Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Writing and Ripening

It’s day two of my five-week, online writing course. A “Boot Camp,” as it’s described, requiring five days a week of response to writing prompts, along with a weekly, 1,000 word assignment.

Thus far, I’ve penned nostalgic rememberings of my time on a remote island in British Columbia, and the less-than-blissful festival weekend I spent with a bunch of hipsters on Maui.

In B.C., I was looking for a place to heal after reeling from a surgery that removed my ovary. I was twenty-three, wandering in gum boots, in a fairyland of old-growth forest, trying to settle my soul.

Fifteen years later, I thought I was following more bliss when I attended a Maui music fest. Instead, I ended up questioning if I’d just gotten old. I couldn’t seem to jive with the communal, cuddle puddles, and I felt out-of-place dancing among women wearing fairy wings, shaking their hips in backless yoga pants. Subcultures do have their trends, and I was clearly out of style.

As my Boot Camp requires more writing from me, I’m hoping the Archives will benefit from the flow of words.

As for this morning, I’ll reflect upon the spirit of the season- rebirth, renewal, and new beginnings.

2016-03-29_cherries

The Bohemian’s Surinam Cherry bushes bear fruit. He grew these plants from seed, and they are now swiftly becoming an edible hedge in front of our outdoor shower. The cherries will, eventually, turn red, and be ready for picking, if we can just get to them before the birds.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

The Thorn

2016-03-08_rose in jar

 

The Bohemian had already offered his rose cutting a greenhouse-like environment, by covering it with a Mason jar at the kitchen window. So when, on the same day, his tea bag proverb gave a respectful reminder, he took it as confirmation that he was on the right track. Ever-hopeful that this stem from my Valentine’s day rose may actually take root, the Bohemian was eyeing it, continually, for any millimeter of growth, constantly checking the dampness of the soil.

It seemed to me that he was respecting the thorn, and then some.

But then one day the stem darkened. He brought it to my attention, with concern, but I shrugged it off, suggesting that we still just wait and see. The Bohemian was skeptical.

Then one morning, while washing dishes, I glanced up to see an empty pot.

Later that afternoon, he asked “Did you see the pot?”

“Yes. Did you transplant the cutting?”

“No. I put it in the compost. It had that black stem. It just died.”

Our house sits on a steep hillside, shaded by a forest of trees. Anything that grows there survives purely on filtered sunlight and whatever rain falls. We have been surprised to discover young saplings of orange and lemon trees, and plenty of papaya starts, growing two and three feet tall amongst the undergrowth. The reason being, that past inhabitants of our home simply flung their fruit scraps, seeds and all, over the hillside. The young trees are merely volunteers, thriving survivors of a random scattering.

One can dote with full attention and still lose all. And all can arise from one carefree gesture.

Just because the Bohemian’s rose cutting didn’t make it, doesn’t mean he didn’t respect the thorn. It doesn’t signify that our true love won’t live on. In this case, I’d say it’s more about the practicals. Maybe next time he’ll use rooting powder, or try a higher quality cutting.

The poet in me does ponder the proverb and the thorn. That bitter that comes with the sweet. The full spectrum of life experience, which includes deterioration. Death.

We’ll take the thorn of defeat on this cutting. But I’m sure it’s not the last time I’ll see the Bohemian fiddling with plant life by the kitchen window, positioning glass jars, moving close to inspect, then standing back to admire, smiling all the while. Always trying to grow.