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.

2016-03-29_cherries

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

Behind the Moon

Gone are the days, sixteen years ago, when I was with Jeb’s dad (no Jeb yet). I had a couple hundred dollars in the bank, living in a school bus up on blocks, wondering how far beyond 300,000 miles my Subaru would go.

Now I’m 42 in a Prius (color, “Pure White”). My husband (not Jeb’s dad) and I bought it used, but it looks brand new. It hovers low to the ground, a suburban vehicle, not built for off-road, barely skirting speed bumps.

In the back seat is a twelve-year-old and a Labrador. My pre-teen vies for use of ear buds with his smart phone, but I’ve established a no-headset rule in the car.

I am grateful for a reliable, gas-efficient automobile, a healthy, insightful son, and a sweet-natured, four-legged companion. Each of these is a wish, made realized. But maneuvering us all in the driver’s seat of this scene, I feel as though I’ve been cast in a movie. Given props and a costume for a role I’ve yet to fully embody. Who is this middle-aged lady in the station wagon, with a budding teen, and a dog?

What happened to Jeb’s booster seat, and me, passing back pieces of organic rice cakes, while we both sang, enthusiastically, to the music I loved, and he liked too? When Matt Costa’s “Behind the Moon,” was Jeb’s all-time favorite, and we could crank it over cruddy speakers on the short car ride to pre-school.

Now here I come
To dance around the sun
I’ve been oh so blue
Stuck behind the moon
Now let me in
Back where we begin
And let me hold you like the way
I used to do

Now it’s requests for bad pop music on the radio, or desired ear bud solitude, blocking the chance for conversation.

“Mom, I can still hear you with them in, I just like listening to my music.”

Now let me hold you like the way…

I used to do
I used to do

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