Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 3 Comments

Crowning

It’s 5:28am and today marks Jeb’s official eighth birthday. His excitement will rouse him from bed early, I’m sure, which means there’s not much time here for me to wax poetic on that auspicious day eight years ago.

Besides, I’ve written about it before. Various versions, that is, as there are always more than one perspective on an event, especially one like birth.

Last year produced two accounts. “At the Threshold” (which my dad said was a bit hard to read) and “Getting the Darkness” which was a combination of heartbreak and spiritual crisis.

Ok, ok. So where’s the joy? The story of the miracle of birth? It’s actually all part of the tale, just complexly woven in, like most things in life. But yes, my journey through motherhood, beginning on the day the pregnancy test strip went pink, has not been all white in a world of b and w. There have been shadows of blackness. Definite greys.

But there, too, have been crowning moments of exhalation.

Playing with the verb (the majority of my birth experience was with Jeb’s head just short of crowning but not fully coming out into the world) I thought I’d gift both Jeb and myself with an honorary crown today. Acknowledgement of the Divine Yoga we experienced together on December 5, 2003. That we lived. And continue to live this life together. Learning, growing, loving through all of the whites and blacks and greys of in-between.

We are royal in our efforts. Regal in our path as mother and son in a vast world of shadowed doorways and opening skies.

courtesy of Jeb ~ all rights reserved

This morning I come across this featured photo. Taken by Jeb when he was six years old. I love his photographs because I get to see the world through his eyes.

The location, Polihale. Roughly translated as “the house of the dead”, where it is said that all human souls make a final pass through the earth plane before going on to the spirit world.

With a theme of the full spectrum of black to white, it seems fitting to include a rainbow. A burst of color and sunlight among the shadows in the place where life meets death. To feature the house of the dead on my son’s birthday. Mix all of these symbols and metaphors into one big potpourri of Everything.

This is Life, I think. All of it.

I’m still learning.
We are still living.
Maybe we are all still being born.
Crowning.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Skip It

This morning I’m just going to skip it.

I’ve been trying to keep everything in tact, maintaining as much of my usual routine as possible throughout the swirl of random chaos.  I think in the process, I’ve become just plain petered out.

These past few mornings I’ve had 30 minutes to brew a cup of coffee and post something to the Archives before rousing Jeb from slumber.  I’ll have just enough time to herd him to the car with some popcorn in a Tupperware container, tossed in a tote bag with his hand-held video game.  We make our way to yoga class (where it’s true, I receive great benefit and mental sanity) as I offer sun salutations while he battles Star Wars clones.

This regimen has continued with us coming home, me throwing together some fruit or cereal for his breakfast and then diving straight into work at the computer for the rest of the day.  I’m still digging paperwork and pencils out of the moving boxes that surround my desk, as I haven’t quite scheduled the unpacking project into my calendar.

But today, it’s Friday.  I have work, but no major deadlines pressing.  I’m rubbing my sleepy eyes and have not yet made that cup of coffee. Jeb’s still in bed.  I’m thinking I’ll forgo that semblance of routine I’ve been trying to maintain.

I’m not slacking.  Just for this morning, I vote to pass.

In the name of moderation we’re going to have a leisurely start to our day.  We’ll make a mango-cherry-banana smoothie and pour the leftovers into popsicle molds.  We’ll eat breakfast next to last night’s puzzle and see if we can fit some more pieces together.  Maybe we’ll take a morning walk.

I’ll table the lists, the requests, the deadlines.  Just for a little bit.  Remember that this is my life.  Our life.  We only have these moments.  Work will get done.  Those yoga postures will unfold.  Boxes will get unpacked.

This morning I get to be with my seven-year old in the height of summer vacation.  Have just a little time to make silly voices and see him laugh.  Sip a smoothie from a straw.  Relax.

Enjoy the beauty found, when once in a while, you just decide to skip it.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Love the Journey

Have you ever been on a strenuous section of a hike, where all talking finally ceases?  The effort to traverse the path takes 100% concentration.  No excess energy can be squandered on conversation.

These past four days of blog silence have been a conscious and concerted effort to preserve my resources.  Like a trailblazer on a crumbly cliff side footpath, far from home with a 45 pound pack, there has been no room for error.  No time to chat.

Interestingly, my two greatest disciplines – writing and yoga – the very rituals I deem as the bedrock of my days – went on pause over the weekend. There is rarely a circumstance that would allow me to usurp these daily practices.  Yet, I found myself on an uphill climb with significant weight, and it captured every ounce of my attention.  My reality became finely honed to one foot in front of the other, one breath at a time.  Nothing more.

Metaphors aside, what the heck was I doing?

Moving to a new house.  With a sore throat and major head cold.

For three days I’ve been blowing my nose, chomping on Jeb’s chewable vitamin C’s and schlepping boxes up the staircase of my new abode.  Instead of practicing sun salutations, I’ve been on my hands and knees, face mask in place, scrubbing gecko poop from the far-reaching baseboards of my closet.

All the creatures of my rural farmhouse dwelling have been saying their goodbyes.  The chickens have congregated to my neglected rack of bananas outside the bedroom window.  Roosters with their puffed up chests, make cocky announcements about who’s the boss of breakfast.

And Saturday night, after I collapsed in a heap of tissue on my bed, I was awoken by a centipede bite around midnight – right in my armpit.

Just about all of my boxes have now been moved.  Jeb and I are living out of our suitcases for these last three days.  I am seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.  And I wake this morning with clearer nasal passages.  This morning I will resume traditional yoga postures.

Though I’ve been steeped in the potency of pure moving focus, I’ve still experienced moments observing with my writer’s eye.  I’ve still had glimpses of yogic awareness.

I’ve paused to sit on my new balcony, surrounded by potted succulents and ferns.  I’ve seen sunlight stream through blue glass at my kitchen window with a different view.  I’ve taken a deep (yet congested) breath and moved my boxes, one at a time, staying soft and flexible, opening to new possibilities despite challenges.

(Ok, I took a lot of homeopathic flower essences to stay calm, too.)

And in the desire to sow the seeds I want to reap, I’ve given thanks with each baseboard sponge wipe at my old home, grateful for all the house has gifted me these past two years.

Despite the spiders and gecko poop, crowing cocks, copious mucus, endless stair climbs and a centipede in my bed, this move has been relatively smooth.

Though at times I’ve felt like I’m in some strange movie, for the most part, I’ve stood engaged with the moment in this unique precipice of change.  Poised with one foot in the past and one in the future, I walk away from the old and towards the new.

Three days until these posts stream from a new desk at a new address.  There won’t be many roosters at my new pad.  So as annoying as that teenage chicken can be this morning, playing king of the hill on that over-pecked banana rack, I’ll soak up his sunrise crows.  He offers some screeching chime of a reminder – stay present – one breath at a time.  Follow this thread all the way, moment to moment.  From old to new.  Familiar to unknown.

Love the journey.