Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 5 Comments

BloMo

It seems I’ve always been a little bit on the fringe. Whether it be high school, a big party, a community gathering, or cyber space, I’m just not quite in the groove with the group.

After a lifetime of feeling a bit off-center from the flock, I’ve resigned to chalking it up to social awkwardness with random bouts of hermitdom.

Take NaBloPoMo (or National Blog Posting Month), the current challenge this November inspired by the famous NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), which offers inspiration for writers to ‘just do it’ in November. Write that novel, or post a blog a day for a month, depending on the acronym of choice.

I NaBloPoMo’d back in 2010, before there was a widget (or if there was one, I was ignorant in the fringe where I dwelt). Tried 40 days instead of 30 (worked for Jesus and the Buddha, was my reasoning). I guess it worked for me, too, as here I am at the end of 2013, still blogging away in the Archives, with over 750 posts accrued.

But ever-lingering in the eddies while the rest swirl in the center currents, looks like I unwittingly chose November to question all things daily-postable. As in, I decided to rebel against my own self, and pause on posting for days last week. Why? I began to question whether I had anything worthwhile to share. Wondered if this drive to produce a piece every day was simply offering up shoddy work in the name of a daily post.

Just as I dove deep into pondering, November kicked off and my fellow bloggers began showcasing their new commitment to a blogging discipline. I guess I didn’t get the memo while deep in existential meditation, though I am borrowing the logo for this post.

NaBloPoMo_November_blogroll_large

In summary, here’s the snapshot.

I’m still up before the sun this morning. As usual, the house sleeps while I type. The ocean waves are pounding that winter surf sound and I can hear them crashing in the distance, though the break is at least two miles away.

This morning will be a bus stop drop off for Jeb, as usual, though when I say goodbye, it will be for seven days, as the Bohemian and I climb aboard an airplane this evening. My husband has been chosen as best man for a wedding, all the way in Kalamazoo. By his side, I’ll try to be the best woman I can be.

I may write about the journey, or I may immerse myself so completely in the experience that I do not become the reporter. I may post blogs daily, or I may pause entirely on the Archives.

Who knows?

Clearly, I’m in need of a change-up, and a trip to the mid-west is what the Powers That Be are granting. So be it. I’ll take it. Thank you.

I may not be able to post the official NaBloPoMo badge to my home page, but I know I’ve been exploring this artistic dedication to share words with the world for years now. These things have cycles.

If I was laundry, I’d say I’m in the second rinse.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Infusion

After working eleven hours and planting nearly 100 trees, I know all the Bohemian wants at home is a little quiet, down time. He won’t say that, though.

And then there’s Jeb, (who did not go to the skate park after school today), ready for action. He’s a pinball bouncing round the room, singing silly songs and testing Halloween make-up on various limbs of his jumping body.

I’ve got a list of questions in my head for the Bohemian. Practical matters that need addressing, but I know now’s not the time. I bite my tongue (but not before asking Jeb to mellow out a bit). Grate the cheese instead.

I so admire the Bohemian’s quietude. Steady and calm. Still. Not the kind that’s hiding folds of tension. It is a simple silence, unwinding.

A sharp contrast to my propensity for chatty.

Just like Jeb needs to channel his exuberance into tail taps on the skate ramp, my words are best left to flourish in a forum like this one. Leave the verbiage for the blog.

The thing is, sometimes I go Bohemian. Show up here to my writing hour with all my tools; cup of coffee, incense, quiet house before sunrise. Dip my bucket in the well and it comes up dry.

I remind myself, we’re not on a mechanized production line here. Art isn’t made 24/7 on a conveyor belt with automatic settings. It’s alive like nature. Moving in cycles like the seasons. Waxing and waning like the moon.

Right now I’m living winter on a night with an ebbing moon.

Back in the garden, in the midst of his tree planting project, the quiet Bohemian harvests. His roselle plants bear fruit and he brews them to a tea. Vibrantly red, the fruity elixir speaks volumes.

This morning, my well’s bucket offers a ruby essence. I’ll let this infusion be my mouth piece.

2013-10-30_roselle

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 3 Comments

The Warming of a Cold Shoulder

there are small gestures
in semi-sleep
as two bodies
rearrange themselves
under covers
where toes brush ankles
and one knee
hooks between two

outside
pre-dawn darkness
pools
big slow
droplets
rolling
rain
from the rooftop

inside
a bare shoulder
rests surrounded
in crisp air
skin uncovered
cool to the touch

it’s a simple motion
of a languid
other
hand
half-dreaming
that moves to pull
a soft sheet
up and over
that cold shoulder
one light pat
then gently drawing
back
to sleep

2013-10-29_feet bed