty of clearance.

After a series of jumps he came to me to whisper all of his wishes.  His warm, moist words heaving dreams inside my ear, coating my cheek with sugar-sweet, seven-year old desires.

They fell from his mouth in delighted sighs:  “I wish that I could be a ninja…that the world was made of candy…that I could speak Japanese…I wish that the sky would rain hot dogs…and I wish that you would live forever and never die.”

As the evening came to an end, the fire was left to burn alone.  Before heading home, I wandered to the embers.  Let the warmth of the coals fill my hands.  Looked up at the stars.  A wind chime in the hibiscus sounded individual notes with deep resonance, as the slightest breeze played a slow and deliberate song to the night.

I thought ahead to Fall, when I would be living the harvest time.  Days reaping the intentions of what this season sows.  I could imagine my hands warming by an autumn fire in a different place and time.  For a moment I was the bridge, glowing red-orange heating my palms.  Two fires in two times, two places.  And me, the in-between.

I may not know exactly where I’ll be.  But come Fall, I know there will be a moment, as I stand before flames, the weather colder, the days shorter.  And I’ll remember the wind chime’s song on the first night of May on a tropical island.  There at that future fire, I will consider all that has transpired.  Reflect on what was sown.  Know more of what has grown.  I hope to live that moment.

These rituals rely on future.  My human way, can’t help it.  Pretending that I will live forever.