Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Hippie Angel

All I could do was notice.

Notice that birds sounded in the wet morning. See the waves rolling in mountainous sequence, soaking the shoreline where my toes were sinking in.

All I could do was watch myself, immersed in nature spectacular, yet round shouldered, hunched and worrying with a burdened mind. My story was a good one. The tale that stated the case for exactly why – this time, at least, oh yes, most definitely – I had every reason to be fretting. There were finances at stake, stability, livelihood. These were topics that had a right to overtake the morning.

Stress reasons well. I couldn’t argue its points. All I could do was observe that I was walking on a beautiful day and not a bird, nor a tree, or the breeze seemed to be a bit upset or preoccupied. And there I was – human that I am – moving one step in front of the other, in a paradise tainted by my own inner turmoil.

Not quite fully drowning in it (observation, my one and only lifeline), I held the proverbial rope of hope and made a request to the day: please help me remember.

My head stayed swamped with thought while my feet continued sifting through sand – that literal marker of time, so vast, though even its infinite grains could not penetrate my wrestling mind. I did notice a figure ahead, walking towards me and I glanced to my watch, continuing my pace. Work would start soon.

Backlit by morning sunlight, glowing golden, the lithe frame of a young man came closer into view as our paths neared crossing. He was probably about 21, his bare chest still boy-like and freshly pink from over-exposure to tropical sun. His hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and a hand-woven satchel was slung diagonally across his shoulders.

His face told all. The gentle smile spreading across it held no secrets (but for the greatest one that everyone forgets). I could plainly see that he remembered. His eyes were open windows, filled with awe and wonder and happiness. As we passed one another and exchanged “good mornings,” he did not look away. He gazed at me with serene endearment, a genuine openness. All-receptive, not just to me personally, but to all of it. To the moment.

Like a babe in an adult body, this hippie angel seemed to be experiencing the day as if for the first time, reverent and in wonder. Alive.

I continued walking in one direction as he walked the other, leaving a dusting of sweetness in his wake. His innocence and simplicity bathing me in remembrance. All I could do was notice. So touched, I felt like crying.

photo courtesy of Jewell Willett
photo courtesy of Jewell Willett
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Mudslide

Not that I was really injured, just a little stunned.

The clackety contact of kneecaps to concrete, not much cushion between my frame of skeleton and tissue and the slime of a silty mud slick. There I was, a forty-year old woman, legs, hip, elbows and hands (no face, thankfully) bowed down (taken down) in the dark of the muddy driveway near my car.

I’d survived umpteen schleps of boxes up wet stairs that afternoon. The Bohemian had navigated a rusty ladder, balanced a rain gutter with one hand and my incessant “be careful’s” below. It was evening and we were done with our moving chores for the day.

Seeking deeper meaning, some of the Woo Woo ilk may inquire, “What were you thinking about when you fell?” (well, ok, my husband actually asked me this – he’s sort of a Woo-Woo-with-a-toolbox kind of guy).

What was I thinking?

I knew it was slippery at the driver’s door of my car and I was thinking, “walk slowly and carefully,” which I was. But then, just like that, I was kissing concrete. Well, not exactly. My hands saved my cheeks. But I was down and quite surprised to find myself as such.

No blood, no cuts, not even a bruise. All is well. The moving has resumed and I’m back to climbing stairs, though I have paused to ponder with the Woo Woo’s.

I’ve sought symbols, deeper metaphors, some real meaning to my fall, and the take-away from my little muddy slide doesn’t seem too mystical.

One can try to be careful. Prepare for potential danger. But sometimes, slips just happen.

photograph courtesy of Steven Snodgrass
photograph courtesy of Steven Snodgrass

 

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Puppy Love

I’ve been up since 2:41am, but all is well.

In dreamland, the Bohemian and I were driving through a maze of streets in Boston, trying to employ Google maps with my iPhone. I was all thumbs, pushing the wrong button on the screen and having to reload pages that were too large to read, while the Bohemian needed to know in that moment – take a left or right?

I don’t think it’s navigation that is keeping me awake. Well, in a way. These days it’s all about our pending move to a new house, a process that is about 3/4 of the way complete, but a constant in the back of my mind.

Another constant, (2:41am, no problem) is our trusty and loving companion, Moodha.

When we moved into our present sub-let situation, the house came with a dog, which has been a wonderful trial-run for our family which is not quite yet ready to commit to a canine. I haven’t written much about Moodha in the seven months we’ve lived here, but I think it’s mostly due to the fact that he’s consistently been a shadow of a presence, simple and true, by our side, but with little to-do.

Right now, as I type in this low-lit room, he’s curled up at my feet, as usual. He knows my morning routine. The familiar sounds of a spoon removed from the drawer. The rattle of the refrigerator door opening as I retrieve the milk. And I know the pavlovian jangle of his collar, rattling a chime that signals love embodied in a fur coat is shaking itself awake, and will be joining me at my chair with a yawn.

There are many things to look forward to as the Bohemian, Jeb and I begin building a foundation in our new abode (official move-in date: February 1). I’ve been crossing off my task list and looking ahead with inspiration. But there is also much to be grateful for in what this temporary dwelling has offered us, providing us with much more than basic shelter.

Ahh…puppy love…

2014-01-27_Moodah

We’re only moving up the road, and Moodha’s true caretaker is a good friend. We know this isn’t the last time we’ll see our furry friend. But it won’t be too many more pre-dawn mornings that he and I will share a cup of coffee and some writing time together.

It’s been said that home is where the heart is, and most definitely, Moodha will always have a home in our hearts.