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.

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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

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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.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

In the Frame

“Do you see the window?”

The Bohemian asks me, without pointing. We are in our living room, looking out the window to the front yard, but I know he doesn’t mean the glass in front of us.

I do know what he’s looking at, because I’ve seen it too.

“Yes. Let’s go down and look through it,” I say.

We take cameras because the flowers are bursting fuchsia, and it’s coming on sunset. The naturally formed circle we’ve been eyeing from afar, looks like a giant brush stroke from an invisible force. It winks with a flourish. Beckons us closer. Asks to be seen.

So often, we scan the yard with scrutinizing eyes, sizing up the next project. The irrigation needs to be extended. The Be-Still bushes need pruning. The garden, it can always use weeding.

But this evening, the Bohemian is in rare form, donning a bathroom. It’s Saturday and the sun is settling down. We step through the lawn and look in new ways. We breathe in fresh layers of leaves. Listen to birds on branches. Peer through that shining ring of flowers, magnifying sky, showcasing clouds.

We’ll try to capture the window, but cannot. The colors too elusive, the lighting, for our eyes only. This is a peek for the moment, not for later.

I enjoy the strata of seeing. My small Cannon window lens, focused upon the Bohemian’s handheld window, which is set upon the circle of flowers framing sky. Multiple filters, these bands through which we behold.

 

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And then, it’s time to set down the apparatuses. Stop trying to capture. We simply gaze and wander. See and be.