Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Coming Up Roses

My post yesterday  reflected on the seeking of a story worth telling.

Thanks to all those that chimed in with comments!

In a transparent revealing of my stream of consciousness, I’ll share that this morning’s writing exercise has left me only with thoughts of the roses at the Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine in Malibu, California.

Dedicated by Paramahansa Yogananda in 1950, the Bohemian and I visited the temple in May 2012. Beautiful and serene, we soaked in the calm and smelled the roses.

CA_shrine_roses

 

These roses appear in my mind, as a quote from Yogananda is given via the Lake Shrine Temple’s website:

“Come into the silence of solitude, and the vibration there will talk to you through the voice of God.”

I believe God can be found in the fragrant folds of these petals, sharing an infinite supply of stories.

 

2015-10-22_rose close

 

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 8 Comments

Story to Tell

In less than three months, I will be one of 15 participants to attend a writing workshop with author Cheryl Strayed, perhaps, best known for her New York Times Bestselling memoir “Wild.”

courtesy of www.cherylstrayed.com
courtesy of http://www.cherylstrayed.com

 

The theme of the workshop is “The Story You Have to Tell.” Last night, I received an email from the coordinator with a gentle reminder about our pending gathering. Butterflies in my stomach quickly sank to leaden dread.

I am not excited, because I feel like a mess.

The story you have to tell…the story you have to tell…what’s the story I have to tell?

I seek, but do not find.

This morning I look within, searching for the smallest smattering of words to click upon the screen of my sporadic blog. My well is empty with echo.

Instead of prose at 5am, I’m sending RSVP’s to sixth-grade, birthday party E-vites. Emailing teachers about forms required for school events. Tracking shipment details on a Halloween mask we hope will make it to the post office before the 31st.

I do not feel wild.

I feel domestic.

This is not the worst thing in the world, by far. But it feels like death to an artist.

I question all.

Yet, I will keep seeking.

Three months to find a story that matters.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

What Wouldn’t Burn

When the Bohemian and I moved an armoire that had come with the house that we rent, we discovered a secret shelf inside. Apparently, past residents had created an inner shelf, that upon first glance looked like the bottom of the cabinet. In reality, the wood base was removable, and beneath it were about 20 paperback novels, holding up the base.

The titles were all fiction, mostly published in the Eighties. Everything about them indicated discard, clearly having been unimportant to their original owners. Now, their covers and inner pages emitted an odor (not that soulful, book-kind you may inhale in libraries or used book stores) that reeked of mold.

Books are special, but these begged to be burned.

The Bohemian got a good fire going in the outdoor pit, and we had our first book burning. Not something I ever thought I’d do.

That was last month.

The other night, we found ourselves back around the fire. To our surprise, we found a single remnant of our book-burning inferno, something that just wouldn’t burn. What could have possibly withstood the flames?

The inset of Stephen King’s “The Eyes of the Dragon.”

2015-10-14_dragon

 

Guess that mythical creature felt right at home in the blaze.

 

2015-10-14_Dragon King verbiage