Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Our Greatest Compass Point

This post digs back into the Archives, circa 2011. Jeb was eight and I was a single mother trying to juggle work and parenthood while maintaining some sort of higher perspective.

Six years later and the image of the hand on the heart comes back to me this morning.

These days of late seem wrought with overwhelm. Change is afoot and with it comes uncertainty. The work to be done in the world feels daunting.

As we face the days ahead, as we sit in this very moment, right now, I hope we find the tools we need to keep ourselves oriented to our True North.

Our hearts are our greatest compass points.

Here’s a modified excerpt from that 2011 post about bringing it all back home.

“…Jeb’s in the back seat trying to see if one of his Star Wars Storm Troopers can fit in his remote control Jeep while Buzz Lightyear looks on.

Buzz Lightyear and a bald Mr. Potatohead
Buzz Lightyear and a bald Mr. Potatohead

Riding shotgun with me up front, is my laptop and paperwork, a ten page to-do list and a stick of gum. I feel the overwhelm close in on me like a shroud. And then I remember the words of the Ambassador.

If you follow the Archives you may recall the Ambassador shared his story of 15 seconds of grace. He also imparted some sage advice for moments when grace can’t even be felt for a millisecond. He suggested the simple gesture of a hand to the heart. A deep breath in, and just be there, like that, for a moment.

I’m driving down the highway with Jeb and Mr. Potatohead and I reach my hand to my heart and breathe. There is a comfort there of simply feeling a hand on my chest. An abbreviated version of a self-hug. I notice the air in my lungs. I begin to see the sparkling green of the wet trees along the highway a bit more vividly. After about a minute I realize my body has relaxed.

No circumstance has changed. I still have a client to meet. Jeb is still sniffley. But I’m a bit more calm. It’s then I realize that the metaphorical mountain on my head is not just sourced in situation. Surely life will provide plenty of external conditions to challenge me. But in the end, I’m the one who decides how it affects me. I choose to tighten. I choose to loose my grace in haste.

Hand on the heart makes space. I like this.

If you’ve read this far I invite you to try it for yourself right now. Put your hand on your heart.

How’s that?”

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Tools

It’s all about the right tool for the job.

Ask anyone that’s handy and they’ll tell you that good tools are essential in getting work done well.

Anyone else out there feeling like humans on planet Earth are being called to task? It seems as though I’ve been given an assignment of gargantuan proportions and I’m picking through my inner toolshed looking for some apparatus of assistance.

Big projects require exceptional tools. What have I got?

I’ve been taking inventory of my inner resources and assessing what assists me most. These days the pressure can squeeze tight. I need to be able to quickly access my most potent tools at any given moment in order to respond swift as a superhero.

Art is definitely in the tool belt. Music, writing, photography, dance. These things fill my soul.

Breath is big. Exercising enough to get that breath moving through my lungs and oxygenating my body and brain helps heaps. Clearing space!

Community is key in my arsenal of tools. It’s vital to feel connection with friends and family, especially in challenging times. We can support each other and offer insightful reflections. There is power in numbers.

And here’s my latest revelation: Food. So simple, yet I had not fully recognized the potent influence it has. Organic foods and vitamin supplements were good enough I’d thought. But after incorporating high-density superfoods into my diet, my daily experience has been upgraded to a whole new level.

At the root, my greatest tool is my body, as it is the vehicle by which I maneuver my way through this odyssey of life. No project can be tackled, no endeavor undertaken without a vessel by which I can implement these tasks. Existing on basic sustenance is a blessing in itself. I realize that there are those in this world that do not even have this.

Which is all the more reason for me, living in a modern world with access to superfoods, that I feel called to utilize the tool of high-nutritional plants. It’s my responsibility to do better in order to help others. I’m being called to step it up in the world and I’m using the best tools for the job.

Clear mind, healthy body, strong energy. I want to be in optimal working order.

May we all know our tools and care for them well. Keep them at the ready. Right now, it’s all hands on deck.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 6 Comments

Reception

It has been years since my ears were cuffed in headphones and my mouth was next to a microphone. I hear my voice, crystalline and ‘live,’ reverberating over airwaves which scientists say can echo out for an unknown distance into the galaxy.

I can hear the familiar, open channel of space behind my words. It is silent, yet alive with zing, unseen. It is this vast vehicle that carried my message through the infinite for over fifteen years in my time at this radio station as a DJ and staff member. That was another era in my life. Today is the first time I’ve been back to the station in years.

The host, my long-time friend, welcomes me for conversation and poetry on this Sunday morning radio program, The Oasis. Born in Iran, he’s been in the States for decades. A lover of Rumi, a passionate gardener, he’s a poet. A chess player. A soulful seeker. Our exchange goes deep quickly, as usual. We speak on the fragility of life and the preciousness of the moment.

This year his 82 year-old mother died at home, passing with quiet perfection in her sleep. That evening they’d played backgammon, an ongoing, friendly ritual they enjoyed, going back and forth as winners and losers. That night they squared up, even. She ate a sandwich for dinner. Went to bed. In the morning, he discovered she’d passed. Suddenly, only a body remained, her life force gone from this realm, moved on to an unseen mystery.

My friend turns off the mic, and segues to Sting. When the “ON AIR” light blinks off, he smiles at me across the console. “I think we’re transmitting something good. I’ve got goosebumps.”

Later, back on the air, he reads a poem about invisibility. Anyone that’s tuning in can only hear his words, can only imagine what this radio host may look like. They know not of his goatee, neatly trimmed, that moves when his mouth pronounces “now.” They are left only to make shape of his features with their minds, molding tones to define the reverberations through their speakers.

This poet and I, we do not know where our words are reaching. Is anyone out there? This could be a conversation had just between us, amplified by apparatus, but everyone is watching football. We cannot see. We can only speak from our hearts about love and death and art and dreams, hoping that someone hears. Trusting that words may ring true.

There is a channel, tuned on a dial, something we call reception. Through it invisible matter crosses the ether. It is not meant to be known with the eyes.

But it exists. There for all that tune in and listen.